Japan, Part II
This is the second part of my... many part Japanese saga.
Landing in Japan was exhilarating. I've never really been out of the country, unless you count the time my parents got lost in Canada when I was three, and being this far away from America - probably on the short list of places as far away as possible from home - was also pretty terrifying. I looked out the window and scanned the visible horizon for signs of descending UFOs or directions to the nearest pantie-dispensing-machine, but the view from the (now grounded) plane was deceptively terrestrial. Quietly, as though we were entering someone else's house, we made our way into the airport.
I really should have known how easy it would be. I've never heard any horror stories about getting into Japan, and they are known for being a remarkably polite people (at least when you can't understand most of what they're saying.) The airport was inviting, with narrow hallways designed to herd the disembarking passengers exactly where they needed to go. Newark was like a dirty mall; Narita, by contrast, was more like a long corridor in a library or a hospital. I learned something important in the first half-hour that would stick with me throughout trip: Somebody always knows some English.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like most people's concept of Europe where you can expect to have a detailed conversation with the natives. The way Cory described it, many Japanese residents are taught extensive English vocabularies in public school, but are rarely taught mechanics or pronunciation, and aren't required to devote any more thought to the language than you do to say, Spanish. Still, most pop-culture or every-day words will at least get you a nod of recognition. Many words (such as "passport" or, "pa-su-po-ru-tu") are almost identical in Japanese anyway, and giving it a shot in the dark is almost always as good or better than stumbling around with a phrase book mangling their language like a steak in a lawnmower. They don't know English in a conventional sense, but they use enough English where you can reasonably say "yes", "no", "okay", and "Hamburger, please." Don't ask anything more complicated, unless they tell they know English. Even, listen carefully.
Anyway, the extremely simple corridors lead us directly to Immigration, where the lines were further divided into Japanese passport holders and the rather ignominious, "Everybody else" (not an exact quote) line. Falling into said miscellaneous category, Crystal, Eric, and I waiting patiently to move on, which probably took 20 minutes. While there, Eric struck up a quick conversation with someone he had overheard on the plane, another American, from New Jersey. The man had one of those accents that only rich people in cartoons have, who you always imagine are married to women named "Martha" and like to say things like, "veranda" or "darling." I'm still not sure if he was serious or not, but he seemed pissed that he didn't get to see anything while we were flying over Alaska.
Eventually, we got to the head of the line. Now, this is probably the coolest part for me; when you get to the head of the line, this very nice bi-lingual Japanese man comes over and tells you exactly which window you're supposed to go to. He does this quietly and coolly, and smiles the entire time. He directed my clearly confused face towards the Immigration official, which was slightly less awesome. This man inspected my passport without complaint, but when he reviewed my Immigration form, he noticed that I was staying in "Tokyo." He pointed to this and said something along the lines of, "Where in Tokyo?" I responded that I didn't really know, at which point he seemed confused. I tried desperately to explain that I hadn't been in charge of hotel reservations and that I wouldn't know where I was staying until I met up with my "tour guide" later that evening, but most of these words were either unknown, or he simply didn't care to respond to me. He stared at the form for a moment, and then fondled his phone as though thinking really hard. I knew that look; it was the, "Should I call my manager" or perhaps, "Should I call the guy in Records who speaks English" look. After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head "no", then shrugged, and then looked up at me and nodded "yes", as if to indicate that I had already taken up enough time and did not look as though I would be smuggling a trove of foreign porno into his country in my underwear. He took a little myspace picture of me and recorded my fingerprints before begrudgingly sending me on my way.
Once we met up again outside of Customs, I learned that all three of us had gotten similar responses, with differing levels of coolness and help. Apparently just listing a person on the form was good enough, since we had put down Cory's cell-phone number already. This lead to the hilarious scenario in which we envisioned ourselves explaining to Customs that we would be staying at "Cory Potwin" and they could give the place a call if they had any questions. Getting through Customs, though, was surprisingly easy, as apparently all of Japan works on the honor system and they accept me at my word when I tell them I don't have anything illegal or embarrassing on me.
After that, we followed the only available rode out to the reception lobby. I had been concerned that it might be difficult to find Cory, but it was probably the easiest part of the experience. Picking out a medium-tall red-head who is bobbing and weaving through a crowd of Japanese people is remarkably easy, and the fact the he actually began leaping when he saw us helped narrow the process. Meeting back up with Cory was of intense; instantly recognizing people who haven't seen in a while is always a little scary, since there is a moment of doubt where you wonder if both parties have changed too much to be recognizable. Fortunately, Cory is one of those people whose personality is so strong it burns like a thousand suns, white-hot, so there was little difficulty reconnecting, almost instantaneously. Much of the initial alienating fear melted away once we entered his presence, and from the first moment I heard him utter Japanese I was floored - both by his commend of the language, and by just how simultaneously fragile and impenetrable the language barrier can be. It was a sublime moment.
