Back to Tokyo

I get excited when I go into the first 7/11 I see. It might sound like a weird thing to catch your interest in a culturally abundant foreign country but conbini (convenience stores) offer a distinctive flavour of ‘Japanese stuff‘. They’re like mini Japanese theme parks, with one on every pretty much street (Lawson’s and Family Mart are other, virtually indistinguishable, rival chains. It’s almost like they’re lightly branded government services). Weird but delicious snacks, entire aisles full of more types of pot-noodle than you’d ever care to try. Beer, sake, comic books that open on the left-hand side (not all cultures read left to right, remember), hardcore pornography sitting beside them on the same shelf. ATM’s, phone cards with pre-loaded video games and clear ovens with steaming buns on the counter. And you’re met with routine Japanese greetings and formalities every time you enter or exit. It’s exactly the sort of shop I generally hate but I can’t help but enjoy every visit to a 7/11 in Japan like a kid in a toy shop. Especially because this time, I find that they DO sell  socks and underwear and t-shirts – for the fourth time in 2 years, my airline has mislaid/forgotten/detained/maybe even exploded my luggage on a long-haul flight, and I need emergency freshening up after spending 15 hours in a Moscow airport. And partly because of the familiarity-by-design. I’m back in Japan. And everything in 7/11 is the same as it ever was, as it always will be.

The Japan Rail ticket lady is softly spoken and ever so helpful. I order a coffee at the coffee shop next door and the cute barista says “Thank you for your co-operation” as she hands me my change with a bow and a smile. I want more people to talk like this.

Despite (or maybe because of) its formalities, Japan has a very whimsical feel. The bombardment of greetings upon entering or leaving a shop or restaurant sound more like actors springing into life in a pantomime than machines in a service-factory. The mannerisms play a part. Like the stern-looking supervisor called to clear up some confusion about my visa when I arrived in Narita Airport. He responded to his subordinate’s bashful query with a theatrical look of shock; he paused for a second before a bellowing “OH-HO-HO-HO-HO” made him sound like he’d just done a perfect game of Street Fighter using just the Hundred-Hand Slap. Bowing and announcing every action and interaction with a sharp “Hai!” (“Yes!”) is infectious. As is slowly getting the hang of the tongue-twisting expression of gratitude – “Arrigato gazaimas-u!” (always said either like it’s carrying an exclamation mark, or delivered with a loving pat on the head and a warm smile). The only language I know with a more loquacious thank you is Irish.

I’m staying at a hostel a short walk from Akihabara station. As is my experience of Japanese hostels, it’s super shiny, cramped and with a hint of pretension. There’s 20 beds bunk beds in a row on the second floor, with no room for luggage, but there is room downstairs for a pretty slick Japanese tapas-style bar and grill (it’s tiny though). The surrounding areas are a network of cute, immaculate alleys, like most of central Tokyo. There’s a petrol station with the pump hoses hanging from the roof, ready to be pulled down only when they’re needed. “I must get a photo of this,” I think, before continuing to think and realising that nobody including me will ever be bothered with seeing this picture again.

In the morning I turn onto the vast Showa Dori, the main avenue on the eastern side of Akihabara station, and feel like I’m going the wrong way down a one-way street: against the masses of workers shuffling silently to work. The streets are packed with people but there’s no noise. The metro is silent. Some people are glued to their phones or books but others just stare into nothingness. There’s no ‘hum’ of human life that is usually found radiating from crowds of people, whether or not they’re speaking. It’s one of those weird feelings which you notice before the articulated thought comes to mind. Is this Luas this quiet?!

Later on I get a quick snack from a ticket restaurant. There’s a vending-looking machine outside with buttons showing each menu item and price, complete with pictures (and they’re not necessarily for tourists). I slot in some coins, hand the ticket to the guy and there’s a short wait for my steaming hot bowl of noodles, veggies and egg. It’s delicious and cheap, usually around 500 yen (€4) for a dish. There’s a very 90’s feel to a lot of the architecture and décor in a lot of the older establishments, the ‘button restaurants’, izakaya, small convenience stores, etc.

I’m reminded of the slightly bizarre smoking laws and etiquette in this city as a waft of smoke passes over my meal, coming from two poorly-suited gentlemen sitting to my right. There’s lots of ill-fitting suits in town, like tailoring is for young people and young people aren’t allowed show up their bosses by wearing tailored suits to work. One of them coughs vigorously, seemingly unaware that it might be the fag in his hand causing it. In Tokyo, it’s illegal to smoke on streets except in designated areas, usually found around subway stations and bars. I once got reprimanded by a park attendant beside the Imperial Gardens for lighting up in the shelter of his little hut at 2 a.m., despite not having seen anyone for an hour as I walked home. But pretty much all bars and restaurants are fair game, maybe having an old-style ‘smoking section’ separated by nothing more than a velvet rope. So, quite the opposite of home, one has to ‘go in’ for a smoke, so to speak.

The guys laying the immaculate tarmac, building the immaculate buildings and keeping them swept immaculately clean, all have immaculate, brand new uniforms. Some of the jobs seem to be pointless, like escalator attendants to greet you as you step on or off. There are lots of jobs for older people; some of them seem to be done exclusively by them, so maybe that’s their point. It seems to take many years’ experience to get to be a subway attendant. I spot a middle-aged man about to chance crossing an empty street overlooked by a red traffic-light man of unidentifiable age, but he thinks better of it. The would-be jaywalker has the slightly anxious air of someone who knows he’s being watched, though I think maybe deep down the people on the street wouldn’t care.

School-kids and people their parents’ age cycle bicycles slowly down footpaths and alleys. They seem in less of a hurry than those on foot. People with panicked looks on their faces run in and out of metro stations, across zebra crossings, wherever. Late for work, I guess. It’s still very quiet.

Age is valued here, and seems to be much more visible than at home. Of course, with age comes respect. Someone once suggested to me that mental health crises in the western world are caused in part because young people “have no respect for age and don’t know their place”. I think there’s some truth in that. Not that Japan doesn’t have its own problems, of course.

Grown men read comic books. On the streets, products are advertised by anime characters and cartoons. Everything is normal in Tokyo, including dressing like your favourite video-game character. And video-games, comic books and cartoons are just normal part of everyday media. On the subway I watch a news story about some kids being apprehended for pushing every button on a skyscraper lift. It seems to be followed by a public-service animation warning others not to even think about doing the same. I can’t picture anyone in Tokyo doing it. Everyone looks so serious. Until they’re welcoming you into their shop (or their country). And thanking you for your co-operation.