I arrive in Tokyo after a long Transpacific flight in coach. I’m avoiding Thanksgiving in the US (a recurring theme, as will emerge in time). I’ve been to Tokyo before so I feel like a pro buying my train ticket in the terminal in Narita and then navigating the enormous Shinjuku station and making it to the Hilton in one piece. Flights and hotel are on points as I’m broke and living way beyond my means.
I turn on the TV in the room and see this – meeting all my expectations for weirdness in Japan. Or maybe there’s a perfectly good explanation that I am missing.
I love Tokyo – the juxtaposition between old and new, super future and enduring past, craft and commerce. I like that Japan (in common with South Korea) mostly embraces its own non-western cultural superiority. Yes there are western clothes and music and English language, but underlying both is no desire to *be* European or American. They do things their own way.
I always take pictures of the Izakayas under the tracks – and maybe on my next trip I’ll have the courage to go into one and try to figure out vegetarian food.
I’m only there for a few days on this trip – but I walk a lot. I always underestimate how big Tokyo actually is. I feel like I have a good handle on how far it is between areas in London, New York, Buenos Aires, or Sydney and whether I can walk or need to take the train or a cab. But Tokyo always catches me out as I grossly underestimate how far it is from Shibuya to Roppongi or Akasaka. But in the meantime I get lost in the back streets of various neighborhoods and see things like this hand carved door to a small house.