Cory quickly directed us to the money-exchange counter. Most of us don't have good mental connections to the term "Money-changer", but I still don't feel like we got ripped off terribly. The dollar happened to be up that day, despite continuous dooms-day reports that it was slipping like a drunk snake on a water-slide. For those of you who don't know, Yen is not difficult to translate into American dollars, even though its value fluctuates slightly. One yen is roughly one cent. They don't bother with a "fraction-of-a-yen" the way we have fractions of a dollar. One hundred yen is roughly one dollar, and so you have to get used to seemingly outrageous sums of money, such as 10,000 yen. What makes this even stranger is that there is a 100 yen coin along with it's pretty cousin, the 500 yen coin. We haven't been able to make a dollar coin really fly over here in quite a few decades, so throwing around what amounts to five dollar coins took some getting used to. The money, too, is vibrant, with unfamiliar faces peering back at you. It has the look of carnival money, but it has roughly the same feel as crisp American money (or most currency, for that matter). It wasn't until the last couple of days that we noticed paper bills have these snazzy little white circles in the middle, which contain a holographic face. We referred to them as "Japanese fun bucks" or simply, "Funny money."
Leaving the airport, we went to the nearest train station, as Narita is not actually in Tokyo. Before going on, it's important that I describe a few characteristics that most of the train-stations we went to in Japan happened to share. First, every one of them is confusing and most of them are busy; while you can find train-stations in Boston that amount to "Enter here, get train over there", Japanese stations are multi-level affairs with lines that aren't clearly labeled, maps that are only sometimes in English, often by arbitrary designation, and signs that sometimes lead you to nowhere wondering where you made a wrong turn. Also they all have stairs, and when I say they have stairs, I mean the way a dirty hooker has syphilis. You go up two stories, then back down two floors, you go up three, back down one, you turn a corner, there's five levels of stairs. If you're lucky, you can find a little elevator the size of most people's bathroom closets, or even more rarely, an escalator, though they too seemed to be added to various stations with a kind of mad whimsy, sometimes forcing you to ascend a flight of stairs immediately after stepping off an escalator. Buying tickets practically never required you to speak to an actual person, but unlike, say, the T in Boston, all of the stations we went to charge you based on your destination. This means you get a ticket from a machine before you pass through the gate, then you have to keep the ticket after you pass through the gate so you can put it into another gate on the way out, presumably to make sure you actually payed the right amount for your destination. Finally, some stations are so big - I mean big here - that you can practically walk from one stop to another entirely underground. On more than one occasion we looked at our directions, only to find we were something like a ten minute walk from the platform we needed to be at within the station.
Despite all of this, Japanese trains - at least the ones we experienced - are remarkably efficient. I almost never waited for more than a few moments for a train, and when they had a time to keep, they always showed up on time. They are also clean and well air-conditioned, which was a plus. Very few hobos here, too. More on them later.
We bought tickets for a train from Narita to Tokyo Station (approximately a 70 minute train-ride) and were almost immediately stopped by a pair of police officers who wanted to see our passports. Now, I had for some reason thought this would be a normal thing, so I quickly produced my passport which I had laid carefully in my pocket for precisely this kind of thing. I thought nothing of it, though Cory told me it wasn't exactly normal behavior. In fact, it was the last time a random authority figure asked to see my passport in all my time in Japan, though part of me sort of wished they would. It briefly made me feel important.
Before I really understood the train stations, I followed Cory around the way one follows a Sherpa through the mountains, occasionally stopping for water or to make sure we hadn't got turned around and wandered into herd of caribou or something. I somehow managed to avoid really bumping into anyone in Japan, which is remarkable, because people will jump in front of you at the slightest provocation. This, I do not consider Japanese behavior, but rather, simply urban behavior. Nevertheless, it is always exacerbated by the language barrier and of course, racism. All the parts of the train station start to look similar after a while, and every time I saw a McDonald's, some weak-willed part of me in the back of my brain thought of it as an oasis. I didn't eat there until much later, but I recognized that it was a powerful marketing strategy.
The train ride into Tokyo didn't seem long at all. We got a nice seat in the middle of the thing, and we talked with Cory about the plane ride and our expectations of Japan. There was this little sign above the seat, though, indicating that I should give up the seat to pregnant, old, or crippled people. I didn't want to be "that American guy", so every time I got on a bus or a train I tried to be hyper conscious of these groups, but it almost never came up. The sign itself is not particularly descriptive, though. Old people are represented by a little stick-man with a cane, and preggers are identified by what appears to be a round-bellied stick man whose stomach is talking (those little noise-lines you usually see in comics or cartoons to indicate a loudspeaker).
We arrived in Tokyo, and transferred to another line, the Yamanote, which I suspect is Japanese for, "All the places that fucking matter." Seriously, every major district you've ever heard of in Tokyo is on there, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Harajuku. We, though, didn't get off at a major attraction, instead getting off Otsuka. It mattered to us, because we were tired and our hotel was located nearby, but otherwise, it is not the most happening part of Tokyo. After the busy airport and train-station, though, the relative quiet was like a breath of fresh air, which is another thing we could have used, because it was absurdly hot and humid when we finally had a moment to take stock of the weather. The walk to the hotel was a short one, taking us down a single major street and past our first Pachinko... place. Pachinko is, apparently, one of the only legal forms of gambling in Japan. Allow me to describe it to you:
"PING PING PING PING PING WOOOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PING PING PING PING PING"
Is it finally off your screen? To get the full experience, you have to imagine diving into a liquid ash-tray while simultaneously throwing your wallet into the air and screaming, "ARRIBA!"
