Ichi Tokyo

Day 1, Tokyo

Bleary-eyed and furry-tongued, Gabe and I arrive at Narita International. We are well fed but somewhat unpopular with the other Cattle Class passengers; in our carry-on bags were 4 oranges, two bananas, a bag of sunflower seeds, half a dozen olive rolls, a block of cheese, hummus, baby carrots, chocolate-mint gourmet cookies, some sort of puff-dried veggie chips, ritz crackers, rice pudding, blueberries, and strawberries. And some chicken-cutlets with mushrooms that Gabe’s mother had very kindly but firmly insisted we take on board. Neither of us likes airplane food.

Here’s the rest of that first day.

Everything is adorably cute here, as we all know. Even vans.


There is a batting cage outside of our hotel window, on the roof of another building.




Somehow Gabe and I take the subway fifteen stops too far without noticing it on our way to Shibuya. Friendly passengers consult our map and assure us we are going the correct direction. Rivers, forest glades, Shinto nymphs, etc zip by outside. Doesn’t seem like downtown Tokyo. This interesting condo pitch was posted in a station.

One reason it is easy to get lost:

Shibuya and Harajuku:











Nothing hits the spot quite like a Georgia Mountain Blend. We’ve tried four vending machine variations, but the Mountain Blend is a helluva iced coffee.


Some freshly canned t-shirts:

We took a stroll through Harajuku—home of teenage fashionistas, as popularized in FRUiTS magazine—and ended up (mistakenly taking the wrong staircase) at a 3rd floor hibachi barbecue eatery. Our waiter Kazuki spoke very little English but did everything he could to accommodate us. He was fascinated by our height and asked several times about how I managed to shower in my hotel.

This was our favorite sign in the restaurant. Should a misplaced charcoal briquette set the building aflame, one ought to apply without delay for a Master’s of Engineering then perform seven elaborate operations to construct the rescue device. It looks like you would do well to have some bolts and an electric drill handy, too.



Tricked-out scooter/moped. This thing had a cup-holder and was about eight feet long. Not your mother’s vespa.

Exhausted and thirsty, we ascended yet another set of mystery stairs, reaching a sake bar with no English on its exterior. Boded well. We butchered a phrase from the lonely planet: “O-susume wan an desu ka?” What do you recommend?

A plate of silky salmon sashimi arrived and a large bottle of chilled sake. The portions were extremely generous--overflow bowls provided for any excess-- and soon we were enjoying a convivial mix of food porn (complimentary fishing magazines which we at first mistook for manga) and cigarettes. The ladies next to us at the bar decided to teach us to count to ten in Japanese. Unfortunately the Japanese ordinal numbers have different forms depending on usage; the adjectives are different from the nouns. The digit two sounds nothing like “Two sakes, please.” Oh well—the barman got the point.






That sign in front of Gabe? It means no smoking. In fact, it says so in English. He is incorrigible.

The cab driver to the hotel had no idea where the Villa Fontaine Hakozaki was. We tried every Japanese word we knew but it didn’t help.

“My name is very delicious elephant water goodbye, pleased to meet you. Excuse me, thank you hotel toilet.”

It was 2 am and the fish market started at 5 am. Bed time.