Under the Spreading Cherry Blossom Tree

Posted on 02/04/2015 by Luke

As the heat of 23°C sweeps across Tokyo, it brings with it a sea of pink and white flowers. Spreading in every direction are sakura, flowers that only bloom for about a week of the year and are so delicately dependent on weather conditions that they could easily vanish in an instant. The problem with cherry blossoms is that they take a while to reach full bloom, and in previous years, 100% hasn’t quite been reached. This year I am fortunate, and the weather has been excellent. Today, the flowers are at their full potential and will stay like this for a few days or until it rains. If it rains, the flowers will wash away, sharing the same fate as a ludicrously named spider in a nursery rhyme.

I head toward the Sumida River, passing rows of flowers that line the river on both sides. The same river, but this week, offering an entirely different setting.

I cross the river and head into Sumida Park. I have arranged to meet my friends for a traditional event known as hanami. I wander the park, passing large groups of people drinking alcohol as they sit shoeless on bright blue tarpaulin. As I traverse the verdant gardens, after a full thirty minutes, I arrive at the location of the first-ever cherry blossom viewing party of the Imperial Court. Just over the hill behind this historic location, sit my friends, drinking whisky at noon.

As I gaze at cherry blossoms and observe the other people here enjoying their little picnics of alcohol and snacks, I realise that a man from Pizza Hut is delivering a hot pizza to one of the groups at the bottom of the hill. I find it astonishing; firstly, how could the delivery man ever find the group that ordered, and secondly, if this were in England, the company would never deliver to a crowded park. They would insist on a postal address, and if that couldn’t be provided, they would simply refuse.

We sit under a cherry blossom tree, mostly in quiet contemplation. The point of hanami is to enjoy the flowers, the alcohol, and the company of others. As I stare at the flowers, I recall a story about horses. In the past, many Buddhists would ask to be buried with sakura, so to shake the branches and release a snowfall of flowers, horses would be tied around a cherry blossom tree. This is actually the reason that raw horse meat in Japan is known as sakura.

Sakura also has a third meaning, a stooge. Many years ago, people would be allowed to view kabuki shows for free, in exchange for over-the-top laughter and applause. These stooges would sit in the audience to encourage the paying members watching the show to participate in applause. It is said that the applause blooms very quickly, spreads, then fades away, much like the flowers. Our party eventually fades away too, just like the flowers, and I take my leave and walk toward Asakusa, to look at some cucumbers.

Within the grounds of Sogenji Temple sit a pair of perfectly preserved kappa. Child of the river and an imaginary animal said to help local people with float control, or so the confusing sign states. It is said that a kappa has a bowl on its head, always full to the brim with water. If the bowl becomes empty, then the kappa sadly dies. Apparently, eating cucumbers rehydrates the kappa, keeping it alive, which might explain the cucumbers. I bow at the kappa statues, hoping to see them bow back, thus spilling their bowls and killing them in the process, but nothing happens. Just a statue covered in cucumber, staring blankly at me. A man cutting the lawn tells me that there are limbs from an actual kappa inside the temple; however, I am not allowed to see them, and am given no explanation as to why not. It makes me wonder why he even mentioned it in the first place. Regardless, I leave the temple with a free cucumber under each arm.

I turn back to cherry blossom viewing once more and head to the overly crowded Ueno Park.

The park has one of the best spots to view flowers in Tokyo, with endless rows of blossoming trees spreading from the middle of the park all the way to the Fountain of Frog. There isn’t much else to do here though; I have seen flowers already and am perhaps losing interest slightly. I instead wander away from the park, in search of something interesting.

Eventually, I stumble into Toeizan Kan’ei-ji Endon-in, a temple that features many graves of famous perished people, including that of a priest named Ryoozenji. The priest had a revelation in a dream, and upon waking, he invented a powerful medicine named Kintaien. This medicine cured every illness in the world, and he sold it at a drugstore that was owned by his nephew. All of the profits from this super drug, Ryoozenji spent on a library in the grounds of this very temple. I find it a little odd. If I had invented a drug that cured every illness in the world, I would have thought my profits would have stretched a lot further than a simple library. Still, the story of Ryoozenji isn’t the strangest thing at Toeizan Kan’ei-ji Endon-in.

