CJST News - Spring 1997 Page 4

Walking In Tokyo - Natsukashii!

The ryokan at which I am staying sits on a bright corner in the quaint and eccentric Yanaka district in north-central Tokyo, amidst a vibrant, flowery maze of skinny lanes lined by miniature homes, where cars are parked high in the air on hydraulic lifts to conserve precious space. So close are the tiny buildings, there is a sense that if one of them were to come alive and shrug, all the others would be forced to shrug along with it.

Walking in the Yanaka district is a constant feast for the eyes and ears. Dozens of ancient Buddhist temples peek out from behind umbrellas of cherry blossoms, and every nook and cranny seems to evoke images of medieval Edo when the shoguns ruled this lively hub of Japanese daily life.

I can never decide whether to turn right or left as I leave the inn, since there is so much to see in both directions. I think I’ll go left today, past the beauty salon and the post office. Sure enough, there’s the hairdresser, sitting in her salon chair with a big teddy bear on her lap, smoking and reading a paperback novel. I often wonder how she manages to stay in business, since she seldom seems to have a customer. She doesn’t look too worried, though, so I guess things are going all right.

I’ll stop by the tiny post office, to buy some overseas stamps. I love buying stamps, because I’ve learned how to ask for them in almost-perfect Japanese. I’m still glowing from the clerk’s recent comment that my language sounds pretty good.

A few steps further along the road, I wave to the local launderer, who is stooped over his ironing board in his cluttered shop window. He smiles and bows. I am, after all, a regular customer. It takes him several days to clean and iron my clothes, but I don’t mind the wait, because I really enjoy doing business with this gentle and gracious man.

The sight of flowers spilling from the window boxes and pots perched on fences is spectacular eclectic mix of every possible shape and colour. Housewives sweep away fallen flower petals with what look like old witches’ brooms, calling out to each other, sharing the odd joke and a little gossip while they work.

There are few sidewalks in Yanaka. Three-foot wide pedestrian lanes are marked by a single white line, and walkers must share these lanes with utility poles of equal width. Stepping around the poles and into the path of cars creates a sort of dangerous pas de deux, with pedestrians and cars as reluctant dance partners.

I climb a steep hill where homes are surrounded by Zen-inspired gardens of stones and bonsai trees. I encounter a white-gloved, uniformed policeman, relaxing on his bicycle by the side of the road, dreamily staring up at a pale pink canopy of cherry blossoms. I remark that the blossoms are quite beautiful, and he replies that they are nothing less than spectacular.

I continue down the hill and into Yanaka’s commercial district, featuring a kaleidoscope of specialty shops and fresh food markets.

Every few minutes or so, the siren of an approaching ambulance drowns out the regular sounds of the street. A loudspeaker bursts to life at each intersection: "Excuse us, we’re terribly sorry, but we must ask you to move. We apologise for the inconvenience. Thank you very much."

Yanaka is brimming with excellent restaurants, and I have yet to pay more than $10 Canadian for a good meal. Customers are greeted with a cheery "Irashaimase!" On my first night in Japan, I breached Japanese etiquette by mistakenly leaving a tip under my plate at a local eatery. The breathless waitress caught up with me a couple of blocks away and firmly pressed the offending ¥100 coin into the palm of my hand.

I round a corner and double back to the narrow lanes I find so fascinating. I occasionally see eccentric older women proudly wheeling confused-looking, blanketed and beribboned dogs in elaborate baby prams. On this day, I step aside for an elderly man wheeling a crib containing his sleeping grandchild-a common sight in this neighbourhood. Rather than disturb an infant, many caregivers simply push the baby’s bed out the door and along the street.

I slowly work my way back toward the inn, today’s copy of the Japan Times tucked under my arm. I can hear the local clothesline salesman cruising the next street in his tiny panel truck. As usual, he is singing and chanting, telling stories over his very loud loudspeaker.

I consider how Yanaka has become a friend to me, like a dear, eccentric Auntie upon whom I hope to call again for a cup of tea in her cheerful parlour.

--Jane Hamilton

Related information: The Alien is a monthly magazine published in Nagoya for foreigners living in Japan. Their website www.the-alien.com is worth a look.

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