On Saturday I bought my third bike: a mid-range one, good enough to ride smoothly to work but still write-offable if some thieving gypsy or non-gypsy liberates it.
It's added new flavour to my Tokyo experience. Now every morning I circle the Palace in my suit, bag slung on back like a bicycle courier, weave through the offices of government and the bureacrats on their way to work, before blending in to an upper enclave of expatriate wealth, hoping nobody will notice the imposter.
Whatever about the destination and my degree of belonging there, the journey itself is so much nicer than the rush-hour train.
Then come lunchtime I become Michael Collins transplanted to the east, roaming the city by bike, stopping off at known refuges from years past, making small talk with old friends or saying little at all, basking in their hospitality and the comfort of connection, before moving off as abruptly as I arrive, not to return sometimes for months.
A modern-day Michael Collins sampling the lunch specials, his network of friendly waiters and waitresses.
After talking about doing it for eight years, I finally cycled the Yamanote Line loop today.
It was supposed to be a 34k course but the clock on my bike reckons it was 51k. It took the whole short sunny November day.
Yanaka Cemetery, the huge, sprawling graveyard just after Ueno, caused some navigational problems, as did the section from Osaki to Shinagawa. Akihabara remains out of control. Today it was full of young girls, dressed up as maids, trying to entice the Akiba geeks to "maid coffee shops." As bearded American tourists acquired photographic proof that Japan is a weird and wacky place, I weaved my way through the waves of people and moved on.
Vortexes and navigational difficulties aside, it was a pleasant ride beside the tracks through the many different worlds of the Yamanote Line, from the verve and creativity and affluence of your Harajukus and your Ebisus to the grit and death and decay of your Nipporis and your Tabatas.
Cycled the Imperial Palace loop on Friday night. Stopped to take some night shots of Hibiya and the Ginza beyond. If the Emperor of Japan looks out his window on a Friday night, this is what he sees.
Clear skies in Tokyo today after all the rain.
Saturday's bold plans fell flat when I was sucked into a techie-touristy-porn vortex in Akihabara and couldn't find the river I needed to cross.
The goal was to cycle out to the Ichikawa Bridge that borders Chiba and Tokyo, one of the main bridges over the Edogawa River.
Ironically, people have been known to be arrested on that very bridge on suspicion of bicycle misappropriation. It was to be a ride back into my past on a bike I paid for myself.
It was also the night of the summer fireworks on the Edogawa River, the essence of Tokyo summer and a great photo opportunity. Couples in yukatas and geta sandals, the food stalls, the beer--and the sky lighting up above them. It sounded like a plan.
But as the fireworks were due to start flying at 7.15, I found myself sucked into the vortex of Akihabara, and swirling in hopeless circles through the geeks, the tourists, and the porn, a helmeted gombeen trying desperately to break free from the triple forces of the electric town and find the river I needed to cross. I knew I was going round in circles, but the combined triple forces of the dark side (geeks, tourists, and porn - can forces get any darker?) were just too strong.
When I say the river, I mean the Sumida. All roads in Tokyo eventually lead to the Sumida, so to get out to East Tokyo, at some point you have to cross it. On Saturday night, belly empty, stress well up from the freaky forcefield around the electrictown, the fireworks already half-over without me, I gave up and went home. You're never too long-term to get lost and disoriented in Tokyo.
On Sunday, I would try again, successfully. It was easy, really. You just follow Yasukuni Dori all the way until it brings you to the Ryogoku Bridge. No need to go near Akihabara at all. Crossing the Sumida will lead you toward Chiba. Turning right will put you on the lovely cycling course along the river. If only I'd looked at a map on Saturday night, or eaten before heading out.
To cycle in Tokyo is to get to know its rivers and its roads. The Arakawa, the Sumidagawa, the Edogawa, and the Kandagawa, to name just a few rivers. Yasukuni Dori, Gaien Higashi Dori, Meiji Dori, the Koshu Kaido, to name a few roads. There's something very special about putting the whole city together in your head as you roll around connecting the rivers and the roads.
