Travel Story : Tokyo

Travel Story : Tokyo

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In January of 2009, after assisting for three weeks with a linguistics experiment in Bangkok, Thailand, I had the opportunity for a three day layover in Tokyo on my way back to Hawai‘i. Clearly, I took it. I had been to Japan before, but Okinawa, so many would say I had never really been to Japan. I arrived early afternoon on a Friday. I had been told to go straight to Shibuya Station so that I could see the rush hour foot-traffic across the world’s busiest crosswalk, and in one of Japan’s busiest subway stations. Now, because I speak Mandarin, I can actually read a lot of Japanese signs, but when it comes to spoken Japanese, I was a total goner. Despite all that, I amazingly got to Shibuya Station right at 4:00 in the afternoon.I stored my luggage in a locker at the airport, and so all I had on me was a backpack with a couple changes of underwear, socks, et cetera. For some odd reason, Michael Jackson seemed like the best soundtrack to fighting through Japanese rush hour traffic with a bulky backpack on. Smooth Criminal, full volume, iPhone securely in front left pocket. I push and shove my way over the heads of busy and tired Japanese workers heading home (I’m 6’5″). Once again, I miraculously got straight to the Shibuya Station crosswalk. At this point in the trip, I realized that if I couldn’t read Japanese kanji, I would have not have gotten nearly as far as I had, so easily, at least. I’m outside now, standing in the biggest crowd I’ve been in since going to outdoor concerts in high school. The light turns green and off we go. The road suddenly disappears and all you see is a blanket of bobbing black heads. I cross the street and head straight to Starbucks, where I got a coffee, and then sat on the second floor balcony that overlooks the crosswalk. I get my guidebook out that I purchased at Narita (the airpot). I start reading about another area of the city called Shinjuku. It was described as sort of seedy, sort of artsy, sort of gay, sort of fashionable, sort of red-light district. After reading the first paragraph, I knew where I had to be. I hopped off my stool, crossed back over into the station, and three stops later I was at Shinjuku. This is where everything turns bad. First of all, it starts to snow. I haven’t seen snow in years, let alone been in weather cold enough to produce snow. I was dressed for maybe a cool spring day, at best.

I start walking to the area I wanted to go to was, this cluster of artsy and gay bars. As I’m walking, it occurs to me that they probably aren’t going to accept my Bank of Hawaii debit card. So, I switch gears and start a hunt for an international ATM. I’m walking, and walking and walking. Getting colder and colder. The sun has completely gone down, it’s still snowing. Forty-five minutes of walking in the snow and nearly crying from an emerging panic attack later, I find a Citibank. Having not worked for three weeks, my account was low. I didn’t know what other disasters might happen, so I decided to bleed it dry. I took all the cash, divided it by three, and put it in three different spots. I get my guidebook back out, and after pretending to read  inside the heated ATM room for a while, I set back out for the bars. I was looking for one in particular called Artsy Fartsy. The guidebook described it as the bar for all the social rejects of Tokyo, that on a given night, you could have several different crowds there ranging from US military to goth Japanese. So, I’m still walking, and walking and walking. My nose at this point is so cold that it hurts to touch it. I am convinced that I’ve walked far enough and that I should start seeing things soon, but I’m not. I walked past a subway station with a map. I walked up to it and instantly realized that I had been holding my map upside down, and was in fact walking in the opposite direction. To put this into better perspective, the bar I wanted to go to was about a thirty minute walk from the station. I had just walked close to an hour in the straight opposite direction from the station. I gave up at this point, hailed a cab, and got straight to the bar no problem. I go in, order whiskey to warm my body up, and sit alone at the bar. After I get some liquid courage, I walk over to the other side of the bar where I see a couple of Westerners sitting. I introduce myself, and sit down. Turns out they were Canadians who were teaching English in Korea, just in Tokyo on vacation like me. We ended up having a great night drinking, dancing, and meeting all sorts of random people. At around three in the morning, I’m so exhausted that I say my goodbyes and head back out into the freezing streets.
I had been advised by both friends and the guidebook to just stay at capsule hotels. They are exactly what they sound like. You pay like twenty bucks or so and get a little capsule in a beehive like wall for the night, or the afternoon. I start walking towards the highest rated one in my guidebook. Once again, I can’t find it. In this area of Tokyo, there seemed to be a cop in a little booth on every other corner. I go up to one and say “capsule hotel” in Japanese (kapuseru hoteru). The police officer replies in Japanese, but I cut him off by saying “I don’t speak Japanese,” in Japanese (nihongo ga wakarimasen). He then responds, “¿Entiendes Español?” (‘Do you understand Spanish?’). After picking my jaw up from the snow, I said I did. He then proceeded to give directions to the nearest capsule hotel in beautifully spoken Spanish. I followed his directions exactly as he said, but the building I arrived at didn’t seem to have a capsule hotel in it. I stood there confused, when I looked up to see an Asian guy with fuzzy slippers, pajama bottoms, and a big winter coat on, holding a Tokyo guidebook written in English. His face lights up and he yells, “Holy shit! Do you speak English!?” I said I did, and he then asks if I know where the Green Emerald Capsule Hotel is. I started laughing and said I was going to ask him the same thing. We both were led to this building, but from the outside it looked like an apartment building. We open the front doors, and look at the directory. Sure enough, on the 12th floor or something was the hotel. We go up, and in the elevator I find out he’s actually from Thailand, but he went to high school and college in California, so he now works as a simultaneous translator for Thai courts sessions with English speaking people. We check in, and head to the bar. Over some beers I tell him about the experiment I was doing in Thailand, we talked about Tokyo, and I found out that he actually had a hotel room with three of his friends, but one was snoring so loudly that he put on his slippers and coat, and left to find a capsule hotel. It’s now like 4:15 in the morning. We say our goodbyes, and I go down to find my capsule. This is when the sushi hit the fan. An employee sees one of my tattoos not covered by the tiny kimono I was wearing. He starts yelling “TATTOO!!!” at me. So, what do I do? Run. I ran straight into the maze of capsules, find mine, and all but jump head first into it. I pull the curtain shut, turn the light off, and hope they don’t find me. Maybe thirty or so minutes later, I feel someone hitting my foot. I got kicked out, no refund, and now I’m drunk, tired, cold, cashless, and standing on the street of a seedy area of Tokyo at 5:00 in the morning. With only twenty dollars left of all my cash, I try to find somewhere else to sleep. Out of desperation, I slept on a recliner for two hours in a porn viewing booth.

