Hues of Tokyo: Tales of Today's Japan

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Charles T. Mitchell

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All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-28990-8

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Contents

FADING TO GRAY IN EDO PALACE

BREATHING SPACE

HARAJUKU ANGEL

CHERRY BLOSSOMS IN CONCRETE

LESSONS LEARNED

MELTING PEARLS

POCKET MONSTERS ARE REAL!

ART FOR ART’S SAKE

GOLF ESCAPES

SUNLIGHT LAW

Dedicated to My First Mentors

John Andrew Mitchell and

John Henry Mitchell

FADING TO GRAY IN EDO PALACE

Tokyo’s late winter sky was clear blue and the morning air crisp, but not quite cold, as I exited the shaky taxi in front of the Ote-mon gate entrance to the Edo Palace gardens. My hotel’s concierge had said the gardens were the closest place for a newcomer to start a tour of historic sites, with others such as the Meiji Shrine held for another day. Looking at the immense walls surrounding the grounds, I let my imagination paint an interior full of ancient Japanese buildings, artifacts and extensive museums.

Stepping around a pair ofbicycle riding young policemen relaxing on the sidewalk, I was treated to the sight of a bold pigeon resting on the front wheel of the lead officer’s bike. More remarkable than the pigeon was the fact that no one, not even the officer whose bike the pigeon had chosen for a momentary perch, seemed to pay the bird any attention. I walked on by, wondering if a pigeon on a bicycle wheel was a unique occurrence or if that sort of thing happened all the time in Japan.

With my back to the Palace Hotel and the broad avenue that led to the heart of the ultra-modern Ginza, I walked over the wide bridge across the dark, still moat. A few ducks cruised in the distance, just beyond a small tree, little more than a branch, clinging to the city side of the moat’s bank. The little tree was in full bloom, cherry blossoms most likely, I thought, with their soft white petals contrasting starkly with the darkness of the water.

At the end of the bridge, a small guardhouse stood watch over those entering the grounds. Nodding in return to the excruciatingly polite, but obviously capable, guard inside the little post, I walked through the massive wood and iron gates (deciding to take a snapshot later), and into what the hotel’s guidebook had said was the land of ancient, royal Japan.

At the ticket booth just after the double gates, I was handed an odd little plastic chit by a middle-aged man who pointed to the English versions of the signs that told me to return the small rectangle when I departed. A few other visitors were out at that time of the morning, ranging from young couples to scattered groups of obvious foreigners. By far, the most people seemed to be locals out for a mid-morning stroll.

I headed toward what the sign said was the way into the grounds when, suddenly, from out of the crowd milling about just beyond the entrance, a very old man, evidently intent on heading out of the park, passed quite close in front me. He was close enough to abruptly brush the sleeve of my light jacket, causing me to pause and begin an apology for what I thought was my carelessness in bumping into him. My apology was quickly silenced by his soulful eyes as his head turned to glance at me for a moment while he continued on. A great weight seemed to be resting on his thin, slightly stooped shoulders. Maybe it was jet lag, but as with the pigeon encounter earlier, no one but me seemed to even notice him.

As he passed, I turned and pretended to size up the gates for a shot. I saw that he moved with a certain force and dignity right through the small crowd heading for the ticket booth. He bypassed the signs requesting the return of the plastic chit and, as a brief wind rustled the crowd and fluttered the tree leaves, the old man melted into the backdrop of the ancient gate as the other tourists closed in after he had passed. I turned back to my quest for ancient history, shaking off my momentary puzzlement, and dismissed the old man as an early morning gardener headed home.

Armed with my official pass and a map (in English), picked up at the sales booth, I strolled up the sloping concrete and black asphalt path bordered by lush greenery and a few flowering trees, expecting to see the grandeur that had been feudal Japan. What I encountered again and again were various guard quarters, often standing quite alone along the massive walls, with little explanation, but with many local tourists snapping and whirring away with cameras of all shapes and sizes. Those few structures, and the constant reminder signs at various points along the way that told passersby only select officials could pass from the museum to the still active residences just beyond the trees, made we wonder just what aim the city fathers had had in making the retired side of the royal residences a museum, if there were no true museum pieces to view.

I trudged on, glancing at the map from time to time to try to determine if there was something in that vast park that was more interesting than the ever-present massive walls, the well-maintained gardens, and the trickle of local tourists—there were very few foreign tourists, maybe due to the early hour.