It's also to learn to avoid the vortexes. I'd been sucked in once before at Ikebukuro, that time a vortex of vigorous Saitama shoppers in high-heels, eighties prostitute belts and fake tans, but Saturday night's one in Akihabara will take some beating.
Find the rivers, learn the roads and how to avoid the myriad vortexes--that's my advice on cycling in Tokyo.
And Akihabara Electric Town needs to be renamed: there's a lot more than electrical goods being sold there these days.
I didn't expect to see this fellow in a pond at the grimy, overgrown Hibiya Park. This park, like many of the centre-pieces of Chiyoda Ward, could do with some upkeep.
Yesterday I took the new bike out for a spin in the sweltering Tokyo summer heat and humidity. It must have been well up in the thirties yesterday here.
The bike rode very well. You get a lot of response for very little effort with a good bike. I think I rode about 25 kilometres in total. The route was familiar at first, circling the Palace using Uchibori Dori, down into Marunouchi and the heart of Tokyo.
From there I did something different, as I ventured into the unknown (for me) realm that is Tokyo's Chuo Ward. After getting lost a few times along the way, I finally made it down to the bicycle course that runs along the Sumida river. This is very a nice course: no cars, cool air coming down the river, and beautiful views.
It's also a ghetto for the Tokyo homeless community. Some of them are very well established along the river, to the degree that shanty town might be a more appropriate term than homeless community. Many were enjoying the strong sun, sunbathing and sleeping on the benches along the way.
The river was up to dangerous levels. Another couple of feet and it will burst its banks. Today the forecast is for thunderstorms; tomorrow is for more of the same. My guess is the Sumida will overflow and flood the shanty town set up along it in the next two days. There are big disadvantages to settling along a flood plain.
Crossing the Chuo Ohashi bridge, I moved down into Tsukishima, one of Tokyo's shitamachi areas. It is famous for its Monja Street. Being Sunday, many of the old restaurants were closed and there were relatively few people about. A TV drama was being filmed in the middle of the street. The shopkeepers stood around hassling whoever was passing by to come eat their monja. They were being too pushy so I gave the gooey Tokyo delicacy a miss.
Back down and across the Sumida again and into Tsukiji, the fishmarket on the edge of Ginza. Two massively different worlds side by side. The Kabukiza theatre was advertising a Kabuki adaptation of Shakespeare--a new concept for me. Ginza was its usual Sunday self, and having cycled through it before I knew to bypass it this time. Over to the Yaesu exit of Tokyo Station, across the Yamanote tracks and back toward the Palace, Uchibori Dori, and the way home.
It was pleasant rolling along, but the bike is so smooth I felt I was cheating. In the evening, I frustrated myself taking it apart and practicing putting it in the Rinko bag, the special bag used in Japan for transporting your bike on the train system. I am about as mechanically minded as a goat.
Instead of retreating to the mountains last Sunday, I went out on the bike in central Tokyo. Heading out on the bike with the camera and the day in front of you and no real destination or schedule in mind is a great way of getting to know this city. And whether you've been here a week or a decade, there's plenty to get to know.
Korakuen
Sunday's trip started with a quest for breakfast that led to the Tokyo Dome complex in Korakuen. That, my friends, was a mistake.
It was all happening at the dome. The Keiba Ojisan (horse-racing punters) were on the move, horse-racing papers in hand, swarming the place and smoking it up. They look like a grumpy shower of bastards, the downtrodden Keiba crew, but I bet appearances deceive. And at least they're not playing pachinko.
Beside the old gamblers, people and families were queuing in an orderly fashion around the outside perimeter of the Tokyo Dome for tickets for the day's baseball game. Why anyone would queue to watch baseball I'll never know, but you had to admire them for their preparedness. Picnic sheets, laptop computers, gameboys, English textbooks, fashion magazines—each and every one of them had come prepared with ways to fill the time. It was happy families out queuing on a Sunday morning, a typically Japanese scene.
And the Rod Stewart haircuts and their pastel girls were also out in numbers for a romantic day at the amusement park. Soft cream, a crepe, a shudder in the haunted house and a scream on the roller-coaster—love's destiny was being fulfilled in Suidobashi.
