I’m jet-lagged to oblivion right now. I can’t seem to sleep when it’s night and I can’t seem to stay awake when it’s day. In my nocturnal stupor, I’ve decided to give in to the delusion that I have something to say: some honest portrayal of myself, the world, and our place within it. Perhaps I am possessed by a demon or a gullible sailor summoned by a siren’s song only to be drowned in disappointment. Nevertheless, in an effort to make sure future Jacob doesn’t wallow in self-pity and self-imposed annihilation, I am going to begin writing and hopefully never stop. There is a litany of sources of this demented delusion, a whole cornucopia of romantic dreams but I believe the main catalysts are my travels. The most significant of which explains my constipation and circadian disruptions.
We, as Americans, have an idea of what Japan is like. We think of cherry blossoms, a war-torn man in a kimono meditating in solitude, the land of samurais, honor, and suicidal loyalty. Perhaps we think of video games and anime, with wide-eyed and big breasted caricatures that are the most appropriate case of Freudian psychology I’ve ever seen. Perhaps we think of overworked, nose-to-the-grindstone style ethics of technological boom and bust. We have an idea.
I’ve always wanted to go to the Far East. For as long as I found the mistress of travel, I have heard its call. It is the truest opposite from my cultural standard. The historical, albeit largely arbitrary, divide between the East and the West forces us to view the East as the most exotic place in the world. Something truly new.
We’ve seen Michaelangelo’s David and the cultural empire of Europe.
We’ve seen the heart of darkness buried within Africa’s golden plains.
We’ve seen the pomp and passion of Latin America.
For the West, these places are old news. But in our comings and goings, our era of to and fro, the Far East has, for the most part, remained a startling mystery. Is it like the movies? Is it like the art? Is it like the cartoons and comics?
We have a romance about the East, Japan in particular. I’m here to both confirm and shatter those ideas. I am here for you to say “I knew it!” but just as quickly tape your mouth shut, peel your eyes open, and force you to take in the reality of the world beyond the Pacific. In these three parts, I urge you to read, laugh, ponder, and become as obsessed as I became with this country. This land that borders on the extraterrestrial, the alien, the foreign, the uncertain, and the powerful; the mysterious beauty of East, whose sun rises as ours sets.
Day 1: Shock and Awe
We arrived at Narita airport, the larger of the two major airports that you’ll fly into once you reach Tokyo. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane. I had some noddings off and maybe even a REM cycle for half an hour, but I was physically exhausted, but mentally and emotionally, I was in the throes of ecstasy as I finally landed in Japan. I love to travel, it’s what I live for. To explore, risk, eat, experience, learn, grow, think, and love a place and its people is the highest honor a person may endeavor to achieve. Last year was a slow year in terms of this attempt, with only a four-day excursion to Honduras with some friends of mine (another story for another time). It had been two years since I had been off the North American continent and I was ready to face another world.
I had dreamed of the Far East. Its whispers drew me in since the moment I knew it existed. My dad, being a connoisseur of amateur martial arts and Bruce Lee movies, and my mother, a practitioner of the international kitchen, embedded in me from a very young age that Asia has some of the most delightful and dangerous power ever wielded by mankind. And I wanted a taste.
I went because some friends of mine have family member there and I, jokingly, would always tell them to invite if they ever get the chance to visit. Turns out annoying your friends and mooching off their opportunities works out every once in a while. However, I had my own mission with my own Airbnb, my own itinerary, my own space to do with this trip whatever I wish. Solo travel has been a dream of mine for a while and decided to use this trip as a prototype. A type of trial run for future adventures.
All sleep deprivation, airline food travesties, and the Anthony Bourdain documentary I watched (and wept to) on the plane left me whenever I first entered the airport. We exited from baggage claim and were bombarded by a tv show host with a small camera crew, beckoning me for an interview. In my sleepless stupor and in the early stages of jet-lag induced dementia, I stumbled out a “sure”. They pulled me aside and asked me, first in Japanese and then through an English translator, “why are you in Japan?”.
