IMR: Entries: 2001: August: 31 — Friday, August 31, 2001

Return Expedition I'm back in the bowels of the Narita airport, back at the little green desk, aching and exhausted. But this time, I'm happy.   I catch the first airport shuttle at 5:45 a.m. A lull in the weather as we head for the airport. The new Hong Kong airport is incredible. Some airlines take care of their smallest passengers. In Tokyo, I bust out of the airport. The ticket machine... finally vanquished! The Keisei Line to Narita and parts beyond. The Japanese have train transit down pat. The town of Narita, an old friend. Now to remember where the station is. The one street I stick to as I explore. Pedestrians get the short end of the stick. Once again I visit the Naritasan Temple. My soul is cleansed with drums and chants. Peaceful, but the sounds of cicadas is eerie. I explore the grounds a bit more this time. Now that's a lot of turtles. My favorite part, the nearby park. This park bench is now a regular stop. Ack! Be careful where you walk. The gardens are bigger and prettier than I thought. I guess there's still lots more to see next time. I stop at the same restaurant as last time. Delicious. Kikuya, now run by the 12th generation of the Ishibashis. This time my layover was a gargantuan seven hours, so — after fretting about it and fearing utter catastrophe — I broke out on my own. And made it back alive. So now my flight starts boarding in 40 minutes (although I've already developed the habit of boarding at "last call" to minimize sitting and waiting on the plane), and I'm fed and pleasurably tired and hoping I'll be able to sleep so deeply, I'll plop right back into Hawaii time when I arrive on Friday at 8 a.m. And I still get a kick out of the fact that my plane from Hong Kong left for Tokyo at 8 a.m. on Friday. Of course, with an 8 a.m. flight, I had to get up by 4 a.m., and be packed and on the hotel shuttle by 5:45 a.m. It was the first bus out, but apparently few other guests were as unlucky as I was, and there were a total of five passengers on the huge luxury motorcoach. The first thing I noticed was that, for once, it wasn't raining. In fact, while it was grey and dark, I could see more sky this morning than at any time during my visit. This time I got to enjoy the scenery as we headed out of Central Hong Kong, from the mind-bogglingly huge housing complexes to the gorgeous green mountain peaks and glimmering waters. In fact, if you squinted your eyes just right, you could almost believe you were somewhere in Hawaii... on a bad day. The Chek Lap Kok airport was just coming to life as I arrived, and I was checked in and through customs in no time. I took the frighteningly fast train out to one of the larger international terminals ("Gates 1-80," read the sign), and wandered around the nearly empty facility for about an hour — taking a couple of pointless rides on the long peoplemover — until the stores opened. I was able to buy some snacks and late souvenirs before it was time to board. I decided to be good and worked through most of the flight, cleaning up the 25 pages of minutes I took during yesterday's six hours of meetings. Then, since I was able to nab an exit-row seat, I stretched out and read the Asian edition of Time magazine. Not surprisingly, I didn't notice much difference except for all the metric measurements: he had a fever of 42 degrees! The flight was only three-and-a-half hours long, and we were on our final approach to Narita in no time. As my ears popped, I realized I had to make a decision. I hate Narita. But I also don't speak Japanese. That is to say, if I wanted to leave the airport and go and visit the temple like I did last year, I'd have to do it alone. Now, last time, Sharon didn't know Japanese either, and our success seemed as much dumb luck as deductive reasoning. It was almost fun just shrugging and jumping on the next train. Being lost and panicking by yourself, though, is something completely different. But really, the thought of spending seven hours at NRT was slightly more horrifying. So when I tumbled off the plane with everyone else, I followed the arrows to "Arriving," and ignored many, many, big, almost accusing signs to "Connecting." I filled out the little card at immigration, walked through the gates at customs, and soon found myself in the bustling North Wing Arrivals hall. "Now what?" I asked. For lack of a companion, I talked out loud to myself for the rest of the afternoon. It was almost 2 p.m., and my flight to Honolulu didn't leave until 9 p.m. Even allowing myself a generous 90 minutes to get back into the airport, that left five and a half hours to spend in Japan. "I'm in Japan!" I exchanged a little bit of cash, and then found the "baggage storage" room, where they would hold my bags for the day for ¥300. Finally, the real challenge: getting out of the airport. I followed the signs down several sets of stores to the train station, then stared dumbly at the signs