Next to the copper bell sits a large stone surrounded by plants. I take a closer look and discover that this rock is a tomb that contains the souls of insects. Specifically, insects that were sketched by a lord in the Edo Period. This type of monument is known as a Mushizuka and was built to console the spirits of various insects that were both drawn and used for science.

I leave the temple and return to Ueno Park. Most of the people in the park are gathered for hanami, but there is one area where the crowd seems to be oblivious to the beauty all around them, engaged in a protest of sorts. A man stands with a book and a microphone, shouting loudly and with anger, as fifty elderly Japanese men sit and watch in awe, nodding in agreement. I am not sure what the man is so angry about, perhaps the flowers, but regardless, he does his protest next to a sign that ironically says, “No protesting, no gathering, no advertising, and no politics.”

I leave the park with a head full of cucumbers. As I wander down flower-covered roads, I turn onto Kappabashi Street, in the hope that I might meet an actual kappa. Obviously, nothing transpires, so my float control dilemma will have to wait until another day.

Befall Upon The Watchtower

Posted on 14/02/2015 by Luke

For whatever reason, someone has suggested to me that I check out the area where the Arakawa River and the Sumida River flow into one. As I head out into what feels like a spring afternoon, I realise that my destination today might offer little excitement to anyone, including myself. Somehow, I feel drawn in the direction of Arakawa, the shackles of free will severed from my legs. Part of me feels like there is a demon possessing my very soul, controlling my destiny as I cycle at rapid speeds in the direction of Arakawa.

I see the remnants of a temple or shrine, but it looks as though perhaps it is trapped within the confines of an industrial site. Not letting that stop me for one moment, I park my bicycle and wander in. Seconds later, I am cornered by a security guard. He shouts angrily in Japanese as he waves his hand in the direction of the street. A strong urge to not give up consumes me, and I quickly find myself on the other side of the complex.

It is a strange sight. I am standing along the Sumida River, and there is nothing but tall yellow grass stretching off in every direction. No cars pass along the road in front of the shrine. No people are walking. It is silent, yet only ten minutes away are the tall residential buildings that make up my neighbourhood. Looming over the Shinto shrine are three huge green balls, presumably part of a sewerage station. Perhaps the god of water treatment resides here.

I carry on my journey, not wanting to disturb the sewer gods, and eventually find a map. Sure enough, the place I had just visited is marked as ‘Sewer Station Shirahige Nishi Pump Place.’ However, there is no mention of any temple or shrine on the map. There is, however, one other interesting point of interest labelled as ‘Ballpark for boy Ground of using combinedly.’ I excuse the terrible English and carry on along the river.

Ten minutes later, my fanciful difficulty fades away, offering me some karmic resolve.

A watchtower. The best thing that has happened to me all week. It somehow feels like I am stumbling through an episode of the television drama ‘Lost’. For no apparent reason, there is a massive wooden watchtower sitting guard at the entrance to one of the bridges that traverses the Sumida River. What is it doing here? Who built it? Is this real? My mind floods with questions and possibilities, as if somehow collecting fragmented pieces of information and forming them into ideas in my head.

I park my bicycle, and ignoring the sign that tells me to stay away, I enter the wooden doorway. My body filled with an emotion that is yet to be given a name. As I climb the watchtower, I begin to wonder if all of this is just some giant metaphor for something else, something that can’t be explained with words. Each step toward the top tests me, as if life is testing me at this very moment. Eventually, as I near the top, the cracks in the surface become wider, making way for sunbeams.

The view from the top is of nothing of note. Tokyo Skytree hangs in the distance, slightly masked by concrete surroundings. In the direction I came from, I can see the water treatment plant and the barren riverbed. I stand at the top of the tower in silence for a while, watching the blue hue of the river for a time, before the sound of footsteps echo from below. A man appears. He looks devious, something very odd about him; like he means to cause trouble. He stands atop the watchtower with me, blissfully staring out into a void. The man doesn’t speak to me, and something about him makes me incredibly uneasy. I decide that I can’t stand here any longer, so I head back down the steps to my bicycle below.