“Just visiting some friends” I said, zombified and stupefied.
“You have such long hair and a big beard! Why?!”, they giggled as they asked.
“I don’t know my dad has long hair”.
“Show us a picture!”
I pulled out my phone and lazily scrolled through my camera roll and Facebook like a drone on autopilot, looking for its target. I pulled out a family picture of us and showed it to the camera. I’ve been in this country for a whooping 5 minutes and managed to show a picture of my dad on a TV show that, I was told after the fact, is actually quite popular. A great start to hopefully will prove to be a spectacular career in showbiz.
After that nonsense, we found Chris, my friend’s brother, hopped into his van, and watched the sun set on a sleepy Tokyo. It was, truly, shocking. I haven’t been to too many places thus far where I am completely and utterly useless. The infinite city skyline, the empty streets, the Duolingo not paying off, and the boxy, silent street cars whooshing past my periphery let me know I was, truly, somewhere new.
A brisk two-hour drive from the airport led us to Chris’s place in a sleepy, more rural suburb of northern Tokyo in the Saitama prefecture (kind of like a county or parish). The rolling hills and the steep streets led up to a large, unassuming, gray apartment building. We marched up the stairs to meet Chris’s family in what seemed to be the quintessential Japanese apartment. We took off our shoes, another custom that is stereotypically true of Japan, and meet his wife Madoka, a shy and bubbly local girl Chris married while stationed there in the US Navy, and their two children, Reina and Kaito, who are equal parts confused by what these new white people were doing in their house and ecstatic for the chance host us. The apartment was claustrophobic to our spread-out American proclivities. The Japanese are much skinnier than us because of their lifestyle of high exercise and low caloric intake (go figure) and therefore, they seemed right at home in the tight corners and narrow hallways.
We took a load off our weary backs and rested for just a moment before the long, 30-minute trek to my Airbnb. With my luggage in tow, we walk along the street, barreling through scantily populated alleys of people heading home from work and kids going out for a night to the local Izakaya, a type of Japanese bar and grill. I have the trail mapped out to the millisecond by now: up the hill from Chris’s apartment, take a left, walk past the train tracks, take the next right down the alley, another right is the train station. If I’ve learned anything from my travels, it’s to take the train. Trains are a microcosm of culture and chaos and how the people deal with one another. It is the working man’s main form of transportation in Tokyo and the surrounding areas. It was four stops from Nanasato station near Chris’s house and Omiya, the sprawling railway town I was to call home for a week. The next part of the journey is forever implanted in my brain like Elon Musk’s microchip messiah might soon be in all of ours. The sheer volume of foot traffic, the neon firework show lighting up the night sky, and the smells of local fare permeated the air and my weary soul. It was heaven. Paradise. Home. For a moment we take it all in. Caleb, one of my best friends with whom I came said, “NOW I feel like I’m in Japan”.
We push through the crowd to one of the many alleyway shopping centers throughout Japan. The signs vertically calling down the heavens into their kitchens, people brushing past you without saying sorry (how DARE they?!), and the pummeled-to-death line cook sneaking a cigarette were calling cards of these dens of deliciousness. The energy was palpable. On the other side, more busy streets. Don’t get lost. Keep your head on a swivel. Take a left or a right depending on which alley you decided to take (usually the decision is made by what smells the best). See that café through the businessmen and fashionista punks? Take a right down that alley. Now you can breathe. There are less people down here. Are you lost? Keep going straight. Curve as the road curves. There is a narrow alley way next to a big sign that says “questions?”, presumably for some sort of business, but I saw it as a bold sign from God that this was the right spot to be in. Down the alley, walk into you see the cobblestone road leading to the park. It’s Japanese style streetlamps will guide you for a later adventure but, for now, stay straight. Three blocks. Or was it four? Five? Not sure. But we took a left down an alley to hopefully find my Airbnb, ready and waiting for my weary head.
