On Tokyo Time

The window view from my temporary home, in Asakusa, East Tokyo.

An afternoon stroll around Asakusa & Senso-ji.

 A meander around Yanaka, browsing delicious paper shops, 

tasting homemade kinako omochi, basking in the Tokyo sunlight. 

A late night unpredictable karaoke treat with 20 wonderful Australian printmakers.

A lovely 'Crafternoon' with Hello Sandwich at 'East side Tokyo', making envelopes 

alongside new friends. Sharing oishii ramen, (tokyo style) and a long walk-it-off.

Stumbling into 2K540 Aki-oka Artisan on Saturday afternoon delivered 30 minutes

of wonder at an imono workshop, where I cast my own o-sake cup, with the help of a 

bevy of young craftsmen. Boy bands in Shinjuku freestyle jazzing and bidding a 

snappy sayonara to Tokyo as I skipped through Ueno park to catch a flight home. 

Tokyo time

Kabukiza, Karaoke, Kiki purikura, Kimono,

Tempura, Toco hostel, Tea ceremony, Temples 

mind full

With each day, my growing fascination wakes me from sleep. The differences, and similarities, between the culture I've always known and that which I have never known; the smallest detail captivates and inspires a renewed way of being. Daily actions are exercised with more care. My attention becomes focused on the present, for the first time in some time. I am mindful of all I do and of all I am. I begin to notice the littlest, as well as the biggest, the mute alongside the loudest. Tokyo is brimful of contradiction. It jolts you into the future while rooting you in the past. The simplicity and complexity, the re-working of traditions, the ability to renew and keep up, to consume yet reuse. The relentless engagement with digital worlds in parallel to the politeness of the personal.

After ten days, my head is full of wonder and I begin to compose my love letter to Japan.

Bamboo temple moon gathering

An invitation came to take the train to Kamakura to walk in the September sun and visit the local temples. Yoshi, a stranger soon-to-be friend, led us to the Hokoku-ji bamboo temple, to stroll through the bamboo forest and to sip macha in the tea house. The Buddhist monk pruned the tree exactingly aloft the Zen garden, as I watched on, as if in a Japanese dream. 

Soba noodles, served cold on a hot burning day inside a dark wooden hut. Cupfuls of Mugicha over tales of sushi mastery, ambitions and London.  Tentative ideas and never-too-sure plans drifting from the other side of the lunch. Creme brûlée ice cream accompanied strolls to wash money and make a wish by a koi guarded cave.

To Yokohama for moon viewing in Sankeien garden. A full moon rising through the clouds, to the sound of classical instruments and show tunes carried across the dark lawn to rest on our ears familiar. Visions of the moon rabbit making mochi confirmed by the kindness of strangers. Sleeping cats as we devoured obento beneath the ginko trees.

Japan was there in that day, fully and at its best. 

Getting to know you Tokyo

Everyday became a lesson.  I was the embodiment of a cliched westerner in Japan. How to bow, when to remove your shoes, when it's okay to eat, how to push onto a crammed subway carriage, when to let others through, how to refuse politely without saying 'no', when to smile, when to walk, how to drink tea, how not to tip, when to crouch, when to tiptoe, how to give thanks, how to live silently in a tiny paper room.

The places I gained perspective were on the rooftops and terraces, observation decks and viewing towers of Tokyo's high rises. Up there, everything seemed manageable. The view from above gave a vantage point of confidence, I could handle and navigate the vast city from there with hawks eye precision. Ground level contact was more challenging. The subway only made a hint of sense to me by the time I left. The colour codes, over-under ground, private, public, not on the map, on the map lines began to fox me less by day ten. My feet didn't stop from Roppongi Hills to Omotesando, gallery to department store to shrine. The etiquette rules never far from my consciousness. My clumsiness never far from a locals eye.

I only clung once, to the gigantic Mama spider of Louise Bourgeois, for momentary reassurance on a rainy afternoon.  Like the start of any new relationship, there can be moments laced with shear terror at the idea of the unknown.

Lost Connection

On September 16th 2013, with most possessions sold or stored, I left England's shores for the promise of a Japanese adventure. A flight that felt surprisingly easy was over before I knew it, in part due to the kilos of anticipation I was travelling with. Tokyo was before us, everything else behind. Shimokitazawa was to be our base for the first ten days and the dolls house sized apartment, our home. Shinjuku's multiple exit station caused the instant disorientation I expected. Stinging saucer eyes, tired luggage dragging arms, excited weariness. 

Within two nights of broken sleep tucked up in a swiss roll single camp bed and separated from the street by rice paper walls, I craved a soundproof escape from the relentless triumphant cicada song. Space was the first luxury I struggled to be without. Privacy the next.  

On the evening of day two, I weaved a route from the bustling Shibuya masses to Love Hotel Hill, a place peppered with by-the-hour room rental for Japanese couples to luxuriate in one another's company, in their own private love. I selected an unashamedly neon lit ground floor hotel, welcomed by a discreet elderly lady and Mickey and Minnie mouse lit up figurines. Room 101 was adorned with rock and roll memorabilia, a glass cabinet baring miniature moving models of The Rolling Stones. Mick and Ronnie looked on as we navigated our way through the fluorescent pink bathroom heated loo, sake vending mini fridge and in-bed-Kareoke machine. The call from reception came promptly when our time was up and we waltzed back into the street with a knowing smile. Intimacy comes at a price in Tokyo.