Alone in Shinjuku

I wrote a brief blog entry last week about our trip to Ikebukuro, in which I talked about how we ate the most delicious Wendy’s meal of all time while watching a man in a suit endure a very important-sounding job interview over fries and garlic mayo on the third floor of an American fast food restaurant.  The whole experience was simultaneously a taste of home, and a reminder that we are far from it.

I usually write my blog on Sunday, during what we’ve dubbed the Tokyo Hangover.  See, Japan is full of beautiful, peaceful, introspective places.  We have been to, uh…. One of them.  We are Tokyo junkies, and every Saturday we put our shoes on, get on the train, and then 12 hours later limp through the front door, Jan’s got a piece of toro stuck to his jeans, and somehow my hair is in Sailor Moon buns and my pupils are dilated.  Sunday, we wake up in a daze and detox from Tokyo.  I edit the photos I took and write my blog, and by the time I’m done I pass out in bed, with visions of nigiri and LED robots dancing in my head, and another week starts again.  Rinse, repeat.

Last weekend threw off my Qi.  I woke up in my usual post-Tokyo daze, but this was no normal Sunday when I would typically liquefy my bones so I could literally melt my way down the stairs using gravity rather than any actual physical effort.  But last Sunday, I had plans and they were equal parts terrifying and exciting.  I was taking the train all the way to Roppongi BY MY SELF to see my friend, Natsuki, who I hadn’t seen in years.

Let me make one thing clear, I need Google Maps to get from my bathroom to my kitchen.  I have absolutely no sense of direction and can only successfully point west if I’m standing on the beach in Oregon.  Jan on the other hand is a human compass.  When we go into Tokyo, I literally hold on to his shirt and follow blindly.  I am woman, hear me roar, but when it comes to navigation… I need my husband.  He knows this too… when I managed to get to Shinjuku Station and was attempting to find my transfer line which is mad chaos you cannot imagine, I texted him “Fuck this shit.”  His response: “My stock is rising.”

Shinjuku Station is the busiest transportation hub in the WORLD.  Nearly 4 million people access it per DAY.  It has 53 platforms, 17 of which are accessed at adjacent stations that you get to without ever even seeing daylight, and more than 200 exits.  And there I was, alone, looking for the Oedo Line and trying not to swallow my tongue.  Shinjuku station is absolute madness and I’m struggling to provide an adequate comparison.  The best I can do is, imagine every Walmart in America sandwiched together in 6 different underground levels.  On Black Friday.  But instead of discount TVs there are Places To Be, and everyone has one.  Oh, and there are people there to help you but none of them speak English.  

It took me 40 minutes to find my platform, and I went the wrong way twice which involved me swiping my Pasmo card, so I literally had to pay money to be lost.  I finally made it to the line, 6 floors underground.  When I got on the right train, I crumpled into a heap in the corner and sang myself lullabies while sucking my thumb.  Then I had to transfer again, to get on the same line but on a different platform.  Don’t try to make sense of it.  I tried to, and I got ulcerative colitis.  

Luckily my friend Natsuki had told me exactly what exit to take when I got to Roppongi station, and compared to the dumpster fire that was Shinjuku station, Roppongi station was relative easy to navigate through.  I made it up the stairs into Roppongi, an area Jan and I passed through on a marathon day of walking when we logged 15 miles on foot.  I looked around and didn’t see Natsuki, so I stepped aside and pulled out my phone to text her.  They, like a glowing angel in a fluffy white jacket and some fierce shoes, she came running over towards me with outstretched arms.  Public displays of affection are rare and considered improprietous here in Japan, but we hugged for like a solid two minutes in the middle of the sidewalk while I said, “hisashiburi!!” and was delighted when she understood.  That means, “long time, no see” in Japanese.

 

Natsuki is Japanese, from Saitama which is north of Tokyo.  I met her years ago when she moved to Portland with Jan’s cousin, Marek, who had met her when he was working in Japan.  Their relationship ended and she moved back home, to my devastation because I never thought I’d see her again and she is freaking wonderful.  She speaks great English and is pretty much just a ray of sunshine.  And I’m not just saying that because the first place she took me in Roppongi after our prolonged embrace was a fucking AUTHENTIC MEXICAN RESTAURANT.  I finally ate a burrito, for the first time since moving to Japan.  It was perfect except for a little too salty because I was weeping with joy and apparently tears are salty.

 

After licking the guac and sour cream off my hands, we headed to an izakaya.  Jan and I are nervous about venturing into izakayas because they are typically not really geared for westerners.  We’ve actually been turned away by a couple because they value service here, and if they don’t feel they can provide you good service, they’d rather not serve you at all.  It was pretty strange at first.  Anyways, Natsuki took charge – ordered us a table full of delicious treats and we munched on them over more whiskey highballs than I would care to admit.  Almost four hours later, we finally parted ways with a promise to get together again soon.  One that I’ll be keeping.

Tokyo is a big city.  The biggest in the world, actually.  But it can be very lonely.  I don’t speak the language.  I can’t even properly thank the cashier at 7/11 without stumbling over my pronunciation.  My family and friends are asleep when I’m awake and vice-versa.  I both live and work within barbed-wire fences.  To journey out into the madness all on my own, and to see a face I never thought I’d see again was such a gift.   My challenge to you – right now, grab your phone, and text a friend you haven’t seen in awhile and make plans with them.  You are taking their proximity to you for granted.  Do it.

So that is my incredibly longwinded way of explaining why it took me all week to write this.  I do my best work when I’m under the throes of a Tokyo Hangover, and my Sunday with Natsuki – while amazing – threw me off my game.  But in a way, it put me on my game in a different way.  It made me realize how much I had been letting the days and months and years click by without spending enough time with my friends and family, or even checking up with them.  Or telling them I love them.  On Monday, I got some awful news about a family friend who is my age and suddenly passed away.  It really shook me up, thinking about the fragility of life.  How much we take each other for granted.

All of you reading this, you’re my friends.  I would kill to share a drink and conversation with you face-to-face now that I can’t.  When I had the chance, one of us usually rain-checked.  Or we got busy and never made plans.  Or we promised “next week.”  When that opportunity disappears, you realize how valuable it was.  

I think the most alone I’ve felt so far since moving to Japan was standing in the middle of Shinjuku station, by myself, terrified, lost, with no way to communicate with any of the millions (literally) of people around me.  That feeling was countered so dramatically by seeing a familiar face from years ago, which I didn’t think I’d ever see again.  From being a tiny, indistinguishable peon in an unmatchable surge of people, to being embraced by a friend on the other side of the world from anyone else I know.  It was an emotional slingshot. 

Pick up your phone.  Make plans with someone you love.  You have no idea how much you’ll miss the opportunity when it’s gone.