One small problem. The mailbox that my host claimed held my key was not there. We looked around this slender, vertically framed apartment building and couldn’t find anything that resembled a mailbox. In a strike of genius intuition, I stuck my fingers into a slot in the door in front of us, maybe thinking the key was in there. Nothing. I jiggled the door handle. Maybe that’ll do something? I heard some rustling of life behind the door and the handle begins to jiggle from the inside. Suddenly, a middle-aged man in his underwear appeared from behind the door. He was noticeably, and justifiably, confused. It was late at night and four Americans were sticking their fingers where they didn’t belong.
“Hey there mister, I’m supposed to be staying in a Airbnb here…I messaged you a little while back and…” I yammered on, not once considering whether or not he even spoke English. He muttered something in Japanese, closed the door, and went to bed.
Where am I to stay? What now am I to do? What if the Airbnb guy took my money like the cyber pirate he most certainly is!? Then. Eureka. Around the back of the building, another alley, a simple walk further on the main street before turning in, we found a mailbox. We got my key, walked in, I hit the lights, it flickered on like a jail cell in the 2010 thriller “Shutter Island”, and I was home.
After I got settled in, we made the trek back to Chris and Madoka’s to enjoy a home cooked meal: a hearty chicken and vegetable soup with rice. Outstanding. As soon as I sit down to enjoy my bowl, the unsettling effects of jet-lag punched my brain, eyes, bones and lower gut like a well-oiled, perfectly-timed Mike Tyson combo. I take two measly sips of soup and immediately rush to the bathroom to have, what I lovingly call, a “squirtquake”. The pummeling shot to the lower GI system that has been filled with airline butter chicken (which was incredible by the way…good job United) and other such prepared plane meals plus the sudden shock to the body that sometimes comes with travelling for so long hit me with an unjustified hammer. “At least they had a bidet” I thought to myself. I looked over ready for the anal cleaning I so desperately deserved. Alas, the instructions were in Japanese. I resign to the familiar sting of one-ply toilet tissue that I, unfortunately, know all too well. I defeatedly returned to my place at the table and eat all the chicken in my soup, most of my rice, and return for the aftershock of the “squirtquake”. As I walked out again, I thought it best to make the trip back to my Airbnb, alone, at 9:30 at night, in a country I’ve been in for six hours.
Turns out, it’s exactly what I needed. The map I chartered out earlier was perfect. I knew it was. I’m an expert cartographer. But the anxiety ridden, stomach churning stroll in the still of Tokyo’s serene suburbia, the tiny nap on the train, and the sights and smells of Omiya brought me back to the heart of travel: shock and awe. They are equal parts of the same strain of viral contagion, a bug that once infected, never truly leaves the human body. It is a moment suspended in time where you are face to face with your own ignorance and lifestyle, where fear and fascination meet in an unorthodox, disgraceful shotgun wedding whose reception goes on forever. It’s a disease. It rots you. It consumes your very soul. This feeling of shock and awe. It makes you addicted. It turns you into an enlightened ape as your mind surveys the wonders of the world, only to come out of the other side realizing you are, indeed, an idiot. Everywhere I looked in Japan for the next week was an extension of this first night. And the stories to come build on my revelation that shock and awe are what gave my life any amount of meaning.
Day Two: A Tale of Two Cities
I wake up after my epiphany of a first night at a crisp 5:30 in the morning after a night of tossing, turning, and sleep climbing the small staircase between my cramped loft and my bathroom to take a midnight trip to the potty (just a number 1 this time). The time difference of 14 hours is the most I’ve ever experienced but the lag is countered by the adrenaline of Japan’s offerings. The sun rose much earlier than I expected. I decided to take the time and explore Omiya in the daytime. Maybe it’ll be just as enlightening as last night. With my bowels happily empty, I found a Japanese café chain called Café Veloce. I was nervous. I had to order in a language I barely knew and something in me had that hesitation to wait for me to learn “I want a latte” in Japanese. My time waits for no one. And the bell had rung. I walked in, pointed at the latte and breakfast sandwich combo, and was on my way to my first breakfast in Japan.