And then there were the families with their lovely screaming kids.
It took a while to find a restaurant and sort out breakfast.
Yasukuni Shrine
Two overpriced but very tasty Danish sandwiches later, it was back on the bike and rolling down into a different world. From Korakuen, down to Iidabashi, across to Kudanshita and up that enormous hill to the huge Torii of Yasukuni Shrine. I've been to Yasukuni many times, but something I only realized that morning is its position and size. It's huge, and it's right in the center of Tokyo. Yasukuni is seated at the right hand of the Imperial Palace and its seat is vast.
Inside the usual crew were doing the usual things. On any given Sunday, Yasukuni will be filled with rightwing crackpots, Japanese Imperial Army vets, Western and Asian tourists and normal-looking Japanese. A curious mix at the one shrine, I think you'll agree.
But there were some real characters under the sun that morning.
A wheelchair-bound lady had dressed her young boys in old Japanese military get-up, right down to the strange hats. The kids ran around oblivious to the insanity of their mother and the path they would surely find it difficult not to take. An old fellow wearing a t-shirt with the Japanese imperial flag on the front was playing even older songs on the shamisen. He looked calm enough, but I doubt they were songs of peace and love. Another old guy, fully dressed in summer military uniform and looking like the oldest boy scout in the village, marched over and formally saluted his shamisen-playing brother in arms. Then another appeared, wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a kamikaze plane and the message "We will never forget" in Japanese. He too clicked his heels and saluted his compatriots. Meanwhile, in the flea market a couple of meters across the way, the fake Japanese swords were attracting more attention than the wonderful two-foot high wooden sculpture of two horses having sex. How could they ignore such a masterpiece? What was the world coming to, at all?
A mere two kilometers from the queuing families, the grumpy gamblers and the star-crossed lovers of the Tokyo Dome, a whole different ecosystem was living out its morning with national pride. It was time for this visitor to leave.
Odaiba
Onwards I went along the greatest road in Tokyo, Uchibori Dori, the road around the inner moat of the Imperial Palace. Did you know you can get from Iidabashi to Hibiya in about five minutes using Uchibori Dori, with time to take a few pictures of the moat swans along the way? En route, the normally healthy Sunday joggers were looking dehydrated and ready to collapse. It was the hottest of days. From Hibiya, I moved down through old Shimbashi and on to Hinode Pier in Hamamatsucho. From Hinode, I would take the water bus to the Shinagawa Aquarium. I hear it's a great aquarium and you can't beat being at sea on a sunny summer day.
Sadly, the next Water Bus to the aquarium wasn't for hours, so a change of destination was required. Five minutes later, I set sail for the dreaded Odaiba.
Reclaiming Odaiba from the bay was a mistake. This land of tacky shopping malls with indoor skies and kind of people they attracted was better off submerged. But for some reason it didn't feel so bad this time, probably because I wasn't shopping.
Strangely enough, the boat arrived on the beach. A crammed city beach with windsurfers and big bridges in the background. There's something nice about that. Reminded me of New York or Chicago. The prepared had brought their UV beach tents, which I didn't even know existed until then. The hardcore Edoko suntanners and their tattoos had been toasting for hours. Kids played catch with their fathers on the sand. Catch, what a boring game. Make it competitive, folks.
And what is it about Odaiba and pedigree dogs? Are you only allowed bring top quality canines onto this reclaimed paradise in the most stinking bay in the world? Check for yourself if you're ever out there. There are no mongrels or half-breeds to be seen in Odaiba. Every single dog is a pure-breed, and there are none of those pug-faced little runts either. Or poodles.
I sat on the beach for a good two hours, thinking seaside thoughts in central Tokyo, until the windsurfers and surfers packed up for the day and the sun began to set over Rainbow Bridge.
It was time to take the water bus back across the bay and cycle home.
Photographing photographers.
Romantic Rainbow Bridge through a polarizing filter.
Suzume.
Fountain photos all round.
Making sure the fountain rules are enforced.
Sweeping inside the fountain.
A surfer on the waveless Odaiba Beach. He's had enough.
The new camera is great fun.
For one thing, it can take night shots.
