Chapter 1 -- Tokyo

My last night in California involved a lavish dinner at the famed Chez Panisse with Jack and Dooz. We savored nettle pizza and baked goat cheese while quaffing Burgundy and marveling at the wonderful craziness of life. Since Dooz had first lured me to California, and Jack became one of my first Bay Area friends, it seemed fitting to share this last supper with both of them. Within a matter of hours after this decadent meal, I was being driven to the airport by the wonderful Alex Momtchiloff and soon found myself standing on line waiting to check in for my flight. In front of me was an older man who struck up a conversation. He was returning to his native land (the Philipines) for a vacation and quickly explained that had been a fighter pilot in the US Air Force for many years. After a bit of prompting about his wartime experiences, he shared the fact that he had been a fighter escort for the Enola Gay on its fateful mission to drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I asked what he saw, and he froze for a moment before saying that it was the biggest blast he had ever witnessed, that he turned his plane around and hightailed it out of the area, and that people were just vaporized with only shadows left on the ground to memorialize their existence. I didn't ask if he felt guilty or responsible (the $64,000 question), instead opting for more subtle probing questions. Except for a few haunting memories, he didn't seem particularly phased by having been a participant in this horrific historical event.

My arrival in Tokyo was fairly uneventful. After an 11 hour flight, I barely broke my stride passing through customs and was on a train into the city within 15 minutes of exiting the jetway. Two hours later I settled into my temporary Tokyo home -- a centrally-located hostel catering primarily to the community of 20-something backpackers passing through the city on a tight budget. The hostel was clean, air-conditioned, friendly, had shared rooms with bunks, offered internet access, and was outfitted with advanced Japanese-style toilets which (at the push of a button) provide a soothing water cleansing. All this for the low price (in Tokyo) of $25/night. I stayed here to avoid burning money too quickly at the outset given that Japan would certainly be the most expensive destination on my itinerary. I also wanted to come into contact with others making similar journeys.

I quickly met a crew of travelers and set out the following morning at 6am with a few hardy souls to explore the famous Tokyo fish market. The market was bustling with activity at this early hour as swarms of small cargo vehicles darted through impossibly small passageways. Buyers surveyed stacks of whole frozen tuna carcasses emitting a mist as they thawed. The rising condensation created a low-level fog over the entire area. Traversing through some of the aisles, I stumbled across my friend Kara Nelson from Berkeley (not so surprisingly, since she told me she would be at that market) whom I had not seen since our time together at Burning Man. Our reunion was cheerful and surreal, with the smell of fish hanging heavy in the air. After catching up on recent events, we strolled through the narrow aisles for awhile dodging traffic before she and her fellow engineers returned to their water quality conference and I continued to lead my crew towards other Tokyo neighborhoods for a day of sightseeing. The afternoon was filled with interesting destinations including the Imperial Palace (which is surprisingly inaccessible and affords distant views unless one has connections with the royal family), the Museum of Contemporary Art, and finally a trip to the fabled Roppongi district for an evening of drinking, eating, and Karaoke.

My group arrived in Roppongi by subway and attempted to meet up with some additional friends of friends. This attempt was foiled by our complete lack of orientation and the general absence of comprehensible street addresses in Tokyo. So we wandered through this giant shopping mall and, in an effort to find a public phone, headed to the piano bar at the Ritz Carlton hotel. This bar, located on the 45th floor, is straight out of "Lost in Translation" featuring sweeping views of the Tokyo skyline, clusters of small tables under very high ceilings, and a jazz singer performing in the corner. I was mesmerized by this scene, which seemed eerily familiar, when my gaze turned toward an approaching Japanese man surrounded by supplicants and bodyguards. After catching a better look, I realized that this man is former Japanese Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi, someone quite recognizable due to his very distinctive hairstyle. He strolled right past me and entered the elevator only a few meters away. This brush with political celebrity was quite startling, although the significance of the encounter appeared to be lost on the others in my group. They were still looking for a public phone, which we ultimately discovered in another part of this massive complex.

