Statesman > XL Blogs > Archives > 2005 > March > 29 > Entry
Big in Japan
Asian earthquakes, living wills, child molestation trials, Jessica Simpson in Austin and the size of a small monkey. The world spins, tragedies unfold, and I have but one question: Should I bring a scarf to Japan?
I’ve decided against the tasteful Iron Maiden T-shirt and that pair of Diesel jeans with the baggy tush. Same goes for the NB running shoes that vaguely resemble moon boots. All of it disqualified in great trip-packing deliberations. Günter Grass’ “The Tin Drum” — that’s the novel I’ve elected to bring. It’s about 1,000 pages long and stars a hero, Oskar, who is the size of a small monkey.
The scarf, sprawled on the floor like a pancaked python, awaits my verdict. Longingly, lashes batting, it looks at me, wistful. It might have whimpered. I took it to London. Is that not enough?
Tomorrow I go. My journeys have been voluminous and far. China and London were savored last year. Now I leave for the land of zen refinement, industrial urban chaos, noodles, neon and fantastic numbers of monkeys. (The simian motif stops here.)
I have no idea what I’m doing. I have a ticket. I have a couple bucks in change. I have a craving for sushi and Kirin beer. Let’s go.
A friend of mine is currently in Rome. I told her to be wary of begging children who will rob her blind. I’m good like that, though she didn’t seem to appreciate it. I’ve gotten no such advice from my frankly unsolicitous friends. Everyone freaked when I merely mentioned I was going to China. They seemed to think China was an unexplored planet of sea monsters and plagues and diabolical rickshaw drivers bent on running me down. They were wrong on all counts except the sea monsters.
My dad spent a spell in Japan in the ’50s. He was in the Air Force and young. He and a friend tried to steal luxurious bathrobes from the Imperial Hotel and got caught. I will complete the mission at which my father failed. The trick, pop, is to wear the bathrobe under your clothing.
I’m already getting chest pains about the Tokyo Metro, which, despite its vaunted efficiency and speed, looks like a riot of angry octopi. If any of you see red flares streaking the sky from the east, call the American Embassy.
Yet I can’t wait for the orgies of electric light and moving bodies in the Shibuya and Shinjuku districts of Tokyo. Can’t wait for the hedonistic excesses of the Roppongi area. Osaka, Kyoto and Hiroshima are also in my sights. They have been warned.
Without travel I’m dead. Very Descartian, that, but true. Incurable is my wanderlust, a disease I nurture and spoil. (Suddenly, I feel like a philosopher, a great guru of triteness and self-puffery. “I travel alone, with only the wind as my guide and companion …”)
I’m not nervous, I have no angst. I have reservations about nothing, though I have some for Seat 24-C on Northwest and a room at a Shibuya hotel. Plane crashes don’t worry me, but ask me again when the cabin is filling with smoke.
The scarf will go. It might sit rolled in the suitcase the whole time but it shall get glimpses of Japanese hotel rooms. It should feel lucky for that. I know I do.
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