I sat down, wrote a little in my journal of the previous nights misadventures, finished my albeit average latte (Japan isn’t really a country known for its coffee) and walked out into the street once again to be shifted by the wind. The first thing that struck me as peculiar of Japan in the daytime was the noise. Its absence was deafening. The city was nearly completely silent. Even the cars were quiet. No honking, no loudmouth “know-every-bodies” saying hey and hugging, no vendors advertising, nothing. I could hear the footsteps of people walking by, looking aimlessly at their phones texting coworkers, preparing last minute reports, reading manga, and watching Japanese YouTube videos. Everyone—and I mean EVERYONE—was on their phones. It reminded me of Simon and Garfunkel’s nearly prophetic tune “The Sound of Silence”:
And in the naked light, I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
Surely there would be more to this nation, a nation that lives in the romantic part of the western world and the hungry man’s dreams. Of course this can’t be all of it. I wanted much, much more.
So I set off trying to find some sort adventure before my rendezvous with my friends for lunch. Whenever I got bored of where everyone else was, I would venture off to find something to get lost in, something story worthy, something worth my time. These moments I called “side quests”. It became an inside joke throughout the trip if I or someone else saw something worth visiting, we would embark on a “side quest” in the throes of desire for glory and gold. Or just something to eat…anyways…it was 8 o’clock and I had three hours to kill in Omiya.
I walked through the curving alleyways and streets with no real goal in mind. It was nearly impossible to navigate as these roads didn’t seem to have a rhyme, reason, or purpose. Almost as if they simply constructed them as they needed them. A patchwork of concrete and steel that rivaled the mythical Pan and the minotaur.
However, in the bright naked light of day, I found my side-quest. A fateful meeting of me and a towering Pure Land Buddhist temple called Toko-ji. I knew temples were more like public spaces or parks rather than ultra-revered houses of worship, so I waltzed in and took a seat in the corner and observed the comings and goings as I wrote and read. The silence of the morning in Japan was cracked by the simplest, and subtlest of rings. I turned to see a large representation of what I think was Amitabha, the salvific main figure of Pure Land Buddhism, a popular form of Zen Buddhism in Japan. I saw adherents approach the statue I was sitting nearby, would bow towards me, burn incense, wave it in front of the stone man, and rung a small bell, and with clasped hands, bowed towards the idol. The only sound I heard all morning. It’s chime was heard throughout bouncing about the large temple grounds.
I gathered the strength, or delusion perhaps, to get up from my seat and walk around. There were three main buildings, one that was closed, the main building that was open, and a café offering coffee and sweets. There was also a large pagoda nearly filled with a golden bell that, if struck, would likely reverberate to the next prefecture. Behind the main temple was a sprawling graveyard. That was where I felt I wanted to be. At many points throughout my short walk to the graveyard, I felt like I was going to be shunned, thrown out, and beaten to near death by Buddhist monks and Omiya locals simply going to pay homage to their God and family. But I kept walking anyways.
No one in Japan is buried. Everyone is cremated. There simply isn’t room to house the dead in the land of the millions of living. In lieu of gravestones and mausoleums, there are small stone obelisks with presumably their names written on them. In front of that was a small altar to offer money, drinks, food, or whatever else your loved one my need as they traverse the multiverse, living countless lives in search of the Buddha’s voice beckoning them towards the dimension of the Pure Land. Behind the stone obelisks are usually multiple slender wooden slabs with messages written on them. As I walked up to this graveyard I noticed a family performing a traditional honor ritual for their deceased loved one. A man poured water with a traditional bucket and spoon over the stone obelisk, a form of interdimensional greeting, I was told later, a way to call on the soul of the loved one in the next life. They then offered a small water bottle, a bowl of rice, and a thousand yen note. They prayed and wished, knowing that wherever, or whatever their loved one’s consciousness became, they were taken care of.