The hotel was nice, and it was the first place we encountered what would later become routine hotel etiquette. First, you always hand over your passport when you check in, presumably so the Japanese government can keep track of you if you get lost or rape somebody or something, and the second thing you have to remember is to hand over your hotel key every time you go out, probably because you will play with it like a child and then drop it down a sewer drain. These things were not terribly inconvenient, however, and the people at these hotels were always so nice, you'd feel more bad about ignoring their rules than indignant about following them. Also, one fun fact many of you might know about Japan, is that they never like it when you hand them money directly, instead using a small, usually leather or plastic tray to traverse money the dubiously useful distance from one side of the counter of the other. Who knows if it does anything, but I never got sick while I was in Japan, which counts for something. Another fun thing we picked up here that would become standard throughout Japan, was an elevator that barely fit everyone, and kept trying to close on people as they walked through. Japanese elevators are easily one of the rudest things I encountered in Japan, which maybe is a reminder to the people who stay there not to be uncomfortable fucktards who never make room for anyone and are always pushing people out of the way. It certainly reminded me of how much space my backpack was taking up.
The room was small, but the air-conditioner was powerful, and that made me intensely happy. The room consisted of about one foot to take your shoes off, and perhaps another 18 inches between the bed and the wall on all sides, with maybe an additional 6 inches of space at the foot of the bed to accommodate the television. The television itself had a small coin-operated slot on the right side, which, since we couldn't read the crazy moon-speak printed all over everything, we assumed was for paying for the privilege to watch T.V. The bathroom, too, was what we later learned would be standard for most of these hotels. These hotel bathrooms consisted of a small toilet, usually a bidet; a plastic sink, which often also functioned as the source of water for the shower, and whose sides usually stuck out a good three inches into the shower itself; and a reasonably sized shower whose head had to be taken off the wall and moved to a higher vantage point to comfortably clean the whole body. These stalls always felt cramped, and the shower curtain never quite covered the entire shower-stall, leaving you with the unshakable feeling that you were turning the entire room into some kind of marshland upon exit. I bumped my head and toe at least twice while in these kinds of bathrooms, and at least once while trying to exit; for some reason, Japanese bathrooms are always an extra step above the rest of the hotel room when you walk into them, and if you forget that crucial fact, you end up with a foot-full of wall.
We both took quick showers, whereupon I noticed, while waiting, that we seemed to be getting two channels of free porn. I found this particularly jarring because the first such channel was located directly after what was obviously Japanese children's programming, which was at that very moment playing the Japanese equivalent of Sesame Street. Not particularly in the mood for a post-flight journey into foreign porn, I flipped around instead. Japanese television can be very interesting to watch, but not because of the weird extreme stuff they keep shipping over to the states and calling Japanese. It's interesting because of the blatant similarities, particularly among shows for kids and dramas. There were a few exceptions, but I'll talk about them later in the week.
After we finished up, we gathered Eric and Cory on the floor below us, whereupon I learned that we weren't paying for television and thus getting porn; we were getting television for free and paying for porn, which made a lot more sense than our previous assumption. Still, 100 yen for an hour of porn is pretty cheap by America standards, though all my time in Japan I never really watched more then twenty minutes of the stuff, as it is censored and is often sort of gross in an indescribable sort of way. It just seems... like they're not into it. Maybe it's the language barrier rearing it's ugly head again, but it'd be sort of like watching two people go at it with their pants on, only one of them keeps continuously talking about how busy they're going to be the following morning, or what their favorite kind of sorbet is.
By the time we got out again, it was probably 6 or 7 PM, which was about 5 or 6 AM Friday EST. For those of you no doubt paying attention, you will realize Andrew was rapidly approaching the 48 hour mark here, but at the time I was only vaguely aware of this growing throb in my head, as though two tiny lemmings were attempting to get out of my cranial cavity by repeatedly bludgeoning themselves against the inside of my skull. Because of this minor impairment, I'm not entirely sure where we went that night, though I think it was Shinjuku.
Crystal has her own description of Tokyo at night, but my first introduction to Tokyo nightlife was one of confusion (that's a theme) and exhilaration. Over-stimulation came in the form not of simple blinking lights and sounds (though those were present), but rather in the exceptionally prevalent and effective use of advertisement in the city. Seriously, Tokyo could teach advertisers a thing or two over here in the States. You see, in the city proper, there aren't really any homes; businesses take up 5 or 6 floors in most places, and every available surface is covered in ads. People hand out ads in the street. People stand on ladders and yell out ads. People get on loud-speakers and broadcast ads. I didn't understand any of it, yet all of us were invariably filled with an urge to buy things while we were in Tokyo, and not all of it was just some whacky "ooohooo it's hilarious, let's buy it!" factor. The first thing I wanted to buy, however, was some fucking headache medication.
