I’m tapping this out on the Shinkansen Express, otherwise known as the bullet train, from Tokyo to its anagrammatical cousin in the west, Kyoto. Hard not to marvel at technology at any time, but Japan rises above all previous gasp marks by reaching into areas previously considered not just untouched by modern technology, but untouchable. Like lavatories.
Sitting on the loo in the Tokyo hotel room was something akin to being strapped into the cockpit of a Formula One racing car. As you place your weight on the seat it instantly starts its low, comforting throb, and warms up. A cold arse in Tokyo is now as unthinkable as a modern office without climate-control. The control panel (yes, the toilet seat control panel) lights up, invitingly. A red LED flashes. You can shower your bottom over a wide range of intensities, temperatures, durations. Or I can go for traditional bidet sprinkling. Or I can choose from a menu of operations I daren’t investigate.
It’s just one of the many pieces of evidence m’lud, and here I rest my case.
Ten thousand years ago, the unwitnessed flutter of a butterfly in some dank primordial forest, launched the Japanese onto an evolutionary orbit that very, very nearly coincides with mine — but doesn’t quite. It’s OK though. They are delightfully nuts, and I like them.
Like most boys of my post-war generation, I grew up with the idea, gleaned from the comics of the day, that ‘the Japs’ were all murderous sadists, ready to disembowel you at a moment’s notice. The irony of this prejudice, which may or may not have been ankle-deep in fact at some point (and let’s face it, the Burmese railway didn’t get there by magic), is that there’s virtually no crime in Japan these days — notwithstanding a couple of high profile murders of English girls in recent years. Apparently umbrella theft is on the increase, and giving the authorities some cause for concern. But that’s about the best they can do. Pah!
I’m impressed by the seeming lack of CCTV here, and the absence of excessive security. The other night, arriving back at the hotel after midnight, we entered the building via the third floor elevated walkway. We walked through three sets of automatic doors before finding that the lift didn’t operate from this floor after 12 o’clock. So we had to retrace our steps, back through the dark glass corridors and across the impressive chrome and glass mezzanine, past all the huge, framed photographs that are part of a current exhibition, then down some steps into the main lobby of the huge office building (the Shiodome Media Tower), and out through the entrance to the street, from where we could walk round the corner and into the main hotel entrance. And all of this without seeing any security guards or CCTV. Unthinkable in the UK, where a city-centre location like this would soon be filled with pissed-up kids shagging, and spraying the walls with vomit and graffiti.
It’s always surprising how quickly and easily one falls into coping mode in unfamiliar environments. Even here, where I thought it would take much longer than it has done. I hadn’t been looking forward to our trip across the city to link up with this train, as it involved switching two train lines operated by different companies, and bureaucracy: exchanging our vouchers for rail passes, and reserving particular seats on a particular train. But it was a breeze, despite the language cul de sacs. We may do things in different ways, but the desires remain the same. So it takes only a little imagination and a willingness to understand, to clear the fog. The difficulty for me is not in understanding the Japanese, but understanding the mentality of the foreigners (particularly Americans, it must be said) who constantly complain about people who don’t speak English in their own countries, or not in sufficient detail to cater for all their needs. The answer’s simple to me. If you don’t think they speak enough English, then speak to them in Japanese.
My own Japanese isn’t that extensive: sodoku… origami… karaoke… teriyaki… er… alligator…
Alligator? An aide-memoire for arigato, or thank you. It’s a word I unaccountably struggle to remember, around a thousand times a day. This logoamnesia is highly inconvenient, as the word has become something of a linguistic Swiss army knife for me. The way I use it, it means hello, excuse me, please, and even: “Is there coriander in this because if there is, my wife will be a bad mood for the rest of the evening?” — as well as pretty much everything else. I just wish I could remember it instantly. If I’ve not cracked it by the end of the week, I’ll have to postpone my “Learn to say Goodbye” campaign, due to begin at the weekend.
I’ve not managed to run since the previous early morning trot. There really hasn’t been the chance. We’ve been ravaged by jet lag, though last night’s sleep was finally more successful. It’s weird to feel normal again.
I’m hoping Kyoto will offer up more opportunity to that athlete buried deep inside me.