for a while. JR Line and the Keisei Line both seemed to go where I wanted to go: the town of Narita proper, only a few miles out. (I knew it would at least be easy to get back, as the airport was the terminating point.) Another few minutes of squinting and scratching my head — waiting patiently for displays to switch into English, and reading furiously before they switched back — I realized only the Keisei Line ran regularly enough to be useful. Then I had to get my tickets. Now this is the task that, on both of my previous visits, baffled me the most. The maps up above looked like circuitboards, and with all the boxes and color-coded lines, I could never make heads nor tails of them. Then, buying the tickets was no simple task... varying sets of buttons would light up depending on how much money you put in, and you had to be sure to hit the right ones, or else end up with a ticket that would leave you trapped in another train station where the gates would refuse to let you out. So I studied. And watched. I walked to an opposite wall with a different map on it, then pulled out a pen and carefully copied the kanji characters for "Narita" and "Airport." Then I went back to the ticket machine and studied some more. "To go to Narita... I catch the Limited Express... and get off at the second stop," I muttered. "That's ¥230 per adult... I think. Yeah, that's it. That's it!" So I put in a random assortment of coins, and watched a mix of buttons light up. I hit the one for "one person," which then caused a number of other buttons to light up. Clearly I could now buy a ticket to the other end of the country, but I hit the second one, for ¥230. Out came the little magnetic ticket, and almost as many coins as I put in. I followed the signs to the platform, and waited for my train, which was to depart at 2:33 p.m. I knew it would be on time. But when the train finally pulled up, it said it was going to Ueno. I panicked. I went back to look at the train map and its boxes and yellow and red and purple lines. I wanted the train on the purple line, the Limited Express, which did stop at Narita. But where was Ueno? "Ah," I said, finding the big white box for Ueno at the opposite end of the map, at the other end of the purple line. I ran back down and jumped on the train just as the conductor was climbing in, and a couple of minutes later, with a beep and a whistle, we were off, at 2:33 p.m. exactly. We barreled through the tunnel, stopped briefly at the other airport station, then soon popped out above ground. I enjoyed the scenery, the green fields, narrow roads and small buildings. The train kept rolling, rolling, rolling. "Was it this far last time?" The train slowed, but only for a slight turn, then picked up speed again. "Um..." Just as I started to sweat, the Narita station was announced, and I hopped out. From here, things were almost familiar. I navigated my way down to the street, then headed for the nearest street corner. As soon as I spotted the McDonalds a block away, I knew exactly what to do: get on Omotesendo Street and follow it. No problem. Just to be sure, though, I turned around once in a while and took a picture, in case I needed them to find my way back. (If only Hansel and Gretel had a digicam.) The narrow road wound between stores, restaurants and apartments all crammed in shoulder to shoulder. It sloped downward and curved to the right. I was thrilled that I knew exactly where I was. "And there's the store with the Pocket Wetty!" Eventually, I was there. I went through the gate, ignored the trinket stands, and climbed the steps toward the temple. I put incense in the courtyard urn, then went the rest of the way up. A ceremony was already underway, with everyone chanting, the drummer drumming, and a fire burning. I took off my shoes, sat in back, and just closed my eyes and listened. It was wonderfully calming, and made me feel almost dizzy. When it was over, I headed out, and wandered the temple grounds a bit. Then I climbed the steps in back, where Sharon and I had found a little pavillion in the woods. Sure enough, it was there, and I sat at the mossy picnic table and just enjoyed the peace. Except it wasn't exactly peaceful. The air was filled with buzzing and chirping. In fact, at times it was so overwhelming, it sounded like I was trapped in a bad sci-fi film. I half expected to see someone come staggering out of the woods, clutching his ears. Almost fittingly, when I studied the trees around me, I couldn't see a thing that might be generating all that noise. I was fairly sure I wasn't going to get much meditating done in that din, so I got up and wandered around some more. I soon realized that the little section we'd passed through before was just a tiny part of the entire grounds. In fact, as I crested a hill, I saw the path I was on branched and split several times and meandered deep into the woods, and down toward what looked like a stream. "Why not?" So I followed the most direct