A Black Man in a Japanese World - Part II
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| GODZILLA! |
The next two days, my new friend Suguru is my guide to the city. He takes me on my first trip on the insanely efficient Japanese subway. The system, made up of 13 lines run by two different companies - Tokyo Metro and Japan Rail (JR), has signs and announcements in Japanese and English which is nice. I had always heard that Tokyo, and by extension Japan, was not friendly to tourists but the very reassuring train voice gives us the stops in Japanese and English which helps somewhat in the deciphering of how to get from place to place. The warning signs on the car doors are populated with cute animals in train conductor uniforms telling you: ‘Don’t stick your arm outside the moving car,’ and ‘Chewing on seats is wrong!’ I am definitely listening to the cute conductor panda warning me seat eating is off limits.
The system is extensive and the trains go everywhere. Even for a New Yorker, it's overwhelming but not impossible. I had already purchased my Suica pass (think Metro or Clipper cards) so am ready as Suguru and I descend into the train system.
I follow Suguru diligently as we make our way to another province for a fireworks watching party. I am paying partial attention to him and the other to my surroundings and the people. I am still in sensory overload, there is just so much going on. I ask if the trains are more crowded than usual for a Saturday but Suguru tells me they are always like this. He is great at pointing out where we are going and which train line we need to be on. On the train platform there is a barrier at the edge of the platform with sliding doors that open in conjunction with the train doors. The trains stop in precisely the right spot so that you can enter the trains when the automatic doors of the barrier open. I ask Suguru if the barriers help with rush hour but he tells me they are suicide barriers to keep people from jumping in front of the train.
"It is incredibly helpful. Especially on Mondays," he tells me as we make our way through the station.
I am afraid to ask but do, "Why Mondays?"
"People like to jump in front of the train Monday mornings." He says sadly. "Before the work week begins."
Japanese efficiency.
The fireworks watching party is at the home of Suguru's friend whose name I can not pronounce but everyone calls Masa. We will be watching the fireworks display, one of the last of the season from the roof of the apartment building Masa lives in. It is an amazing view of the area and of the very imposing storm clouds coming our way. There are about 15 other guests at the roof party. Suguru introduces me to everyone and I make sure to give a slight bow and konichiwa to each. Several of the guests speak English and return my konichiwa with an English hello. After the hello, everyone goes back to their conversations speaking Japanese and I realize that the greetings may be the most English any of them speak at this party. I have that moment when a friend brings me to a party where I don’t know anyone. You know that moment, when you need to decide, depending on your mood, whether to become very outgoing and insert yourself into people's conversations or stick to the friend that brought you to the party like glue. I am excited at the prospect of dispensing with small talk and observing the people here, but also realize that staring might be considered creepy. So I stick to Suguru like glue. He at times will translate for me when I am asked a question, other times he is engrossed in a conversation and doesn’t bother, leaving me on my own.
I watch the other party guests talking to each other, telling stories. I previously thought of Japanese people as very proper; stoic, with a very subtle, secret, sense of humor. The sense of humor might be subtle, I can't tell because of the language barrier but otherwise my views are consistently dispelled by the gregarious and animated people I keep meeting. Watching and listening to a Japanese person tell a story is fascinating. They put their whole selves into it, facial expressions, vocal inflections rise and fall, hands are in use. Most likely I find this fascinating because I have no idea if they are telling a funny anecdote from work or talking about their cat. Either way, it is fascinating.
At some point during the evening, it is revealed that it is one of the guest’s birthday and a frosted cake comes out. There was at one point two cakes, one that looked like half of a lemon, or a yellow breast with a white cream aureole, and another more traditional cake. Unfortunately, it began to rain before the fireworks watching could begin and we had to retreat to Masa’s apartment. Someone, quite literally left the breast cake out in the rain. I wanted to make a joke about MacArthur Park but I knew that would be lost here so I kept it in. Plates for the remaining traditional cake are passed around and then chopsticks. I take a piece of the cake, chopsticks in hand and am preparing to eat when I realize everyone at the part is watching me. I lean over to Suguru to ask if I have done something wrong and he tells me everyone is amazed at my ability to use chopsticks to eat cake.
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| Chopsticks & Cake |
I continue to eat the cake as I tell them I am self taught. “I love sushi so I had to learn.” I say to Suguru who translates for everyone.
“Sho?!” Or at least what I think is the word Sho is exclaimed by a few people. In my mind it translates to ‘Really?’ I never ask if that is correct no matter how many times I hear ‘Sho’ while on the trip. It becomes my favorite exclamation question.
