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.