We went to a "medicine store" which is not a pharmacy, but rather, pretty much what it sounds like. What amazed me about it - and indeed, many other stores in Tokyo - is that they are partially open air, as though someone broke a large exterior window and you simply walk into the store off the street, with three walls and a roof. What makes it even stranger is that these stores constantly pump air conditioning into the street. I could barely move around in the place, sometimes walking forward a few paces before being blocked into a narrow aisle and then turning around only to face another large group of shoppers, as though I were a wind-up toy with one broken leg. Cory came through for me though, buying me some kind of Japanese aspirin I couldn't read. It came in handy throughout the trip with all of us, and the stuff worked almost instantly, but I tossed it out before I came to the States, thinking carrying drugs of any kind, even pain killers, would probably be a mistake. I was right.
We got it into our head that we were going to go to a "Maid Cafe", which is a fancy way of saying "Hooters where the girls dress like cosplayers." Cory had done some pain-staking research to find us a witch-themed maid cafe, which we were all pretty pleased about, and so we went searching for the place down this long, brightly-lit alley. We found the building - or rather, the elevator that seemed to be the only entrance to the building - next to a restaurant. Every floor appeared to be a different Maid Cafe of some kind, and with the exception of us, pretty much every person who got on or off of the elevator was either a young girl or an embarrassed looking man traveling alone. When we got up there, it was like walking into a Walt-Disney theme restaurant that got rejected for being too risque. Everything was made out of plastic designed to look like wood, though I had to admit the decor was good-looking; and there was a wall that showed all the "witches"; there must have been at least a hundred little pictures, including a few bewildering pictures of dorky men dressed like Harry Potter. Their costumes were very adorable, and there were a number of things you could do with them (no, not sexual) for "magic coins". The sign wasn't clear on what a "magic coin" was, but I suspect it was "magic five hundred yen." For one coin, they'd bring you a drink or something stupid, for two coins they'd make you a "magic dish" (which I think means they bring you food) and for three coins they'll take a picture with you. The whole thing seemed intriguing, though I've never seen so many tables with one person each at them in my entire life.
Cory told the girl behind the counter the score, and she agreed to call him when there was space available, but this left us with time to kill. We went out to hit the town, and by that I mean, "We went straight to toy machines." You know those little machines you put a couple of quarters into, and it spits out a random toy in a plastic egg? Well Japan has a ton of those. We got some Mario Cart toys. Before our trip in Tokyo was through, we had enough Mario Cart toys to accurately reproduce our favorite races. Then we went hunting for claw machines; Eric has an epic reputation with claw machines, and there were dozens of them in this...arcade. Arcades, really, since there were multiple buildings all centered on the same basic principle. I'll have to leave it to the other folks to comment if they won anything, because I just plumb don't remember, but the odd thing about them is that they feel like a place to amuse children. But every one of them smelled like smoke. People smoke a lot in Japan, but they aren't allowed to do it much on the street (there are a few designated areas). Tobacco is so available in Japan, in fact, it almost felt like a shame to be a non-smoker. It would have been so convenient!
We got a call back from the maid girl, and hightailed it back over, but got some bad news from the girl. First, we would have all had to sign up for a club card, which would have been 3 dollars or some such. That would have been doable, but then she told us we needed to buy all-you-can-drink soda or booze (2000 or 3000 yen respectively) if we wanted to sit down. We theorized that it was probably because we were Americans and this is not normal protocol. I cannot imagine what kind of people are willing to throw down that kind money for a girl you are then going to pay money to anyway, nor could I imagine the sheer amount of soda I would have had to put away to make it worth that much money. I know we're all Yanks who gargle with Coke and hamburger, but there is a line. We left with witch blue-balls and empty stomachs, desperate to find something to eat.
Cory bravely led us to a place that reminded me of a Japanese version of the 99 restaurant and we were helped to what would be called "traditional Japanese fare." This consists of individually ordered - often inexpensive - items that come in small quantities. Things on a stick (chicken or beef) were particularly popular amongst us, especially Eric, who practically lived on the stuff for the rest of the trip. Even more awesome was that we had a little touch screen, which enabled us to order without too much awkward pointing at a menu like mute children. As an interesting aside, tipping is not normal in Japan. These means you almost always get different waiters whenever you want anything, because whoever happens to be around is the one who helps you (there's no competition between waitresses to see who gets your gratuity.) On the other hand, this means you always have to get their attention, as they have no vested interest in checking up on you. This is one of the things that took a while to get used to; you have to raise your hand and yell, "Sumimasen!" (or "Excsue me") in order for anyone to care that you exist. I don't know what happens if you pass out or die at the table, but I suspect it would take a while for anyone to notice.
After paying the bill, we all stumbled back to the hotel and let exhaustion overtake us. Almost all the hotels we stayed at, though, had a 10 AM check-out time, meaning going to bed super late was almost never an option. We cranked the AC and hopped into bed, strangely calm and quiet at our hotel, in a state of confused readiness. I stared at the ceiling for 4 or 5 minutes, thinking over and over, "Holy shit, I'm in Japan", before my eyes slapped shut, angry with me over my obstinate decision to stay awake for so long.
