- Bob Harris in Lost in Translation
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As far as I can remember, I have always been enamored and inspired by the bowl of crazy nuts that is Japanese culture. No doubt, the impetus for this life-long obsession was a lengthy yet healthy childhood exposure to various Japanese cultural phenomena: Ultraman, Voltes V, Godzilla and Star Rangers, to name a few. All I needed to learn about life, family, love, justice, I learned from the Armstrong brothers and their struggle against the horny Boazanian Imperials.
Given that I was en route back stateside from a hilarious holiday trip to Manila, I figured why not stop over Tokyo, the Asian capital of cool?
On the train to Tokyo from Narita, I was giddy as Little John Armstrong on his first trip to Camp Big Falcon. Looking out to the rugged landscape, I was excited over the high jinks that lie ahead. By high jinks I mean checking out Shinto shrines and trying out the freshest sushi. Yes, that is how I roll.
I made Roppongi, an area known for nightlife and more English signs than any part of the city, my home base. Needing to drain out all that iced green tea from the plane ride in, I checked into my hotel, entered the bathroom and wondered at the greatest invention next to the toilet: the electronic heated toilet. Why aren’t there more heated shitbowls with anus sprinklers and comfy armrests around the world? It's one of modern history’s greatest mysteries.
Naturally, the first night in Nihon involved a nocturnal excursion of the local Roppongi drinking scene. This enclave is infamous for nightlife which caters almost exclusively to foreigners (or the more pejorative term, “Gaijin”). So-called “shot bars” abound like red bumps on a herpes victim. I ventured into the classic ones: Propaganda, Geronimo, Gas Panic and a tiki-themed bar hidden within the streets of Roppongi Hills, the name of which escapes me.
With my trusty iPhone translator app, I struck a conversation with the bartender at Propaganda and asked her what she thought were must-dos in the city. She answered quite politely that there is really nothing much to do around Tokyo but shop (What? What is this, Hong Kong?). But she did tell me to check out the fish market (an indispensable part of the itinerary anyway). I also met a couple of female Australian snowboarders who were naturally spending their Thursday night boozing up. More drinking then followed. In Roppongi, the sake, beer, smoke fumes, and good vibes were intoxicating.
I had the grand intention of waking up at 4 am to catch the famous tuna auctions at the world’s largest seafood market in Tsukiji. Predictably, that did not happen. Who wakes up at this ungodly hour on vacation anyway? I trooped into the market 4 hours later. Fortunately, there was still a bit of action in wholesaler section. I found the area quite dangerous though with “turret truck” fish transporters zipping in dangerous speeds all over the market. If you get hit by one of these babies you will literally be sleeping with the fishes.
Every guidebook recommends a trip to old school Tokyo areas Ueno and Asakusa. Trusting Mr. Fodor, I headed out to Ueno Park, strolled its grounds and marveled at shrines, temples and pagodas where Tokugawa shoguns once roamed. The Asakusa district on the other hand, is famous for its massive Buddhist temple grounds guarded by one freakishly gigantic red lantern. Hot tip: the golden years of the Asakusa district are vividly portrayed in Kawabata's novel The Scarlet Gang of Asakusa.
Elementary, my dear Watson-san, there can be such a thing as “temple overload”, so I decided to see what the fuzz is about in Tokyo’s Akihabara electric town. The billboards. The lights. The place seemed to be the mutant offspring of The Tron Grid and Canal Street. Other than electronic shops and manga stores, this town is famous or infamous for so-called maid cafes. No visit to Tokyo is complete without a trip to one of these hilarious joints.
Boy, these maid cafés did not disappoint. Hands down, a visit to one of these fine establishments was one of the most bizzaro experiences ever. Here, guests are served by barely legal Japanese waitresses dressed as French maids. Other than serving food (the omelet rice was quite decent), these role playing dolls of otaku fetish engage in conversation and games with customers. My personal maid offered me my Sapporo, kneeled down and called it “magic dreenk”. She slowly poured catsup and made a smiley face over my majestic omelet of tastiness. We then both recited a discordant Japanese chant “moe moe kyun… something, something" while both our hands mimmicked the cheesy Taylor Swiftesque heart symbol. Mind-f-cking hilarity.
I bid sayonara to my pig-tailed hostesses and continue to take in Akihabara’s garden of nerdy delights. I visited the uneventful Tokyo Anime Center, a far cry from the uber-cool Gundam café with its savvy space-ship themed lavatory (the place lights up like a rocket ship when you take a dump, quite fascinating). The exhausting day ended with a dinner out at a Roppongi dining institution with old friends - Tokyo locals, toasting with boxes of premium sake over sushi and shrimp balls.
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Ms. Kawasaki: Welcome to Tokyo.
Bob: Thank you very much.
Ms. Kawasaki: My name is Kawasaki. Nice to meet you.
Bob: I've heard of you. Thank you.
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It’s Friday mid-morning. The crossing lights turned green and a wave of humanity converged in the middle of the five-way intersection before steadily dispersing again in all directions. Order among urban chaos. Welcome to Shibuya crossing. Did you hear that? That was the sound of a No.2 pencil ticking off bucket list item No. 27. Achievement unlocked.
Right across the Meiji shrine and sandwiched between the districts of Shinjuku and Shibuya lies Harajuku (gesundheit), where tweens dressed as anime superheroes and gothic laced up lolitas shop and parade around narrow streets. It is said that day-to-day life in Tokyo can be oppressively rigid, and cosplay is a creative reaction against societal pressures. Ahh, to be young in Japan. Who wouldn’t rather be a weekend warrior-princess with cutesy FMBs and outlandish hair?
The tea ceremony is possibly one of the most calming ways to enjoy the elegance of traditional Japan. I witnessed such a ritual at the ritzy Hotel Okura. The very basic act of enjoying a cup of hot tea is transformed into a high art form. The beauty of the ritual, as with much of Japanese art, flows from its simplicity — the tap of a water scoop against a ceramic bowl, the scrape of the whisk that mixes water with the aromatic powder and the silent wiff of the flatulence that fills the tatami room from drinking too much oolong.
The sun was setting over the land of the rising sun. Just south of Roppongi, the faux Eifle Tower with its loud orange color lorded over the city. In the observation deck, I drank my Asahi with quiet reflection, overlooking majestic snow-capped Mt Fuji.
Bring on the final night, and the most proper way to end this little journey was an electrifying evening out in Shinjuku with Mr. K, a friend and fellow goomba. The lights and liquor in this seedy sector were overwhelming. The western hemisphere could learn a few from the unique copluatory themed business propositions implemented within the bars and clubs of these lighted alleys. The Kabukicho district of Shinjuku is what you get when you throw in Times Square, Amsterdam and Quezon Avenue into a blender of urban merriment.
Like Daimos darting through a tunnel before battle, the bullet train raced out of Tokyo to Narita airport the next morning. Sadly, it was time to make like a cherry blossom tree and leave. I listened to Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey”, the somber closing hymn from Lost in Translation and dozed off as I fly back to New York, burned out from the city's energy that can't be denied.
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Bob: I don't want to leave.
Charlotte: So don't. Stay here with me. We'll start a jazz band.
Charlotte: So don't. Stay here with me. We'll start a jazz band.
