If London is a watercolour, Tokyo is an oil painting
Stepping out of a Tokyo station on a rainy morning, a slew of identical combini (convenience store) umbrellas unfurled in unison as if this uniform tapestry were part of some elaborate welcome ceremony. Patches of moss along the pavement stood out amidst the spotless, sterilised urban landscape. As I strolled down the rain soaked streets of the city, I could not help but adapt the Peter Shaffer quote: ‘If London is a watercolour, Tokyo is an oil painting’.
On the way to my hotel, I stopped by a 7-Eleven for a ‘Hottokōhī’ (hot coffee) and an umbrella to counter a tempestuous onslaught of rain. Stepping inside, the tinkle of the door chime reminded me of the opening lines of Sayaka Murata’s Convenience Store Woman. The robotic efficiency of the staff and convenience of the combini felt almost unreal. If I were reluctant to have any human contact, an array of vending machines stationed outside the store provided an automated alternative. According to a Business Insider article, Japan has slightly over 5 million vending machines. Gauging by the number of vending machines I encountered along my trip; many in the most unexpected places, I have no doubt in those numbers. With my check-in time scheduled at a distant 3 pm, I found myself trotting through Ueno, standing out amongst stoic, suited salarymen and working women in elegant black dresses, heels and faces perfectly made up, out on a lunch break. As I made my way into a small restaurant, a group of office workers were on their way out, bowing profusely as they parted ways.
Going on a long trot to Asakusa afforded me some stunning glimpses into smaller rain soaked shrines along the way, the entire journey interspersed with bouts of rain. Tokyo compartmentalises and separates its tourist spots from residential neighbourhoods with remarkable efficiency. Stepping into the perimeter of the Sensō-ji shrine, I was confronted with large tour groups and innumerable backpackers. Chinese women dressed in kimonos, wore cheshire cat smiles for the camera whilst less than enthusiastic partners trudged along whilst making their way through the narrow shop-lined streets that formed the outer periphery of the temple.
Leaving the touristic hustle of Sensō-ji shrine behind, I found myself in a quiet working-class neighbourhood made up of two storey buildings lined with bicycles and potted plants. Along the way I spotted an artisan coffee shop, with senior denizens of the city seated on wooden benches inside. I was initially uncertain whether I would be admitted, having heard that a few establishments cater exclusively to Japanese people and do not admit foreigners; the infamous image of a Japanese man crossing his arms to form an ‘X’ came to mind. Far from what I expected, I was given a warm reception. A younger assistant proceeded to place my umbrella on a rack outside and ushered me inside with alacrity. A septuagenarian barista proceeded to prepare my iced pour-over coffee with practised poise. Whilst the rest of the world is finally moving away from machine brews and embracing hand crafted methods like the pour-over and cold brew coffee, Japan has been the home of handcrafted methods several decades before the third wave coffee revolution took rest of the world, just like the Shinkansen (bullet train) was ahead of its time. Stepping out of the coffee shop, I continued walking back to my hotel with drafts of wind providing some respite from the afternoon heat. As I trotted along, ordinary homes and buildings gave way to neon sign boards and windowless structures. Outside, suited men waited for customers whilst boards displaying images of heavily photoshopped nymphs brought about the realisation that I was no longer in sterile suburbia. Yet these suited touts (if I could call them that), stood with such poise whilst the hot afternoon sun beat down, they could have easily been mistaken for salesmen. Much later did I realise that I just passed through the pleasure district of Yoshiwara, dating all the way back 16th century Edo period.
Whilst this extremity of the city came across as comparatively understated, Shinjuku was the polar opposite. Making my way through the labyrinth, that is Shinjuku Station, I was dazzled by the glow of neon lights emanating from every direction. As I was leaving the station, I tripped on an energy drink can laid on the last step of the subway exit where a group of high school students posed for a photograph on a night out. Before I could even make an attempt to apologise, one of the students came over and exclaimed, “I sorry, is okay. Thank you!”, extremely keen to practise English and in the background his female friends giggled. Coming from a comparatively hostile country, polite cultures offer a welcome change, whether it is the solicitousness of co-passengers on the tube in London or an English speaking Japanese person on the metro, eager to be helpful. Being a tourist hub, Shinjuku came across as the most colourful part of the city in almost every sense of the word. The poised and polite touts I encountered earlier were replaced by West African men who aggressively attempted to coerce transients and tourists into clubs owned and run by the Yakuza: the kind where you’d most likely get over billed or roofied or perhaps both. My brown South Asian skin stood out amidst a sea of East Asians and one of these colourful curb characters called out in a thick accent, “Yo babuji, I know your people man. Come party with me. I show you good time.” Making myself scarce, I slipped into a narrow alley lined with Izakayas (an informal Japanese bar that serves alcoholic drinks and snacks) to escape the hustle on the main street. Inside an Izakaya, I was lavished with delicious Yakitori (grilled meats), whilst a waitress poured some sake into an oribe cup. All around me, thick swirls of tobacco smoke hung like a layer of grey mist. Unlike most other first world cities, Tokyo is seemingly extremely tolerant of indoor smoking. Despite the the limited levels of English, the manager at the establishment was concerned that I’d have a long walk to the station and scribbled ‘JR?’, on a piece of paper. When I replied with an affirmative ‘Hai’, he led me to a van a short distance away. Before I could attempt to reach for the door handle, the automated van door slid shut, much to my amazement. My driver was fascinated by all things American and explained that he intended to learn English. With an air of authority he exclaimed “One day I go America, Las Vegas!”, whilst Motown music played on the vehicle’s music system.