As I finished my walkthrough of the graveyard I headed back to my seat, my journal, and my book to continue my serene alone time at Toko-ji Temple. Alone time, however, was graciously interrupted. A elderly man came and sat at an adjacent table, turned to me, and began speaking in Japanese. I obviously had no idea what he said. He realized I wasn’t from around there, and leaned in closer to me and tried his best sound out the words, “First. Time. Temple?”.
“Hai” I said, feeling very confident I knew “yes” in Japanese.
The elderly man took out his phone, spoke into it, and showed me the Google Translation that asked, “are you here for the Equinox?”. I didn’t even know that 1) that day, March 19th happened to be the Equinox and 2) the week of the Equinox is a holy week for the Pure Land Buddhists, as they believe it is a particularly sensitive week for adherents to reach Enlightenment. I pulled out my phone, opened Google Translate, and we began a conversation about my ignorance and their way of life.
As the man and I were talking through our robots, his wife, a thin, wide-smiled woman asked what we were doing (I think?) and then, upon learning of my first day in Japan, beckoned me to follow her, reaching her hand for mine. I, not really knowing what she said or where we were going, obliged. We climbed the stairs of the main temple, which I was much too nervous to do by myself, and walked on in. I was greeted by Buddhist monks, matching every stereotypical description I’ve ever heard or thought. Rather round, bald men in robes smiling with rosy cheeks, bowing and saying “hello” and “welcome” in the polite, kind, and most proper form (THAT Duolingo bird at least taught me that). They asked for my shoes, my beat up air force ones, and placed them in a bag. They gave me a paper of music, a bottle of some orange beverage, a plate of food, and cookies with the stamp baked on the front. We moved to the middle of the sanctuary and took a seat.
As the monks sang and rung the bell, I marveled at the golden statue and chandelier positioned in the front of the sanctuary. I sat and watched people sang, bowed before the Buddha, made prayers and wishes, and sought for a way out of the cyclical patterns of suffering the world levees on its inhabitants. I thought it wondrous. I was moved by their devotion. And I was honored to have been the random stranger able to experience it all.
After service, we went to the small café next to the temple. I was asked to sit down with my new found elderly friends and enjoy a coffee and some cookies. To revisit the moment where they gave me food, let me elucidate: I was given a mountain of prepackaged cookies and two large bento boxes of rice, fish, and veg in a lovely ginger sauce. “For your friends” they kept on saying as I was trying my best to a) carry it all and b) deny any more. As I was enjoying the coffee and environment of the café post service, I was obviously frazzled. Culturally shocked, confused of what just happened, not knowing any of the language, and uncomfortable with the fact that I was a PASTOR that just attended a BUDDHIST service. I was, assuredly, going to be reprimanded if not going straight to hell. What were people going to think of me? I can’t write about this! No one will understand! I should be ashamed of myself. Did I worship another God? What am I going to DO!? So many thoughts, questions, and anxieties were barreling around my skull and my friends saw it in my face. The man took his phone out and mumbled through his a-few-teeth-missing grin and showed me the translation.
“You can relax here.”
