A Tokyo Christmas
Asakusa 浅草 district in Taitō Tokyo, Japan
My second Christmas in Korea I decided to visit Tokyo, Japan. Originally I wanted to see Osaka and Kyoto, but logistical considerations prompted me to fly into Narita International and to do Tokyo instead. My ex-girlfriend Tae Young 태영 was to meet me two days after my arrival and rendezvous for a brunch reservation at the top of the tower where Sophia Coppola filmed the cinematic achievement of Lost in Translation. I arrived a bit buzzed from the in-flight canned beers and at the airport tried to make sense of the frenetic pace, as well as, the subway map that looked like a monstrous wad of tangled linguine that someone haphazardly threw inside a large frame. "Map" was the extent of the English used on the sign. Thanks Tokyo Metro. And so my trip began at midnight at Narita Airport buzzed, and baffled. A passer-by stopped to help. I guess my befuddlement was obvious, despite my attempt to play it cool. This young kid had been abroad a few times and had the conversational ability to be helpful and not awkward, which is not so often the case. But his social IQ in English seemed to be to a pretty high level. I followed him into Shinjuku, as my first night in town was booked at a capsule hotel there.
As I stepped out of Shinjuku station's frenzied whirling chaos ejecting myself onto the streets at midnight with no map, only an address and a vague idea of where the hotel might be located and holding to a tight budget which prohibited me the use of a Tokyo taxi which would've eased my situation a bit, it was then that the culture shock and eyes-wide-open feeling hit me, like it does every time that I travel. It's the reason that I keep doing it. It's the reason that I've been living and working in Korea as an EFL teacher for as long as I have; six years and counting with no plans to move back stateside or to ever get a "real job" for that matter. The feeling, this feeling, I was again having on the streets in Shunjuku, Tokyo is addicting. I've been chasing it ever sense I rallied my old big brown van down the 101 coast of Oregon, and California to drop a buddy off at his college in southern California back in '97. That road trip prompted by a very late discovery (second year of community college for me) of the Beats through Jack Kerouac's On the Road and then through the reading of many other classic Beat works of literature, as well, will forever remain the most pivotal moment and intellectual era of my life. And just like Jack Micheline's poem, I've been chasing Kerouac's shadow, ever sense. I've been on countless road trips now and I've been in Asia ever itinerant most of my 30s with no plan to cease anytime soon.
After walking for quite sometime in a directionless wandering I stumbled upon an alleyway on the backside of the main station where tightly constructed improvisational jazz was floating through the crisp air in pleasing riffs and refrains. As I rounded a corner, the sonic landscape was clearer and the musicians; all Tokyo locals - a baritone sax, a bassist, and a drummer. A three piece with some serious feel and groove. I stood there relishing my good fortune, again reminded of why I plan so little on my trips, because moments like these just seem more frequent in my experience. Blissing-out on a few songs, my spirit enlivened to a point of gratitude, prompting me to dig into my wallet and give a modest sum of Yen into the
hat in front of their drummer. I caught the tail end of their set. They soon packed their gear into a small Tokyo cruiser like efficient Zen bohemians, with no wasted motions, and they were off. I was to. Back to the search for accommodation and to climbing Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Or was I descending? Already feeling quite self-actualized there on the corner with the jazz and the smile, and the ruminations of being happily alone in a grand old world, further committing to catapulting myself towards ever more estranged feelings of lostness: What more was there?
Tokyo street jazz at midnight.