The friends of friends were eventually found and a combined collective of about 15 people headed out for drinks, dinner, and a long round of Karaoke in a private room with pitchers of beer. This motley group consisted of several Americans, one Japanese woman, a couple of Brits, and a few bicultural Japanese/British. Two of the new additions were US Naval Officers stationed in Japan. I sat next to one, who later harmonized with me on a rousing karaoke rendition of the Beatles tune "All My Loving", and he disclosed his complete opposition to the US involvement in Iraq. We discussed the futility of the situation and I crossed my fingers on his behalf, hoping that he will not be pulled from his current assignment to serve a futile and dangerous mission in the Persian Gulf. Once the karaoke session ended at 3am, we stumbled back onto the streets of Roppongi and were amazed to find the entire area hopping with activity. Surveying the main avenue, I noted that every single street-level business remained open at this hour including bookstores, cafes, and convenience stores. The streets were filled with taxis trolling for customers who might agree to pay their ridiculously exorbitant fares. Because the Tokyo subway shuts down at 12am, many people out partying simply continue until the stations reopen at 5am. At the locked station entrances, a number of men were asleep on the pavement, some leaning against the walls waiting until the trains recommenced. Some were wearing business suits and clutching mobile phones. My group browsed in a bookstore for the final hour. Just as we prepared to leave to catch the 5am train back to our hostel, speakers in the store announced that it would soon be closing. It appears that the reopening of the subway marked the official end of the night in this central party locale.

Over the next few days, I roam through many Tokyo neighborhoods to try and get an overall sense of the city. Saturday is spent with Kara in search of temples, a camera battery charger, an iPod case, and some quality noodles. It is quite hot and humid during the afternoons and I am amazed that locals are walking around in business suits while I sweat profusely wearing only sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. Despite my depleted energy due to the sticky heat (and lingering fatigue), I am able to appreciate the overwhelming energy coursing through the city's central neighborhoods of Harajuku, Shibuya, Ginza, Akihabara, Asakusa and Shinjuku. I focus on absorbing the neon glow from the vertical signs scaling the side of practically every tall building, observing the well-dressed youths clad in extreme fashions, and trying to find shade and air conditioning at regular intervals. I snack on random foods whenever possible and focus on staying hydrated. I do not avail myself of the opportunity to shop at a mind-boggling array of luxury goods stores hawking every top shelf brand name of consequence.

Tokyo is a very walkable city. Each neighborhood is fairly compact and the subway system is both ubiquitous and phenomenally efficient, so one can hop on the train and disembark in a desired neighborhood ready to explore on foot. The only challenge is maintaining proper orientation due to the fact that very few streets are clearly marked, some do not appear to have names at all, and signs are only occasionally written in Roman script. This renders my local maps of marginal value, so I rely on a compass and my general sense of spatial location. These tools serve me well, for the most part, during my walks through various neighborhoods.

I experience a few significant frustrations during these early days. One involves repeated denials of my ATM card leading to a mild sense of panic. Not having access to cash in a foreign land can cause anyone to feel vulnerable. To make matters worse, it took two calls to my bank to sort out the situation. During the second call, I was forced to wait on hold for almost 2 hours before talking to the correct agent who told me that the card was suspended due to suspicious activity, namely attempts to withdraw money in Japan. This pattern was apparently suspicious even though I had previously called them (before departing) to request that I be authorized to use the card in Japan and Thailand. Left very angry by the incompetence of this bank (Washington Mutual) and the wasting of my time in Tokyo, I vowed to seek unspecified revenge against them in the future. I will not forget.

On Sunday, I visited Yoyogi park in search of jugglers and fire spinners. The park scene felt very familiar, similar to Golden Gate park on a weekend day. At the entrance, Elvis lookalikes all stood around, dressed in leather, and occasionally danced in formation while rockabilly music blared in the background. Moving along, I passed guys holding signs offering "free hugs", drummers, folk musicians, old ladies practicing tai chi, families picnicking, and finally a cluster of jugglers balancing clear acrylic balls at various points along their upper bodies. It was amongst this cluster that I found the world famous "Yuta" whose videos I know from You Tube. A mid-20s Japanese man, Yuta is an excellent spinner with perfect planes, very clean lines, and a nice repertoire of distinctive moves. We meet, talk shop for a few minutes, and the he shows me a 16-point stall sequence which I decide it is my life's mission to master. He also displays a move named the "infinite loop" which is a never ending hyperloop. I feel humbled by the experience and vow to step up my practice regimen.