I cross the river as fast as I can, somewhat unnerved. On the other side of the river, I take a right, following its path back toward what looks like civilisation. After twenty minutes of cycling, I realise I am slightly at a loss. I don’t really know where I am, and I’m not sure if the river I crossed was the Arakawa River or the Sumida River. Perhaps I have already cycled beyond the confluence.

I try to check the map on my camera, but nothing appears to work. I stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and take in my surroundings. Desolate. Empty. Nothing. Everything here looks abandoned, and it begins to reflect on me. Right now, even I feel completely abandoned; which is the strangest feeling I have suffered in a while. As I stand here, lost in the middle of something that might or might not be nothingness, a certain fear destroys my usual calm demeanour, and I begin to panic.

Everything will be fine, though. As if saved, I can just make out the silhouette of Tokyo Skytree on the horizon; so I point my bicycle in the direction of the structure. After what seems like an hour of following the river, I reach a bridge and am finally free to cross. This bridge takes me over the Arakawa River, so it appears that I never reached my destination, never found what I sought out to find. Regardless, I am finally back within familiar territory, heading back toward life. I stop to photograph a sign that probably has no relevance here, but perhaps it does. The sign appears to have been written by Yoda from Star Wars.

As the day continues to distract me, I inadvertently end up in Akihabara. Tired from three or four hours of intemperate exploration, I decide to leave my bicycle at the train station. Inside, I stand at the platform, waiting for the train to take me back to Minowa. It is here that I see yet another strange vending machine.

The machine offers four shelves of items, two of which are toys for children: two sets from the Nature in Japan series. Small models of various different animals native to the country. It is what is contained within the other two shelves that I find strange. At a bargain price of ¥200 per purchase, I can buy office ladies that sit on the edge of my coffee cup; legs open, underwear exposed.

Akihabara Station famously has signs at each escalator, warning women to watch out for ‘upskirting.’ Apparently, it is a law in Japan that all cameras must make a sound when a photograph is taken. With Akihabara being the home of electronics and comic books, lonely men have often been known to pry on women as they ride the escalator, sneakily taking photographs from below.

This vending machine perhaps tries to solve that problem. These coffee cup women are clearly exposing their undergarments, with no shame. The only shame is possibly when your co-workers see you with a decorated coffee cup featuring this type of imagery. ‘Make your office fun!’ ‘Happiness in your cup!’ are just some of the explanations on offer, scrawled in Japanese across the machine.

There are certain times in my life when my mind is simply not capable of understanding something, and this is certainly one of them.

Bridges and Balloons

Posted on 24/10/2014 by Luke

Today, I head into Asakusa, to the tax-free discount shop, Don Quixote. My plan is to finally buy my own bicycle. After browsing for a while, I decide to buy one of the faster ‘red’ coloured bikes. The woman in the shop calls for an English speaker, and within five minutes, all paperwork including the bicycle registration is completed for me. I pay ¥14,324 and become the proud owner of a bright red bicycle.

I cycle over the Sumida River toward Ryogoku. There is a row of parked bicycles, each with a bright purple sticker featuring today’s date. I want to park too, but for some reason, I can’t find any attendant or any machines. I try a bicycle parking lot, but oddly, the machine doesn’t want to accept my coins. No matter how many combinations I try or how much I hammer the buttons on the machine, a Japanese voice just continually thanks me. Instead, I decide to park inconspicuously by some balloons.

Ryogoku is renowned as ‘Sumo Town’ and hosts the Edo Tokyo Museum. Here, a large sumo stadium stands tall, alongside shops specifically selling clothes for ‘larger’ individuals, and it’s common to spot many sumo wrestlers in full costume casually strolling around. I even pass by one sumo wrestler riding a bicycle, the man’s weight making the handlebars visibly strain and threaten to buckle.

