January 14
Today began an hour later than all the other days, for Mrs. Medlin had suggested to Mrs. Mizoguchi that since we tended not to leave the hotel until later in the morning, we could sleep in a bit more. And so I arose at 7:30 and went down to breakfast at 8, after which I grabbed my camera and finished up my first Compact Flash card, filling it with photos of Tokyo on a Monday morning. Mrs. Mizoguchi told us that this day was a holiday in Japan, because it served as a commemorative "coming of age day" for all youths turning 20. However, only about 10% of 20 year-olds actually formally celebrate anymore, as most prefer to go skiing or surfing and take advantage of the 3-day weekend. Still, I found the idea of a cultural coming of age ceremony a nice concept, though perhaps American equivalents are not that hard to find, though they are based out of a less formal tradition (e.g. driver's license or ability to purchase alcohol).
In any case, soon enough we boarded into the van and headed for Harajuku, the teen fashion district of Tokyo. There we wandered around, mostly looking at items (many American) and purchasing a few. Harajuku is incredibly crowded, though perhaps today was exceptional because of the Coming of Age holiday. Still, the amount of people moving about the streets and through the shops was a bit of a surprise to a Midwesterner such as myself. Of all things, I found myself strangely missing Boston and even once remarked, "Boston is crazy, but it's a lesser sort of crazy that I like."
For lunch, Debra and I decided to go back to an Ice Cream place that we had seen, while Mrs. Mizoguchi and Mrs. Medlin went for Sushi. Once we had walked through the hordes of people (it was only a few blocks, but as soon as we started walking at what I would call decent clip we immediately were slowed by more people) we got to the small Ice Cream shop. There, we purchased the ice cream, which came in these tiny containers (Japan has not yet converted to "American" portions -- I have yet to see a 64 oz. drink offered anywhere, for example). Then, walking back, we met up again at the Sushi bar. Our van's driver then pulled up, and we ran out (traffic had a red light) and quickly boarded. It felt almost as if we were in a movie and hopping onto our getaway vehicle.
Next, we headed to the Japan Open Air Folk House Museum, where, surrounded by lush trees and breathing fresh air, we walked up and down dirt paths leading to various homes that had been transported from all over Japan. Each home was different; all of them had the same underlying beauty, a simplicity tastefully highlighted with dashes of complexity. In one house, the floors were made of tatami, a very long, narrow straw-like reed. This floor was very soothing to walk upon, since we took off our shoes before entering the house. It was almost like receiving a miniature foot massage while walking around. Then, leaving that first house, we proceeded to travel to various other homes and look and walk through them. The surroundings were also very beautiful, as trees, some with needles and others with leaves -- all evergreen – grew in great numbers on the hilly area surrounding the houses. It felt good to breathe in the clean air and to hike up the small hills and look out upon the valleys. For me, it felt at once both much like home, for my backyard is full of trees, but also foreign, for the designs of the houses seemed at first strange to my eyes, though later I became accustomed to a new sense of beauty as I beheld the homes. After almost two hours of walking around amidst the homes and trees, we turned back, slowly descending the hill and heading back to the van. As we walked, I reflected upon my experiences in Japan thus far. Though it is a small nation at the eastern edge of Asia, at the very westernmost side of the Pacific Ocean, its people have survived and endured and prospered. A case in point of this even in modern life is how even though the Japanese economy is purportedly stagnant, construction and development is taking place throughout Tokyo. And so it is with Japan; though conditions may seem bad, or hard, its people endure and overcome, much like their American brethren but an ocean away.
We drove back to the hotel, weaving our way through the myriad of roads before coming to a raised highway that led us about four stories above the ground. When we got back to the hotel, we went back to our rooms, dropped our stuff and changed to work out. In the exercise room, Debra worked on the stair-stepper while I tackled the set of upper body equipment. Weight lifting, at least for me, is somewhat relaxing as it allows me to wrestle with my own strength and to feel my muscles. Much of it is psychological -- the belief that one is able to do something is almost as good as being able to do it, which was demonstrated to me once when taking a Weight Training Physical Educational class at MIT. There, on the calf lift machine, I was doing the exercise for the first time and wanted to try to master the technique before applying too much weight, so I set the weight fairly low: 10 pounds or so. I stepped onto the machine and was barely able to lift the bar. I thought to myself, "Aren't my calves stronger than this?" The instructor, noticing my grunt of effort, came over looked at the machine. Then he laughed as he let me know that that particular machine had had its weights placed the wrong way, so that 10 pounds was 400, and 400 pounds was really 10. Later, then I tried to lift 400 pounds knowing it was 400 pounds, I could not do it -- but when I had thought that it was merely 10 pounds, that it must be easy to lift, I was able to do it, even if it was very difficult. I've noticed that the same principle of enabling faith operates in other areas of real life aside from weight lifting.