After bonding with Yuta and a few of the other spinners who spoke English, I wander off to meet a friend of a friend who has agreed to show me around. Amy is a somewhat unconventional Japanese woman -- in her mid-30s, she runs a beauty spa, has never married, and lived in Los Angeles for a couple of years. We sit down for coffee and immediately begin discussing the meaning of life itself (my favorite topic of late). She opens a window into Japanese culture and I find myself fascinated. In talking about relationships and enduring love, she tells me that many marriages lack passion and wives expect their husbands to cheat with other lovers but assume that the affairs will be discreet and secret. Despite this cultural norm for a typical marriage, Amy clarifies that she would break up with her current boyfriend if he actually cheated on her. She also explains the culture of the "hostess bars" where men pay women to serve as escorts (conversation, no sex) for the evening. She worked in one such bar and relates that it was generally fun especially when her responsibilities included eating at fancy restaurants with friendly, respectful, wealthy men. Later in the evening, we see billboards advertising "host bars" (where women go to be fawned over by young men) that highlight photos of men who are the biggest earners in the club. For several minutes, I consider whether this career path could be an alternate professional calling.

Amy explains to me that Japanese women sometimes wear outrageous clothing to get attention (and introduces me to the term "Goth-lita", a combination of Goth and Lolita) and men focus on their hairstyles. After she makes this distinction, I begin to notice a subculture of Japanese men who cultivate extreme "rock star" hair. Along with a stylish mop, they typically sport dispassionate facial expressions colored with a hint of disdain for everything around them, as if this world is simply not interesting enough to keep them engaged. The degree to which this nonconformity is essentially standardized causes me to laugh. In Japan, there appears to be little desire to push the envelope beyond accepted cultural norms, even norms governing nonconformity. So these "rebels" end up looking like fashion clones.

At my request we check out a Pachinko hall, an arcade packed with gambling machines which collectively emit a defeaning cacophanous roar -- a mix of windstorm, aerial bombardment, circus, and video game sounds. We can barely communicate amidst the electronic howling but manage to find a machine and put our luck to the test. Amy slides 1000 Yen (~$10) into the slot and we begin to play. Small metal balls begin streaming through the playing surface with one occasionally going into the center hole which triggers an animated sequence followed by a series of spinning dials. Like a Vegas slot machine, symbols on imaginary parallel wheels spin until slowing to a final resting place. I am so confused by the game that I can't even tell whether we have won or lost. Amy keeps adjusting my hand which rests on a small metal knob controlling the force of the metal balls shooting towards the top. My cluelessness is becoming embarrassing. After 5 minutes, the game is over and we are 1000 Yen poorer.

Walking out of the Pachinko parlor, I force Amy to explain everything that just transpired. She tells me that the animated sequences portray scenes from certain animé stories. Since I don't follow animé, the representations are of no significance. Although we lost 1000 Yen, she claims to have once won as much as $1500. She admits, however, that people generally lose money and many become completely addicted to the games. I am grateful for the experience but have no desire to keep going. Then again, I am not the type to gamble in a casino.

We proceed to the bustling neighborhood of Shinjuku to find a restaurant. Amy points out all sorts of relevant sites including older streets, local bars with only half a dozen seats, and the various types of host and hostess bars. We end up in a multistory building looking for a good restaurant. At each floor, the elevator doors open onto a completely new and different entertainment universe. I find myself amazed and overwhelmed by the incredible number of restaurants and clubs packed into the vertical space. We eventually find a restaurant with tables separated into semi-private rooms. Due to the fact that the entire menu is in Japanese, Amy orders for both of us. The dinner is delicious -- soft tofu custard, salad, slices of cooked salmon, dumplings, and other tasty treats. After the meal and another round of fascinating conversation about the differences between Japan and America, Amy walks me to the train station and I return to the hostel. It has been an absolutely wonderful day.

The next morning, I decide it is time to leave Tokyo and take refuge in more pastoral and mountainous areas. Just four days in the big city have left me exhausted and seeking quieter surroundings. So I head to the train station and climb onto the Shinkansen (bullet train) towards my next destination -- Nikko. I feel satisfied by this taste of Tokyo and am excited about what lies ahead.

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