The sumo stadium isn’t open, so I head into the adjacent Old Yasuda Garden. Free entry is a bonus. Originally built in 1688, the gardens have endured numerous changes. They were destroyed by an earthquake, completely remodelled, and marred by pollution from the Sumida River. They reopened in 1971, and the pond has now been designed to resemble the Japanese kanji character ‘kokoro’, meaning heart, mind, or spirit. Although I don’t see the resemblance. Ryogoku Sumo Hall sits idly in the distance, beyond a small red bridge.

I wander through the garden for a while, relishing the escape from the bustling city, before hurrying back to retrieve my bicycle. I’m worried it might get removed, and if it does, a ¥5000 retrieval fee is required, almost half the cost of the bike itself.

I check out a nearby map and notice there’s a Fireworks Museum nearby, so I head in that direction. With fate as malleable as clay, the Firework Museum is closed today—typical. I check another map and find a Stationery Museum. Crossing the bridge back over the Sumida River, I discover that all trace of the Stationery Museum has been erased. My lucky day.

I continue cycling around, passing an amusingly named cafe called ‘Nob Coffee’ and a similarly amusingly named clothes shop called ‘Very International’ before spotting the most premature Christmas decorations I have ever seen.

I found it somewhat crazy when Halloween decorations started popping up everywhere by the end of September, in every shop, bar, and restaurant. However, these Christmas decorations take early celebrations to another extreme. I remind myself that it’s still the middle of October before darting off toward another sign. I’m attempting to find something else to do today—a day that, so far, holds no real plans, meaning, or motivations.

The ‘Kokucho Time Bell’ is marked as a place of interest, about ten minutes away from my current location. Sounds interesting enough!

The bell sits unusually in the middle of a children’s play park, positioned in front of a Nichiren Buddhist temple. There’s a famous Senryu—a three-line poem with seventeen syllables—about the bell that claims, ‘The bell of Kokucho reaches as far as Nagasaki.’ Considering Nagasaki is in Kyushu, over one thousand kilometres away, I highly doubt the accuracy of the poem.

After searching intensely for places of interest, I cycle back in the direction of Asakusa. Along the way, I cross a bridge and notice a plaque with some English writing. Intrigued, I double back to check out the text:

“The Yanagibashi Bridge was first built in 1698, the present bridge was erected in 1929. There are several explanations for the origin of the name, yanagi (meaning willow) bridge. One explanation is that willow trees stood at the base of the bridge. In the 19th century this neighbourhood was a bustling red-light district known in Japanese as Gay World. Yanabashi was the subject of art and literature at that time.”

Once again, the willow is the symbol for a red-light district in Japan. The small river leading up to the bridge is dotted with numerous small boats housing little bars and restaurants. Intrigued, I decide to explore the area around the bridge, only to discover that Gay World and the red-light district have since been replaced by street after street of fashion shops.

As the night draws in, it’s time for me to head home. While cycling back, I make an exciting discovery—the light on my bicycle is powered by a gyroscope. It’s probably the most exciting thing that has happened to me all day.

Last Day of Summer

Posted on 24/09/2014 by Luke

Today is the Autumn Equinox; officially the day that summer ends and autumn begins. The weather seems to have forgotten about the shift in seasons, and has kindly gifted us with a clear sunny day and 27°C temperatures; the perfect day for say, a boat trip. Once a month, throughout summer, the people of Asakusa have a boat party. Fortunately for us, Dagmar and I have been given an invite.

The boat wasn’t cheap; we each paid ¥8640 in advance. This price includes ‘nomihodai’ and ‘tabehodai,’ which means ‘all-you-can-drink’ and ‘all-you-can-eat’. At half-past twelve, we meet up and head to Umayabashi Bridge, where our eagerly-awaited boat awaits us eagerly.

The Japanese boat is referred to as ‘Yakatabune’, a traditional wooden boat with tatami flooring, primarily used for entertaining guests. The forty of us pile in and take a seat on the floor at a huge table where a banquet is already laid out. The boat gets moving along the Sumida River in the direction of Odaiba. Shuhei, the organiser, makes a speech, we toast, then start to eat. The meal initially consists of sliced raw fish, salad, edamame, rice, pickles, and prawn tempura.

