04 Where the Streets Have No Name

Make reservations at hostels before the day you need them in Japan. This is practical because hostels in Japan in the summer are like blondes in the Middle East – they’re highly sought after. Also, make the reservation by phone and not in person. This is also practical because the first place you check is likely not to have any vacancy. Had you just called in the first place, you would have saved yourself walking around for thirty minutes in every direction but the right one. This is especially the case when you use a map, as we did in Kyoto.

Japan doesn’t have street names for any streets but the main ones. It is common in Japan to have no idea where you are. It is also common to have no idea how to get to where you’re going. People give directions based on landmarks. Go straight through the park, then turn right at the elementary school, then walk until the doctor’s clinic and turn left along the cornfield. This actually works pretty well. A map only complicates things. The usefulness of Cardinal Directions disintegrates in a country designed like a dartboard.

Chris and I started by exiting Kyoto Station on the East exit, or maybe it was the North one…it doesn’t matter, really, it was the wrong one. We realized after about fifteen minutes that we were following the part of the map that wasn’t drawn in the book. Kyoto, in particular, caused a lot of transportation problems. It was reminiscent of the changing staircases at Hogwarts — sometimes a road wouldn’t lead where it did before (or so it seemed). We turned around, walked back fifteen minutes, and walked halfway around Kyoto Station to the other side — more like walking halfway across Prince Edward Island. We located a river, and a soba-mess of train tracks that lined up with our map and we felt reoriented.

We walked for twenty minutes, this time along the part of the map that did exist, and to our relief we saw gaijin walking out of an alleyway. Remember, gaijin walking down a main street means that you’re close to a tourist attraction. Gaijin walking out of an alleyway means you’re close to a hostel. The only exception to this would be if you were in the Red Light District. We finally arrived.

Oh yeah, riiiight. We forgot to make a reservation. There was no room in the inn.

The receptionist gave us a list of numbers of other places we could stay. The second one we called had room for us, but only for one night – we were staying in Kyoto for two. We took it.

As it turned out, our reserved place was on the other side of the Kyoto Island also known as the train station. It was, in fact, quite close to where we were when we figured that we were lost. We walked around the other way, completing the circuit; in our exhaustion we wondered how many people had walked around Kyoto Station and felt good about ourselves.

When we finally arrived at our new home-for-the-day, we were greeted by the kind Reina, always smiling. She gave us advice on what to see. “Fushimi Inari Shrine,” she suggested. I told her that I needed to go to Nintendo Headquarters. She laughed, as apparently no one had asked her where this was. “I find that hard to believe,” I replied. “Otaku,” she called me. Otaku means geek. I didn’t disagree. I looked up Nintendo’s address on Google Maps and I became giddy and blissfully unaware of my own geekiness, as otaku often do, when I saw that it was already so close. Only a ten-minute walk from the hostel! The otaku in me displayed himself in an overexcited smile sans fanny pack. She handed us a map of where the shrine was, we took it, but as we are quite sure of now, the practice of map giving in Kyoto is just an ancient formality.

We invited Reina to come with us, but her kindness blinded us to the fact that she was still working. Her sort of cheerfulness usually only comes from someone who has had a drink or two, after work. Maybe we’d catch the happy lass later.

So we set out to Nintendo World Headquarters with our Google Maps print out, asked a couple of people along the way where to go next and got there in fifteen minutes. We walked by a gas station: ¥178 per litre. What was that, in the distance?

How beautiful it was. The white monolith surely sent to Earth by alien intelligence in order to evolve our puny race. It was a site to see, and in order to see it closer I walked passed the front gate. It was Nintendo Worldwide Headquarters. The security guard (whose office was littered with Pikachuus, Kirbies and other animated characters I’ve never seen the plural of written) told me I couldn’t take pictures from inside the gate. It really wasn’t that different a view than behind the gate, but I can understand the concern. I could be a Microsoft Ninja from across the sea with a high-tech, all-spectrum mini-camera. With that many hyphenations you’d be cautious too.