Last Friday, I took it to my old friend Kabukicho for some practice. It was mainly an exercise in learning about things like shutter speed and aperture. Here's one of the results.
Dedicated to Paddy Mac. If you look in the background Paddy, you can see that Tonkatsu place we used to visit. In my book, the best Tonkatsu place in Tokyo, although I've yet to try the famous one in Meguro.
The sky is tinting the windows of my office a kind of bad-sunglass, Duracell amber. The world has turned the seedy colour of cheap porn. Amsterdam amber. This is no normal gone-in-an-instant Tokyo twilight. The skies are about to open and we're in for a storm.
Yesterday I took photos of beautiful, majestic tori (birds) and then ate yakitori (grilled birds on a stick). No remorse.
In my defence, I'm not completely heartless. I have yet to describe a dolphin, seal, killer whale, otter or other kawaii (cute) sea-related animal used in posters for environmental conservation or nature films as oishisou (looking tasty).
Took the camera for a walk today in Takadanobaba, which looks very rundown these days.
The face of a Japan that can say no, and anything else it likes.
The colour of our approaching night. One of Tokyo's mutant crows.
It was a great idea, when two of Japan's most famous living photographers, Tsuneyoshi Araki and Daido Moriyama, decided to take their cameras to Shinjuku for a day last year and photograph the area that most represents the glittering and stinking half-exotic, half-mundane world of order and chaos that is hardc0re urban Japan. Araki shot in colour, Moriyama in black and white, and the photos they took that day are now being exhibited in Opera City (Japanese). I was very keen to go along.
Here's what I expected. Two brilliant photographers shooting a subject matter very familiar to me. Shinjuku is my backyard and in many ways like a second hometown. I could give guided tours of the place. I have photographed it in all its areas, time after time, always finding it a difficult essence to capture. So I was hoping for some inspiration. These two old masters would show the hapless but enthusiastic beginner clever techniques and fresh ways of looking.
And here's what they did. They sauntered from the east exit of the station down to Koma Stadium, the heartland of red light gangsterland Kabukicho, wandered around there taking photos of sleeping homeless people and startled yamamba for a while, before hitting the beer, heading off to fraternize with the local wh0res, taking their naked photos and then staggering back to the station to go home to their wives.
Or so it seems. I don't know what they did, really. I don't even know if they're married. But the middle section of the exhibition is two walls of photos of naked ladies of the water business the two old doyens seem to have met that day. They're good pictures, it must be said, and very pleasant on the eye.
And if you think Shinjuku is almost exclusively about selling sex, you'll find the chosen subject matter very faithful. It certainly does capture a journey into the seamy side of the place, which is a side that contains many fascinations. But I have to be honest: good as the nudes are, I wanted to be impressed by more than that. I suspect they've underestimated the many faces of Shinjuku, treating it almost as a cliche of itself. Seriously, they just went on the p!ss and on to see the wh0res.
More damning still is the lack of editing. I could pick out 100 shots in this exhibition that aren't as good as photos my friends take. Where was the quality control, boys? In the old chancers' defence, they might say the only way to capture Shinjuku's essence is by taking take millions and millions of photos.
Messrs. Moriyama and Araki are highly respected men of the camera. Araki's nickname is Genius, for God's sake. They're good and they know it, and so does everybody else. This also means they've nothing to lose, and unfortunately it shows.
Headed down to the Central Wholesale Fishmarket in Tsukiji early this morning with the camera. Wild place, so full of urgency. Kind of reminded me of the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, except the people here are dealing in something tangible. I left Tsukiji on a great high this morning. Hard to believe this world coexists so close to the likes of Roppongi Hills. Also hard to believe I'd hadn't visited it until now.
Jean Pearce, incidentally, has a great piece on Tsukiji in More Footloose in Tokyo. Recommended reading before you make the trip. Especially interesting is the description of how this "made" (or reclaimed) land (ÃÛÃÏ¡Ëused to be a segregated colony housing Tokyo's couple of hundred foreigners away from the main population in the Meiji era, after the doors were opened to the West. A bit like the Azabu/Hiroo "foreign ghetto" of today except with fewer Porsches and more missionaries?
