The following is an email from my sister, whose PhD (she’s the smart one, as I’ve said many a time) in Cultural Anthropology at Wisconsin has brought her to Tokyo for a summer of research. As you’ll see below, Meaghers, in general, tend to encounter a surplus of bizarre, surreal situations, be they Tokyo Cab […]
The following is an email from my sister, whose PhD (she’s the smart one, as I’ve said many a time) in Cultural Anthropology at Wisconsin has brought her to Tokyo for a summer of research. As you’ll see below, Meaghers, in general, tend to encounter a surplus of bizarre, surreal situations, be they Tokyo Cab Drivers or French Baseball. Enjoy….
Hey, homies.
Sorry for the delay in e-mail; the last two days have been, to say the least, hectic and disorienting. This trip is so far a mixture of Kafka and Henry Miller.
To begin, I sat on the plane with my new penpal, a handsome Korean-American kid from Houston who is just back from Iraq and was on his way to Seoul to visit friends. Honestly, a 13-hour flight is an ordeal that makes lifetime friends. If you can survive the flight cramped in like veal calves and still speak to each other, you have a special bond. He is returning to Tokyo, but alas, not until after I
have left.I managed to get to Ikebukuro by *limousine bus* which is a lot like the airport shuttle from Mishawum Station, except that the anti-maccassars (sp?) are lace, the curtains are silk, and the overhead announces in
Japanese and then the Queen:s English, *please do not use your cellphones on this bus, as it tends to annoy the neighbors.* Excellent.Once in Ikebukuro, the closest JR stop from Oizumi, where I am staying (the central loop around central Tokyo, Yamanote-sen, is owned by JR, the national railroad; the spokes radiating out from this hub are owned
by various private corporations, such that, in order to get around, I have to buy two monthly passes, each about 10000 yen, or 100 USD: one from Seibu Department Stores, who own the Seibu Ikebukuro line which I
have to take to get to the central loop; one from JR, to get from Ikebukuro Station to all other central destinations. I make up for this expense with my cheap lodgings, of course, but more on that scene below)
I wander around in search of Oizumi. The sense of disorientation is strong here, even when one has not been awake for over 30 hours, but after the flight it was too much. I had intended to walk to Oizumi from
Ikebukuro – the nice people at Narita (and they really are VERY, VERY nice, provided that one demonstrates effort in speaking the language and bows obsequiously) had told me it was a 10-minute walk. NOT SO. After
walking in circles for a little over an hour, I found Tokyo Metropolitan Plaza and the Crown Plaza Hotel, a bastian of Western-ness in a distinctly un-Western part of town. The bellhops and I spoke Japanese;
they disabused me of the idea that walking from Ikebukuro to Oizumi was a good idea. For this I am forever indebted to them.I managed (somehow) to figure out my way by train to Minami-Oizumi, but only after getting off at Nerima-ku and wandering around. My first impression of Nerima is that it is extremely beautiful; although the houses are small, it truly is a country of aesthetes, all of whom display meticulously-kept semi-tropical plants. My second impression? *Damn, but there are a lot of whores here.* To their credit, they:re really meticulously-kept semi-tropical whores. After another two hours of walking around in the dense, humid air, past pachinko parlors, sake bars, and the like (resisting the by now almost overwhelming desire to stop for a hot sake, ooki no o, kudasai [the big one, please]) I found a worker:s union with a tiny restaurant where two middle-aged Japanese men gave me directions back to the station and photocopied a map for me. Like a number of people that day, they complimented me on my Japanese (nihongo ga jouzu desu ne!) A lovely young Japanese waitress from the restaurant, Arishia, walked me back to the station where, in frustration (it was by now 8:30 p.m., my plane having landed at 3:30) and on her advice, I splurged and enlisted the services of a single-fare cab (ie, anywhere in the area for 650 yen, or just under $6.50) Money well spent. For the next hour he and I drove through streets so impossibly narrow that the average American sedan would have a hard time of it –
these were, however, TWO LANE streets, so we careened through Lombard Street-like curves nearly missing oncoming garbage trucks and private cars. Also, my cabbie gave off a strong smell of whiskey and water. In
his defense, he was about 5 feet tall, so it probably didn:t take that much Suntory to suffuse his little system. Having driven in circles for about 30 minutes, we stopped and used his cellphone to call the venerable Yoshida House for better directions, but there was no answer. *dame,* we repeated, in defeat, *inai*
(no good; there:s no one there) I confess that, despite my postmodern sympathies, I was raised to believe that one can get places with a map and the correct address. Not universally the case. Every four blocks or so we would find a home whose owner was so extravagant as to have purchased street numbers, and we would get out, scratch our heads, say, *dame,* and get back in. At the end of a long alley by a tiny river we found this truly odd-looking little structure, a tiny cabin enclosed in vegetation, with two little tables with ashtrays, an odd assortment of garbage, an antediluvial naugahyde loveseat, and cement statues of Buddha. *Kore wa nan desu ka?* I asked, and he replied he hadn:t any idea. Seeing a light through the vegetation, etc., I asked to get out to ask directions of whoever was inside. I got out and saw a funky little sign adorned with a mosaic of what I think is supposed to be a whale and the words, in English, *YOSHIDA HOUSE**YO-SHI-DA-HAU-SU!* I yelled. *Kimashita yo!* (*we:ve made it!*) The driver leapt out, exclaiming, *yokatta! yokatta!* – *YES!* and I followed. We gave each other a high-five and I was so happy I teared up. I gave him a generous tip by Japanese standards, 20000 yen (2 USD) to compensate him for having spent an hour navigating Minami Oizumi with me for less than the price of the gas consumed, and he looked at me quizzically. *Okanemochi desu ka?* he asked (Are you a moneybags?) and I replied, no, but you were such a good driver. I was exhausted, elated, and had a Suntory contact high.