Once we had both finished working out, we agreed to shower and meet to explore Tokyo. Mrs. Mizoguchi and Mrs. Medlin had given us a free night where we could eat dinner wherever we liked, and so we decided to try some of the restaurants that we had passed by when had walked around Tokyo on previous days.
After leaving the hotel, we walked down the street and stopped in front of the Zoy cafe. However, they seemed to lack any main courses of significance, though they had a long list of desserts. The precise nature of these desserts, however, we did not know for they were only displayed as a chalkboard titled with a large pink "SWEETS" and then seven or so lines of Japanese Kanji characters. We continued walking, turning right at the Eneo gas station, which was remarkable (and unique in my American eyes) in that the gas pumps hung down from the ceiling of the station -- in other words, there were no little boxy gas pumps on cement, only the nozzles hanging down from the ceiling. We walked down the street -- we knew our way around but did not know the name of the street we were on -- street signs in Tokyo seemed rare or written in Kanji. It is curious how in life sometimes one can know precisely where one is, but not know what to call it -- this feeling prevails especially in the area of relationships, where word play and catchphrases abound in multitude.
After a short walk, we stopped outside of a small Italian restaurant that had many words written in white paint on the inside of the glass -- much like John Nash had done to the inside of his dorm room window at Princeton (as seen in the interesting movie A Beautiful Mind), except here the writings concerned various Italian foods rather than abstruse mathematical theories.
We opened the door by the windows, stepping in -- but soon realized that even though it was next to the inviting windows, it did not lead into the restaurant. We backtracked and traced along the edges of the windows and around the corner. There, hidden away within a dimly lit brick wall as a door much the same color -- we had not noticed it when we had walked by many times -- even when we had walked by in daylight. We opened the door and stepped into the restaurant.
Holding aloft two fingers, I requested a table for two. We were soon seated, and the waitress brought us the menus. We realized that the waiters and waitresses only spoke a little English, which, compared to our miniscule grasp of Japanese, was a lot. Both Debra and I wanted to get something spaghettish, perhaps out of a longing for a different sort of noodles than the traditional Japanese style. When the waitress returned, we pointed to the various items on the menu that we desired (thankfully the menu had English "subtitles" for the Japanese Kanji) and added kudasai, the Japanese word for please. The waitress smiled and nodded and then went back to the kitchen, where she no doubt translated our pointing into the proper Japanese for the chefs to understand. While we waited for our food, we talked a bit, and when it was brought, we ate and continued to talk. Finally, as we finished the spaghetti, which to me tasted a bit different from what I was used to (but of course, I was now in Japan, it may have been the various herbs it used that made it taste fairly "Japanese"). We were brought the dessert menu, and made our orders once again using our ritual of pointing and saying kudasai. After dessert, the bill arrived. In Japan, it is considered rude to tip, but as my total had ended in 2 yen, and I had no small denominations, I gave a 10-yen piece. And sure enough, a waiter came back with the money on a tray (all money seems to travel on small leather or metal trays here -- I guess it is a cultural thing) and my 8-yen of change. This was approximately 6 US cents -- but the Japanese are a very polite and precise people.
After leaving the Italian restaurant, bowing on our way out and saying Thank you in Japanese, both of us broke out in laughter of joy. We had survived, nay, prospered and eaten to our heart's delight in a restaurant where between us we knew far less than 100 words of Japanese.
A short walk brought us to Dwarves Square, as we had named Hiroo Plaza, where much to our delight, the dwarves had returned. These creations of air-filled fabric lazily bobbed from side to side, perhaps swayed by the nighttime breezes or moved by the rushing airs fleeing from before the ever-passing traffic. In any case, we were glad to see our old friends back in their place. All seven dwarves from Snow White were there, and though at first we could not figure out which was which, we soon identified a few key dwarves (notably Grumpy and Sleepy) and then proceeded to identify Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, Doc and Dopey.
