Arrival

At the bend of the third switchback of our line of travelers, a typed sign said that it would be 40 minutes to the immigration booths at the Tokyo airport. I took this personally; I was irritable. Having flown ten hours from an underdeveloped country to get here, I expected, well, more consideration from Japan . Why was it not prepared to receive us more efficiently? Where was its vaunted automation?

        Not even a digital sign? The fact that I did not need a visa to enter, endowed me with a sense of entitlement. I looked with an air of superiority at fellow passengers to spot those I would bypass because they needed visas. This vanity was in vain. The line did not bifurcate ahead for the likes of me. We were all treated the same: we were all ordinary.  

        Presently, however, another small sign caught my eye. I squinted to read it. It seemed to indicate that those who did not require a visa had to fill out a special form available at a side window. This would have meant losing my place in the line. As I despaired aloud, an English man behind me comforted me. “They don’t mean that,” he said with a half smile, thus introducing me to the subtleties of the Japanese usage of English. He explained that he had been living in Japan for some time. “But the sign says so; it says...” I began, before he interrupted me. “Are you a lawyer, a stickler on words?” he asked rhetorically, and dismissively.

        I forfeited my chance at a rejoinder to him because as we moved, I had just seen yet a third sign which pointed to the immigration booth set aside for seniors. I allowed myself a smirk of relief for another source of entitlement I could now tap. “Adieu!” -I confess, I actually said that to my “young” English friend- and I changed lanes. No sooner had I moved, however, than a Japanese fellow of my vintage appeared before me. He had been directing the line which I had just left. Tersely, he notified me that where I was now standing was for seniors only. I said I knew. He asked for my identity card. When he saw the badge of my entitlement, he said, not without disdain, “I am over 65, but I work as a volunteer here.”  I refused to yield my privilege as I wanted to get to my hotel fast to rest.

        The buses which they euphemistically called limousines at the Narita airport were actually very comfortable. They ran remarkably on time. I audited many before mine came, alas, an hour hence, as announced. There was no dispensation for people in a hurry.

Breakfast at Tsukiji 

Early in the morning, I went to Tsukiji. I was told that this was the world’s largest fish market, where in excess of 6 billion dollars worth of fish were sold every year. That information remained largely abstract, unchanged by the fact that I saw many fish in great variety in Tsukiji. The commercial transactions I could observe were few. They were retail sales and could not amount to much. Documentation was handled by middle-aged women in little booths, while men sloshed about in their rubber shoes.

The bigger show was in the back where all types of vehicles of the wholesale trade danced in a chaotic choreography. I jumped over little pushcarts, yielded to big trucks, avoided forklifts, dodged motorcycles, and skirted hundreds of round motored tanks. The cacophony of these machines’ clatters was the only noise one heard. The Japanese spoke quietly.

        About nine o’clock, I followed the workers to the small eateries on the periphery of the market. I wanted to have breakfast like them, although fish in the morning was an unusual diet for me. I chose a diner and sat at a semicircular counter with the fishermen. A man who stood in the middle took our orders. I motioned that I wanted the same thing everyone else was eating.

I was served a plate of rice with a brownish sauce on the top and some white shredded cabbage. The taste was unfamiliar, but I was wrong in thinking that the dish contained fish. I asked the server what it was called. He said some words which I did not understand. I asked him to write it down. Amused, he printed slowly: “Indian curry”.

Kabuki-za 

        Having just had a meal that I ordinarily would eat for dinner, it was appropriate to go to a show now that it was eleven in the morning. At the traditional Kabuki-za theater nearby this was not a special matinee; it was their regular show time.  I had the choice of a full show which lasted four hours or a shorter version which was for two hours. The place was packed and not just by curious foreign visitors. Most customers were Japanese who were happily consuming their lunch while seeing the plays. These programs were so popular that a portrait of the main actor of the show which I saw, Oniji Otani, was plastered all over the city. The portrait was the centerpiece of a major exhibit by the famous painter Sharaku. The abstract in the brief playbill did not give me the requisite cultural background to appreciate the whole two hours of the show. I napped part of the way as did two Japanese women sitting next to me.        

Styles

The curving stairway of Tokyo’s famed Spiral Building allowed me a moving perspective of nine large whimsical veils in different colors which constituted the core of the happening in the central well below.
	Artists and photographers mingled with the visitors in a Tomio Mohri show, described as “Nine Goddesses wishing happiness to the spaceship called ‘the Earth’”. A gallery owner from Kyoto graciously became my impromptu guide. As I listened, I feasted my eyes and imagined a source of Japan’s exquisite style in its textile.

After lunch in the Garden Court , I noticed a selection of delicate origami lined on the receptionist’s counter. I asked for the name of the artist. A young waitress was introduced to me. I told her how much I liked her art. She grinned and went behind the counter and produced a little box. Then she proceeded to put the origami pieces in the box and handed it to me. I did not know what to do. I offered to pay her. She declined.

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