Descending into the Tokyo metro around rush hour is somewhat akin to stepping into Hades, with weary workers walking past mechanically, resembling a zombie apocalypse, albeit zombies with high regard for civic sense. Burrowing through the subterranean labyrinth that is the Tokyo metro, I found myself crammed in a compartment with poker faced passengers, giving me the impression that I was amongst a robotic race of people. Yet a clandestine peak into a fellow passenger’s manga comic book revealed characters that seemed to pop out with perfectly exaggerated emotions and borderline pornographic imagery that seemed quite contrary to the otherwise perfectly composed average Japanese commuter. As I reached my destination, a rather elaborate station jingle played out. From my experience, every station had a unique tune played out on a DX7 synthesiser bell sound. Upon watching a documentary I was given to understand that the music had a dual purpose of identifying stations as well as a means of allaying commuter anxiety whilst dealing with large crowds.
Moving away from Shinjuku, I found myself in Shibuya. Train stations in Japan are behemoths and it was a while before I managed to find the correct exit whilst passing cosplayers that swarm this part of the city. Perched inside Starbucks, Shibuya whilst sipping on the signature matcha green tea drink, I found myself gazing at the sea of humanity traversing the iconic Shibuya crossing, basking in the fulgent neon glow. For a culture that rigidly adheres to uniformity, Shibuya contrasts starkly, with its ostentatious display of cutting edge fashion, with women dolled up to appear as Kawaii (cute, in Japanese pop culture) as possible.
Every subdivision of the bustling borough has its own distinct character and is in a sense, a city within a city. Ambling along the teeming boulevards of Akihabara on a warm summer afternoon, college and high school students in French maid costumes stood along the wide walkways, attempting to pull customers into ‘maid cafés’. Watching adult women put on a childlike demeanour for the amusement and entertainment of customers at some of these cafés was easily one of the most extreme forms of culture shock I experienced. Further ahead, entire stores were dedicated to manga comic books, retro gaming consoles and other highly specific areas of interest. Despite being a culture of uniformity and conformity, the Japanese dedicate an incredibly obsessive amount of energy on narrow subjects of interest. Interests that would be construed as geeky in many other societies have an army of devoted acolytes, with the most extensive congregation assembling in Akihabara.
After taking in the sights of this district, I set out on my main mission: finding the largest Gachapon store in Akihabara to source Gacha Gacha for my six year old niece who incidentally shares my intense fascination for all things Japanese. Gachapon are vending machines that dispense tiny capsule sized toys called Gacha Gacha (onomatopoeia for the sound the toys make as they get dispensed).
Post work hours, the sight of drunken salarymen seemed to be the leitmotif of the evening. In Shinjuku, two co-workers/friends carried an inebriated colleague. On the metro I was confronted with another intoxicated character who slept like a baby all through the journey. In Ueno, a suited man who probably consumed too much sake or Suntory whisky threw up near a dustbin, after which he bowed and apologised profusely to passersby, who seemed rather unaffected. Perhaps it was my limited exposure but I found the Japanese to be decorous even in their drunkenness. Gauging by the conduct I witnessed, it’s understandable why the country permits drinking in public.
When not riding the metro or careening briskly along the concrete pavements, a sizeable cross section of city dwellers, from elementary school children, octogenarians, to suited businessmen effortlessly traversed entire sections of the city on bicycle. Even mothers with toddlers carried out their daily commute with bicycles equipped with rain proof seat contraptions. The true measure of a developed society is when everyone, from the most marginal member of society to a CEO, are able to travel side by side on an efficient public transit system.
Whilst waiting for the afternoon Shinkansen to Kyoto, I picked up a bento box meal at the station. Its perfect compartmentalisation and immense attention to detail seemed to mirror the social protocol and rigid cultural norms that govern Japanese society. Hopping on the bullet train, I found myself flying through the constantly evolving landscape. From the urban topography of the Tokyo metropolitan area, to fields, forests, traditional houses, industrial units and so much more than I could take in, whizzing past at speeds close to 300km an hour. The tail end of the rainy season battered through Nagoya prefecture as the train passed through, en route to Kyoto.