Landing in Japan was exhilarating. I've never really been out of the country, unless you count the time my parents got lost in Canada when I was three, and being this far away from America - probably on the short list of places as far away as possible from home - was also pretty terrifying. I looked out the window and scanned the visible horizon for signs of descending UFOs or directions to the nearest pantie-dispensing-machine, but the view from the (now grounded) plane was deceptively terrestrial. Quietly, as though we were entering someone else's house, we made our way into the airport.
I really should have known how easy it would be. I've never heard any horror stories about getting into Japan, and they are known for being a remarkably polite people (at least when you can't understand most of what they're saying.) The airport was inviting, with narrow hallways designed to herd the disembarking passengers exactly where they needed to go. Newark was like a dirty mall; Narita, by contrast, was more like a long corridor in a library or a hospital. I learned something important in the first half-hour that would stick with me throughout trip: Somebody always knows some English.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like most people's concept of Europe where you can expect to have a detailed conversation with the natives. The way Cory described it, many Japanese residents are taught extensive English vocabularies in public school, but are rarely taught mechanics or pronunciation, and aren't required to devote any more thought to the language than you do to say, Spanish. Still, most pop-culture or every-day words will at least get you a nod of recognition. Many words (such as "passport" or, "pa-su-po-ru-tu") are almost identical in Japanese anyway, and giving it a shot in the dark is almost always as good or better than stumbling around with a phrase book mangling their language like a steak in a lawnmower. They don't know English in a conventional sense, but they use enough English where you can reasonably say "yes", "no", "okay", and "Hamburger, please." Don't ask anything more complicated, unless they tell they know English. Even, listen carefully.
Anyway, the extremely simple corridors lead us directly to Immigration, where the lines were further divided into Japanese passport holders and the rather ignominious, "Everybody else" (not an exact quote) line. Falling into said miscellaneous category, Crystal, Eric, and I waiting patiently to move on, which probably took 20 minutes. While there, Eric struck up a quick conversation with someone he had overheard on the plane, another American, from New Jersey. The man had one of those accents that only rich people in cartoons have, who you always imagine are married to women named "Martha" and like to say things like, "veranda" or "darling." I'm still not sure if he was serious or not, but he seemed pissed that he didn't get to see anything while we were flying over Alaska.
Eventually, we got to the head of the line. Now, this is probably the coolest part for me; when you get to the head of the line, this very nice bi-lingual Japanese man comes over and tells you exactly which window you're supposed to go to. He does this quietly and coolly, and smiles the entire time. He directed my clearly confused face towards the Immigration official, which was slightly less awesome. This man inspected my passport without complaint, but when he reviewed my Immigration form, he noticed that I was staying in "Tokyo." He pointed to this and said something along the lines of, "Where in Tokyo?" I responded that I didn't really know, at which point he seemed confused. I tried desperately to explain that I hadn't been in charge of hotel reservations and that I wouldn't know where I was staying until I met up with my "tour guide" later that evening, but most of these words were either unknown, or he simply didn't care to respond to me. He stared at the form for a moment, and then fondled his phone as though thinking really hard. I knew that look; it was the, "Should I call my manager" or perhaps, "Should I call the guy in Records who speaks English" look. After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head "no", then shrugged, and then looked up at me and nodded "yes", as if to indicate that I had already taken up enough time and did not look as though I would be smuggling a trove of foreign porno into his country in my underwear. He took a little myspace picture of me and recorded my fingerprints before begrudgingly sending me on my way.
Once we met up again outside of Customs, I learned that all three of us had gotten similar responses, with differing levels of coolness and help. Apparently just listing a person on the form was good enough, since we had put down Cory's cell-phone number already. This lead to the hilarious scenario in which we envisioned ourselves explaining to Customs that we would be staying at "Cory Potwin" and they could give the place a call if they had any questions. Getting through Customs, though, was surprisingly easy, as apparently all of Japan works on the honor system and they accept me at my word when I tell them I don't have anything illegal or embarrassing on me.
After that, we followed the only available rode out to the reception lobby. I had been concerned that it might be difficult to find Cory, but it was probably the easiest part of the experience. Picking out a medium-tall red-head who is bobbing and weaving through a crowd of Japanese people is remarkably easy, and the fact the he actually began leaping when he saw us helped narrow the process. Meeting back up with Cory was of intense; instantly recognizing people who haven't seen in a while is always a little scary, since there is a moment of doubt where you wonder if both parties have changed too much to be recognizable. Fortunately, Cory is one of those people whose personality is so strong it burns like a thousand suns, white-hot, so there was little difficulty reconnecting, almost instantaneously. Much of the initial alienating fear melted away once we entered his presence, and from the first moment I heard him utter Japanese I was floored - both by his commend of the language, and by just how simultaneously fragile and impenetrable the language barrier can be. It was a sublime moment.