Photos in the gallery. Dead fish, it must be said, are very photogenic.
I've travelled to some out-of-the-way places for a good view of Mount Fuji, but today was the first time in all my years here I ever saw it from Tokyo. Ebisu takes on a new significance.
Despite the warnings, I ended up going to Ueno Zoo. And it was as bad as everybody said.
Things were particularly fucked for the bears. Tokyo is having its hottest summer on record, and while that's tough for an Irish White Human, imagine how it must be for a Hokkaido Brown Bear with built-in fur coat, used to a land covered with snow 10 months of the year. And if the weather wasn't enough to contend with, it finds itself trapped in a cage smaller than your average bathroom:
This Malaysian Sun Bear didn't seem so chuffed with his confines either for that matter:
The penguins don't look too pleased either. I'm no penguin expert, but they look downright unhealthy to me:
The polar bears were pacing back and forth in frustration:
In fact, the only creatures that looked to be surviving okay were the aardvarks:
Saw the Japanese Giant Salamander too. Not the fastest creature around by any means. Many around me were remarking about how cute he was, though. Twenty million years old and still a hit with the ladies...
Took out the trusty old mountain bike late last night and went for a bit of a cruise around the north reaches of inner Yamanote* Tokyo, passing among other things the city's only remaining tramline, known as the Toden.
Being nearly midnight, the streets around the residential parts of Waseda and Edogawabashi were quiet to the point of desertion, leaving the whole city, it seemed, to me and my bicycle.
In other cities, this night quiet might leave a person feeling wary, but not Tokyo. Last night, with the temperature down a few degrees from the oppressive daytime heat and wide areas of the centre of one of the biggest cities in the world all mine, was one of those mundane experiences you'd never predict would become the one of the real happy memories of a person's relationship with a city.
* The Yamanote Line is a loop train line in the centre of Tokyo, along which many of Tokyo's various centers are located. The area inside it, including the Imperial Palace, the Ginza shopping district, parliament and government, universities, hospitals, businesses, the financial center, plush new residential "city-complexes" and quaint older residential areas, could be called central Tokyo. The north reaches of this area are home to universities including the famous Waseda University and Tokyo University and many of the old-style residential areas.
Things I think I can tell from this picture: (1) they're not from Tokyo; (2) they're the best of people. What is it, I wonder, that makes me think so?
Used the start of Golden Week to put on the tourist hat and explore some of the old battlegrounds, see what has changed and what remains the same, and finally make it to the resting place of the 47 Samurai, buried beside their master Lord Asano in the grounds of Sengaku-ji Temple in Shinagawa.
The picture is of a young woman buying a set of incense sticks beside the graves of the 47 Samurai. Following the ritual, she'll place one on every grave to pay homage. Chushingura, the guidebooks say, is a tale of revenge, loyalty and self-sacrifice, of heroism in obedience, but also of when justice demands that you disobey.
From Sengakuji I moved toward Shimbashi, where I first learnt my Tokyo. Whatever you think of the companies setting up shop in Shiodome, it's good to see Shimbashi undergoing a revival. Shimbashi's been down on its luck since I came here. For years it has been like an old drunk, charming, unbelievable and clearly sad, telling stories of past glories to whoever will listen. With the new Shiodome development, Shimbashi is finally standing proudly again.
Following Shiodome came a stroll through Hama Rikyu Gardens to the terminus of the Water Bus, and a ride down the Sumida River to Asakusa. Accompanying me on the boat were the folks from the country up to see the big smoke during Golden Week. Like in any country, these folks have their own special look, their unabashed lack of chique serving as a refreshing contrast to the gaudy protocols followed religously and at all costs by Tokyo's Louis Vuitton crew.
More photos from can be found in my newly-installed Gallery here.
Cherry blossoms aren't the only crowd pullers in Tokyo. The multitudes they flocked in throngs to the capital's Kameido area today for a festival in a temple reknowned for its wisteria.
The women came to see the flowers, the men to shoot them. They were armed for this mission with what must be described as big motherfucking cameras.
