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Among other examples of inexplicable Japaneseness is this fact-- in the 99-Yen store (the equivalent of the Everything-for-a-Dollar stores we have here), they sell vibrators. Yes, oh yes they do.
In the Tsukiji Fish Market, the fish vendors drive around on these bizarro motor cart things that look like this:
Think carnival go-cart free-for-all except instead of raged-up adolescents, they carry things like this:
We ate them all for breakfast. Mmm.
One of the best things about no longer working regular business hours is that everyone else does. I've been seeing so many people I know out on the street because instead of riding the same direction minutes apart, now I do it in reverse. This seems like a valuable metaphor for something, although I'm not sure exactly what.
But back to Japan, Day Two-ish or so. Setting: Hibiya Park.
It had occurred to me at some point that it'd be fun to track down some Japanese bike messengers. Of course it didn't occur to me until after I'd left the States, because I'm sure that if I'd thought of it sooner, someone here would have known someone there and it would have been a cinch. But I didn't. So instead I'm in Tokyo with my eyes peeled.
It's never too hard to spot 'em-- bags, radios, nappy hair-- and especially in Tokyo, where everyone except messengers rides their bike on the sidewalk-- but they're mostly always in and out, and I know what a pain in the neck it is to be interrupted when you don't want to be, especially by someone who doesn't speak your language, so I'd held off making contact. Also, I'm really shy.
But we're outside the entrance to Hibiya Park, looking at our Lonely Planet or something, when I hear exactly what I know I'm hearing-- a chorus of Nextel radio beeps. I turn around and there are three track bikes leaning against a wall, and behind them, three messengers. With a little encouragement from Nora and Aileen, I decide it's now or never, so I approach.
"Do you speak English?" I ask. Two of the dudes laugh and shake their heads, but the third makes the universal sign for "small amount" so I decide it's ok to continue. I say something, I forget what, involving "New York" and "messenger" and "me," which they seem to understand, so I decide to ask them about bike stores. I figure that if I can find the cool bike store, I can see if there's anything going on, or at the least pick up a souvenier or two.
"Uh... bike store?" I say. Maybe I try to say the word "store" in Japanese. Of course it doesn't work, but we grunt and point a lot until we're all saying "bike store" and nodding at each other. I get out my map and a pen, and ask if they try to show me where it is. My map is the lousy Time Out Tokyo one, which of course has nothing on it, but one of the guys rummages through his bag and pulls out what looks to me like the Manhattan phone book, but is apparently what real maps of Tokyo look like. He pages through it, evidently finds what he's looking for, and then writes down "Asakusa 5-6-." I recognize this as the first part of what addresses look like in Japan, but he doesn't seem to be able to figure out the street number. He calls up dispatch. I recognize "Asakusa" and "hie," but dispatch doesn't seem to know it either, so I say thanks and leave. I'm on vacation. Whatev.
We cross the street and are heading into the park when another messenger (not one of the three I was talking to) calls out after me. I stop and walk back towards him. Then I notice that he's holding out his radio. Before I know it, I'm on the radio with dispatch and he's telling me "26, Asakusa 5-6-26."
I'm totally jazzed. Thank the dude. Run back to my friends. Go into the park. Later, I go to the bike store and it's not all that (although it was convenient and easy to find). Nevertheless, I'm content. I think that's the end of the story.
I'd been to Japan once before, when I flew JFK-NRT on January 1st, 2000, for $199 round-trip. Apparently everyone was afraid that the plane would fall out of the sky because of the Y2K bug. But I wasn't. Frances wasn't either. She came too.
One of the things I remember best from that trip was a tofu restaurant we went to the outskirts of Tokyo. The meal was totally Iron Chef, right down to the soy-milk ice cream for dessert. This time around, the place was exactly as I'd remebembered it-- except for the location.
We took the Yamanote line to Nippori, went out of the station, across the street, and off the map. We were tired and hungry, plus it was raining. Hard. Defeated (and soaking wet), we stepped under the cover of a parking garage and pulled out the Lonely Planet. Then a man in an overcoat appeared in the dark.
"Can I help you?" he asked, in perfect English.
"Yes, please," we said, and showed him the restaurant in the guidebook.
"Follow me," he said, and began to walk. Silently. In the rain. For a very long time. After several minutes, he opened his umbrella for me. I thanked him. He remained silent. We walked some more. And some more.
We began to recognize street names, and eventually came upon the restaurant. We thanked the man again. Again he was silent, but he held open the door and waited for the three of us to get all the way inside.
He turned and walked away, and this time we were silent. Who was this wordless man and why had he bothered to help? About twenty paces away he turned back towards us.
"See ya!" he said, and again disappeared.
This whole Japanese concept of shame, and of subsequent saving face-- I don't think I'll ever understand it. And we'll never really know exactly how much shame we caused, because when presented with bumbling gaijin, most Japanese (thankfully) choose to ignore it. Either that or they talk about it to each other in Japanese, which is equally transparent to me.
Anyway, this is a story about the Sony Store in Tokyo and how I stole the monkey mask. You may have already heard it.
Now about the mask-- I didn't mean to steal it, but this is what happened. We were in the Sony Store, and there were all these kids running around with plastic monkey masks on. The masks clearly came from somewhere in the store, but I didn't know where. And I wanted one. After five levels of robot dogs, spy cameras, PS2 golf, and the new Bemani drumming game, I saw a nice looking family... and my chance. I took out looked up how to say "where" in the Japanese phrasebook, and approached.
"Excuse me," I said to the mom holding the mask. (This I knew I could say; I'd had a lot of practice). "Where...?"
And then it all broke down. She didn't understand me, so she said something in Japanese. I didn't understand her, so I said something in English. Empassioned pointing ensued, until she took the mask off her arm and gave it to me.
"Thank you!" I said, delighted with my success, until I turned around and saw her
daughter staring at me, pouting and about to cry.
I tried to hand the mask back. She wouldn' take it. More pointing. More Japanese that I coudn't understand. More furious looks from the five-year-old. I didn't know what to do, so I didn't do anything. I just said thank you again and left, and didn't look back. I don't even want to think about the shame.