While on holiday in Japan, I kept a detailed series of notes in
honour of Nanowrimo. All posts about Japan comprise excerpts from my
journals.
"4th November, 2013
Every subway/ metro/ mass rapid transit system in the world has its own quirks. In Singapore, it's constant bomb warnings and reenactments; announcements in four languages. In Paris, it's stubborn gantries that have to be shouldered open. In the UK, the escalators took weeks to repair and in Washington D.C., people were made to put little paper caps over their straws so they wouldn't drink on the trains.
In Japan, or Tokyo, anyway, each station has a funny little jingle of its own. I tried to learn a couple by heart today, but we crossed so many stations that I started to forget.
______________________________________
This morning, we decide to tackle Harajuku. I've heard about it all my life but never actually imagined that I would make it there. Never actually imagined I would like it. It looked too overwhelming. But like it, I do.
We eat buns from a bakery for breakfast. Mine is a beautifully caramelised, twisting confection spread with jam and custard, and bizarrely, topped off with a slice of grilled cheese. Of course, it's delicious. I engulf it in three bites and we wash it down with a marron cream latte. Already, this day is looking auspicious.
We find our way to Harajuku by train and I marvel at the way the gantries swallow up our domino-sized train tickets. Two flat claws shoot out and snap at the cardboard as I yank my hand away. I could stand there and watch those claws snicking all day. Harajuku is already thronging with people before lunchtime. My mum shows me a famous street and we plunge right in.
The one word I would use to describe the place is: rainbow. The entire street is a blending, churning, exploding sea of colour, at once clashing and harmonious. The teenage girls are beautifully dressed in stockings with prints on them like tattoos, their hair long and flowing smoothly over blazered shoulder. They wait on street corners for their friends, chatting and playing with their phones. Mascots dressed in crazy costumes and wigs shout slogans and attempt to call people into shops but the thoroughfare is heaving, packed shoulder to shoulder with buzzing people, and very few acquiesce.
Even the children here are stylishly unselfconscious. A little girl with a tiny top hat pinned jauntily on her head grins at me as she trips past.
The shops are overflowing with psychadelic wares. Everywhere I look, I see printed sweaters and backpacks and stacks of socks. Some shops sell über girly fur-lined jumpers and lace collars, others boast chunky, high-heeled gothic boots. Blonde lolitas mix comfortably with gyaru-styled nymphs. Even the candy is rainbow-coloured.
We shuffle along, moved by the waves of humanity that nudge gently at our backs and by the time we emerge on the other end of the avenue, I am hungry to buy everything: scented gel pens and furry robes and prim pastel satchels and pouches shaped like bears and a hundred and one other things I don't need. That is the magic of Harajuku - it sells you a bright, poppy, arcade-styled life where even the morose is delivered with a great deal of humour.
Only one house sits untouched by the clamour, a zen-looking old school Japanese house with pomegranates growing over its walls and black-framed windows. A woman, probably the long-suffering owner, comes out to stretch a chain across the steps leading up to her front door so that none of the garish revellers will stumble their way in. She stands on the step, watching them with consternation for a few moments, then goes back in.
On the other end of the street, we chance upon a cute little two-storey corner cafe. A handwritten sign on the door apologises that it is non-smoking, but promises "sweets" within. I'm quickly realising that "sweets" are a huge part of the Japanese diet - every signboard advertising food casually tacks on some mention of "sweets" at the end, as if leaving it out would be a dealbreaker. The desserts, consequently, are so flavourful and evenly-balanced that I find myself wanting "sweets" at every meal. This is my kind of city.
The manager is a very clean cut, man in wire-rimmed spectables who tries hard to explain to us that the drinks set includes hot coffee or tea. We order a traditional Japanese dessert and it comes, two scoops of matcha ice-cream brushed with beans and studded with perfectly chewy mochi. A swirl of white cream with rills of brown marron syrup melts softly on top. It tastes as good as it looks, neither too sweet nor too bitter.
We tell the proprietor we love his airy, clean, neat-as-a-pin cafe (we do) and he is a little embarrassed. He points the way to the famous Meiji shrine nearby and we begin the trek..."
The one word I would use to describe the place is: rainbow. The entire street is a blending, churning, exploding sea of colour, at once clashing and harmonious. The teenage girls are beautifully dressed in stockings with prints on them like tattoos, their hair long and flowing smoothly over blazered shoulder. They wait on street corners for their friends, chatting and playing with their phones. Mascots dressed in crazy costumes and wigs shout slogans and attempt to call people into shops but the thoroughfare is heaving, packed shoulder to shoulder with buzzing people, and very few acquiesce.
Even the children here are stylishly unselfconscious. A little girl with a tiny top hat pinned jauntily on her head grins at me as she trips past.
The shops are overflowing with psychadelic wares. Everywhere I look, I see printed sweaters and backpacks and stacks of socks. Some shops sell über girly fur-lined jumpers and lace collars, others boast chunky, high-heeled gothic boots. Blonde lolitas mix comfortably with gyaru-styled nymphs. Even the candy is rainbow-coloured.
We shuffle along, moved by the waves of humanity that nudge gently at our backs and by the time we emerge on the other end of the avenue, I am hungry to buy everything: scented gel pens and furry robes and prim pastel satchels and pouches shaped like bears and a hundred and one other things I don't need. That is the magic of Harajuku - it sells you a bright, poppy, arcade-styled life where even the morose is delivered with a great deal of humour.
Only one house sits untouched by the clamour, a zen-looking old school Japanese house with pomegranates growing over its walls and black-framed windows. A woman, probably the long-suffering owner, comes out to stretch a chain across the steps leading up to her front door so that none of the garish revellers will stumble their way in. She stands on the step, watching them with consternation for a few moments, then goes back in.
On the other end of the street, we chance upon a cute little two-storey corner cafe. A handwritten sign on the door apologises that it is non-smoking, but promises "sweets" within. I'm quickly realising that "sweets" are a huge part of the Japanese diet - every signboard advertising food casually tacks on some mention of "sweets" at the end, as if leaving it out would be a dealbreaker. The desserts, consequently, are so flavourful and evenly-balanced that I find myself wanting "sweets" at every meal. This is my kind of city.
The manager is a very clean cut, man in wire-rimmed spectables who tries hard to explain to us that the drinks set includes hot coffee or tea. We order a traditional Japanese dessert and it comes, two scoops of matcha ice-cream brushed with beans and studded with perfectly chewy mochi. A swirl of white cream with rills of brown marron syrup melts softly on top. It tastes as good as it looks, neither too sweet nor too bitter.
We tell the proprietor we love his airy, clean, neat-as-a-pin cafe (we do) and he is a little embarrassed. He points the way to the famous Meiji shrine nearby and we begin the trek..."