I don’t believe in their God. I find their philosophy, worldview, and metaphysics interesting and noteworthy but it, for me, stops there. Even the lords of Christian literature like G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis deem the Buddha as an insightful man worthy of study. But my faith belongs in a more captivating religion for me. Nevertheless, as I left to meet my friends at a sushi place, I began to wonder about what I could possibly learn from what I was just blessed with. These people saw me a stranger and promoted me to friend. They knew I wasn’t an adherent, or believer (most people aren’t “believers” in Buddhism per s), or a local. I even had to ask “who is this?” and pointed at a representation of their God. Likewise, I offered them nothing. Usually when people go to another country and they say “Oh my gosh they were so welcoming!”, I usually roll my eyes. Of course, they are welcoming. You’re a tourist in Cancun with money to blow. You’re there for a run-of-the-mill cruise stop for Pina Coladas and a picture with your annoying friends, and the people you are likely to meet were trained to treat you well so they can feed their families. Maybe I’m a cynic, a realist, or a jerk but, usually, that’s what “they were so welcoming” means. I judge a people while I’m travelling by how they treat me when I have nothing to offer them. And these people needed neither my money nor my support. They were all fine without me there; they rarely see an American in their city. I was wholeheartedly expecting to be thrown out on my butt for disgracing a house of worship without an ounce of belief that their God could do something for me or was genuinely “there”. They were just excited I was, indeed, there. It showed the core of omotenashi, the Japanese concept of hospitality and mindfulness. It’s why they bow, a visceral showcasing of gratitude, instead of a passing “thanks”. It’s why they, nearly by law, make everyone on the trains stay quiet out of respect for the other. It’s why their word for “excuse me” or “sorry” is sumimasen which, when literally translated, means “I’m not satisfied with my feelings” or something like “it is not finished”. There are only a few things that are finished. Sin, death, the immeasurable chasm between God and man, those things are finished. But honest truce between differing others, must never be done.
Ruth Benedict, anthropologist who wrote Chrysanthemum and the Sword, an amazing survey of Japanese culture published a year after we bombed the humanity out of them, claims this in her introduction:
“The study of comparative cultures…cannot flourish when men are so defensive about their own way of life that it appears to them to be by definition the sole solution in the world. Such men will never know the added love of their own culture which comes from a knowledge of other ways of life”-Benedict, 1946. 15-16.
We owe it to ourselves to mingle with the whosoever that God so loved. To survey the world and all its inhabitants in their varying shades and sanctuaries to see we all live vastly different lives, while at the same time, shockingly similar ones. Each of these lives are a reflection of God himself, in some mysterious way. Fallen? Definitely. Hell-bound? Perhaps. But despised? The Cross says otherwise. The best lessons are learned from disagreers. And I learned more about myself and my own faith, its promises and pitfalls, from those outside the church than those within it.
But I’m hungry and my friends are getting sushi.
After a conveyor belt sushi place, devoid of human interaction but crawling with flavor and texture that rivals that of any place I’ve ever had in the States, we head for the city.
Tokyo. I only spent about three days of my time in this city and that feels like a disservice to me and anyone bored enough to read these words. You could spend many lifetimes, each one reserved for eating, walking, talking, looking, playing, singing, and partying, and you would’ve slurped a single noodle in the cosmic bowl of this city.
I immediately felt this moment of insignificance and ignorance the moment I left the train station and wandered onto Shibuya crossing, the most trafficked crossing in the world. With 3,000 people crossing with every turn of the signal, day and night, it amounts to somewhere between a quarter to half a million bodies every single day. You’ve seen it on TV, you’ve probably seen it in movies, postcards, or books. It is the picture of Tokyo’s population crisis and ant-like colony of constant movement. However, like many monuments and locations, when travelled there, it’s quite underwhelming. It’s what I call the Cinderella’s Castle Effect. The first time as a child you go to Disney World, waiting to see the magic castle tower above all its constituents with a royal majesty unknown in our modern world of cheap democracies. You’re ready to take it all in awe and wonder. You pass through the gates, bright eyed ready to take in the light. And there it is. And that’s really it. No other lasting image. It looks exactly like you’ve seen it on TV, the internet, movies, and pictures. My advice? Never travel for a manmade monument, you’ll almost always be disappointed.
This was how I felt at Shibuya. It seemed like less people than I thought. Where’s the shoulder-to-shoulder traffic I was promised by my dreams? Where was the insanity of “Tokyo’s Time Square” that would assuredly to top my experience in New York? There were just visitors, businessmen, and LED-walled ads. I took a quick obligatory video which I refuse to show anyone due to the risk of becoming labelled as a “tourist”. You might as well have shot me in the kneecaps and left me to die days later from a gangrenous infection. I was then on my way.