I tell Suguru that I am surprised that people use chopsticks to eat cake. Suguru translates and there are more laughs from the guests.
One of the quests, a woman named Michiko, not the Michiko from the other night but another Michiko (Michiko is a popular name in Japan, like Linda or Chantal) giggles and says, “We don’t. We wanted to watch you.” At that point plastic forks are passed to everyone but me. I continue to eat with the chopsticks.
The next day Suguru takes me to lunch. He asks what I would like and I tell him I would love a great sushi lunch. Besides my facility with chopsticks, the Japanese people I meet are always very surprised when I tell them I love sushi. However, when I ask for a suggestion of where I should eat no one will say. I learn later why that is.
Suguru takes me to Tsukiji Fish Market which is on my list of places to go. The fish market is closed on Sundays but the restaurants and many of the stands are open for tourists. I ask Suguru if the market is worth seeing during the week and he says only if I am buying fish.
"Do you wish to buy fish to sell?" he asks me very seriously.
"Only sushi," I answer, trying to be funny.
"Then no." Suguru finishes and continues to guide me to the market.
We have our sushi lunch at a place called Sushi Sei. The sushi bar is manned by two very young chefs, neither looks over the age of 25. Suguru tells me the restaurant has been family owned and open since 1889. I tell him the oldest restaurant I know, Zuni Cafe in SF, has only been open for about 25 years. Many of the restaurants in Tokyo, the small ones we would call a hole in the wall, have been family owned and operated for generations. The two chefs are probably the great, great grandsons of the first chefs at the restaurant. America is such a young country.
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| Sushi Sei |
We sit at the sushi bar which has an Omikase (chef's choice) option which I am very thrilled about. Suguru orders for us and the young chef eyes me suspiciously then learns over the bar to speak with Suguru. I have no idea what is said but once again:
“Sho?!” from the chef who again looks at me and starts to make our meal. I ask Suguru what's up.
"He wanted to make sure you will eat what he gives you." Suguru tells me as he pours us glasses of sake.
"I eat all the things." I smile at Suguru and then nod at the chef.
It is one of the best sushi meals I have ever had. Each piece of fish is fresh, as if it has just been cut from a live, still wriggling fish. Most likely it has been from fish in the back of the restaurant. The strangest piece we eat has roe compacted on to a piece of seaweed and has the consistency of rubber. It is still delicious and I devour it.
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| Kabuki Theater |
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| Ginza |
After lunch, I expect Suguru to drop me off at my hotel and take his leave of me. Instead he gives me a grand tour of every place I told him I wanted to see and some places I had no clue existed. We head to Azakusa to see the Shinto shrine and shops there. We go to Ginza to see the high priced luxury shops (think Madison Avenue or Rodeo Drive) and buy buns with bean past from the famous Kimuraya opened in 1869. I have never been a fan of bean paste but the buns are delicious. We see where the plastic food made for restaurant displays comes from. We see the Sapporo building. We go to the newly renovated Kabuki Theater and Museum. We go to one of the oldest bars in Tokyo for a beer and watch two very drunk Japanese men being escorted out by police. The Japanese can not hold their liquor. This scene with drunken men and police plays out several times on my trip. Besides my chopstick ability, they are amazed by how much I can drink, which isn't as much as it used to be.
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| Azakusa Shrine |
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| More Ginza |
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| Plastic display food! |
The rest of the week in Tokyo, I am on my own, navigating the streets and sites of the city as the mood hits me. Tokyo is quite literally "Where the Streets Have No Name." When I enter a destination into Google Maps, the directions are: turn left, turn right, go forward, turn left, take the crosswalk, take the crosswalk, take the crosswalk. The app should have just said 'wander aimlessly until something moves you,' which is what I do. I have to admit to another first on this walkabout. I downloaded a Lonely Planet guidebook for Tokyo to my phone. It is very helpful for ideas of where I could go as I aimlessly wander.