Next was Fushimi Inari Shrine, so I asked the guard how to get there. He did not expect this. He was watching anime on a small monitor near his feet and watching the six or so Nintendo World Headquarters’ monitors with the back of his head. First he pulled out his ultra-large, all-encompassing Kyoto map, stared at it for a moment, realized it was far too ultra-large and all-encompassing to be useful and then he stepped out of his box. He carefully stared down every street around the five-street intersection. “Hmmm,” he said often. We laughed and he commented on my Japanese. Apparently he could understand me. We laughed. “Remember Colin, the security guard needs to get his coffee from the inside,” Chris commented. We laughed a sinister howl. Would the security guard become my way in in the future?

The guard made up his mind and pointed us down a street. I thanked him five times, and he replied “no problem” just as often. His directions failed after, “Go straight down this street to the end.” What to do after the end was waiting to be discovered. We know now that he did the best that he could have; since he gave us the directions the roads had already rearranged themselves.

The end of the street met a river, and there was a man fishing. This site and our circumstances gave me the feeling, “This is what it’s like to live in Japan.” What’s in-between train stations is what makes a city, it seems.

As I said, Kyoto caused a lot of transportation problems. We walked around without looking at the map, moving in and out of streets looking for areas busier than others. We followed the flow of people. We asked a few more locals, more or less for confirmation that we were travelling in the right direction, and we eventually saw gaijin in the distance. The gaijin test for tourist attractions is as sure as the Litmus Paper Test for pH.

Fushimi Inari Shrine is gorgeous. It is a marathon of orange painted gates up a hillside. Not all of the shrines I’ve been to have felt spiritual, but this one did. Also, if you’re rich and looking for a good date place, this is it.

When we reached the top, which took forty-five minutes or more of passing under orange gates, there were four different paths we could take to the bottom – one being the path we took up. We chose one at random, which just so happened to be the utility entrance for vehicles. Blast! Really?! We were spat out in a suburb somewhere and I was furious that the Japan Tourist Authority could allow such a thing. Regardless, the sun started to set, it started to rain, and we were treated to a wonderful walk through what surely must have been the President of Nintendo’s neighborhood. Though the first word in what I say next contradicts the second, the homes were big and Japanese-style — something quite unorthodox. The pink sky seemed particularly Kyoto to me.

We wasted another twenty minutes of our time trying to find the entrance to the shrine, which was in front of the JR train station we needed to use to get back to our home-for-the-day. On our trek back, Chris bought some beer in the 7-11. Chris often bought beer when we passed a 7-11 — or any of the other convenience stores in Japan. There’s a different store-brand for everyday of the week (the convenience store market in Japan is much more competitive than in North America).

Amazed that it was legal to drink beer wherever you wanted, Chris drank everywhere. As far as I understand it, it’s legal everywhere: on the train, on the bus, in the street, in a store, in a library, in a swimming complex, in a hospital, in an elementary school. It just so happened that Chris had just finished dirnking a beer when I first saw him in Osaka. This current beer though wasn’t an I’m-about-to-see-my-brother-after-six-months beer; it was a regular, hobo beer — it was for walking in the street. I can only imagine how much beer he would have drunk if he actually enjoyed the beer. Most of it tasted like pop going down and then like gasoline and grass after.

We found the station and took it to our home-for-the-day. It wasn’t until after we got to the station closest to our hostel that we realized we were pretty much where the utility entrance to the shrine spat us out. Kyoto caused a lot of transportation problems in particular.

We told Reina of how close Nintendo was to the hostel and how she should tell more customers about it. We also told her how great we thought Fushimi Inari Shrine was but how disappointed we were to be tossed from the place like Jazz from Uncle Phil’s house in Bel Air. We asked her where to go for dinner and she pointed the way to a curry house down the street.

Reina was so great, always smiling, laughing and listening to Zero 7. Of course we were going to invite her with us! Oh, but, right, she was still working. She was talking with her friend at the time, so we didn’t think the situation too sad.

As we were seated at the curry house her friend actually came in and asked to sit with us. She had passed Level 5 curry in the past so she was allowed to order spice levels six through ten. I had normal – level two I think. I forget the friend’s name to be honest, which is a shame because she was so cool. She used to live in Canada, and one of her good friends loves playing ice hockey — and he lives in Tokyo! I asked her what the chances of being able to play ice hockey with him were, and she said she’d ask.

The friend wrote us a note to give to Reina. It’s not polite to read letters to other people, in fact it’s often against the law, but she wrote it in Japanese so I had to try and read it. I could read it well enough – she was telling Reina to give us cake once we returned. When we returned we gave it to Reina and acted surprised when she pulled out the cake. We said we’d eat it in the morning.