Beer is passed around in huge bottles to fill small glasses. My glass is always kept topped up by someone else when it gets low; in turn I return the favour when I see someone else with a glass running absent of alcohol. The food is delicious, the beer ever flowing; a great start to the afternoon.

We cruise along to excellent views of Tokyo, and I take photographs, eventually coining the word ‘boatographs’. As we head towards Tokyo Bay, more food is served: white fish tempura, eel tempura, sweet potato tempura, and finally, my favourite, mushroom tempura.

A few of the Japanese guys gather at the bow of the boat, cheering each other on to drink massive glasses of Japanese sake. I head over to take a photograph and am dragged into the madness. I’m handed a glass of sake, everyone cheers, and I drink. “No good, one more time,” they say. Great. After a second chant, I drink a second glass of strong sake.

After about forty minutes, people seem quite drunk. We anchor in the middle of Tokyo Bay, opposite the Fuji TV Building.

Another speech is given, an endless supply of food continues to flow from the small kitchen. The beer just about stops, and people begin to take advantage of the all-you-can-drink spirits. There is a huge selection of shochu, wine, sake, and whisky. After a while, we all head to the upper deck for a group photograph, before heading back below for more food and drink.

Karaoke begins, bringing with it a drinking game. A microphone is passed around and everyone sings one line of the song. Whoever sings the last line of the verse has to drink. When the microphone lands in my hand, I improvise something in English to the same tune. People applaud, and somehow, I escape the fate of trying to sing broken Japanese lyrics.

We sing many songs and drink many drinks. I make some new friends and talk to the people I already know. The boat tilts from side to side, the party in full swing. Shuhei goes around pouring drinks into glasses, urging everyone to down them. It seems that everyone is determined to empty every bottle on the boat, and we indeed do just that.

The boat starts up again and cruises back toward Asakusa. More speeches are delivered, followed by more karaoke. We’re treated to a black bean dessert before finally docking back at the Umayabashi Bridge. A traditional clapping ritual signals the end of the festival, and we all disembark for one last group photograph. It’s only 4 p.m., but I’m already feeling a little drunk.

A few of us share a taxi. The doors to the taxi magically open and close by themselves. Five minutes and ¥700 later, we arrive back at the hostel. One of the staff members hands me a piece of paper that says, ‘Last Summer Party.’ It turns out tonight, the hostel is hosting a Bon dance party—a traditional folk dance to commemorate the lives of loved ones who have passed away. Free food and drink are also available. Excellent.

I drink plenty of water and sober up ready for my second party of the day.

On a Clear Day I Can See Forever

Posted on 10/09/2014 by Luke

Summer surrenders to autumn, and the weather swiftly turns cool, as if overnight. My can of Boss Coffee falls from the vending machine piping hot. Today, I decide to explore the Toei Oedo Line. I walk twenty minutes to Kuramae Station. En route, I pass the Bandai Headquarters; a huge banner informs me that Tamagotchi is making a comeback at the end of this month. At Kuramae Station, I wait patiently for the train and receive strange looks as I laugh at the following sign:

I hop on the train without taking any notice of the time. It is, of course, 9 a.m. — rush hour. The train is packed. Today, I learn that this train goes all the way to Shinjuku. At every stop, more people get on. The crowding worsens, and the oxygen levels deplete. After about ten minutes, it becomes too much, so I squeeze my way out of the train at Kachidoki Station. I need air.

Kachidoki is in Koto and is the nearest station to the Tokyo Port Terminal. Whilst I’m here, I decide to take a little wander around the docks and the small interconnected islands. Dengue fever has now spread throughout Tokyo, and this area is a terrible place to be. All the streets here are lined with shrubbery and swarming with mosquitoes. A sign warns me to ‘Be careful with mosquitoes!’ Joking aside, it’s actually pretty serious, and I take the warning seriously.

I head toward the Harumi Railway Bridge.

The bridge is no longer in use. Barbed wire warns me not to cross, although I wouldn’t anyway as it doesn’t look very safe. What’s interesting here is that from this bridge, I can see both Tokyo Skytree and Tokyo Tower. I suppose it makes the trip worthwhile, maybe not. After I photograph the bridge and Tokyo Tower in the distance, I head back to Kachidoki Station. Rush hour is now long gone.

