That night in Ikebukuro...
The one thing that indelibly reminds me of Japan, of Tokyo in particular is...
...Tohoshinki's Forever Love. Some of you know why already but I feel like explaining myself again here.
Even though the PV itself is in a desert setting, this song never fails to remind me of a cool, late spring night in Ikebukuro. A brisk wind blows, and I stuff my mittenless hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, burying my nose in the woolen scarf I wrap warmly around my neck. My steps are slow, placid even compared to the Tokyo-ites as they rush from shop to bar, train to home, teenagers chattering on handphones, salarymen looking for a karaoke joint. The bright, neonlights of the soaplands and host clubs can be daunting, but there's that little izakaya I remember from my last wanderings, unobstrusively marking a crossroad with its Daruma-san grinning in the window, eyes blackened but unburnt - a reminder to the owner that he achieved his dreams?
I slide the wood-and-glass shoji door open, ducking my head to get in and inside is warm with the smell of eel grilling behind the counter, the low, rumbling laughter as its patrons enjoy a good meal after work and the slightest hint of tobacco smoke in the air. I take a place next to a couple of men, bowing slightly as the owner cheerfully hands me a menu, and I quickly order a beer (Asahi, it's my favourite brand) and I'm given a tall, cool glass with a light head of foam.
The beer goes down smooth, tingling a little and I sigh, lighting up a cigarette as I wait for my dinner of unagi don. I have nowhere to go after this, merely more aimless wanderings around Ikebukuro, dodging the corners where yakuza-like men in smart suits stand waiting and...
I'm happy.
...Tohoshinki's Forever Love. Some of you know why already but I feel like explaining myself again here.
Even though the PV itself is in a desert setting, this song never fails to remind me of a cool, late spring night in Ikebukuro. A brisk wind blows, and I stuff my mittenless hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, burying my nose in the woolen scarf I wrap warmly around my neck. My steps are slow, placid even compared to the Tokyo-ites as they rush from shop to bar, train to home, teenagers chattering on handphones, salarymen looking for a karaoke joint. The bright, neonlights of the soaplands and host clubs can be daunting, but there's that little izakaya I remember from my last wanderings, unobstrusively marking a crossroad with its Daruma-san grinning in the window, eyes blackened but unburnt - a reminder to the owner that he achieved his dreams?
I slide the wood-and-glass shoji door open, ducking my head to get in and inside is warm with the smell of eel grilling behind the counter, the low, rumbling laughter as its patrons enjoy a good meal after work and the slightest hint of tobacco smoke in the air. I take a place next to a couple of men, bowing slightly as the owner cheerfully hands me a menu, and I quickly order a beer (Asahi, it's my favourite brand) and I'm given a tall, cool glass with a light head of foam.
The beer goes down smooth, tingling a little and I sigh, lighting up a cigarette as I wait for my dinner of unagi don. I have nowhere to go after this, merely more aimless wanderings around Ikebukuro, dodging the corners where yakuza-like men in smart suits stand waiting and...
I'm happy.
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