Oh, kind Reina, always smiling. Always working though!

Next to the reception was a Tanabata tree. The next day was a nation-wide festival called Tanabata. Everyone writes their wish on a piece of pretty paper and hangs it on a Tanabata tree. It’s definitely not polite to read other people’s Tanabata, in fact it’s pretty spiritless, but Chris saw Reina’s written in English so he had to read it.

I wish for a new life

It read.

Oh, kind Reina, always smiling.

03 To Be, And Not To Be

Ninjas still exist in Japan. It’s true. My brother and I had an encounter. Of course, you can’t find a ninja – and that’s because ninjas find you. You can’t meet a ninja either — because like a professional wrestler, a ninja never reveals its real identity. Lying in bed with my curtain pulled across my bed, I heard a ninja enter our room. This ninja in particular liked playing the guitar and keeping her face clean and clear and under control.

Perhaps I’m doing you, the reader, a disservice by bringing up the ninja at all. There’s no satisfactory ending to this segment except for the fact that we’re still alive. The facts supporting my ninja theory are pretty convincing though. Observe:

My brother so happened to come back to the room before the night crawler, and we were both conveniently tucked in our beds, and behind our curtains when she came into the room herself. Obviously she was waiting for the correct time to enter.

She didn’t make any noises while she slept, at least not loud enough to arouse our consciousness.

In the morning, she dodged my brother and my staggered morning with perfect grace.

We did not see this person once. They were in, and were out — without a trace.

You can’t meet a ninja, but you can have a ninja encounter.

***

When I went to shower that morning, when the ninja was still behind her veil, the Western, single shower was being used. It was also 5 minutes to shower curfew, so waiting wasn’t an option. I stepped out of my comfort zone for the first time — I opened the door to the Japanese-style communal shower.

Being naked in a giant room, where at any moment anyone at all could walk in, is actually sort of nice. I didn’t have to shower with anyone in the end, and I still stood in a corner with my back turned to the entrance. You know, just in case. I vowed to be more open to the whole thing in the future.

When I came back, the ninja had packed and left. Chris and I were off to Hiroshima.

We had an hour or so before our Shinkansen to the obliterated city. While waiting in Shin-Osaka Station we bumped into Captain America. He was waiting too, but he was staying in Osaka for another day or two. We talked, laughed, and complained about how expensive our breakfasts were – $680 for a sandwich, drink and raisin bun?!

Then it came time to say goodbye to James, the Captain. There was a chance that I would get to meet him again in Tokyo in two weeks, but the future is an uncertain thing. We chose our parting words carefully:

Oh gee. Chris, we better hurry and catch our train. See ya Captain.

Something like that.

Two hours or so later, we arrived in Osaka. This place existed, then it didn’t exist, and then it existed again.

In Hiroshima, they use streetcars, which is very different from Osaka, which has a very developed subway system. We called a hostel and made a reservation, and then we got on the appropriate streetcar. On the streetcars you pay when you get off, and not when you get on.

We got off at the right stop no problem and then walked to our hostel. I mean hotel. If we stayed in a 5-star hostel in Osaka then we stayed in a 7-star hostel in Hiroshima. Chris and I shared a room with two beds and we had our own toilet and shower. If there was free WiFi in the room I would’ve thought we were in Dubai.

Unfortunately, the tectonic plates in my skull were colliding — I needed to drink some Pocari Sweat and sleep…I also took some pills. Pocari Sweat, so you know, is the Japanese equivalent of Powerade. The sports drink market in Japan is much more competitive than in North America though. There’s a different brand for everyday of the week. Saturday is Pocari Sweat day. Wednesdays are Vitamin Guard day, so you know.

Before I went to sleep my brother and I were talking. I was complaining because I wanted to meet some people, and I wasn’t too interested in site seeing at the moment (though really, at that moment I wasn’t too interested in anything but Pocari Sweat and sleep…and pills). So I asked my brother to go meet some people while I napped, but that he should come back to get me in an hour. I wasn’t a Happy White.