Immediately after waking up, I head straight back to Shibuya because I needed something familiar so that I didn’t completely loose my mind. I don’t have enough money to get anything but a small coffee at Starbucks. I walk back to the balcony, sit down, and start to cry. It’s about 9:00 in the morning, I have two more days left in Tokyo, and the only money I have now is a pocket of loose change. I get my phone out, turn it off airplane mode and start calling. Mom doesn’t pick up, I leave a voicemail, sobbing into the phone about how I completely failed her. Dad doesn’t pickup, I leave a voicemail just the same as my moms. I called my boyfriend at the time, and he picks up. Just hearing a familiar voice, and in English was so soothing. After a few minutes of chatting and him calming me down, I hear a beep, it’s mom. I switch lines to my mom. She wired me a bunch of cash and gave me explicit directions to go find the nicest hotel and pamper myself the rest of the day. Dad, without realizing my mom has already helped, does the same. I get the guidebook out, and find just the hotel to go to. I get there about an hour later, pay for a room, but can’t check-in until 3:00. I ask where a good lunch place was, and the desk worker told me to go a few blocks over, and there was a row of dumpling houses. I get to the street and have to choose between maybe six places. I randomly chose one, walked in, and sat down to be greeted in Japanese and handed a menu entirely in Japanese with no pictures. I sighed, and smiled as I heard the waitress talking to the cook in Mandarin. She comes over to take my order, and I said in Mandarin, “You speak Mandarin, don’t you?” She gasped and said, “Sounds like you do, too!” I explained to her my whole story, and ended with saying that I didn’t understand a word of Japanese, was extremely hungry and wanted the best food they had. I got a huge bottle of beer, and several courses of various dumplings and interesting Japanese food. After stuffing my face, I ask if there is anything to do nearby. I was directed to a giant park around the corner. I walked over and had a Scarlet Johansen / Lost in Translation moment of walking around watching elderly Japanese people paint trees, a group of women doing Taichi or something, and a traditional tea ceremony. Before I knew it, it was 3:00. On my walk back, I picked up a bottle of wine. I checked in, blasted the heat, showered, snuggled under the blankets, put some weird Japanese TV on, downed a bottle of wine, and passed out.

The rest of the trip after that wasn’t so adventurous. I ended up going back to the same bar that night, and hanging out with the same Canadians. I toured around Tokyo by myself all day Sunday. I saw Mount Fuji from the top of a building, ate really good food, and saw other random things. Tokyo was fun, but I won’t be going back anytime soon, or at least, not during the winter for sure. The only remaining exciting tidbit is that when I got to the airport, there was a media circus. I pushed my way through to the front to find Brad Pitt and Angela Jolie lugging suitcases to a limo.