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Published: August 6th 2007
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It was day two in Japan and we were officially out of clean clothing. Gene, sans boxer shorts, struggled to keep up his stretched, worn-out jeans. Our first priority of the morning was to locate a Laundromat, which would not prove easy in the high class shopping district of Ginza. However, with directions from the concierge and a map in tow, we taxied out of Ginza in search of a self-service laundry.
Jess, not quite entertained with the task of doing laundry, set out across the street to hit up the outside vending machine for two cans of Kirin, a Japanese-made beer.
Only Jess could make a celebration out of doing laundry. With a 30-minute wash cycle ahead of us, we decided to venture out and explore what appeared to be a local business district. However, spoiled by the vitality of the people pacing the streets of Ginza’s shopping district, which I found comparable to Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, we were less than impressed by our surroundings.
After completing our morning agenda, we hopped onto the JR for a visit to our first tourist attraction, the Imperial Palace. Jess, who assumed responsibility for navigating our way through the
adjacent gardens, consulted the
Lonely Planet guide for directions toward the cherry tree path, which is in bloom in Japan in the spring. I tried to make sense of the origin of the title, cherry tree, as I learned that the colorful trees do not produce cherries at any time of year.
What a farce! Approaching the gates to the Imperial Palace with Jess already complaining of hunger pangs, I had to twist a couple of arms to get us inside. Within minutes of gaining entry, I came in contact with a little old Japanese man climbing the trail beside me.
“Your first time here?” he asked.
“Yes, it is. We just got here yesterday,” I explained.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” he inquired further in surprisingly articulate English.
“Pleasure,” I clarified, at which point the little man grew excited.
“Can I come with you?” he asked in an enthused and eager tone.
A bit confused over the fact that a Japanese elder wanted to accompany me in his own country through a Japanese tourist attraction, I thought it best to shout ahead to Gene for his consent. Gene, who believed
the man harmless, shrugged his shoulders in approval.
Our new friend, Yamazaki, explained that his daughter attended college in Georgia and that the Americans treated her like family. “I feel it is my duty to give something in return,” he explained.
With that, Yamazaki guided us around the Imperial Palace grounds, interpreting the Japanese-only explanations engraved on signs accompanying the various sites. We learned that he is a member of an English club in Japan and often visits the gardens of the Imperial Palace to offer free tours and practice his English. I grew fond of our new friend as he reminded me very much of my own beloved grandmother.
After the first 45 minutes of our free tour, we began to grow weary from lack of food, but did not want to appear ungrateful of his generosity. We could have probably made it through the gardens in 30 minutes time, but were consistently delayed by Yamazaki’s lengthy details, which he would only give at a complete standstill. I began to wonder whether the Japanese culture frowned upon conversations had in mid-stride, but then thought better of it and realized that Yamazaki merely preferred a captive audience
while narrating.
Jess, having heard enough about the history of the Imperial Palace to last a lifetime, tried to politely explain to Yamazaki that we had been touring all day and needed to grab a bite to eat. While Yamazaki expressed a genuine understanding, he thereafter ignored our efforts to excuse ourselves and went on to tell us about the Japanese gardens. By this time, we had no idea where we were located on the map, let alone how to exit the Palace, and felt we were being held captive. Only after Jess lied about having to meet a friend for lunch were we pardoned from the rest of the tour.
As Yamazaki guided us toward the entryway, we expressed our sincere gratitude, exchanged contact information and promised to send him photos.
We thereafter hopped on the train to Akihabra, a district known for its city lights, electronic stores and second-hand markets selling anything from cameras, keyboards and cell phones to tools, Manga (Japanese comics) and Hentai flicks (Japanese animated porn). As we scrutinized the used merchandise sprawled out on the ground on newspaper, we wondered how many reports for stolen goods had been made. Gene expressed
disappointment that telephoto lenses aren’t a hotter commodity on the black market.
While Jess perused the local convenient store for alcohol, I pointed out the 3-pack of SARS masks hanging in one of the aisles. Before I could stop him, Gene was shouting to Jess up at the counter, “Darby, look what I’ve got!”
240 yen and three masks later, Gene and Jess were sporting their new fashion wear down the streets of Akihabra. Afraid that we were going to get ambushed by offended Japanese, I had to be heavily persuaded to put the mask on long enough to
Thelma and Louise a photo together. Jess, who basked in the extra attention, kept his on long enough to offend most of the country.
Passing by a Pachinko parlor, Gene insisted that we experience yet another of the Japanese vices - a mixture between casino slot machines and pin ball. I thought I had just passed through the gates of Hell as the automatic doors slid open and a cloud of smoke obscured my view. With no clue as to how the game is played, Gene approached one of the uniformed employees to purchase a bucket of Pachinko
balls, which resemble oversized metal BB’s. Gene asked the employee how to play and received a perplexed look in return. “Looks like we are going to have to improvise,” I concluded.
We cut our way through the smoke toward two unoccupied Pachinko machines and took a seat next to a fellow Japanese Pachinko player. I watched as he dropped a handful of Pachinko balls into a slot with one hand and turned the dial on the machine with the other, which seemed to release the balls into pegged slots.
Here we go! I lasted about as long as one would last at the $1 slot machine in Vegas.
Later that evening, we took a cab in search of a Sushi restaurant recommended by the
Lonely Planet. However, Japanese addresses do not follow a grid-like pattern. To our surprise, until 1950, Japanese addresses did not follow any logical order, but instead were assigned based upon the building’s date of construction. To this day, the addresses on buildings may read 140, 3, 117, etc. This makes finding any building by address nearly impossible without a map denoting its exact location. Thus, the first five minutes of every taxi ride
consisted of Jess enunciating the name of the establishment and the closest cross streets and the driver pulled over to the side of the road to review the map provided by the
Lonely Planet. That initial time was often followed by the taxi driver again pulling to the side of the road to review the map, only to drop us off in the approximate vicinity of our requested destination.
On that particular evening, we settled for
some other Sushi restaurant after fruitlessly circling several blocks in search of the restaurant recommended by the
Lonely Planet. With good service, good Saki and good Sushi, Gene and Jess were fully satisfied.
I, on the other hand, would have a hell of a night in Roppongi after having eaten only three measly vegetable rolls.
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Mom
non-member comment
Say No to Sars
Thank God you remembered to mask my grandfrog. BTW, the masks look like jock-straps...You all look great! xoxoxo...mom