After our 2-and-a-half-hour ride on the Shinkansen bullet train - which was smooth and restful considering the damn thing to hurtling along at 160 MPH - we chilled most of the afternoon at the good ol' Oak Hotel - small as ever, but compared to the Ryokan we had spent the last 5 sleepless nights in, it seemed especially comfortable.
That night we took a walking tour of Kabuki-cho, the Shinkjuku redlight district, which is notorious the world over and supposedly inspired some of the street scenes in the movie Bladerunner. While I'm sure there was all sorts of depravity taking place behind closed doors, from the pedestrian eye-view, the thing was pretty anticlimatic. Sprawling and hyperkenetic, yes, but what was striking was not its brazen perverted-ness but rather it's outward coyness: stripclubs, for instance, advertised without a shred of nudity, but with billboards of girls' headshots, each more innocent and angelic looking than the last. What was also striking were the number of male host bars, which also advertised via boards of headshot, this time of pretty Japanese boys with big spiky hair and all-American smiles. Having been to Amsterdam's much more in-your-face redlight district - narrow alley upon alley full of prostitutes in lingerie behind glass walls - Kabuki-cho seemed unexpectedly tame.
The next day (Tusday), however, did not disappoint - though it didn't necessarily start out looking so good. After a long, lazy morning hanging out in the Oak Hotel, we returned by subway to Asakusa - site of Senso-Ji shrine - to try and buy souvenirs for a shitload of folks back home in the States. And we failed miserably at finding anything - or rather, there were way too many options and we just couldn't decide. Plus the teeming throngs of trinket-hungry tourists were driving us (actually, mostly me) nuts - "Oh, the manatee," as Maya and I like to say.
But we did have one strange little interaction with a local which boded well for the rest of the day. As we walked along the gauntlet of shops, an old Japanese man - he looked maybe 70 or 80, but was probably 150 - tugged at my right shirt sleeve, finally getting my attention. He pointed at the tattoo on my arm, said something I couldn't understand. I lifted my sleeve to show him the whole piece - my koi fish on black water with cherry blossoms - and he nodded approvingly, then pointed to my chest as if asking whether the tattoo continued into breastplates as the traditional Japanese-style body art often does. I shook my head but lifted my left sleeve to show him my other half-sleeve. He again nodded approvingly, said something, then pointed at himself (his nose to be precise) and then at...his butt(!) It took us a second to figure out what he was getting at. "You have a tattoo?" we asked...on your butt, we thought but didn't ask (not that he could have understood us anyway). He nodded, and interlinked his hands to make the shape of a flapping bird. We smiled and Maya gave him a thumbs-up sign (before bidding him farewell)...I mean, what else do you do when an old Japanese stranger tells you he has a tattoo of a bird on his ass?
After our failed shopping excursion, we took a couple subways to Kokugikan, the sumo stadium. It just so happened that our visit to Japan was timed perfectly to coincide with the September basho, one of the six big sumo tournaments that take place in Japan every year, and one of only three that take place in Tokyo. From the outside, the stadium looked pretty much like any western stadium, until we noticed three sumo wrestlers in kimonos (one was also wearing a respiratory mask, as quite a few Japanese tend to do, in a heartening sign about the air quality) walking outside.
Inside, the place was crazy, bustling with employees all dressed in traditional garb and eager Japanese fans, old and young, most of whom had boxes on the floor level of the stadium, where the seating was literally on the floor, on mats and pillows. Our seats were on the balcony and were actual chairs (and plushy ones at that). The concession stands were out of this world, especially compared to those at U.S. sports arenas - bento boxes, bean buns, hot green tea, fruit juices, fish chips, and awesome little disposable cups of sake, of which Maya and I had to partake.
As for the action itself, it took place on this awesome clay platform - the dohyo, or sumo ring - with a huge Shinto shrine-like rooftop suspended over it, and was a weird mix of solemn ritual - elaborately attired referees posing with their fans and making dramatic announcements, attendants sweeping the fighting space with big straw brooms, and the competitors slapping themselves, throwing salt, and stretching and squatting pre-fight - and then sudden spurts of blubber-shifting violence.
We watched at least 5 caucasian wrestlers competing - and they all were (as best we could tell from the booklets we had and little radio with English commentary we had rented) from Eastern Europe, most from Russia, one from Bulgaria. This, of course, meant that Maya was particularly involved in their matches and was naturally pulling for them; I, being half Asian, felt obligated to play the contrarian and pull for my slanty-eyed brethen in their efforts to beat whitey at what is, after all, their/our game. Here's a snippit of the action (both the wrestlers', and Maya's and mine). (Oh yeah, and I'm responsible for the, let's call it, impressionistic camera work.)
After the sumo competition, we went back down to the Tsukiji Fish Market area and went to a restaurant called Sushizanmai (we didn't know anything about it beforehand, but it looked good, was relatively inexpensive, and had some English explanations in its menu), which turned out to be fucking awesome. We gorged on the most buttery, melt-in-your-mouth pieces of fatty tuna, medium fatty tuna, broiled fatty tuna, eel, salmon, etc., and it was, Maya and I both agree, one of the best meals we've ever had. What added to experience was that the restaurant wasn't nearly as oppressively over-the-top polite as many of the other eateries we've been to; the staff was friendly and helpful - our waitress complimented Maya's Japanese pronunciation - but in a completely genuine way. They didn't overwhelm us with endless "Thank you"s or, even more importantly, embarass us with endless bowing. We left with our bellies warm with fresh fish and our hearts warm with a newly realized appreciation for Japan. Too bad we have to leave so soon.
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