At 6:30 this morning, Tokyo was humid and bright, and about as exciting as a city can reasonably hope to be. The hotel receptionist, the concierge, and the line of expectant porters had been too polite to notice my ridiculous appearance as I strode past them. Instead, we all bowed to each other, and said nothing.
It was the same outside. On the elevated glass walkways that link the Park Hotel with Shimbasi Station, not one of the suit-and-tied salarymen on the way to the office gave me a second glance. Exercise is de rigeur. I like that.
My GPS watch wasn’t so keen, however, and didn’t kick in until a couple of concrete miles had slipped by. Annoyingly, it finally found a satellite just as I vanished inside the huge covered fish market, one of Tokyo’s great sights. I’ve not seen more chaos in a confined space since I last stared, bug-eyed, at the antics of the QPR defence. Unlike the fine men in hoops however, I got the impression that these guys really did know what the plan was, and what seemed like chaos was actually determination, slick efficiency, and a keen work ethic.
We’d noticed it from the moment we stepped outside the airport terminal at Narita, and went to find the limousine bus to take us into the city. A large group of brown-uniformed bus company operatives busied themselves with an enthusiasm never seen in the UK. As the buses came in, these guys (and women) literally sprinted up and down the line to get there first, all for the honour of being able to do the most dragging and loading of cases. All was done with a minimum of gesturing and visible organising. People knew what to do and they did it. As our bus pulled away from the kerb, a line of them bowed deeply — as though taking a deserved curtain call.
Another courtesy ambush awaited us at the hotel, where we were surprised to find the reception on the 25th floor, and our room six floors above that. The view over the city reminded us of Chicago, where we were even higher up than this. Our first view elevated glimpse of Tokyo was at night, with the darkness adding to the drama. Peering down through the avenue of skyscrapers into the illuminated heart of the city was like a scene out of Bladerunner.
We were knackered (and are still, two days later) but it was impossible not to go out for a late night wander. The restaurants were all closed, but down by Shimbasi Station, a major intersection, there were hundreds of tiny, neon-lit noodle bars, most containing one or two stray Nighthawks, or other, more showily attired human remains: evident leftovers from drunken nights out. Stopping off at the noodle bar seems to be the equivalent of grabbing a kebab on the way home from the pub in cities at home.
We gradually worked out the system for acquiring food. You have to pre-pay at machines outside, making your necessarily rather arbitrary selection from a series of grainy, indistinct snaps of the dish’s highlights. You present the resulting ticket to the counter staff inside, and find somewhere to sit. A few minutes later, the meal arrives.
It was quite exciting, not being entirely sure what would be landing in front of us. As it happens, we were fortunate. My noodle soup had a scattering of angry red chilli across the surface, while M’s version had a more benign mushroomy tone. This is entirely how things should be.
I was sorely tempted to escort M back to the hotel then jump in a cab to some Irish bar somewhere to watch the England v Israel game with, I suspect, a raucous gang of Brits. (The idea of an Irish bar being full of ex-pats always raises a smile.)
But my lifelong Moriarty, common sense, got the better of me on this occasion, and I was forced to resist the temptation. My suspicion, that an England without Frank Lampard might be a side worth watching, seems to have been borne out by the reports I later read and heard via the blessed BBC.
Instead, I returned to the hotel room and settled down to watch Australia play Japan in the Rugby World Cup. Perhaps it was something to do with the country in which I found myself, but I felt certain that Japan would pull off a shock victory. But alas, jet lag was the only victor, and just as the match began, I fell into a profound slumber where my vivid dreams confirmed Japan’s superiority over the fumbling antipodeans.
It wasn’t the only sporting shock to rattle Japan recently. I can reveal the news, just in, of a major upset in the Sumo finals currently being staged in the capital. Direct from the news ticker outside the building in which I write, and spied as I returned from this morning’s casual run: “Hakuho falls to Ama in shock on 1st day of autumn sumo. Mongolian grand champ Hakuho dumped at the hands of countryman Ama.”
Yesterday was spent wandering around Rippongi, a rather grotesquely swish shopping development, seeking a suitable means of honouring M’s 50th on Tuesday. Surrounded by smart designer boutiques and grand purveyors of leather trinkets, she is in her element. And while this necessary-evil aspect of the trip was always going to be slightly exasperating, I have to say that in a quite different way, I’m also in mine.
Like the sign outside one department store: “All pets must be carried by hand, or in carrier bags.”
Lost in Translation perhaps, but all a bit of a laugh, and with plenty more to come.