I don’t think I slept. I stared at the back of my eyes too long to have slept. I stayed in bed until the end of the hour out of principle. Chris hadn’t returned yet. Another half an hour passed. He hadn’t returned yet. He did have my phone though, so I was going to call it, but I didn’t know my own number. I remember writing it out for a bunch of people, but I never made myself a copy. I did have my Tokyo friend Daiki’s number though who definitely had my number, so maybe if I used a phone in the lobby to…

Happy White walked in the door.

OK, so I met two wicked girls under a bridge and they are amazing singers. I played guitar with them; I wanted to ask them to dinner, but they don’t understand English too well, so, I need you to come ask. I told them I was going to get you and come back.

He said.

Suge.

That’s how the rude-boys say awesome in Japanese. Suge (sue-GAY). I don’t think you can ever reasonable tell someone to go meet someone interesting in one hour and expect anything but a kook or loony, but Chris did it. How lucky we were.

Back to the bridge!

To get to the bridge we had to walk down a street that needed to be rebuilt from scratch, through a park that had the equivalent of 15 kilotons of dynamite land on it and along a walkway that used to be covered in debris and human corpses. The walkway led to the underside of the bridge, and the underside of the bridge acted as a concert hall for two voices and two strumming guitars that had obviously gotten a lot of practice.

This was Little Luck – Hiro and Kayo.

They played for us a song of their own, Chris and I fell in love, and we asked them to dinner. They weren’t hungry.

You win some and you lose some.

We had a great afternoon under that bridge though. The meeting really freshened our breath, created a nuclear explosion on our teeth and gums, and made us, well, two Happy Whites.

From the underside of the bridge you could see the building that remained standing after the brilliant bomb of 1945. It stares over the river. This building existed, had its guts blown out, and remained standing. It existed as it was when virtually nothing else around it did.

As evening composed itself in the sky, we ate and walked down the trendiest Hiroshima street; Chris bought another old man, grandpa hat – you know, the Scottish ones that only Samuel L. Jackson should ever wear backwards.

We said our official goodbyes to Hiroshima — the next day we were off to Nintendo City.

02 An Asuka For All

The dorm room my brother and I stayed in could hold six people, but our first night in Osaka had only the two of us. I had never stayed in a hostel before so I was a bit nervous of the whole thing — sleeping in the same room as supposedly other “worldly” people never crossed my mind as being any safer than sleeping in the same room as homeless people. Being just the two of us though, I was safe for now; I was still in my comfort zone.

We slept well, Chris more so. I woke at five, then at six, then finally at an acceptable seven. Still, this was very good for a complete reversal of space/time. Chris said he hadn’t slept so well in ages; the hostel was apparently 5-star as far as hostels go. I wasn’t roughing it by any means.

I left Chris sleeping and showered. There was a communal shower room and a “Western-style” shower room — that is, a room for one to shower. It wasn’t occupied; I was still in my comfort zone. After removing two days of grime from my skin I used the Internet to send some emails. This made me feel quite comfortable.

It was now eight so I woke Chris. Our first goal was to see Osaka-jo, or Osaka Castle as it’s known in English. In the lobby we met James, whom my brother had met the night before when I hadn’t yet arrived. James is an American from Chicago; he was unfamiliar with Prison Break, but we forgave him. We called him Captain America. Together, we were going to Osaka-jo, and in order to make use of our delicious Japan Rail passes we were going to go by JR alone. This is a common way for JR pass holders to think.

So Chris, Captain America and I went as far as our passes would take us. We still had twenty minutes to walk, but JR pass holders don’t mind because we think JR is supreme. We’d rather walk than take another train line. We had very few issues finding the castle. Sure we had to ask a person where to go every hundred meters but it really wasn’t so bad. We reached a point where we could see gaijin in the distance. Gaijin is the word for non-Japanese people, and the polite word for white people.

Osaka-jo is really quite tremendous. A huge moat and high, thick walls really made it feel like the castle equivalent of a female with her tubes tied — impregnable. There were lots of school groups on field trips. They all looked like members of a Japanese navy recruitment camp. They were all very cute.

We bought our tickets to go up to the top of the castle; it cost us $400. They added a sparse museum on all the floors of the castle to try and justify the price. Oh yeah, together with Captain America, we started calling Yen, Dollars. So really, our reaction was more like this to the price, “$400?! Man…”

I was truly surprised by the great weather we had. The skies were clear, which was perfect for Osaka-jo. I mean, it was still stinking hot, and we were all sweating through our second shirts, but what you need when you climb a tall building is a clear sky…the clear shirt is really an unnecessary extra.