path toward the sound of water. I was scared into retreat a few times by bees, spiders, and other random bugs, but eventually I got to the bottom. I found myself in an enormous, beautiful garden. (I almost wrote "Japanese garden," but, you know.) Big lakes with koi, ducks and turtles, pretty stone and wooden bridges, sculpted shrubs, flowering bushes and thick ferns. I crossed one stream, then another. I think I probably could've walked for miles, but my "lost detector" went off, so I eventually turned back and barely managed to retrace my steps back up the hill to the temple. By then all the trinket stands were boarded up. I stepped out onto Omotesando Street to the strains of a nearby festival, barely audible behind the crecendo of insect noise. I headed back up the street, and resolved to find the same restaurant where Sharon and I had eaten before. I recognized it by the specific configuration of plastic food in the outside display case. "Kikuya" (a.k.a. Chrysanthemum House) was its name. There was a young woman at the door who was greeting everyone who walked past, but when I stepped in, she followed right behind. The place was empty, just like it was before, but this time I sat at a table (I didn't think my knees could take the kneeling). She spoke to me in gentle Japanese, but immediately recognized the lost look in my eye, and handed me the English menu. I picked "Japanese Set A," for ¥3,000. It was delicious, and wonderfully presented in small waves. Some kind of brown wheat-based wine, miso soup with mushrooms, a small plate of assorted pickled vegetables, and — my favorite — sashimi for starters. Then a plate of tempura: shrimp, eggplant, okra, green beans, mushrooms, and a couple of other squishy things I couldn't quite identify. I drank lots of tea, but couldn't resist ordering a small overpriced Coke, too. Dessert was a perfect slice of "organic" watermelon. The cook, a young man, came out to ask what I thought, and it took me a minute to realize he was speaking near perfect English. "It's very good, delicious," I said. He asked if I spoke Japanese. "A little," I said, "But I find it's easier to just stick with English and just get help." Since I remembered a young family working there last time, I asked the woman if she had a little baby. She didn't, she said, but the owner's daughter had a three-year old son. "That's the baby I remember," I said. "He must be big!" Soon we were all chatting, and I told them I regretted not attempting to talk to them before. They told me about the noise in the air — cicadas — and that the city had just started work on a project to move the mess of electrical and telephone wires overhead entirely underground. They asked about my travels, and about my family — I just look "so Japanese," they said. I asked them about the URL on the wall, and they said they now had a website (designed, in fact, by a friend in Hawaii). It turns out the man was the owner's son, and that he would become the thirteenth generation of Ishibashi to run the restaurant. I saw the young son toddle by, and remarked that he certainly was much bigger than he was last year. As I finished my tea, they set about rearranging the food in the window. I wondered if I'd have found them if they did that earlier in the day. I bid them goodbye, telling them I'd hope to return soon, and as I headed up the street, they bowed and waved every time I looked back. The train to the airport was waiting when I got to the station, and I got back to NRT just as the sun was going down. The lines weren't all that long, and before I knew it, I was back, right here at this little desk, with more than an hour left to wait. So I'm sweaty and sticky and my feet hurt, and yes I'm sitting in the glow of the fluourescent lights of hell itself, but I don't mind. I had a great afternoon, and I'll be headed home soon.

Comments That is such a great story -- and you are definitely more courageous than I. I didn't dare to go *anywhere* in Japan without a qualified Japanese-speaker in tow. France or Italy yes, Japan, never. Go, Ryan, you funky world traveller, you! —Dreama (September 2, 2001 7:30 AM) Oooo neat, Ryan! 3000 yen -- expensive, but food sounded good. :) BTW your link to the Chrysanthemum restaurant is kaput. —Lani (September 2, 2001 8:20 AM) Thank you for sharing your time in Japan with readers like myself. I almost felt like I was there with you sharing the gardens and temples, and your dinner at Kikuya. You are so lucky to have these opportunities and I admire you for taking them when you can! —Joy (September 3, 2001 9:17 AM) E kala mai! Comments have been disabled due to overwhelming abuse by spammers. Please click through to any of the video hosting services linked above to leave a public response, or feel free to send an e-mail. Mahalo! < August 30 · August · September 09 > © 1997-2008 Ryan Kawailani Ozawa · E-Mail: imr@lightfantastic.org · Created: 13 November 1997 · Last Modified: 14 January 2008