Preface #

I took my first trip to Japan recently. There are several reasons why my trip in particular may be of interest to the reader, and they all stem from a complicated relationship with my own interest in Japan.

For one, I went through a significant period of my life where I was obsessed with it: samurai, sumo, anime, manga, sushi, ramen. The usual suspects. Self-labeled “otaku” at thirteen years old. I had a strong interest in its writing system; it was so foreign to me that it felt like a secret code. I wanted nothing more than to go to Japan and learn even more about its culture. I was made fun of for it in middle school, and so did away with it until it became socially sanctioned again in high school.

Towards the end high school and the start of my first year of college I grew disillusioned with Japan as a gut reaction to the increasingly mainstream act of idolizing and obsessing over its culture – my hipster phase. People would rave about how Japanese knives are better, Japanese food is better and healthier for you, Japanese writers are so much deeper, the language is more expressive, or how Japanese people are so much more polite and kind. I, in some counterculture rebellious streak, took to obsessing over its issues.

In a weird way, this leveled out my perspective, but because both phases were at extreme ends of the spectrum, a dissonance persists in my subconscious. When someone mentions that Japanese nail clippers sold at 7-Eleven, for instance, are objectively superior to any others they’ve used, I feel an urge to inform that individual that they have probably just never used good nail clippers, and are idolizing Japan. I can’t help but feel hypcritical in this sentiment, though; I know I hold beliefs that are no doubt borne of idolizing Japan.

Another reason this trip is strange is that I currently speak Japanese at a middling conversational level. I have not taken the JLPT before, so to clarify: I can hold a conversation, but I can’t talk shop or discuss politics. I’d say the best conversation I held was with some jewlery supply chain workers at a sushi bar in Osaka. I learned where they travel to source their diamonds, and got to learn about the bar’s family heritage. On the other hand, I was in way over my head when I tried to join a conversation with some grandparents in Gora about the use of artificial intelligence in modern warfare.

Speaking in broad strokes, most people who can communicate in Japanese will have already gone to Japan at least once, but this was my first trip. In high school, despite my growing confusion with my interest in Japan, I took to learning the national language. I’m glad I did - learning Japanese is an extremely educational experience, and, most importantly, fun! It continues to open many strange doors in life.

Finally, the trip was timed in an odd way. It was smack dab in the middle of Golden Week, during which four national holidays are observed. Often times employees take the entire week off. This meant that during my vacation, my girlfriend and I were competing for accommodations and transit with both international tourists who were there to get in on the action, and domestic tourists who were simply taking some PTO.

In brief, this trip meant a great deal to me personally, and I was able to communicate with strangers at an intermediate level. I have countless fond memories of the trip, but I had a few that left me with more complex emotions. Here, I document some of those experiences.

Family Restaurant #

Yokohama for the day. It’s hot, and my girlfriend and I are hunting for udon. We stumble around following signs pointing to an udon place, and snake through garages and corridors before she pauses at an open door. Through the door, we can see an Italian cafe, situated well underground, in the middle of Yokohama. It’s close enough to the mall’s garage that you can almost smell the carcinogens from the doorway. Ordinarily, I’d be averse to dining in such a place, but my girlfriend saw some good looking pasta on their poster, and I strive to be an adventurous soul. Who am I to turn down a shot at a good time?

We are met with eclectic decor and music from the streets of Venice. I’d always heard some interesting takes on international food in Japan, so I’m excited to give it at least one try. I order the carbonara, she orders the tomato sauce pasta. To share, we get some garlic bread. We fill up at the self-service bar in anticipation – oolong with carbonara might be an undiscovered hit – and wait patiently for our food.

Curiously, our pasta arrives before the garlic bread, and we dig in for a heaping bite after a full morning of cardio. Off looks alone, the pasta was not exactly enticing, but sloppy joes are an American classic, so let’s dig the fuck in. I slam a massive bite of the carbonara, complete with its glorious sandwich meat substitute for guanciale, down the hatch.

I close my eyes in bliss, only to be blinded by the fluorescent lights of an interrogation room. The familiar hum pans my ears from above as my eyes adjust to the harsh lighting. Where did the Italian cafe go? My eyes come to rest on a tan set of tables and beige chairs, lazily arranged on a terracotta concrete floor. To my right, a burning bastion of American food courts. Red, white, and green letters: mark of the beast, sins of the martyr, Sbarro.

Black.

My eyes dart in panic. Something triggered my fight or flight response, but I’m back in the cafe again. Whatever it was, it’s gone from this universe and my memory. My girlfriend has finished her entire plate. I, but five bites. The garlic bread, on the other hand, has inexplicably disappeared.

Ikebukuro #

Tokyo is big. It is tall. It is impossibly crowded despite being many years of growth from its theoretical saturation point. Off first impressions, I would have to compare it to LA.

