Tales from Japan

In 2009 we spent three months in Japan. The following are a collection of stories from our time in Tokyo.

Once More Into The Great Unknown

There was hardly a breath’s gap between our Bangkok neighbours offering us their apartment in Tokyo for three months and us accepting. A two bedroom apartment – rent free – in one of the world’s most expensive cities: that type of kindness doesn’t come along very often and when it does it needs to be rugby tackled and pinned to the floor to make sure it doesn’t escape. We quickly booked our flights and avoided our neighbours lest they considered their offer more carefully and changed their minds.

Ever polite when boarding a plane, so as to chance my luck and be invited to turn left towards the front, rather than quickly shackled to the rear, I asked the stewardess whether it would be alright to take both a Bangkok Post and a Wall Street Journal.

“Sure, take two,” she said, “That’s the American way and there’s a lot of shit happening in the world.” She then turned around and left me to find my own seat. It was a different kind of welcome aboard.

Once in the air it was her voice that announced that they’d soon be serving a big, hot meal. What was served failed on all three counts – it was neither big, hot or a meal. I was worried when it was served with plastic knives and forks. How psychotic were my fellow passengers that the airline didn’t trust them enough to eat with proper cutlery? I considered in future only flying with airlines that don’t consider themselves that much of a target that the thought of metal implements in the hands of their customers fills them with fear.

What the airline lacked in culinary skills and stewarding they recompensed with garrulous announcements. Our pilot joined in and nearly delayed the flight because of the length of time he spent on the intercom.

“Ladies and Gentlemen I’d just like to welcome you to flight NW0022 flying from Bangkok to Narita, Japan. We have just been given the all clear, so we’re about to flip the switch to propel this big bird with its silver lining into the blue sky. Our flight time will be 5 hours and 2 minutes… today I’m sporting a rather understated but charming dark blue blazer with gold thread on the lapels…”

Maybe that was just the American way.

In between all the broadcasts, Tanja and I worked on our story. We’d heard that Japanese immigration liked to ask questions. So, ‘Yes, we are planning to stay in Japan for three months, but no sir, we weren’t planning to work; what kind of people do you take us for – working on a Tourist visa…’ For the rest of the flight we honed the appearance of a couple who could afford a three month holiday in Japan.

We landed and taxied to our gate with a running commentary from the cockpit.

I swaggered past immigration without question or comment, whilst Tanja was questioned for a good five minutes. The officer wanted to know when she was returning to her job; what her job was; where she was travelling to after Japan; what she was going to do whilst in Japan. I had already passed through to the ‘other side’ and was watching Tanja standing at the booth, flashing big smiles at her female interrogator, attempting to give details about a job which was flexible enough to allow you to jaunt off around the world and paid enough to afford a three month holiday in Japan. It wasn’t until Tanja was asked who she was travelling with and pointed in my direction that the woman from immigration relaxed. Well, I was standing in a very reassuring manner and I think the cheeky little wink did the trick.

We now each had a three month visa in our passports, which should give us plenty of time to find temporary work so we could actually afford to live whilst in Japan.

After we had reclaimed our bags, we had just one obstacle left – customs. There’s something about passing through customs under its green, ‘nothing to declare’ sign that makes me try to act purposefully innocent, which probably results in making me look decidedly guilty, at very least as if I am suffering from constipation or wind. Even though I have never carried anything stronger than a paracetamol or anything more threatening than a pair of nail clippers, my whole misdemeanour would lead even the most relaxed officer to suspect that my bag contained several kilograms of heroin. And sure enough we were singled out from the entire flight to have all our bags searched.

The young customs officer, barely into his twenties, asked us incredibly politely to hand over our passports. He muttered to himself as he flipped through the pages.

“Ah, Japan, three months, very good.”

Then, after asking us to put all our bags onto the table, he pulled out a folder which relayed the same information, but in different languages. Muttering to himself in Japanese, he skimmed through until he found the English pages. There wasn’t any real need for words as the pictures were quite self-explanatory. He pointed at each one and we confirmed we weren’t carrying drugs, guns, explosives or crocodiles.   Then he glanced at my backpack.

“Can I look inside this one?” He said it in such a way that suggested I had a choice.

Of all the seven bags we were carrying, it was the only one that was padlocked. I pulled the keys out of my pocket and tried to unlock it, but whatever padlock the key unlocked it wasn’t the one on my bag. I very much suspected that that key was in the bag. I blushed and wondered how suspicious I was making myself look.

Just then another officer, carrying a pair of bolt cutters, appeared and bowing slightly, apologising repeatedly, as if the situation was his fault, he snipped the padlock open. I was grateful for the help in opening my bag, as the five Japanese words I know are not ‘Do you have bolt cutters?’ With the bag finally opened, he started to remove everything inside and I was pleased that I had bothered to get all my washing done in Bangkok after all.