Satisfied, we turned to go up on the escalator to the second floor of the Hiroo Plaza. Every time that we had been up there, be it in the morning or the evening, it had been closed. This time, as well, we rode up the escalator, looked around and saw that everything was closed (everything, that is, except for the 24-hour ATM), and then turned and rode the escalator back down, laughing that we had been foiled a third time. We started walking towards the hotel, then on a whim, turned to perhaps find somewhere to do some Karaoke, but then, realizing that the night was already wearing on (it was a ways past nine o' clock), we decided to go back to the New Sanno Hotel, for we had rented a movie and wished to watch it.
Back at the Hotel, we dropped 007: The World is Not Enough into the VCR and watched. It was a good movie, with an ample helping of action and adventure, as well as its fair share of beautiful women, cool gadgets and sleek cars. However, I think I preferred the plot of Tomorrow Never Dies a bit better, though the World is Not Enough was also quite entertaining. After the movie, we talked a bit until I brought out a deck of cards, whereupon we played a few games of Speed. After splitting a set of games, Debra introduced me to Texan Speed, a variant that apparently only shares its need for rapid pattern matching with the original. Finally, after a few games of that, I decided to try something different. I had been idly laying out cards in an interesting pattern, when I decided to apply 6.001's (MIT's introductory computer science course) wishful thinking concept to creating game. Wishful thinking essentially says to design a system (or program, or algorithm or game) as if the necessary components for one part already exist and function perfectly -- in other words, play the game as if there are rules, even though there may not be or they be incomplete. I decided to pretend and play as if I already knew the rules, and to see what would come of.
I arranged the cards into thirteen piles of four facedown cards into a vague star-shape. Next, I allowed Debra to take her turn first and to flip over the top of card of one of the thirteen piles -- any card that she wanted. She did so and then it became my turn and I flipped over a card. We continued in this fashion until she flipped over a card that matched one of the other face-up cards. By matched I mean had the same face value -- i.e. the card was the same, ignoring differing suits (examples: two queens, two threes). Then, the rule became that when a pair was revealed, both cards should be taken off and stored away as a pair and then the person who reveal the pair would be able to flip another card, provided it was from one of the two piles from whence the pair had came (the exception to this being if both of the piles were depleted, in which case the person would be able to flip from any pile he or she desired). The number of pairs that one had collected would count as one's score. We continued to play this way for a while, and I addressed the rare chance (for Debra asked about it, foreseeing that it might happen) that all the thirteen piles would be unique cards -- that there would be no match. In that case, the person who had revealed the thirteenth unique card would receive thirteen points (in addition to their points from the number of pairs, if any, that they had) and the game would end. We continued to play a while. As we played, some piles became depleted, meaning that all the cards had been matched away. Finally, there arose the situation that all the piles were face up but there were no matches. In this case, we said that the game stalemated, which quickly changed into the more colloquial phrasing that the game had "gone stale." Whoever had more pairs would win the game in that case. Finally, if all the cards were used and all 26 pairs gathered, then the game was said to be complete and the person who took the last pair (or as Debra astutely pointed out, the last two pairs) would win the game, regardless of how many pairs either player had. So, it was possible, though not very likely for the player with less pairs of cards to win. We continued to play the game, after I revealed that I had been making it up as I went -- though by now both of us found it strangely interesting. At times, the pairs would "string" -- meaning that the bonus flip after gathering a pair would reveal another pair, whose bonus flip in turn would reveal another pair and so on. Also, the game seemed to strangely parallel our conversation -- or perhaps our conversation paralleled the game. We also could sometimes predict how to lengthen a string, or where to find a matching pair. As we played, we unconsciously (and later, consciously, once we noticed it) played in patterns of interesting shapes that we could build within the thirteen star matrix. After a long while of playing, we finally decided it was quite late (nigh on 4 AM) and that we should go sleep. We parted and as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep, I looked forward to the visit to Yokohama City the next day -- or rather, after the sun rose the same day. Finally, thinking of patterns upon a thirteen star matrix and musing upon strings of fate, I drifted off to the land of dreams and slept.