I take the Toei Oedo Line all the way to Shinjuku. I end up getting lost in the station, then get back on the same train as before, taking it to Tochomae Station. Here, I change trains but stay on the same line and head to Higashi-Shinjuku Station. Outside, I walk around looking for something to do. There isn’t a lot here—just restaurants, shops, and plenty of bars; a good place for a night out if I didn’t live so far away. I cross under the Yamanote Line and see children painting the wall beneath the tracks.

I follow the wall of graffiti to the entrance of Shin-Okubo Station and take the Yamanote Line to Ueno, changing trains once more before heading to Tawaramachi Station.

When I arrive back at the hostel, Hiro tells me that tonight we are having a soba party. “Not again!” I quip. The flyer for the party is the same as last time but with a different date. I relax for a while, killing time, before heading out for my seventh train of the day.

I take the Tobu Skytree Line just one stop to Tokyo Skytree Station. If I’m completely honest, I could have just walked it; it isn’t far. I blame the convenience of Japan for my laziness. I’ve been here almost four months now, and with Tokyo Skytree practically on my doorstep, I decide I might as well take the plunge. ‘Plunge’ probably isn’t the best word to have used.

I pay ¥2060 and wait anxiously for the lift. Surprisingly, there is absolutely no queue. The lift travels so fast that it makes my ears pop. 350 metres later, I arrive at the Tembo Observation Deck. The view is staggering.

Skytree Radio blares through the speakers. As I gaze over the Sumida River, I can see my hostel. “From the top of the tower, radio buzz in my ears, I can see my house from here, I can see my house from here.” The Owen Pallett song, ‘The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead,’ gets stuck in my head, and it will most likely stay there for the remainder of the day; not necessarily a bad thing though.

I wander the massive observation deck for a while, being careful not to get too close to the edge. There’s an option to pay an additional ¥1030 to go up to the next deck, another one-hundred metres higher. I think it’s terrible that this was never advertised to me until I’m already 350 metres in the sky—a sneaky trick to try and make me pay more. I decide not to bother; I’ve already spent a small fortune today as it is. Instead, I take the escalator down ten metres. Here, there’s a glass viewing point where I can stare at the traffic on the street below. Oddly, it doesn’t look like I’m too high up from here.

There’s another area where I can actually stand on a glass platform and have my photograph taken by the staff, although I can’t use my own camera. All I want to do is take a photograph of my foot on the glass panel, but I’m not allowed. Another trick: if you like the photograph, you can spend even more money and buy it.

I take the lift back down to the inescapable 5th floor. It would be unfair to say that the most exciting part of the Tokyo Skytree experience is the lift, but then again, I am quite the unfair person. As I had imagined, the exit to the lift leads into the gift shop. The train station is on the first floor, and surprisingly, I am forced to exit through not just one gift shop, but three. After three floors of tacky goods, I then have to walk all the way through a huge indoor food market just to get to my train.

Back at the hostel and with an hour to kill, I write whilst listening to Owen Pallett, or at least I try to write. At some point, all hell breaks loose: a monsoon. Tokyo is issued a flood and heavy rain warning—a red warning. I have honestly never seen rain so hard; I can’t possibly explain it without appearing to exaggerate. The hostel floods. I spend an hour helping out: moving furniture from flooded rooms to dry rooms, and mopping. Mopping until I have no energy to mop anymore. It’s just lucky that my laundry is comfortably drying on the 4th floor, so I don’t mind getting my clothes soaked in dirty floodwater. Eventually, the rain stops, and with a lot of hard work from the team here, everything is high and eventually dry.

It is fair to say that the soba party is a bit of a washout. Eventually, after an hour delay, it finally gets started. I shower and change clothes before enjoying some free noodles and beer. Deserved beer.

After the party, I take a wander outside to catch the end of the Harvest Moon. Somewhat fittingly, the moon hovers just behind Tokyo Skytree. An apposite end to the day.

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