Underground Rumbling

      Before I moved into the Manor, I had no idea that a subway station could be polished to a high sheen. Vast experience on the grimy Broadway IRT and London Circle Line inured me to litter in subway cars, buskers strumming guitar on platforms to the tune of spare change and beggars soliciting donations. Descending into the Azabu Juban eki (station) I pass a uniformed cleaner scrubbing the stairs and yellow indicators that lead the blind to the turnstile. Expert moppers keep white stations pristine; escalator handrails glisten thanks to the detail at the bottom pressing a wet cloth to it with both hands. Mr. Clean could not keep up the pace.

      With the bar for cleanliness set so high, standards of behavior are expected to match. To clarify expectations Tokyo Metro issues a poster every month with a different message about proper behavior. Rumor has it that the series began due to mascara rage: An older woman objected to a younger one applying eye make-up in transit. A shoving match ensued, which triggered a poster of a woman seated in a subway car using an eyelash curler above the caption: "Please do it at home." So followed the yellow-and black series of what is not acceptable (listening to loud headphones, drinking, taking more than one seat etc) by 35 year old artist Bunpei Yorifuji who considers his work a form of manga. With a copywriter he sifts through letters of complaint to come up with the monthly output. Edward Hopper inspires Yorifuji's work.

     As Tokyo enters the month for gogatsu byokii (May madness), the number of suicides interferes with train service due to jumpers. For the average fare of Y 190 ($2) the underground traveler anticipates no problems, and even one minute delay triggers a series of apologetic announcements by the immaculate conductors. Suicide season is due to stress accrued in April, when many new recruits start jobs. Families of the jumpers are billed for the interruption to subway service, which is so precise that commuters go to a web site (Jorudan route finder) to map their travels. To date Yorifuji has not addressed this display of what some might consider rude behavior.  

  

Carnations for Haha (Mothers Day)

     My very first Mothers Day in Japan, what a shock to receive a bouquet of.... red carnations. Where I grew up (the Upper West Side of Manhattan) carnations are distributed in green for St Patrick's Day, pink for Easter and various colors in jars at downscale eateries. On occasion a carnation is appropriate on the lapel but this is not the flower commensurate with the effort of labor, childbirth etc. Marking my fourth Haha no Hi (Mothers Day), I stand corrected: Red carnations are both takai (expensive) and the correct flower of the day for Haha (mom). Musume-chan (daughter) presented me with a poodle-shaped artificial red carnation and a pair of fishnet tights. Kawaii! (Adorable!) How thoughtful that shujin provided the ikebana vase perfect for one stem.

     Since musume-chan had to study for IB (international baccalaureate) exams, shujin (hubby) agreed to an outing to Oi Wild Bird Park next to Haneda Airport (the local La Guardia). Binoculars and hats in the backpack, off on the Monorail to Ryutsu Center on this early summer day. A Y 300 ticket gained entry into a well-tended park with three ponds full of heron (ao sagi), egrets (ko sagi), cormorants (kawau) and plovers (ko chidori). Viewing stations included astronomer-strength telescopes allowing visitors to peer into the eyes of the egrets as they swallowed lunch. A birder tapped me on the shoulder to point out a ko same bitaki (flycatcher).

     Hopefully within the Imperial Palace Masako-sama enjoyed the day with her musume-chan, young Aiko who is having issues with third grade. Rumor mongers say that with all his family problems the Crown Prince should cede his position to his younger brother. At Oi Wild Bird Park 8 year old girls wove clover chains with their mothers, and took photos with grandmas under parasols without a care in the world. Was anyone beside the mother of the author thinking about Sumo, A Thinking Fan's Guide to the National Sport?  Certainly, author David Benjamin will understand if the room at the Tokyo American Club is half empty when he comes to speak in 10 days.
  

The Burden of Praise

    Most Thursday afternoons at the Tokyo American Club Nakamura-sensei shares the secrets of shodo (calligraphy) with six to eight disciples. In orange ink she produces a sample for each student to reproduce in black sumie. Not exactly handwriting practice, shodo is a meditation. Rumor has it that Sensei is nana-go-sai (75ish), despite her dark curly tresses and smooth complexion. Thanks to Mr. Nakamura, a novelist who spent his early career as an executive with JAL (Japan Air), Sensei spent much of her early marriage in Germany. As a result she shops at Marina Rinaldi and favors Ferragamo flats.