Cory quickly directed us to the money-exchange counter. Most of us don't have good mental connections to the term "Money-changer", but I still don't feel like we got ripped off terribly. The dollar happened to be up that day, despite continuous dooms-day reports that it was slipping like a drunk snake on a water-slide. For those of you who don't know, Yen is not difficult to translate into American dollars, even though its value fluctuates slightly. One yen is roughly one cent. They don't bother with a "fraction-of-a-yen" the way we have fractions of a dollar. One hundred yen is roughly one dollar, and so you have to get used to seemingly outrageous sums of money, such as 10,000 yen. What makes this even stranger is that there is a 100 yen coin along with it's pretty cousin, the 500 yen coin. We haven't been able to make a dollar coin really fly over here in quite a few decades, so throwing around what amounts to five dollar coins took some getting used to. The money, too, is vibrant, with unfamiliar faces peering back at you. It has the look of carnival money, but it has roughly the same feel as crisp American money (or most currency, for that matter). It wasn't until the last couple of days that we noticed paper bills have these snazzy little white circles in the middle, which contain a holographic face. We referred to them as "Japanese fun bucks" or simply, "Funny money."
Leaving the airport, we went to the nearest train station, as Narita is not actually in Tokyo. Before going on, it's important that I describe a few characteristics that most of the train-stations we went to in Japan happened to share. First, every one of them is confusing and most of them are busy; while you can find train-stations in Boston that amount to "Enter here, get train over there", Japanese stations are multi-level affairs with lines that aren't clearly labeled, maps that are only sometimes in English, often by arbitrary designation, and signs that sometimes lead you to nowhere wondering where you made a wrong turn. Also they all have stairs, and when I say they have stairs, I mean the way a dirty hooker has syphilis. You go up two stories, then back down two floors, you go up three, back down one, you turn a corner, there's five levels of stairs. If you're lucky, you can find a little elevator the size of most people's bathroom closets, or even more rarely, an escalator, though they too seemed to be added to various stations with a kind of mad whimsy, sometimes forcing you to ascend a flight of stairs immediately after stepping off an escalator. Buying tickets practically never required you to speak to an actual person, but unlike, say, the T in Boston, all of the stations we went to charge you based on your destination. This means you get a ticket from a machine before you pass through the gate, then you have to keep the ticket after you pass through the gate so you can put it into another gate on the way out, presumably to make sure you actually payed the right amount for your destination. Finally, some stations are so big - I mean big here - that you can practically walk from one stop to another entirely underground. On more than one occasion we looked at our directions, only to find we were something like a ten minute walk from the platform we needed to be at within the station.
Despite all of this, Japanese trains - at least the ones we experienced - are remarkably efficient. I almost never waited for more than a few moments for a train, and when they had a time to keep, they always showed up on time. They are also clean and well air-conditioned, which was a plus. Very few hobos here, too. More on them later.
We bought tickets for a train from Narita to Tokyo Station (approximately a 70 minute train-ride) and were almost immediately stopped by a pair of police officers who wanted to see our passports. Now, I had for some reason thought this would be a normal thing, so I quickly produced my passport which I had laid carefully in my pocket for precisely this kind of thing. I thought nothing of it, though Cory told me it wasn't exactly normal behavior. In fact, it was the last time a random authority figure asked to see my passport in all my time in Japan, though part of me sort of wished they would. It briefly made me feel important.
Before I really understood the train stations, I followed Cory around the way one follows a Sherpa through the mountains, occasionally stopping for water or to make sure we hadn't got turned around and wandered into herd of caribou or something. I somehow managed to avoid really bumping into anyone in Japan, which is remarkable, because people will jump in front of you at the slightest provocation. This, I do not consider Japanese behavior, but rather, simply urban behavior. Nevertheless, it is always exacerbated by the language barrier and of course, racism. All the parts of the train station start to look similar after a while, and every time I saw a McDonald's, some weak-willed part of me in the back of my brain thought of it as an oasis. I didn't eat there until much later, but I recognized that it was a powerful marketing strategy.
The train ride into Tokyo didn't seem long at all. We got a nice seat in the middle of the thing, and we talked with Cory about the plane ride and our expectations of Japan. There was this little sign above the seat, though, indicating that I should give up the seat to pregnant, old, or crippled people. I didn't want to be "that American guy", so every time I got on a bus or a train I tried to be hyper conscious of these groups, but it almost never came up. The sign itself is not particularly descriptive, though. Old people are represented by a little stick-man with a cane, and preggers are identified by what appears to be a round-bellied stick man whose stomach is talking (those little noise-lines you usually see in comics or cartoons to indicate a loudspeaker).
We arrived in Tokyo, and transferred to another line, the Yamanote, which I suspect is Japanese for, "All the places that fucking matter." Seriously, every major district you've ever heard of in Tokyo is on there, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Harajuku. We, though, didn't get off at a major attraction, instead getting off Otsuka. It mattered to us, because we were tired and our hotel was located nearby, but otherwise, it is not the most happening part of Tokyo. After the busy airport and train-station, though, the relative quiet was like a breath of fresh air, which is another thing we could have used, because it was absurdly hot and humid when we finally had a moment to take stock of the weather. The walk to the hotel was a short one, taking us down a single major street and past our first Pachinko... place. Pachinko is, apparently, one of the only legal forms of gambling in Japan. Allow me to describe it to you:
"PING PING PING PING PING WOOOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PING PING PING PING PING"
Is it finally off your screen? To get the full experience, you have to imagine diving into a liquid ash-tray while simultaneously throwing your wallet into the air and screaming, "ARRIBA!"