I was a little underwhelmed by what was assuredly going to top the initial shock of Omiya the night before. Then my comrades decided on a trip to some stores. Another thing I don’t necessarily like traveling for: shopping. Shipping has been made so fast nowadays that if you hop on a plane and go to Milan, just to shop at a Gucci store when you can get the same thing shipped to your door, you’re an idiot. Or, better yet, buy a convincing knockoff in a New York’s Chinatown alleyway for 40 bucks. At least then you can stop next door for some noodles and a ticket to the Comedy Cellar.
We walked onto a floor sporting a Nintendo floor of goodies. This wasn’t half bad. Some really fun, nostalgic items of Pokémon, Digimon, and Mario collectibles that were, albeit pretty rad. But I was getting bored…and hungry…and I saw a mysterious outdoor staircase that went up…the time has come…
Side quest.
I head out the door, into the cloudy, slightly rainy Tokyo skyline for an adventure. I climbed a story up and found a swanky restaurant full of nicely dressed rich folk downing plates of salad and steak. I looked down at my band t-shirt and thought, “I’ll pass”. I kept walking up for what seemed like a swirling, nauseating whirlpool of brick and mortar before stumbling upon the roof. There were some cool views of the skyline but other than that, not much of a side quest. Until I heard—and then I smelled—something was around the corner, I just knew it. I walked a little further, past the photo ops and the Japanese kids on dates, I find a bouncer, an open door, and a small restaurant filled with small local clothing lines, book stalls, vendors, and a DJ. Target acquired.
I asked the bouncer what was going on. He didn’t understand English. He pointed to a sign that said 1300 yen, about 10 bucks. I paid him the money, he gave me a ticket, and I sat down at the first empty table I could find. Within a few minutes, a waitress hands me a Styrofoam bowl of soup, presumably some spicy soba noodles with ground pork, mustard greens, and mushrooms. Its thick red broth was quite intimidating. I ate the whole thing in seconds. THIS was what I wanted whenever I thought of travelling to Tokyo. I thought of blindly meandering about, placing myself in as many opportunities for greatness as I could. Eating food that I’m not quite sure what it is but boldly going where my gut hasn’t gone before. I’m surrounded by locals, with perhaps a few frequent travelers or expats because most of the talk was in Japanese though not all the faces were. It FELT like Tokyo.
I’m usually the type to find a friend, strike up a conversation, and see where it takes me, as with my friends at Toko-ji Temple. But this time I just sat and watched. Friendly faces laughing, local vendors selling their grassroots merch or their book they recently published, a local DJ pumping some rather quiet, lo-fi house music. In much more honest, colloquial terms. I was vibin’. I was vibin’ hard. Just a big, dumb, stupid, happy, involuntary smile stretched across my face like it was cut there. For a moment, it felt like the world kind of stopped and I was glad it did, because nothing could have beaten this moment.
Except when I remember I told my friends I’d meet them by the escalator at 2:30…and it was 2:35.
After the stores, we all decided we wanted some sweets. They waltzed into a chain coffee shop. I found an underground cake parlor. My side-quest became the main story line. I had some hot cakes and some coffee while everyone enjoyed some cakes, pies, and other delectable things while soft spoken Japanese slip outside the door right past us to grab a smoke in between bites. Still feeling Tokyo.
But what’s next? We have a few short hours before we have to be anywhere. We decide on taking a quick train ride to the Imperial palace, the seat of power for the Emperor of Japan since 1868.
Again, I’m not a fan of monument seeing when travelling. But I love history. So I was very intrigued. What ensued over the next few hours was bone-crushing, joint-rattling, cartilage-twisting hikes around the imperial gardens while huge gusts of wind were pummeling us with what seemed like tiny shards of acupuncture needles that turned out to just be rain drops. But it was quite a ruckus for such a small little rainfall. It was miserable. We tried our best to see everything we could and then we turned back around, got a tad lost in the maze (why is EVERYTHING labyrinthine in Japan?) and returned to the entrance. We went to Tokyo station and took the first train back home.
Tomorrow, we take a bullet train to Kyoto.