Concealed amongst the clean washing were eight suspicious bags that got his attention – four bags of muesli and four bags of ground coffee. He eyed the packages and removed them whilst muttering to himself in Japanese and the occasional English words of ‘Ah yes Japan, three months, very good.’ He weighed each container and that seemed to satisfy his incredibly polite curiosity. As he placed the bags of coffee back in my backpack he asked. ‘Any good?’ ‘Cheap’ was the best reply I could give.

Without expressing any further interest in the other bags, we were then free to go. Had he not been wearing the uniform I would have been convinced he was just a young chap with a strange interest in what funny foreigners carried in their bags.

We wheeled our luggage trolley to the arrivals area and even that action gave an indication of how efficient this country is – the trolley seemed to glide effortlessly along the ground. No shaking vibrating trolleys mindfully veering off in their own direction; not in Japan.

I took advantage of the facilities and thankfully I only needed to remain standing as the cubicles offered an array of options, and I would have faced a difficult decision – Asian squat; Western seat; Spray and Dry: that kind of thoughtfulness isn’t found in many airports.

Our home for the next three months was in Narimasu, Tokyo, a two hour train ride from the airport. The Narita express was spacious inside and immaculately clean. I looked at my ticket to check the departure time: 16:45 and stood next to the onboard clock, waiting. Japan is meant to be synonymous with efficiency and punctuality, this would be its first test. Coming from a country that hides the inefficiency of its public transport system by regularly changing the livery of its buses and trains, I wanted a taste of what it felt like to leave on time. The clock changed to 16:45 and we remained in the station, but before it had a chance to progress to 16.46, we were on our way.

I didn’t really need to go, but I popped off to inspect the toilets on the train. Paper must be a lot cheaper here than in England because nobody needed to write any messages on the toilet wall and the Japanese must have a better aim as there wasn’t any toilet paper on the floor either. With a lack of anything to read and no telephone numbers to jot down I returned to my seat.

All sparkling and clean, if heaven has trains  they’d be Japanese.

Once again into the great unknown, but so far everything was good in the world of Japan.

 

Of Technology and Anatomy

An alarm sounded and the red light on the wall of the public convenience started to flash. Moments later Tanja walked out, very surprised. It wasn’t what she had expected to happen when she pressed the black button. Actually she had been surprised that she had to press anything; until then all the toilets we had used were completely automatic – the flush, the soap dispenser, the water facet and the drier. This is Japan after all, a land well known for its technology. I wasn’t, however, expecting the toilets to be so technologically advanced as to be intimidating.

It wasn’t a theory that I particularly wanted to test, although circumstances, some time later, would put me in a situation ideally placed to check, but it seems the Japanese must have some of the most pampered and cleanest bottoms in the world: heated toilet seats that play music, or make wind noises to disguise ‘other’ sounds; spray; douche and blow dry. If they pay this much attention to the posterior then a trip to the hairdressers must surely be orgasmic.

Only a few days after we arrived, I discovered what was probably one of the most advanced toilets in the world. I counted 15 buttons and 16 lights making it marginally less complicated than a light aircraft. I was hesitant to test the buttons, unsure of how powerful the spray would be. One of the buttons probably controlled the flow, but all the instructions were in Japanese. I thought about returning with my raincoat or a wetsuit and figuratively speaking, just diving in and experimenting, but we were on our way to an art exhibition that our new neighbour had invited us to. Instead, I left the toilet to get the camera from Tanja so I could take a photo of the buttons and have the instructions translated. There was a worried look from the Japanese man standing at the urinal as I returned to the toilet with my camera.

Knowledge is power and with the help of a friend who can read Japanese, I now know a little place of solitude where I can listen to some music if I have forgotten my iPod, where if the wind isn’t blowing on any particular day I can go to hear some, where my buttocks can be warmed if they are a little chilly and if those chilly cheeks are a little stressed, a massage is also an option. I can even have my blood pressure taken. And, should I need the little room for more traditional reasons, afterwards I can choose the power of the cleansing douche, even the temperature. Still hands-free, I can be dried, possibly polished and then be on my way.

Even before we arrived at that art exhibition I felt culturally enlightened.

True to Tokyo’s reputation of a city lacking in space, the gallery was only slightly larger than the ten people it contained. We had received the invite to view a Dutch artist’s latest work on the premise that I was a designer, which was how I was introduced to everyone. The actual comment that my degree is in design was lost somewhere in translation, as was the confession that I hadn’t actually designed anything – apart from an automatic rotator for cooking sausages evenly, but that was made from Lego and so had some obvious major design flaws.

Amongst the company of artists, film directors, fashion photographers – all taking full advantage of the complimentary wine and beer – we felt decidedly out of place and retreated to an alcove.

Safely hidden, I turned around to see a large erect penis, inches from my face. It was a rather unexpected sight, as all the other paintings were portraits of a young blonde woman with an angelic face. I tried desperately not to look shocked; I didn’t want my reaction reflecting badly on my fellow countrymen – oh, the English have a problem with penises. So I masked my surprise with indifference.

Retreating further from the image, the rest of the painting came into view and I saw the face of the angelic blonde woman. She must have gotten bored and decided to spice up her evening by wearing a penis as an appendage. The gallery director must have mistaken my facial expression and was quick to explain the painting’s popularity amongst Japanese women. So much for being reserved then. I had thought of them more as a nation of longevity and sushi.