   "What do you say when a nihonjin gives you a compliment?" I posed to the gaijin (foreign) classmates as we were grinding sumie on inkstones. "Such as when someone says you speak Japanese well?" (Our francejin, Mme G, out of town this week, was sorely missed.) "I always say Arigatou gozaimasu (thank you very much)!" replied one amerikajin. "Sumimassen, the better answer is mada mada (not yet) or tondemonai desu (don't be silly)," I said, repeating what  I found in a book about colloquial nihongo. Accepting praise is presumptuous in a country that knows that there is always room for improvement.  Every classmate jotted down these two phrases.

    By the end of the class each student replied mada-mada or tondemonai when Nakamura-sensei praised her work. "Tee-hee," holding her hand in front of her face, Nakamura-sensei scolded me and asked that I bring different words to class next time. "If all the students were nihonjin this is exactly how they would react," whispered tomodachi. After the class a quick stop at the TAC Library to check on how many members signed up for our upcoming Meet the Author lecture on Sumo revealed shocking news. Two years ago our visitor Alice and I savored an afternoon at crowded Sumo central in Ryogoku, seated uncomfortably on the tatami mat at Y 10,000 apiece (about $120). Only five people have signed up! With just two weeks until our guest speaker arrives, time to get into high gear to fill  the other 40 seats.  

Japanese Slimming Secret

      A paltry 2% of Nihonjin are overweight vs one in three Yanks and one in four Brits, and most of the fatties are probably professional sumo wrestlers. At the annual checkup the isha (doctor) alerts patients to a potential metabo (lism) issue. Yet an informal survey based on many meals with tomodachis (friends)confirms that this is a country of good eaters. No need for doggie bags, thanks to the symbiosis of smallish portions and healthy appetites. Each meal follows the same pleasant script beginning with Itadakimasu ("I humbly receive") said by everyone at the table before digging in. Predictably, the next word is Oishii (delicious). After each morsel (including every grain of rice and slimy konyakku) has been gratefully devoured, the term is Gochisosama  (thank you for the meal).

    "Eat until you're 80% full," advised tomodachi: "Hara hachi bu is what our mothers teach us from a young age." Without insulting the cook , everyone is gauging the fullness of her tank.  Stopping is key, which leads to the first corollary of the rule: Do not fear the scale. "We are at our lightest before lunch, at around 11 AM," confided another tomodachi who travels with a scale. Most tomodachis weigh-in both AM and PM; if they don't like the result it's cabbage soup (or slimy equivalent) for a week. Second corollary: Travel by bicycle. In this hilly town, that's a lot of work.

   On May 5th, Kodomo no Hi (Boys' Day), the last day of Golden Week, two gaijin (foreigners) headed for Tonogayato Gardens. One of nine Metro Gardens in Tokyo (properties that are the equivalent of the UK's National Trust) a smattering of  visitors paid Y 150 ($2) to enter yet another Mitshubishi place, this one in Kokubunji. At 1 PM the bamboo grove was full of lunchtime visitors polishing off o-bento (lunch boxes) filled with pretty compartments washed down with bottled green tea. Thanks to Mme Pompadour bakery in the station for making lovely sandwiches -- gochisosama!  

1000 Year Old Fuji (Wisteria)

    Only two weeks ago the classic dance Fuji Musume (Wisteria Maiden) was performed at Kabuki-za, the landmark hall in Ginza, to a sold out house. Seated musicians played koto and drums as a top onnagata actor brought to life the 19th century tale of an innocent girl flirting with stage wisteria, ending the solo with a cup of sake. This month sadly Kabuki-za is history as it closes down to begin a three year renovation project, and Tokyoites celebrating Golden Week are searching out real wisteria in the far corners of the city.   

   Twenty minutes out of Shinjuku station (think: Grand Central at rush hour) on the Keio Line a tree grows in Fuda that supports the "1,000 year old" wisteria. From the eki (station) the scent of the ancient flower leads to Kokuryo-jinja, easy to spot beside a four-lane highway.  The shrine shop sells the usual amulets, including an ema (plaque) for writing a prayer to hang on the prayer rack. Admirers capture the delicate purple flower close-up on their keitai (cell phones), or climb the highway overpass for a bird's eye view. Crossing the Nogawa (river) the suburb turns into a country lane with well-tended gardens and seed shops that make for a pleasant stroll.