Yasukuni-dori, Shinjuku, Tokyo
Leaving the street jazz corner, I wandered around for a good while along impeccably clean downtown city streets and one-off alleyways, peering into closed boutique storefront windows and restaurants before stumbling onto the main thoroughfare of Yasukuni-dori where Tokyo taxis, buses, and suped-up speed racers were still rallying thick bumper to bumper in a post-midnight jostling traffic. Still taking it all in and just wandering without a real urgent need to get to the capsule hotel; I make another pleasant and perfectly synchronous discovery, further keeping afoot with the thematic feng-shui of the evenings serendipitous improvisational feel: I find the oldest jazz bar in Tokyo: Dug. Ducking thru a small sturdy wooden door with submarine hatched window, I descend into a cramped brick-walled basement bar decorated with authentic jazz-era memorabilia and novel conversational pieces with all kinds of character and charm. Tentatively saddling up to the empty bar and shaking off the cold December, I work up the nerve to make my first order in Japanese. Just as I gather the courage to utter my carefully rehearsed line in the most cultured of tourist ways, the bartender approaches preemptively and gracefully takes my order in impeccable English. Nice. Order was a whiskey on the rocks, a fine pour of Japanese Hibiki 12 year on a perfectly chiseled ice ball. Sipping the finely crafted spirit in my elegant old fashioned crystal whiskey glass, I chatted easily with the bar owner over the next hour about American and Japanese culture. I learned that many of the jazz greats came through his joint of which he was more than proud to regale me with as a piece of the place's unique history in the city and in the jazz era circuit, and that, in fact, the club still holds the occasional live performance. This elevated my mood to an impossibly high level. What serendipitous happenstance! What poetic improvisation! What bop prosody! I believe the evening did inspire a poem on a bar napkin there that night. I can't be certain but that kind of luck on an unplanned evening in a foreign city is quite a revelatory experience, as can easily be imagined. A great and blessed way to start the trip, any trip. After a couple more excruciatingly expensive yet elegantly full-flavored glasses of whiskey, I exited the bar around 1:30 am to resume my search for the capsule hotel.
Dug Bar, Shinjuku Tokyo Courtesy of www.timeout.com
Dug Bar, Shinjuku Tokyo
At this point it I was strictly business, it was essentially a brisk walk thru the Shinjuku district until the capsule hotel appeared somewhat on the corner and the backside of a district block. The hotel entrance buttressing a small street next to tangled mess of freeway on and off ramps that hung overhead. I took my warmed whiskey belly inside and up the elevator to check-in. To my surprise, despite the early morning hour of my arrival, the hotel lobby was packed with guests. There was a line literally out the lobby into the elevator foyer of loosened-tied slickly suited Tokyo salary men, many of whom were visibly more drunken than me. I also noticed the formidably menacing sign unmissable on the check-in counter that said in Japanese and English, "No tattoos allowed." As I tattooed man, my drunken mind began to reel with possible consequences of not heeding the prohibition and trespassing. In a drunken resolve I decided that the idea of turning away from slumber's door at this time of night was not even a consideration despite the potential consequences of trespassing the corporate policy. I also rationalized it to myself that I could always play the dumb foreigner card, which has quite the currency in East Asia. And so stepping to the counter I managed to gesticulate and pidgin English my way through with only minor cumbersome and awkward detailed hiccups. Locker and capsule key, complimentary toiletry pouch and towel in hand, I turn from the counter take a sizable exhaling breath, step into the locker room, disrobe, stowe my personal effects and slip into the Green Plaza complimentary sandals, and head to my coffin size sleeping capsule for the night.
Green Capsule Hotel check-in counter sign Courtesy of tripadvisor.com
Awaking in the morning, I sauntered into the men's shower room discreetly covering my three large tattoos, the sparrow on my collar bone, and the two large pieces on my left arm, with the towel that I picked up before entering. I also chose a strategic location next to the wall on one side, shielded from public view on three sides. My hyper-vigilance and alertness created an anxious rush to finish so as to avoid any confrontation with the hotel staff or be falsely accused of being in business with the Yakuza. After showering, I headed out into the city to grab a coffee and persuse Shinjuku to take in some more of the ambiance of Tokyo proper.
Over the course of the next couple of days I managed to tour the Shinjuku Red Light District, explore the outdoor vendors next to the Ueno subway stop, the Ueno park,