The hotel was nice, and it was the first place we encountered what would later become routine hotel etiquette. First, you always hand over your passport when you check in, presumably so the Japanese government can keep track of you if you get lost or rape somebody or something, and the second thing you have to remember is to hand over your hotel key every time you go out, probably because you will play with it like a child and then drop it down a sewer drain. These things were not terribly inconvenient, however, and the people at these hotels were always so nice, you'd feel more bad about ignoring their rules than indignant about following them. Also, one fun fact many of you might know about Japan, is that they never like it when you hand them money directly, instead using a small, usually leather or plastic tray to traverse money the dubiously useful distance from one side of the counter of the other. Who knows if it does anything, but I never got sick while I was in Japan, which counts for something. Another fun thing we picked up here that would become standard throughout Japan, was an elevator that barely fit everyone, and kept trying to close on people as they walked through. Japanese elevators are easily one of the rudest things I encountered in Japan, which maybe is a reminder to the people who stay there not to be uncomfortable fucktards who never make room for anyone and are always pushing people out of the way. It certainly reminded me of how much space my backpack was taking up.
The room was small, but the air-conditioner was powerful, and that made me intensely happy. The room consisted of about one foot to take your shoes off, and perhaps another 18 inches between the bed and the wall on all sides, with maybe an additional 6 inches of space at the foot of the bed to accommodate the television. The television itself had a small coin-operated slot on the right side, which, since we couldn't read the crazy moon-speak printed all over everything, we assumed was for paying for the privilege to watch T.V. The bathroom, too, was what we later learned would be standard for most of these hotels. These hotel bathrooms consisted of a small toilet, usually a bidet; a plastic sink, which often also functioned as the source of water for the shower, and whose sides usually stuck out a good three inches into the shower itself; and a reasonably sized shower whose head had to be taken off the wall and moved to a higher vantage point to comfortably clean the whole body. These stalls always felt cramped, and the shower curtain never quite covered the entire shower-stall, leaving you with the unshakable feeling that you were turning the entire room into some kind of marshland upon exit. I bumped my head and toe at least twice while in these kinds of bathrooms, and at least once while trying to exit; for some reason, Japanese bathrooms are always an extra step above the rest of the hotel room when you walk into them, and if you forget that crucial fact, you end up with a foot-full of wall.
We both took quick showers, whereupon I noticed, while waiting, that we seemed to be getting two channels of free porn. I found this particularly jarring because the first such channel was located directly after what was obviously Japanese children's programming, which was at that very moment playing the Japanese equivalent of Sesame Street. Not particularly in the mood for a post-flight journey into foreign porn, I flipped around instead. Japanese television can be very interesting to watch, but not because of the weird extreme stuff they keep shipping over to the states and calling Japanese. It's interesting because of the blatant similarities, particularly among shows for kids and dramas. There were a few exceptions, but I'll talk about them later in the week.
After we finished up, we gathered Eric and Cory on the floor below us, whereupon I learned that we weren't paying for television and thus getting porn; we were getting television for free and paying for porn, which made a lot more sense than our previous assumption. Still, 100 yen for an hour of porn is pretty cheap by America standards, though all my time in Japan I never really watched more then twenty minutes of the stuff, as it is censored and is often sort of gross in an indescribable sort of way. It just seems... like they're not into it. Maybe it's the language barrier rearing it's ugly head again, but it'd be sort of like watching two people go at it with their pants on, only one of them keeps continuously talking about how busy they're going to be the following morning, or what their favorite kind of sorbet is.
By the time we got out again, it was probably 6 or 7 PM, which was about 5 or 6 AM Friday EST. For those of you no doubt paying attention, you will realize Andrew was rapidly approaching the 48 hour mark here, but at the time I was only vaguely aware of this growing throb in my head, as though two tiny lemmings were attempting to get out of my cranial cavity by repeatedly bludgeoning themselves against the inside of my skull. Because of this minor impairment, I'm not entirely sure where we went that night, though I think it was Shinjuku.
Crystal has her own description of Tokyo at night, but my first introduction to Tokyo nightlife was one of confusion (that's a theme) and exhilaration. Over-stimulation came in the form not of simple blinking lights and sounds (though those were present), but rather in the exceptionally prevalent and effective use of advertisement in the city. Seriously, Tokyo could teach advertisers a thing or two over here in the States. You see, in the city proper, there aren't really any homes; businesses take up 5 or 6 floors in most places, and every available surface is covered in ads. People hand out ads in the street. People stand on ladders and yell out ads. People get on loud-speakers and broadcast ads. I didn't understand any of it, yet all of us were invariably filled with an urge to buy things while we were in Tokyo, and not all of it was just some whacky "ooohooo it's hilarious, let's buy it!" factor. The first thing I wanted to buy, however, was some fucking headache medication.