    What a surprise to reach civilization again and join hundreds of pilgrims at Jindai-ji, the 8th century water temple with a sacred pond. Surrounded by restaurants selling soba (buckwheat noodles), the local dish, family groups wait their turn in long queues. Rounding out the sensory experience at the top of the hill sits the Jindai Botanical Garden. In honor of the holiday the entry charge is waived, which means that visitors are pouring into the grounds. Yes, miles of fuji (wisteria), tsutsuji (azaleas), plus giant peonies and a greenhouse of exotic blooms. The appetite for flowers sated, Tokyites head back to Shinjuku where for a mere Y 550 the appetite for Japanese curry finds satisfaction. Itadakimasu!  

Sanuki Club

     Azabu Manor faces Roppongi i-chome, a neighborhood where skyscrapers dwarf single family homes huddled below the hush of the Shuto Expressway. Prince Charles, a stickler for tradition, would not approve of the mishmash that is Tokyo! Salvador Dali,on the other hand, would applaud the bizarre mix: Immediately below our Manor terrace lie rows of modest homes, some barely two arm-lengths wide. Predictably, by 8 AM the women of Azabu have hung out the laundry to dry on a rooftop or balcony. Behind the laundresses rises a cement slab eight stories tall:  At sundown a lamp appears in each window and every morning futons lean on the windowsills to air out.  Rather than Alcatraz this grim building was identified by one knowledgeable tomodachi as the Tokyo Sanuki Club.

    Tokyo is a town of private clubs, but the Sanuki Club is open to the public: It was designed as a ryokan (inn) for people from Shikoku, south of Tokyo it is the smallest and least populated of the four islands that comprise Nihon. Shikoku-ins come in by the busload, spend the night in the dorm-like setting at a reasonable rate and snap each other in front of the gray building upon leaving. "The Sanuki Club is famous for its udon restaurant," added tomodachi, referring to the noodles that are as long as shoe laces. Shikoku boasts hundreds of sanuki udon shops, and at the moment this dish is enjoying a boomlet.

    After staring at this cement rectangle for three years, I persuaded two tomodachis to meet me for a bowl of udon one sunny day during Golden Week. Penetrating beyond the gray exterior we entered a tasteful, traditional interior. The udon shop, on the mezzanine, offered a pretty lunch set for Y 1,500, which challenged this gaijin's ability to successfully lift and swipe the noodles into the dipping sauce. Secondly, the requisite slurping sound was difficult to replicate with the correct gusto. After nibbling a variety of delicacies served on small dishes, we repaired to the main floor where low wooden chairs allowed for a relaxing cup of coffee. Outside in the garden a trio on Japanese flute provided an impromptu concert. For one afternoon, we were transported to Shikoku.  

Azalea Matsuri

     Azalea bushes have overtaken Tokyo. Florescent purple and pink tsutsugi lining every street take over like weeds, observed one tomodachi last week. Along Hyugazaka in front of the Manor a hedge of hot pink bushes blaze as far as the eye can see. Despite their profusion, flower viewers are obliged to make a pilgrimage to the Nezu Jinja for the Azalea Matsuri (festival). My rendezvous with two dear tomodachi falls on one of the rainest days of the year. But what about this storm? e-mailed worry-chan tomodachi. "No problem," e-mailed cheerful-chan tomodachi.  The three of us enjoyed ohanami (cherry blossom) under gray skies, and a little weather would not stop us now. 


    In raincoats and boots, each under a kasa (umbrella), past the campus of Tokyo University down the zaka we strolled to the Nezu Shrine. Since 1705 the shrine has been a landmark in the northern part of town. Under the red torii (archway) and over a footbridge, 3,000 azalea bushes in bloom lit up the side of a hill and contrasted with the  kasa-carrying flower viewers. Turtles lolled in the pond and, despite the mud underfoot, visitors posed and took photos of each other. No one in  Japan is camera-shy! For Y200 we were permitted to climb up the path to more closely inspect the variety of tsutsugi including one named for Aiko-sama, the young princess whose mother is too depressed to leave the Imperial Palace. Afterwards, we paid our respects at the shrine, designated as an Important Cultural Property.

     As no outing is complete without a sit-down and a snack, we repaired to an old-fashioned coffeeshop run by an older gent. How nice to have the place to ourselves! Tomodachi opted for the mitsumame, the allegedly healthy yet cloyingly sweet dessert topped with molasses, while I went for the yogurt and fruit. We stayed so long that the trusting proprietor had disappeared upstairs, probably to watch sports on terebi (TV).      Worry-chan gifted each of us with a precious CD of her father singing Western music and at the eki (train station) we promised to meet again at iris time.