Shinobu-san

Yesterday, my friend Cecilia came to visit me in Fukushima. Cecilia, my friend from Italy I ran into by chance in Harajuku, came from Tokyo on a weekend vacation to escape the busy streets and smog of Shibuya. A little rest and relaxation in Fukushima was just the ticket. We both wanted to get some fresh air and see something beautiful; a mountain climb was perfect to escape the endless vortex that is shopping in Japan. When she arrived, I asked “what do you want to do?” She shrugged, then thought and exclaimed “no shopping!” I couldn’t agree more.

We decided to climb Shinobu-san, the big mountain (read: hill) behind my house. (In Japanese, mountains are called –san. It basically means Mr. Shinobu. Very cute.) He looked quite peaceful sitting there covered in a layer of green fuzz, perfectly inviting. I only knew two things about this mountain: there are many ways to the top, and it houses the largest straw sandal in all of Japan. Wow! I couldn’t wait to see this massive shoe. Maybe it would actually fit my foot as oppose to every sandal and shoe I’ve seen in stores so far. I would have to steal it, wait for them to build a new one and then climb Mr. Shinobu again to have a pair. That was okay with me.

We started our climb the most natural way possible. We faced the mountain and began to walk. I had no idea where a trail was. We passed my favorite restaurant, CoCoichi on the way toward base camp and I made a promise that I would treat myself to a big plate of spicy curry if I made it to the top. We saw a little service road that branch off from the tunnel that runs under the mountain and began to walk up.

As if on cue, the clouds parted, the sun shone brighter than ever and the temperature and humidity increased by about 10 degrees. I was sweating, but not too bad. We were on a road and the breeze would occasionally cool my drenched shirt. We zigged and zagged up the switchback and came to a place where the road split 3 ways. We chose one and headed off. No luck, we came to an electrical box for a phone pole. We turned back, route 2, here we come. It looked promising but, eventually we came to a house with a locked gate. We turned back, this time route 3.

We came over a little bluff and lo and behold, a massive 4 story building about an eighth of a mile long, about 20 stairs leading down to a soccer field and an immaculate Olympic size swimming pool. The pool looked incredibly inviting. I wanted to jump in right there, but I stayed strong. The strange thing, though, was no matter how clean and inviting the pool looked, the building was a ghost town. We walked all around it, front to back and found nothing, no one. By the looks of the place, I guessed it as a school. There was one car parked out front, a nice Subaru, but it was covered in dust. My Apache tracking skills told me that the car hadn’t been used for quite some time. We were alone. The pool looked more tempting…but just as I was about to jump in, we found a tree covered trail up the mountain.

Up we went. When I say up, I mean like hands on the ground in front of you. This was steep. The trail was miniscule, and the ground squishy with thousands of years of dead leaves that never decay totally. Once we were deep in the forest, I became acutely aware of how impossible it would be to try to trek through without a trail. If we lost the trail, we would knee deep in moss, leaves, decaying tree matter and all sorts of spiders and bugs. The forest was anything but quiet. All around us, bugs and cicadas sounded off, strange sounding birds called and the trees rustled in the wind. I was sure I was going to see a monkey or a puma, or both. This was the closest I have ever come to being in a rainforest.

With that being said, I could not imagine walking through this pass in anything but board shorts. To imagine someone walking this path with a kimono and sandals on, or any type of traditional Japanese clothing was tear inducing. The heat was unbearable. Under the trees, the air was about 15 degrees hotter than the air out on the road. There was no breeze; the air was thick and hazy. I could feel the atmosphere as I walked through it. I was dying. The air was suffocating me, and all the while I was climbing up and up, slipping occasionally.

Every 2 minutes, we would come to a fork in the path. Me and Cecilia would look at each other, shrug and point to the one that looked like it headed more to the top. At first, I tried to make a mental image of the surrounding area as we turned and turned, but after about the 10^th or 11^th fork, I decided it a waste of time.

One of the most annoying things was all the spider webs. Every 10 feet I would walk through a spider web, usually about at face level. Cecilia learned quickly to let me lead and clear a spider free path, but she faced the wrath of mosquitoes that didn’t threaten me. I have a natural mosquito repellent: copious amounts of body hair act as mosquito barbed wire.

Up and up we climbed. I’ve never been more sweaty. I had sweat dripping off my chin, dripping of my elbows, dripping off my knees into my shoes. It was crazy. We finally came to a more level part of the trail; we caught our breath and continued on. We came to a sharp turn in the path and around the corner, waiting for us, was a parking lot and set of bathrooms. There were a few people that looked at us, very surprised, like we had just appeared out of the trees. I guess we had. I took a bath in the restroom sink and made sure to splash cool water over my entire body. The water from the tap was perfect, cold and delicious. I drank about a gallon, and soaked my hair. We reconvened the hiking party outside the bathroom and headed out on the next portion of the trail, this time a marked path. The climb was much the same as before, except instead of walking on tree matter, we had terra firma beneath our feet. The path was much wider. We had found our way.

Although the path had improved, the heat and grade of the trail was as bad as ever. I noticed the vegetation was changing, more conifer trees and evergreens. Something told me we were almost there. I started to notice more signs of people using the area, the occasional small shrine or statue, a candle, trash. We came to a big clearing with a map on a post. The map showed the lookout point about 80 meters ahead. We set off.

After about a minute, we came to the clearing, there was a little place to sit and enjoy the view also. It was incredible. Almost a 360 view of all of Fukushima, the river, the train lines and the surrounding mountains. The air was hazy and thick, the mountains all around the city seem to rise and fall into the haze endlessly.

