June 22nd 2025
Day 5 and the tension of leaving is dissipating like steam over a hot bath. We have been walking the city each day, 16 kilometers on average. At times with a destination in mind, other times just wandering. Taking it all in, looking for the parts that Google doesn’t offer. The people, who they are and how they interact. What you can download with subtle but personal engagement. Like the food establishments in the back alleys. We found a Nepalese place on day 2 and quickly became regulars. Wai Wai Sedheko, who’da thunk it.
I have a tendency toward fanaticism in my observations of how things go together. I tend to find myself in chaotic environments yet seeking order. We seem to flourish there. But there is certainly reassurance in the order of things here in Tokyo. The streets, the sidewalks, the back alleys are meticulously maintained. In our 4 days in the city I did not see even 1 pothole. And for one who typically falls in potholes, I was at a loss. I thought it was an anomaly after day 1, so scanned more closely each of the following days. No potholes. Anywhere. And as seldom seen, are trash cans. Each person is expected to manage their own refuse. What a concept, eh? And nary a piece of trash on the ground. The gardens are trimmed and manicured. The buildings immaculate. And the public transportation system… Good God man! It ought to be scrutinized and replicated in every city on earth. The complexity of the network of trains is staggering. The shear number of options and connections, mind-boggling. Having spent most of my life in construction, the cost of their mass transit, not just to build it, but to maintain it in the way that they do, is unfathomable. Every station, every platform, every train car; pristine. Literally, spotless. Far cleaner than the hospital I worked in for 9 years in northern Arizona. Not really saying a lot there. I once found mushrooms growing in a restroom in the ICU. I didn’t eat them because, well, I didn’t have my mushroom book with me.
Public transportation that moves literally millions of humans everyday that is clean, efficient, reliable and inexpensive, the cost per trip, an average of which was 180 Yen. Less than 2 dollars. How do they do it? Witchcraft, Mahou, I suppose. Or just the diligence of doing things right that deserve doing at all. It’s as if they think of everything. Everything except for the height of the doors here. I’m a little shorter after 4 days.
On day 5 we are up at 4, packed and ambling out. Out of our quart-sized cuarto just before 5am doing our diligent duty to get to the airport 2 hours before our international flight. The cool morning air is reassuring as well, though a misrepresentation of what is to come as the sun climbs. So too was the walk on the empty sidewalks to the train station. We descended the pristine labyrinth to our train platform and there all order turned to chaos. It turns out that early Sunday morning is still Saturday night in Tokyo. The youth were still out, perhaps navigating home. Or perhaps in search of the next watering hole. Our subway car, like Koi stuffed to the gills, opened in front of us and there was a collective look on the faces inside, conciliatory perhaps, that suggested if Tena and I were going to get on “that” car we would get no help from its occupants. There was no space for us and we had to make it. Our eyes apologetic and downcast, we plowed in. Poor girl, tiny and unassuming, I used her as a wedge to break up the bigger chunks of humanity, then stepped in as the door clipped my equally overfed backpack. We were squeezed up against three strapping lads from Houston as the train eased forward. One of them, dressed in a Harley Davidson button-up and adorned in tattoos, announced to his captive audience that today was Tyrone’s birthday. The typically subdued and polite crowd, while swaying to the train’s motion and probably a bit of alcohol, erupted into cheers. And shortly after, song. “Happy burseday to you.” It was endearing. Tyrone was not sure when his birthday was, but the ponies had already left the corral. The laughing continued along with a little excited pushing and shoving, a sudden party on wheels, approaching our stop and on the verge of a mosh pit, the doors opened and we all burst like confetti. And we realized that we had not heard much laughter, much expression since we arrived. And once we exited for our connection to the airport, the quiet ensued; all order, all the neatness, all the perfectly manicured environment had returned.
And ripping through the countryside on our high speed train that felt more like fingers gliding down a silk robe than a six ton steel box rolling on cast tracks, I could not help but wonder. I wonder if all the aesthetic perfection, the high function, all the politeness, all the order was pressure of some sort. Pressure looking for a vent, but seeking an invitation to do so. Perhaps just my own projection, but a worthwhile experience.
So now with Murray Head in my head and consequently in Tena’s ears, we are off to Thai one on in Bangkok!