By now it was 9:30. I sought out an open door and found one ajar. I pushed it open with my free hand to find a stark naked Japanese dude who said, without any register of indignation, or even surprise, *oh , um…* I slammed the door shut, apologizing in a panic, and walked around until I found another Japanese-style sliding door, open about 1 inch, and called in, in Japanese, *excuse me, I just arrived from America. I am Meagher-san. I am to stay here.* I was met at the door by a truly enormous, and not unattractive, Frenchman named Geoffrey, who let me in and showed me my room. *Vous etes Francais?* I asked, and he was floored. He asked whether I spoke French and I replied that while I had *plusieurs annees en etudiais, je nai pas l:occasion pour le pratiquer.* He was ecstatic. He is from Lyons, but I told him about mon petit frere qui joue le baseball a quelque chose-sur-Orge. He replied, in French, *I didn:t know there was baseball in France.* I
showed him havebatwilltravel.com to confirm my claims. He was duly impressed.Soon my first naked Japanese came in – I have seen, in my day, fully naked half-Japanese and half-naked Japanese, but this was the full Monty, (fu-ru mon-chi) so to speak. I apologized again but promised, in Japanese, that *chinchin ga mimasen deshita.* (I did not see the penis) In fact this was true. It had happened so quickly that I didn:t think to look down, even if I had been so inclined and, let:s face it, I would have been. I:m a scientist, after all. I seek to know. He thought this was hilarious, and looked relieved. Geoffrey proposed
that this was only because the chinchin was so miniscule, which met with laughter and broke the ice.I told them I knew Peter was on vacation, but that I had arranged to stay the month. They let me in on the truth: Peter is not on vacation in Bangkok, he is in a detention center, having been deported for visa problems (which apparently plague about a third of Yoshida:s tenants) Peter left in a hurry, shackled, no doubt, to some humorless immigration official, abandoning his NINE CATS, who prowl about begging for food; the ad-hoc cat policy being not to give them any, in the hope that they will take the hint and scadoodle. One of these cats has twice followed me into my room; another tries to jump on me every time I sit down. My room, though carpeted, comes with a broom, which has proved an invaluable tool in Caitlin-cat relations.
As for my room, it is the worst place I have ever seen in my entire life, but there is something about its abject squalor that makes me want to tough it out. My floor is sunken in several places; the *bed* is an army cot covered with several quilts to signify a mattress, which I am instructed to air out every week or so to kill fleas.
Exhausted, I lay down and slept better than ever before, but was awoken by immigration officials conducting an impromptu sweep. When asked in Japanese whether I lived here on my way to the shower (one building
over!) I responded, in Japanese, *yes, since yesterday* and was left alone. The other tenants were in hiding, peering out their windows from their rooms or playing possum.Thus I began my first full day in Japan, eight full hours of which I spent in search of an ATM that can read American cards. I spoke to about forty Japanese during the course of the day, each time reciting, *jidoukikai wa America no ka-do ga yomenaindesu ka. Amerika kara kitta bakari desu yo. Komatte ne.* (Your ATM does not read my American card. I have just come from America, and this is a terrible problem.) I was met with flattery for my language skills, sympathy, and regret that they hadn:t the foggiest idea where I could find an international ATM.
My quest took me, finally, back to Ikebukuro, where I found, in the basement behind an upscale gourmet department store (*fat kid Disney,* as I have named it) at the end of a seemingly endless hallway, a
citibank ATM which, alas, cannot for security reasons dispense more than 50000 yen or 500 USD per day to foreigners. So I was able, after an eight-hour (no, really) trek to pay my rent, but nothing more. Today
I will return to Ikebukuro to withdraw another 50000 yen. This is an excellent money-saving device: merely accessing one:s money is such an ordeal, one is more reluctant to part with those cartoon-colored bills.So today I will return to Nerima-ku, where I will speak to Maho Cavalier of clanguage about Japanese lessons, and I will perhaps make it to Shitamachi by the end of the day. In this country, one can:t take
anything for granted.It:s now 9:30 a.m., so I have to be off. More adventures in Tokyo later.
Love you all,
Cake
