TOKYO – We arrive at Shibuya Subway Station, and I can’t find my metro pass anywhere. From my puffy jacket's pockets I pluck out a crumpled-up city map and a wrapper for a ‘candied squid snack’ - but no subway ticket.
It’s gone, probably stuck to the bottom of a salary man’s shoe, or swirling around in a train-generated vortex.
I mime my story to a station guard as my red-faced girlfriend ducks behind a vending machine selling a curious range of drinks, like Pocari Sweat and Hot Calpis (pronounced cow piss).
“Sorry. So sorry,” I say to the guard.
“Sumimasen – so sorry,” he replies, bowing his head so low his hat almost topples off.
Before we know it, the exit gates pop open, and we’re free, without having to pay a fine.
“How did you get away with that?” my girlfriend quizzes me, and I shrug in reply.
As we are jostled out onto the busy street an icy wind hits us, and we brace ourselves for a wintery night out in the world’s most populous, and perhaps zaniest, city.
Quickly we’re sucked into the perpetually shifting mass of people migrating across Shibuya District’s world-famous intersection. Pedestrian lights flash red, and the mobs fade away; lights flash green, and another well-dressed wave shatters the calm.
Giant billboards peer down from Space Age buildings, hyping everything from Hollywood’s latest blockbusters to J-Pop Boy Bands. In this hyper-charged ball of frenzied activity we vibrate with a consumer-driven electricity, which makes us want to buy stuff – lots and lots of stuff.
Down alleyways, Cosplay girls chatter in cartoonish gangs straight out of a Manga comic strip. Meantime gangly hipsters on rollerblades breakdance, and with a flick of their skinny wrists pop free promotional tissue packs into our surprised faces.
“In this hyper-charged ball of frenzied activity we vibrate with a consumer-driven electricity, which makes us want to buy stuff – lots and lots of stuff.”
We are like castaways set adrift on a sea of Japanese shoppers -- but suddenly we feel a tug on our global brand buoyed life-raft.
A short frizzy-haired lady is yanking on the cuff of my jacket.
"Sumimasen. Sumimasen," the Tokyoite squeaks. "Do these gruvs bewong to youuu?"
"Oh yeah - gee thanks," chimes in my girlfriend. "They must have fallen out of my back jeans pocket."
"Hi!" she responds in the affirmative. "I picked them up in Shibuya station and chased you down."
"Domo arigato!" we bark together, almost too loud, realising she has been running after us, dodging through the manic crowds, for at least 15 minutes.
But before we can shake her hands in gratitude the phantom glove-returner has been swept away with the masses.
Two things are becoming clear: we are klutzy travellers; and the Japanese are so very sweet.
We pass a small hedge-skirted square where young dudes are practicing their skateboarding moves, ‘kick-flipping’ over sideways bins with the laser-like focus of ancient Samurai warriors.
A light flurry of snow starts to fall making the skater's tricks even more death-defying. A small red Shinto shrine forming a charming background.
Something's not quite right, though. There's no trash-talking or bravado - the stuff that teenage boys do so well. These dudes are being totally silent.
Ninja stealth.
They certainly look like rebels: tattoos, piercing, sharp dos.
But they are so damn well-behaved and respectful, bowing and apologising every time their decks roll into the passing foot traffic.
It's not the swag that matters.
It's perfecting their art.
You see this a lot in Japan – whether wrapping a Big Mac with Origami-inspired finesse or directing traffic with zeal, this is a nation of perfectionists, with enormous dignity in whatever trade they ply.
Tired and hungry, we’re keen to tuck into some food-based perfection, so we climb rickety stairs up to a small eatery, but there’s no one to take our order. Some salary men point to a vending machine with Kanji-covered buttons, as they down frothy pints of Kirin beer from a wood-top counter.
Inserting 1,000 yen each, or ten bucks, into the machine, we grab our ticket stubs, and give them to one of the waiters.
Before long we’re scoffing down rice bowls topped with juicy strips of beef, fried onions, pickled ginger, and seaweed, or Nori, all mixed together with a raw egg.
"Oishi!"
We hop back on the subway to check out Akihabara, or ‘Electric Town’. My girlfriend holds her train ticket tightly, but I’m like – why worry?
Along with the many electronics stores, Akihabara’s streets are full of Pachinko Parlors. Inside them are rows of pachinkos, a kind of hybrid slot-pinball game.
I feel like we're actually inside one of the ball-bearing filled things, with the deafening noise, as players try to maneuver little steel balls through gates and wheels to win prizes. We go into a parlor, but can't stay long as millions of clanging balls smash my already sensitive ears, and an explosion of lights threatens to melt our retinas.
A friend who lives in Tokyo has told us about a uniquely Japanese fad called ‘Maid Cafes’, so we agree to make that our next stop.
Following a gang of expats up another wobbly staircase we end up in a cafe full of Anime nerds, and a smattering of expats. I’m a bit concerned, especially for my girlfriend, as she’s one of the few girls there who isn’t wearing a giant bow and a short puffy-sleeved dress.
One of the ‘maids’ skips up to us with all the big-eyed cuteness of a Manga comic book character. She says, “My name is Angel, but you can call me Angel.” Puzzled, I reply “Andrew?” and my ‘embarrassed-again’ girlfriend corrects me.
Angel tells us that every time we order we have to follow the set protocol.
First we bring our two hands together into a heart shape and, without a hint of irony, say the words “Love”, “Delicious”; Then we push our heart-shaped hands to the left, right, and into the middle while shouting out “Moi”, Moi”, “Cuuuuuute”.
We order beers and onion rings, avoiding the spaghetti molded into a love heart, and the magic-land pizza – not because they look weird (they really do), but because we just ate dinner, and even though the food in Japan is incredible, we can’t go on eating three meals every night, can we?
Actually we can and do.
A balding Tokyoite flips through a novel and slurps a milkshake at the table next to us. He ducks occasionally as pixie-like girls star jump their way across the disco-ball illuminated room.
We leave just as the room spontaneously erupts into a chorus of synchronized glow-stick waving and bubble-gum pop karaoke. It’s a little too happy and naively sexual for us boring old farts, and we agree to call it a night.
On the way to the station we stop in at a games arcade and have a go at the one-armed-try-to-knock-the-fluffy-toy-into-the-bin game. No luck. We watch an older gent as he spends a small fortune trying to win himself a red stuffed alien.
He’s clearly struggling.
We do a round of the parlor, and return just as he succeeds at this almost impossible task.
Together we jump up and down, and there’s a flurry of high fives and back pats. He opens up a big plastic bag at his feet, overflowing with stuffed toys of all size, shape and variety.
He pulls toys out and shovels them into our arms.
“No, no,” we insist, once we realize he wants us to keep them.
There’s an awkward pause. Then he lobs the cutest, fluffiest one at my girlfriend and takes off.
We shout “Arigato” into the night, but he never hears us.
That’s Japan in a Nori-covered nutshell: So polite and so very friendly – but just a little weird too.