Where Tokyo is tall, LA is wide. There are certain parts of LA with well-defined character. There are many without. Santa Monica, Bel Air, DTLA, Venice, San Gabriel. As for Tokyo I think of Akihabara, Chiyoda, Ueno, Shinjuku, Omotesando/Harajuku. Like LA, there also exist neighborhoods that serve as “the in-between” of other more pronounced regions. I consider the case of Ikebukuro in particular.

In the 70s, my father traveled to Japan somewhat often for business. He would share stories of his exploits when I was young. He stayed in Ikebukuro, because “that’s where people really live”, he said. I don’t doubt this statement.

Yes, many people live in Ikebukuro, but it is somewhat different from what my Dad described. It is tall. It is crowded. There is an Animate store, like one you may see in Akihabara. It is the home of the original Bic Camera, where cameras are practically a token participant in their catalog. There is Sunshine City, where I got lost several times locating a shop on the 7th floor. There are department stores everywhere. To hazard a guess, I’d say the pastime in this neighborhood is shopping and any events that occur at the nearby malls.

The train station is topologically large. Walking through the labyrinth to get from the Yamanote tracks to the southeast exit is nearly half a mile. The station itself feels as though it is a living creature; one that grew explosively in an era of abundance, what with its ten story limbs and half-mile lungs. Shops spring up seemingly at random. Cafes and drug stores, convenience stores and restaurants. Sunshine City is across the street from the station. Bic Camera is across the street from the opposite side of the station. I’d be foolish to neglect mentioning the Seibu on top. It touches everything, because without it, there would be nothing.

Coming from America, where cities are comparatively wide, sparse, and sometimes master-planned, it is almost grotesque. The longer I walk, the greater the cognitive dissonance. Sterile halls in an unclean maximalism. I feel like I might start to understand body horror and the ending of Akira. Worse yet, I feel as though I can begin to appreciate Robert Moses.

I once read that standing next to another human in LA is like standing next to a geological formation.¹ In Tokyo, I cannot stand next to anyone, because the world is defined by its movement. Movement in the advertisements; movement in the pedestrians; movement in the terrain. There’s too much movement; pedestrians get lost in the crowd, stop and suddenly change direction. There’s almost too many people, too much motion.

I don’t doubt that people live in Ikebukuro, but why, then, do these crowded halls feel so empty?

Kimonos #

I am reminded of a phrase that was repeated to me when I joined the startup space: “open the kimono,” as it were. It is used to refer to transparency in business transactions, or otherwise to be upfront with one’s flaws. Personally, I struggle to write the phrase out. It harbors East-asian fetishization and generally gross patriarchal thought. Given the material act of opening a kimono, the keyword “fetishization” rings particularly true.

It’s a bit overcast and I’m on a mission to see the bamboo forest my parents told me so much about. The lighting is perfect for photos - no shadows, slightly humid, it all looks a bit lucid. I take a super express train from Osaka to Kyoto. Three stops, 25 minutes, and I’m there. I sprint for my transfer, get lost, and miss it. Some time passes until I squeeze into the most claustrophobic train car of my trip, flanked on either side by babies in strollers or tourists in Gucci. A few of them have GoPros to document their trip. Perhaps they’re influencers? Thirty minutes later, I step off a two-track platform into a street full of rickshaws in what would be a barren, forgotten city by any other country.

I start wandering around the town, and it doesn’t take long for me to walk in a complete circle by sheer happenstance. Much pride has been kept in my sense of direction, so I think it unusual. The sun casts rays through a pool of clouds. The world gets a little hazier, and uncomfortably more humid.

On the walk to the shrine I see a kimono rental shop. On the walk to the shrine I see a kimono rental shop. On the– Perhaps this is why I walked in a circle so easily? I must have seen five in the span of two city blocks in a town whose tallest building is the train station.

Tourists can be from anywhere. I see domestic tourists from outside Oita, tourists from China, from America, Australia, Europe. They’ve all gathered in this tiny little town to see a forest of bamboo. A good many of the international tourists go for these kimono rentals to take photos. Americans are no such exception - maybe in another life I’d be renting one.

Two young tourists emerge from a rental shop. They talk amongst themselves and I identify their language as Mandarin Chinese. Pink and blue, their hair has been done up beautifully. Chance has it our paces match, and I walk alongside them for some time, stopping to take photos of the shrines dotting the main road. I am easily distracted by my phone. I get a text from my Dad. I have to buy iCloud because my phone is running out of space. Hm. I have to reset the password.

I look up in the still-dreary morning to make sure I haven’t walked another circle, and see the ladies have been getting stopped by other tourists. Comments on their appearance abound. A few of the men ask to take photos with them, asking and responding in functional Japanese. 「アメリカ人」, one explains.

The choice words of would-be colonizers turn in my head. I wonder what to make of this situation.