Eventually, I emerged into a wonderfully serene wooded area at the top of the park-like museum into what the map called the Honmaru (or inner citadel), where a number of trees—plum, cherry and others—had begun to blossom. While quite beautiful, they did not bring the ancient awe I sought and brought even less awe as I realized that the citadel part of the museum was more park than antiquity. The local tourists and what appeared to be some rather serious, experienced photographers were carefully, and with what could only be described as reverence, framing shots of the various flowering trees. A huge flowering plum tree about halfway down the large inner field seemed to attract the most photographers.

I glanced at my map and saw that the field was topped off by a large, pyramid-like mound at the far end, which the map proclaimed to be the eleven meter high base of a once beautiful, five-story donjon, destroyed by fire in various earthquakes to finally succumb in 1657 to never be rebuilt. Its base, however, lived on as an observation post for historical reflection. From my perspective at the far end of the park, the donjon base seemed rather small when considered against the massive walls of the larger Edo Palace, but any antiquity was worth investigating.

I walked briskly past the serious photographers, and, glancing at the other buildings near the donjon base, initially thought that some rather large old buildings had survived, only to learn from the map that they were recent additions to the park-museum and not ancient examples of Edo architecture. As I slowed to a stroll, I passed a few scattered families and couples who were out early, each small group earnestly observing the barest beginnings of blossoms in the shaded areas. Many were furiously clicking away at the rather fully laden plum tree blossoms and taking snapshots of the few scattered cherry trees that had early blossoms out in the full sunlit areas. Dismissing the trees, I let my attention drift back to focus on the small half-pyramid growing before me as I advanced across the park.

Finally, I was standing before an exciting artifact of old Japan.

After taking a moment to reflect and to try to feel the sense of history that must have transpired at such a place, I decided that it was a good time for photos. I did not see any good photo opportunities by the rather stark, sandy gray walls, broken by a slightly winding, stepped path up to the top, so I continued on to within fifty meters of the donjon and took a quick picture. Close up, I realized that without a reference point, it would be hard to tell folks back home just how impressive the structure was—even if all that remained was only the massive base of what had been there before.

Looking around, I spied a young guard, dressed smartly in a dark blue uniform with headgear that could have passed as a traditional policeman’s hat back in the states, stationed by an information board near the southwest corner of the pyramid. He smiled when I spotted him, so I walked over to see if he would take my picture. Smiling, I nodded as I approached and he returned the greeting in a most sincere, slightly bowing way and seemed to eagerly anticipate assisting my every need.

Holding out my small camera, I used the universal tourist sign language and spoke.

Photo?

The young guard nodded, said something I did not understand, and took the camera. I pointed to the proper button and walked back to within a few feet of the donjon and turned to face the young man. He waved, smiled, and put the camera up to his face.

I heard the distinctive click and walked back to the guard.

Thank you, was all I could muster, since my Berlitz was back at the hotel.

My pleasure, was the young guard’s reply. So he did speak some English.

Since I was not sure when I would ever return to Tokyo and, since I wanted to capitalize on the visit time I had available during what was primarily a business trip, I decided to ask the young guard for another favor.

Can you take a photo again, when I’m on the donjon? If it’s not too much trouble?

Oh. Yes. Please. I can do that.

Okay. I will wave when I’d like a photo. Are you sure it’s okay?

Yes. Okay. Please wave.

Thank you.

From my jacket pocket, I took out my back-up camera (one of those self-contained disposable ones bought in the airport) and motioned that I would take pictures from the top with it. As I turned away from the young guard, I noticed another of those no-trespassing signs close behind him. So that must have been why he was really there—to ensure no one tried to venture into the current residences while being helpful to the tourist trade as well.

I walked back toward the steps, which I then saw were not steps at all but actually an asphalt-paved ramp winding up the side of the donjon. Odd, I would have sworn I had seen the outline of steps earlier, from a distance.

A few strides up the initial ramp, I turned to smile at the young guard, but he was talking with a well-dressed young couple, so I could not see his face and he did not see me. Turning, I headed up the black tar ramp for a better photo spot.

As I paused at the first landing, I reached out to touch the stone of the structure itself, wondering what other travelers, recently and in old Japan, had also paused to lean on those massive stones, warmed by the rising morning sun. Then, for the briefest of moments, the late winter air sent a small chill through me and the stones seemed colder and more distant, even after the initial warmth on my open palm. I shook off the slight chill and turned back to wave at the young guard to take a picture.

