Out and About in Tokyo

A rambling, diary style post about celebration.

On Thursday night, I went over to Shibuya to see the new Shane McGowan documentary produced by the Irish Film Board. Before the screening they had a Japanese traditional Irish band, who were excellent apart from when they decided to inflict on us the sound of bagpipes. (Anybody playing bagpipes should be shot.) They had the right mix of preparation and spontaneity, hard work and enjoyment. By the end I was sitting there tapping my feet and smiling. Young Japanese who learn the words to Dicey Riley are special in my book. I felt like singing with them, but resisted the urge. People were there for a night out.

The film was awful, infused with the cloying presence of Victoria Clark and full of gossip and bullshit. It didn't meet my expectations. The fact is, I could have made it much better, by focusing on things that matter, like the ease and magical beauty of McGowan's lyrics (Nick Cave said they were unparalleled: "He has never written a bad line"), the hows and whys and mystical, trance-like nature of the creative process, theories of poetry and music, and the Pogues' place in a long, beaufiful line of Irish tradition, not the drink, the drugs, the inner politics and the fallings-out. Anyone can drink themselves to death and fall out with their friends. They were asking the wrong questions.

On Friday night, I took the bike for a night spin around the palace, stopping to take some photos of the Ginza and the moat. As I was setting up the tripod, guards started filing down the steep embankment on the inner side of the moat. You could only make them out by their torchlights. More and more torchlights appeared, moving down purposefully in organised single-file. Then the main palace lights all went out. It was sinister, like a Bond scene. It was a Milk Tray moment. Over there, on the other side of the moat, people had serious business to attend. They were following trails, looking for something important. Maybe a plot had been foiled, like someone trying to break into the palace. Or someone trying to escape. I went home to watch the Preview Show.

On Saturday morning I got up before the sun and took the Odakyu Line to the old tramping ground, Tanzawa. This time I chose to go up Oyama again and back down through Yabitsu Pass. The route up was full of day trippers with noisy kids or well-behaved dogs. Oyama is a famous mountain. Things got better and people fewer on the route less travelled on the way down. The beauty of Tanzawa is in its sasa-covered open ridges. The uniqueness of Tanzawa is contained in the sasa. The first few times, you take its innocuous presence for granted. Eventually, you begin to realize its importance in the scene.

I also saw Tanzawa from a new perspective. From the ridge between Oyama and Yabitsu Pass, you can see the outline of the main Tanzawa traverse clear in the skyline--Tonodake, Tanzawayama, and Hirugatake all standing tall and distinct. I've done it in summer, and now would like to do that traverse in winter this year. It must be beautiful in snow.

On Sunday morning, I cycled 15k across the city at dawn to a football pitch in the east of Tokyo near the bay. Tokyo is so much better when it's empty. It was just me, the morning light and the crows. Rolling along. During the game, I had one of those pure joy moments, when you can feel your body actually releasing its endorphins. I wasn't sure what it was at first, and thought I might be dizzy or something and need to come off. Then I realized what it was—the physical state of happiness. I proceeded to score a volley the Gods of football would only dream about. I'm thinking of sending a copy of the video to Liverpool Football Club, fao Djibril Cisse and Peter Crouch. Morientes doesn't need to watch it. His technique is probably slightly better than mine. On the cycle back, the aggressive bus drivers and wannabe Saitama gangstas in their souped-up yellow Pikachu dream machines made sure I didn't linger in reveries for too long.

And then, on Sunday afternoon, body sated, I entered the wonderful world of the Chinese Dim-Sum restaurant, where I lounged around for hours drinking cup after cup of Puar tea (which enables the eating of lots of greasy food) and ordering dumplings and shrimp pancakes and Chinese cabbage concoctions from the food carts wheeled around the restaurant by young waiters and waitresses in traditional Chinese dress.

It was a celebration of a weekend. If weekends had theme tunes, this one's would be Ode to Joy.

Posted by Setsunai at November 7, 2005 4:44 PM