We walked around the top a bit; I ended up talking with an old man from Ontario who was traveling by himself — he was trying to do more things since his wife passed away. He kept asking me for advice on things to do in Osaka, and I kept saying this was my first day there. He insisted on me giving him advice though so I gave it to him. I suggested taking the shorter of the two cruise trips down the river that passed in front of Osaka-jo. I said that often they add a longer cruise for the sake of seeing one extra sight that’s really just a little too far off for what their average customer was patient enough to see. I didn’t know what I was talking about.

We looked at the postcards they had there. $150?! Forget it.

The day got a lot more exciting for us at lunchtime. Fortunately we were able to meet up with my friend Asuka. She’s an Osaka darling I met in Vancouver a year ago, and again when she visited Toronto — a year ago we ate rotisserie chicken and French fries together; this time we ate zaru soba.

After lunch we did Puri Kura. Puri Kura is the Japanese contraction of Print Club. A Puri Kura arcade is just as much a site to see in Japan as Osaka-jo. It’s basically rows of photo booths big enough for about five. The outside walls of the booths are plastered with bright colours (mainly pink) and have Japanese models giving their best peace signs and smily faces. Text pollution is also a key element of the pictures.

You and your friends are to take pictures of yourselves giving peace signs and smily faces, and then you can pollute them with graphics and text afterwards. Doing Pura Kura is, in my opinion, a mandatory cultural experience in Japan, and it’s common to sign letters you write with your latest Pura Kura sticker.

After this we rode on a giant ferris wheel ($600?! Really?!) and then walked to America Town, which wasn’t very American. The only American thing I saw was a teenage girl wearing shorts that were too short and a tank top that was too tight. I still hadn’t left my comfort zone.

From there we walked to Den Den Town. Den Den Town is the poor man’s Akihabara. It’s not quite as impressive as its Tokyo nerd counterpart, but the bright lights are always nice. Akihabara comes up again later, and not because of the seven or so people that were recently massacred there.

For dinner Asuka took us to a restaurant off the main path, but was very popular with the locals. Here we ate Okonomiyaki, which is sort of like a Japanese omelet. Inside the egg base is meat, vegetables, fish, or whatever you feel like. Asuka was a tremendous host; I wish everyone could have their own Asuka when they visit Osaka.

The day ended back at our hostel, and I still hadn’t left the comfortable feeling of home behind. In fact, a couple weeks later, I still haven’t left my comfort zone. Perhaps my home has followed me. I dunno. When we returned to our hostel this time though, something was different about our room: there was someone else’s stuff in there. A guitar leaned against the wall and women’s face wash was out on the sink. No one was there in the room though. No, they didn’t arrive in the room until after we made ourselves cozy in bed.

01 Wursday

The story of my trip to Japan starts on a Wursday. It is sometime on Wursday evening that I’m to meet with my brother.

———

My first day was really two days as I didn’t experience nightfall until twenty-four hours after I awoke in Pickering. Normally, this is a very big problem — that sort of thing is quite unnatural, chasing the sun like that. But normal wasn’t the name of the day. No, instead the day was some strange hybrid of Wednesday and Thursday. The lack of normality throughout the day really helped mitigate this initial problem (of living two days in one) as the day wore on.

The day started earlier than it was supposed to and ended later. The morning was defined by a cryptic code sent on behalf of Air Canada: GTE, it said. This is what was written on my plane ticket after I checked in from my computer that morning. The poor Air Canada lady on the phone didn’t know what this code meant either, but her intuition was strong and her insides started to perk. She said, “I’d try to get to the airport earlier than usual.” To my dad and I we heard, “Something’s wrong, leave now!” Emergency mode was activated — the day started earlier than it was supposed to.

We arrived at the airport, my dad and I, and took our place in a feeble line (the Toronto to Tokyo flight, or Toe-2-Toe flight as I have come to call it, was still three and a half hours off after all). GTE, GTE, GTE. Our turn arrived and we stood in front of a lady who seemed as though she had spent the last twenty years dealing with the irate, annoyed and irrational — and not because there were bags under her eyes, or she was balding or anything like that, but because she had all the answers we needed.