To my surprise and with a little anxiety over the possibility of losing my camera (or rather the film), I saw that the young guard was gone and had been replaced by a somewhat older man. Even at a distance, I could see that he could have passed for an older brother to the younger man. I stood staring for a moment and then decided I should walk back down and see what had happened to the younger guy and my camera. Yet, as I stepped forward, the new guard saw me, waved vigorously, and held up what must have been my camera.

I paused and realized the first guard must have gone on break and had passed the camera to the new one, who seemed more than willing to take my picture. I waved back, stood against the wall and saw the guard put the camera to his eye and then remove it. I was too far away to hear the click, but his face and waving hand showed success.

After a crowd of what appeared to be young local fashion models, with mothers (or keepers) in tow, passed by me headed up the ramp, I motioned to the guard that I was going to move up the ramp, and he eagerly waved me on. I immediately had an even more favorable picture of the average Japanese citizen. Even if the guards routinely encountered countless visitors, they were still able to be very cordial and helpful.

I found myself about halfway up the main section of the ramp leading to the top when I again turned back to my guard photographer. Just as I turned to look down toward him, a large pack of what looked like local businessmen out for a group stroll were descending and blocked my view of the guard for a moment.

When the dark blue-suited, almost uniform group had finally passed, I saw that the guard, his back turned to me, was talking to what looked like the same young couple who had spoken to the younger guard earlier. Since I could not see the guard’s face to catch his eye, I studied the young couple.

They were probably in their twenties, but could have been early thirties. They were extremely well dressed in dark tones, almost too well dressed for a stroll in the park. The guard would bend over every once in a while in a semi-bow, so the couple must have held some importance for him. As I stood leaning against the wall, the male half of the couple seemed to notice me looking at them, nodded in my direction, leaned over to the guard, spoke and then turned back into the path, taking the young lady with him.

Since that was the path to a no-trespassing gate, I wondered what business the young couple would have had down that particular path. That thought was rudely interrupted by my abject surprise, even astonishment, when the guard turned around and I saw that yet another guard had stepped in. Obviously holding my camera, the guard waved it at me signaling me to ready myself for a picture. The new guard, even from such a distance, seemed quite a bit older than the first two. Gray hair edged his hat instead of the jet-black hair of the earlier guards.

My face must have held an odd look, because, at the moment I noticed the third guard, a small child coming up the ramp looked at me, gasped, and clutched at his mother’s pants leg for protection. Maybe it was my surprise or maybe he didn’t see many foreigners, but he certainly didn’t want anything to do with me. As they hurried by, his mother avoided looking directly at me while the young child stared at me as if I had two heads and was breathing fire. I smiled, which just sent him farther into the folds of his mother’s clothing.

The guard was waving the camera again, so I waved back and stood quietly as he slowly, with careful deliberation, brought the camera up to his eye, held it there for some time, then took it way, looked at the camera, then again put it back to his eye for what seemed like many minutes. He then took it away in obvious triumph, waving at me yet again. I waved back and pointed up the ramp with a questioning gesture.

He made a wide motion with his hand that seemed to say, Go on. Go on.

For a moment, I just stood and watched him. He watched me for a moment and then turned to a group of children who had stopped with their teacher or maybe a mother. I sorely wanted to just stand there and wait for the inevitable changing of the guard, but the bright sun was pressing down on me and the desire to see the top, with whatever scenes of Tokyo might be seen from the top, was too strong a draw. A part of me also wanted to get the trek over with so I could retrieve my camera and, without breaking too many Japanese cultural taboos, find out what the hell was going on with the guards.

As a compromise, I started to walk up the ramp backwards but soon realized that the edge of the entrance wall to the top would quickly block my view of the guard and that people would think me (and, therefore all Westerners) were a little strange.

I then turned around and strode quickly up the last few meters of the black ramp to the top of the donjon base.

At the top, I must admit, I had expected something more impressive—a structure, some old columns burnt black by the last fires, or maybe a grizzled old man talking about the good old days. Instead, I was greeted by a rather sterile, landscaped rectangle of green surrounding still more asphalt, almost like a mini-parking lot, at the top of the donjon base.

There were a few people standing about and several more sitting on the few benches that were the only structures on the top. In addition, everyone else, except the few children, seemed to be on a smoke break. I mused at the strange irony that cigarette butts were the only charred remains on such an historic landmark destroyed by fire.