I eat delicious ramen made by chefs who smoke cigarettes while they cook. It reminded me of my grandmother. I go to the restaurants where the sushi moves on conveyor belts and you need to grab your plate of goodness. I eat udon. I eat yakatori and come out smelling like I lived in a barbecue for several hours. Every meal I have is delicious, from the large sushi restaurants to the small 10 seat udon restaurants. That is when I realize why no one has given me restaurant recommendations when I ask. Every restaurant is good. Seriously, every restaurant I go to has amazing food. As Suguru tells me, everyone in Japan eats out all the time, takeaway for after work meals, Sunday dinners, potlucks. People in Japan rarely cook and with a population that has more single people than it has ever had in its history, a family meal is becoming a thing of the past. It also means every restaurant has to bring its A game if they want people to come. |
| Museum greeter |
I ask Suguru for a recommendation for an onsen or hotspring Japanese bathhouse I can go to. He suggests a place called Toshimaen Niwanoyu which is a 40 minute train ride from my hotel. It’s my first time on the train alone and I think I do pretty well. I follow the map and signs to the bathhouse, excited for what I think is the most Japanese of experiences, soaking in scalding water with complete strangers in a non-sexual setting. Like those snow monkeys you see in the nature documentaries only with much more fashionable bathing garments.
I make my way to Toshimaen, eagerly awaiting my turn to pay and soak with strangers when I see a sign at the counter, a man with a tattoo on his back with a prohibited symbol over it. I look questioningly at the serviceperson and point to the sign. She speaks limited English and tells me tattoos are not allowed in the hot springs. She points to a sign in Japanese and English which in my excitement I missed that says ‘no tattoos allowed’. I have so many questions which I know, because of our limited ability to communicate, will not be answered here. Why the discrimination against tattoos? Does the ink contaminate the water? Will my tattoos fade?
She asks me if I have tattoos and I point to the one on my arm and to my back where the biggest tattoo is located. She looks at me and gives me the hand, the universal symbol for wait everywhere but the US. She goes into the back to speak with a woman I assume is her manager and they both come out speaking in Japanese. Both women look at me and the tattoo on my arm and then confer again. After more speaking, both look at me apologetically and it is then that I realize they both want to let me come in and bathe like a snow monkey but there are rules and they will not break them. I tell them I understand and dejectedly put back on my shoes and leave.
I learn from several Facebook friends that tattoos are frowned upon in Japan because they are associated with the Yakuza, the Japanese underworld. It is the first time I am considered in the same league as Yakuza and I think ‘Fuck yeah,’ but mourn my hot bath and the fact that I will never be confused for Yakuza again. It’s an up and down day.
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| Shibuya rush hour |
I walk back to the train station and try to figure out what to do with all my new found free time. I take the train to Harajuku because only high priced retail and fashion can cure this type of dejection. I keep searching for the famous ‘Harajuku Girls’ but every woman in Tokyo is fashionable so I have no idea if I am seeing ‘Harajuku chic’ or ‘I’m going to the corner market for bread’ wear. I walk into the first clothing store to look at a lovely pair of pants they have in the window. I love buying clothes in other countries. I have items of clothing that no man in the US has until that fashion is introduced in the US and then you see your favorite item on every man. That’s my signal to travel again and shop for new clothes. It’s somewhat of a problem. A lovely, fashionable problem. Don’t judge me!
Like every store, every clerk in the store greets me. It’s comforting, giving you a sense of safety and belonging until you realize the cold hard truth of being a reasonably large healthy American man in Japan. Nothing in the store will fit you. Then it’s maddening.
A helpful salesclerk comes up to help me. He doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Japanese but we both speak fashion which helps as we try to find a size of pant that will fit me. He brings me the largest sizes on the rack and I head to the dressing room, excitement and longing taking over as I anticipate a new stylish purchase. Sadly the pants don’t fit. Not one pair that I try.
I buy a hat.
I continue to walk through Harajuku. Looking in store windows and admiring the clothes. I arrive at a jeans store, the Japan Jeans Company, and I think to myself why not give it a try. I walk in and look around at the various colors and washes of denim (acid wash is back y'all!). The salesclerk comes up to me and smiles as she watches me longingly stroke the denims in the store.
"Do you wish to try?" she asks me.
"I doubt you have any jeans that fit me," I respond sadly as I prepare to leave the store.
The salesclerk puts her hands together as if she is praying and then begins to look me up and down. She does this for a full, rather uncomfortable two minutes. Her hand goes up to tell me to wait and walks away gingerly. I stare in fascination as she flutters around the store pulling jeans from different sections. She brings me four pairs and hands them to me.
"You try," she says smiling and hands them to me, reminding me politely before I enter the dressing room to remove my shoes.
I am not holding out any hope that the jeans will fit me. I try on the first pair.
She got it right. The jeans on the top of the pile turn out to be the best fitting pair of jeans I have ever tried on. A dark denim, with tapered legs allowing my thighs and calves to breathe and me to walk comfortably.
I walk out of the dressing room, grinning from ear to ear and ask her how did she know which jeans to pick.
"Japanese denim," she says still smiling and takes my money.
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