GTE means ‘Gated’. It’s what happens to those who don’t reserve their seats and a flight is overbooked.

This isn’t verbatim, but paraphrased.

Those who are gated, therefore, have no spot on the plane.

Apparently buying a $1500 ticket isn’t enough anymore.

In this case, there are twenty-three people who are gated. If you are not placed on this plane you will be placed on a plane to Beijing that connects to Tokyo.

So it wasn’t the end of the world. But still, twenty-three people? Seriously? Shindo.

So after walking the length of Pearson a few times, I went through security and sat at my gate with my new friend Kenji — waiting for my name to be called. Kenji is twenty-years-old and spent the last three years of his life graduating from a Canadian high school. He lived in Lindsay, Ontario — he picked it at random, apparently. I think picking Lindsay at random is the only way to end up picking Lindsay, really, so I knew Kenji was honest.

They called all passengers to board and then they were to call names of the gated — if any were to be called. I took down Kenji’s email address, he took down mine. We hugged, said goodbye.

I’m currently not in the mood for suspense, I’ve eaten enough, thank you. They called my name seventh. Wooo!

So I boarded the plane and searched for my seat formally known as GTE. It turns out my seat was 57G, and it just so happened that Kenji’s was 57H — those are right beside each other for the alphabet-declined. Remember, normality wasn’t the name of the day.

On the plane I watched Horton Hears a Who and The Wedding Singer in between listening to Burt Bacharach’s At This Time and playing spurts of dance remixes of Castlevania music on Kenji’s PSP version of Beat Mania. When we arrived, we hugged, said goodbye.

At the airport waiting for me was Mrs. Hotta, my friend Daiki’s mom. She was there to take my luggage so I wouldn’t have to travel with it while on the move with my brother. This step was simple if not for the hour we spent trying to find my rental cell phone. It turns out it was exactly where I was told it was going to be. The exercise in futility made me very, very familiar with Narita Airport. Shindo.

It was now time for second-dinner on Wursday evening — outside on Wursday evening looks like your average Tuesday evening (for example). It is usual to eat dinner at this time, you may be saying, but on Wursday (for example) only second dinner is eaten in the evening. First dinner is eaten on the Tuesday equivalent of noon. Shindo.

Anywho, I hopped on the Narita Express, which is the train that takes me from Narita Airport into Tokyo City, specifically, Shinagawa Station. There I was scheduled to catch the Shinkansen (Bullet Train for the Westerners) to Osaka, where I was to meet my brother, Chris.

Turns out there was a fire on or near the track in the direction we were headed so the Narita Express I was riding became infinitely less express — it stopped indefinitely. Everyone had to get off and the take the local trains. So I headed to Tokyo Station at half the speed as anticipated. Shindo.

Boarding the Shinkansen was pretty simple — though I wasn’t initially aware of how drastic a boarding mistake on a Shinkansen can be. It was all a blur at the time really. I arrived such that I had three minutes to find and board a train where boarding the wrong train causes a mistake on the scale of 30 minutes in the wrong direction. The run did my almost atrophied legs good, and I ran only as one could whose goal was to catch the Bullet Train. I caught it; it all worked out.

Assuming nothing else went wrong, it was now only three hours until I reached my destination of Osaka, to meet my brother, Chris. I sat next to Sato — a sixty-year-old man who works for a company that makes dog products. He owns the nicest breed of dog in all of Japan, apparently. He was drinking beer, his nose was red and we talked pretty much the whole time. Our language of choice was Janglish. Sato taught me the word shindo. It’s the sort of thing you say lying deep in your chair with your eyes closed, arms and legs spread and in a low grunt. Shindo.

Finally we arrived at Shin-Osaka Station. It was 11:10pm Wursday night. It was also ten minutes after the curfew of the hostel my brother booked. The staff was staying late just for me. A, shindo, shindo!

As I walked to the East exit I could see, fifty meters in front, a matrix of ten flags, two by five, on the most unmistakable backpack to ever pass through Pickering. I ran full-speed, as one would to catch their Shinkansen, and put my arms around my brother from behind and said, “Hisashiburi desu ne.” After all, it had been awhile. That hug was worth six months of debt. We continued to the hostel and slept. The day ended later than it was supposed to.

That was my first day — really, two of your days. Just remember this: Mondays are long, Wursdays are worse.