I walked over to the far edge but was blocked by a small, single-strand chain railing that continued all the way around the top of the structure, no doubt to discourage people from trampling the trimmed, exceedingly neatly maintained grass—and maybe to protect people from sliding or rolling down the slanted walls.

Returning to the entrance side, I could not see the guard, even by leaning out over the little fence. I forgot about him for a while as I looked to the four corners of Tokyo city from the remains of what may have been one of the finest examples of architecture in old Japan and maybe the world during its heyday.

Tokyo stared back at my hilltop companions and me with high-rises, hotels, power lines, construction cranes (many, many cranes), a few dots of green areas beyond the palace, and a lot of noise. Even at such an early hour, the sounds of traffic penetrated the park and found their way into one’s attempted reflections on the ancient past.

After what seemed like too short a visit, I decided that ancient Tokyo was not to be found at the top of an asphalted tower, even if the base of a once great structure. I took one last look around at nothing in particular, noticed that the children had finally stopped staring at me, and turned back to the ramp.

As I began my descent, I was facing the southwest and realized that I must have been looking into the Imperial Palace grounds, although the forest of tall trees hid everything from view. The obvious balance finally came to me—one side of the park teemed with modern visitors satisfying some level of curiosity, while the other side housed the remnants of Japan’s imperial past, properly hidden from the same curiosity seekers. Maybe that’s where the truly old Japan could be found. Only for the select and very special few—like the young couple who had spoken to the guards.

I stood aside as a group of similarly dressed women, possibly a walking club, ascended to the top of the ramp. They all looked healthy, energetic and eager, but there was no anticipation of wonder on their faces—they had obviously seen the view many times. For them, the donjon was probably one of several milestones in a routine morning hike around the park.

Heading down the ramp, I looked for the old guard as I came out of the shadow of the entrance walls. Luckily, he was still there. Although he looked a lot more stooped than he had been from the last photo shoot, he may have simply been tired since he was also moving rather slowly. He had his back turned to me and was looking down the path behind him, at the retreating backs of a young couple—yes, what appeared to be the same young couple, but with a small child holding the young woman’s hand. A boy, I thought, from the formal (school uniform?) clothing he wore.

The guard then turned around and evidently saw me because he whipped up the camera and appeared to be taking my picture, so I paused. He held the camera to his face for quite a while, took it away once to look at it and shake his head. He then held it up again and took a final shot. He slowly raised a thin hand to wave feebly at me. Squinting against the sun, I waved back and continued down the path.

I slowly wound my way down the asphalt, still wondering why the restorers had not used gravel, carved steps or something a little more authentic.

When I reached the bottom, I again looked over at the guard’s spot and saw that he had stepped away for a moment. No one was there. That section of the broad, concrete plaza at the base of the donjon was empty.

Oddly, I was not too concerned, probably because I had witnessed several changes of the guard in a little over a half an hour. I simply reasoned that yet another guard would pop out of the path and take his place. I walked over to where I thought the guard should appear and waited.

While I waited, a young local couple, dressed in cheerful spring colors, came by and asked me to take their photo. They seemed very modern and ultra-hip yet still wanted a souvenir of their visit. I smiled and took the photo. The young man thanked me in English, so I tried a question on him to try to confirm my suspicions about the young couple.

Can you tell me where this path leads? There was a guard here. Now he’s gone.

Path? Oh. To the palace. We are not allowed. Thank you.

He smiled politely and walked away with his young lady giggling about something as she glanced back at me.

The palace? That must be what the locals call the royal residence side of the gardens.

I waited a few more minutes. Still the guard did not reappear.

I looked at my watch and wondered if the guards held odd hours. Then I thought that there might be a sign somewhere nearby. I turned down the path and, within a few steps beyond the outcrop of shrubs that had hidden it, I came upon a locked gate. There was quite a bit of Japanese written across it, and a small sign in English that read No Entrance.

Presented with such a problem—no guard, no camera, and a locked gate—I considered my limited options.

There were guards back at the entrance, but that would take another half hour to reach (I would not know about another entrance right behind the donjon until later). I could try to open the gate, but that seemed like a really foolish thing to do.

Just as I was writing off the camera as a hard lesson learned, the sound of melodious spoken Japanese came from a speaker on the left gatepost. I could not translate, so simply waited to hear if there would be an English version. Not that time, I realized as the speaking abruptly stopped.

I waited another minute and then turned away to head back through the park. I was a little upset, but more with my own nai’ve trust, since I had traveled a good bit and felt I was pretty savvy about such