We went to a "medicine store" which is not a pharmacy, but rather, pretty much what it sounds like. What amazed me about it - and indeed, many other stores in Tokyo - is that they are partially open air, as though someone broke a large exterior window and you simply walk into the store off the street, with three walls and a roof. What makes it even stranger is that these stores constantly pump air conditioning into the street. I could barely move around in the place, sometimes walking forward a few paces before being blocked into a narrow aisle and then turning around only to face another large group of shoppers, as though I were a wind-up toy with one broken leg. Cory came through for me though, buying me some kind of Japanese aspirin I couldn't read. It came in handy throughout the trip with all of us, and the stuff worked almost instantly, but I tossed it out before I came to the States, thinking carrying drugs of any kind, even pain killers, would probably be a mistake. I was right.
We got it into our head that we were going to go to a "Maid Cafe", which is a fancy way of saying "Hooters where the girls dress like cosplayers." Cory had done some pain-staking research to find us a witch-themed maid cafe, which we were all pretty pleased about, and so we went searching for the place down this long, brightly-lit alley. We found the building - or rather, the elevator that seemed to be the only entrance to the building - next to a restaurant. Every floor appeared to be a different Maid Cafe of some kind, and with the exception of us, pretty much every person who got on or off of the elevator was either a young girl or an embarrassed looking man traveling alone. When we got up there, it was like walking into a Walt-Disney theme restaurant that got rejected for being too risque. Everything was made out of plastic designed to look like wood, though I had to admit the decor was good-looking; and there was a wall that showed all the "witches"; there must have been at least a hundred little pictures, including a few bewildering pictures of dorky men dressed like Harry Potter. Their costumes were very adorable, and there were a number of things you could do with them (no, not sexual) for "magic coins". The sign wasn't clear on what a "magic coin" was, but I suspect it was "magic five hundred yen." For one coin, they'd bring you a drink or something stupid, for two coins they'd make you a "magic dish" (which I think means they bring you food) and for three coins they'll take a picture with you. The whole thing seemed intriguing, though I've never seen so many tables with one person each at them in my entire life.
Cory told the girl behind the counter the score, and she agreed to call him when there was space available, but this left us with time to kill. We went out to hit the town, and by that I mean, "We went straight to toy machines." You know those little machines you put a couple of quarters into, and it spits out a random toy in a plastic egg? Well Japan has a ton of those. We got some Mario Cart toys. Before our trip in Tokyo was through, we had enough Mario Cart toys to accurately reproduce our favorite races. Then we went hunting for claw machines; Eric has an epic reputation with claw machines, and there were dozens of them in this...arcade. Arcades, really, since there were multiple buildings all centered on the same basic principle. I'll have to leave it to the other folks to comment if they won anything, because I just plumb don't remember, but the odd thing about them is that they feel like a place to amuse children. But every one of them smelled like smoke. People smoke a lot in Japan, but they aren't allowed to do it much on the street (there are a few designated areas). Tobacco is so available in Japan, in fact, it almost felt like a shame to be a non-smoker. It would have been so convenient!
We got a call back from the maid girl, and hightailed it back over, but got some bad news from the girl. First, we would have all had to sign up for a club card, which would have been 3 dollars or some such. That would have been doable, but then she told us we needed to buy all-you-can-drink soda or booze (2000 or 3000 yen respectively) if we wanted to sit down. We theorized that it was probably because we were Americans and this is not normal protocol. I cannot imagine what kind of people are willing to throw down that kind money for a girl you are then going to pay money to anyway, nor could I imagine the sheer amount of soda I would have had to put away to make it worth that much money. I know we're all Yanks who gargle with Coke and hamburger, but there is a line. We left with witch blue-balls and empty stomachs, desperate to find something to eat.
Cory bravely led us to a place that reminded me of a Japanese version of the 99 restaurant and we were helped to what would be called "traditional Japanese fare." This consists of individually ordered - often inexpensive - items that come in small quantities. Things on a stick (chicken or beef) were particularly popular amongst us, especially Eric, who practically lived on the stuff for the rest of the trip. Even more awesome was that we had a little touch screen, which enabled us to order without too much awkward pointing at a menu like mute children. As an interesting aside, tipping is not normal in Japan. These means you almost always get different waiters whenever you want anything, because whoever happens to be around is the one who helps you (there's no competition between waitresses to see who gets your gratuity.) On the other hand, this means you always have to get their attention, as they have no vested interest in checking up on you. This is one of the things that took a while to get used to; you have to raise your hand and yell, "Sumimasen!" (or "Excsue me") in order for anyone to care that you exist. I don't know what happens if you pass out or die at the table, but I suspect it would take a while for anyone to notice.
After paying the bill, we all stumbled back to the hotel and let exhaustion overtake us. Almost all the hotels we stayed at, though, had a 10 AM check-out time, meaning going to bed super late was almost never an option. We cranked the AC and hopped into bed, strangely calm and quiet at our hotel, in a state of confused readiness. I stared at the ceiling for 4 or 5 minutes, thinking over and over, "Holy shit, I'm in Japan", before my eyes slapped shut, angry with me over my obstinate decision to stay awake for so long.