While the wisteria were very nice, I thought the crowds they drew were disproportionate to their beauty, not to mention my comfort.
I took the opportunity to take some photos of Tokyo's older folks and their hats. As I was leaving, one old guy came up to me, looked me in the eye and said "Good Sunday" emphatically in English. Then he and his wife laughed and went on their way.
Click on Continue Reading to see those who came and the flowers they came to see.
The sun setting behind the smog on Miura Peninsula, as seen from across the bay in Kisarazu. Sometimes even pollution looks nice.
Click on Continue Reading for two more photos. One is Yokosuka looking post-apocalyptic, the other the bridge across the bay known as the Tokyo Bay Aqua Line.
There are those among the living—and probably those among the dead—who would have thought it strange to see the dodgy Irish-looking character loping around in the middle of Tokyo's vast and creepy Aoyama Cemetry in the dark tonight taking bad pictures of Roppongi Hills.
Coming home by a detour route from football on Sunday morning, we ended up finding a totem pole, an antiques market, a stunning temple, a memorial in stone to sumo's yokuzuna (grand champions), two temples to the poet Basho, a turtle and carp-filled pond in a beautiful Japanese garden, and the last of the cherry blossoms—yaezakura, which is literally translated as "double flowered cherry blossoms."
Just another street in this amazing city.
The sun machine is coming down and we're going to have a party, as Bowie once said. I wonder was he thinking Ueno Park in cherry bloom when he wrote that. As promised Pat, this was the return to the scene of the crime. Tamer than before, but still special. I raised a bottle of CC Lemon in your honor and thought about times past.
Click on Continue Reading for some more pictures of an evening watching Tokyo go off. I decided to leave out the ones containing nudity to protect the drunk.
How did Shinjuku develop? Why was Uguisudani (Nightingale Valley) so called? What was with all the horses in Komagome? Is the Ame in Ameyoko the abbreviation for Americans? What is Kabukicho's connection with Kabuki?
If you've any interest in the history of the geography of Tokyo--how areas developed, where they got their names, what kind of people lived where and why--then you really have to read Footloose in Tokyo: the Curious Traveler's Guide to the 29 Stages of the Yamanote Line by Jean Pearce. If, like me, you are madly in love with the city at the moment, you should leave your office or your house right now and go buy it. It's that good.
To deliberately use a much over-used cliche, this book a joy to read.
Thinking back to those secondary school days in Dublin, starting going to gigs, seeing Irish bands like A-House, Something Happens, An Emotional Fish, the Stunning, and the Golden Horde, one venue stands out—McGonagles.
It's long gone now, but its memories remain—stage diving at Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (we were young), a magic night of Into Paradise and Whipping Boy, the beauty that lasted coming from Into Paradise (where are they now? I was in love with the girl for years, but I can't remember now if she played guitar or bass), and of course Dave Couse from A-House, his garish shirts and mop of red hair, engaging the crowd with his unique blend of between-song banter as we willed them to play Kick Me Again Jesus or some other local classic still remembered by a group of people of a certain age in Dublin.
My second youth, in Tokyo, was played out to a more electric beat, and at its core was a club called Liquid Room in the shiny, flashy, gangster heartland of Tokyo, Shinjuku's Kabukicho. I was there last night as it happens; Kabukicho, that is, not Liquid Room. Me and Kabukicho go back a long way, and Liquid Room, a pool hall, and a little Tonkatsu restaurant had a lot to do with forming our relationship.
The Tonkatsu restaurant is still there. We went there last night. Same quality pork, big portions, lovely Miso soup, and the same reasonable price. All you can eat rice and cabbage. What more could a person want? The pool hall is still there too. We all know that.
But this morning on arriving at work I got some sad news in my e-mail from Pat. Liquid Room, that squalid bastion of my second youth, is no more. It closed the same day as Farm Grill, the famous Californian buffet restaurant in Ginza, another of Tokyo's stalwarts of celebration—December 31, 2003.
Goodbye Liquid Room. I hated your bouncers, their brash, cocky, we're hip in the dance world aura. I didn't like your prices very much either. But you were essential on many fine nights, and a key part of my Kabukicho.