Unused to making light conversation about penises, especially those worn by women, I tried to nod in what I hoped was a suitably appreciative way until we could make our excuses to leave.

A few weeks later, our friend, the Bangkok neighbour and owner of the apartment arrived in Tokyo for a few days on a business trip. We generously suggested he stayed with us in his apartment. Within the first hour of his arrival he had me experiencing a favourite past time of the Japanese and I was stark naked in a room of about fifty men; well that’s the French for you. Feeling jet-lagged and far from ready for bed at 10.00pm, Frederic suggested we went to a sento, a Japanese public bath. To me a ‘public bath’ seemed uncomfortably oxymoronic; bathing was meant to be a private affair. I grappled with over thirty-three years of Englishness and tried to explain to Frederic that the English didn’t really do naked – at least not in groups and especially in groups of men. With my protestations and suggestion that I could, possibly, wear my swimming costume, he looked at me as if I were being perverse. When Tanja added that the Germans were quite happy to get naked in the company of both men and women – which did in my opinion at least seem the right combination of nakedness – I felt prudish, and out-numbered.

Harangued into submission by less inhibited Europeans, I found myself on the way to the local sento. Subconsciously though, I was probably desperately trying to put some distance between myself and a national history of repression; a culture where some 120 years ago, piano legs were considered too risqué to leave uncovered.

Packed in a bag were two towels each and no bathing costumes; although towel was a rather generous description of the oversized flannels, one of which could be used to cover our modesty should we so wish and the other was to be used as, well, a towel.

Without a female companion to keep her company, Tanja stayed in the reception area.

My French liberator and I walked through to the changing room and the onslaught of penises was immediate. Naked Japanese men of all ages walked about freely. Should I make eye contact, nod, would a smile be misconstrued?

To the left was a glass wall, beyond which more naked men walked from one shallow pool to another. Frederic and I stood in front of our lockers and undressed. I made a point of being second to be standing fully naked. I would follow his lead, as it is important to make as few cultural faux-pas as possible when in another country, especially whilst nude.

For some reason as we walked through into the spa area, I wanted to put my hand in the air and say good evening to everyone. Instead I decided to enter fully into the spirit of nakedness and slung my flannel over my shoulder.

Along a low, tiled wall were a row of mirrors, in front of which were plastic stools. Below the mirrors was a shelf which housed individual soap and shampoo dispensers and a bowl for shaving. Each area had its own set of taps and a shower – the water from which was thankfully warm, which helped to counteract the effects of the chilly night breeze that was blowing through the place. We sat down in the washing area to soap and clean ourselves – a process that must be done before entering any of the baths. Then we were ready.

Along the back wall, in a row, were several baths made from grey stone. Above each was a red LED screen displaying the temperature of each pool. We climbed down the steps of the first, into the gently bubbling water, which was a pleasant 34ºC. We sat, leaning our backs against the stone wall and relaxed.

There were unfortunately just too many penises for it to be truly relaxing. We rested for a few minutes and then moved into the next bath which was 37 ºC. In each there was a little walled area for each person, a private area in a very public place. It was like a buffet of different bathing experiences. Building up our tolerance to hotter water we were ready to venture into the open, but thankfully walled, courtyard which housed two further baths, each heated to slightly over 40ºC. The first one that we plunged into was filled with a milky water, probably very good for the health. Into the second, from a rocky waterfall flowed sulphur rich water, at least I think it was rich in sulphur, either that or the courtyard was where all the men were going to fart.

Suitably soaked we were ready for the hot stones over which a shallow flow of even hotter water trickled. We laid down on our backs, resting our heads on a block of black stone, which was as comfortable as you would think a pillow made from stone would be. For some reason modesty was required whilst lying supine and I followed suit and covered myself with the towel. The sky was cloudy and so with the stars hidden I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the stones and water radiating through my body, contrasting with the coldest of the night air.

The steam room was next, piping hot with steam and with music piped into it.  Then it was time for a brief sojourn in the sauna which seemed a strange place to watch television but there it was mounted on the wall, displaying the evening news. Sweaty and prune like, there were only two baths left to experience – the one I named the Alice in Wonderland bath because of the dozens and dozens of red apples floating serenely on the water’s hot surface. I checked first whether I was expected to ‘bob’ for them, before settling back to watch them bobble past.

Before returning to the world of the dressed we entered the massage pool. The main area was divided by low stone walls, creating small enclosures. In each, there was a platform on which to sit and on top of the wall was a sign informing the user of the pressure of the jets. I chose a particularly fierce one, the force of which made my liver and kidneys jiggle around inside me as if they were loose. In front of me, in another area, a slightly overweight man sat down on the platform with the water swirling around his neck, wincing ever so slightly. I had thought about experiencing this last pool, but the thought of electricity running through the water and using my body as a conduit, didn’t at first appeal to me. By the time I had managed to throw caution to the wind, it was taken and it was time to leave.