After we had taken in the view and recuperated, we headed back down to the parking lot. We looked at each other, and with out saying anything, unanimously decided to take the road back down. Although the road was paved, the downhill really killed my calves. My legs began to shake and wobble. I started to hear someone playing the saxophone off in the distance. I listened for a while, then asked Cecilia if she heard the same sound. Yes, she said. I wasn’t crazy or dehydrated, there was someone playing sax nearby. We followed our ears and soon came to a picnic area with a guy rocking out on the saxophone. The sound reverberated off the trees and amplified as it bounced around through the trunks. It sounded beautiful, and I hate the saxophone. We listened for a while and then walked on. The man finally noticed us and looked up startled. I gave a short round of applause and he blushed. We continued down the mountain.

We came to a graveyard. We were on a road above a steep downhill that was entirely covered in grave shrines. Of course, we left the road and headed down the decrepit old stone staircase. The graveyard was peaceful and sunny. It was absolutely silent too. I took a lot of pictures, but felt kind of bad. I think they were just shrines, and not actually graves. Most of the dead are cremated in Japan. The family will then buy a small plot of land for the family and they will come pay the respects with flowers and incense, and other offerings. A lot of the graves had beer mugs. Some were covered in leaves and weeds dusty with neglect. Others were immaculately groomed. It was very interesting to see the variations. I was startled by a black cat laying in an alley, watching us. Black cat in a graveyard….it was time to leave.

We finally made it off the mountain, with a serious sense of accomplishment. We had battled our way up to the top of Mr. Shinobu. Through the forest, through the elements, to the summit and back down through the graveyard. We had met him and made friends. I was entitled, rightfully to my steamy hot plate of CoCoichi curry and, I decided, a much deserved beer. There was just one thing we missed…the giant straw sandal! Where was it? I figured, if it was that big, I would’ve came across it. Well, as I always say when I miss something, it just gives me an excuse to return soon.

Akira and Sendai

I was standing out at my usual wifi hotspot, at about 11:30 on Tuesday night, soaking wet, in a suit, avoiding the glances of passersby. I just wanted to check my email and head home. Suddenly, this guy says “hey!” I look up and reply with a friendly hello.

The man is dressed in the usual white button down shirt and black apron of a waiter. I ask him what he is doing.

“I’m just out walking around” he replies, “There is nobody eating in restaurants tonight, its too hot and rainy”.

I agree.

“Your new in town, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m the new guy around here” I reply.

He laughs at this statement, and we get to chatting about Fukushima, his hometown.

“I’m Uri” I say

“I’m Akira, it’s an easy name to remember for foreigners” he says.

“Nice to meet you Akira Kurasawa” I reply

He laughs and explains away all relations to the famous movie director.

We talk about the usual questions that I think every Japanese person asks every foreigner. Why did you come to Japan? What is the most surprising thing you seen since you’ve been here? How on earth did you end up in Fukushima? I’ve been asked these questions so many times, I have almost scripted answers. His English is surprisingly excellent. We run through the routine. I reply with my usual questionnaire. What is the best thing to do in Fukushima? What is you favorite restaurant? Where can I get a bike?

My bicycle questions usually is answered with an ‘I don’t know’ and a shrug of sorts. Akira thinks for a moment and his eyes light up.

“I know of a huge bike shop, they have everything!” he says.

My first lead. “Where is it?” I pry.

“Well it’s pretty far from here”

“How far?”

“Thirty minutes by car” he says.

Shot down…I debate riding my mama chari bike this far, it doesn’t strike me as enjoyable.

“But, I could drive you” he adds.

I look up, maybe like a kid on Christmas, and thank him profusely.

“I will pay you for gas and buy you some lunch, thank you!” I say.

We make a plan to meet on Sunday in front of the train station.

At this point my pragmatist side starts to kick in. We have been talking for quite a while. “Um, Akira, isn’t your boss going to be mad that you have been out walking around for nearly an hour?”

“Good point” he says, “I will see you Sunday.” After exchanging emails and phone numbers, we shake hands, bow, and part ways.

I am very excited, but at the same time my pragmatist side is still working hard. Why does this guy want to help me out? Is he going to mug me? Is he going to drive me to his dungeon and cut me up to pieces? I figure I will never have any friends with that approach and decide that I must meet him and find out.

Sunday arrives, sunny and hot, and I ride to the station. I hope in his little four wheel drive Mitsubishi, and we’re off. We get to chatting and make the journey to this bike shop. I thank him at least 300 times along the way (which was way too far to ride, by the way).

When we arrive, I am slightly let down by the fleet of mama chari bikes they have out front. Once we get inside though my spirits are rejuvenated. They have all sorts of bikes, road bikes, mountain bikes, kid’s bikes, used and new. The place doesn’t have air conditioning though, so it’s about 115 degrees inside the tent like structure. I start to notice that all the bikes a very small. Akira starts to chat up the shopkeeper, and he points at me. The owner looks me up and down and starts to chuckle.

“He wants to know how tall you are” Akira says.

“Six fee two inches” I exclaim. They look at me like I’m speaking Hebrew. I whip out my IPod for the conversion program.

“187 centimeters” I say.

Akira translates and the shopkeeper laughs.

Must be the heat getting to me. I should know better than to use my native sense of measurement. The shopkeeper pulls out a catalog, and I think to myself that I will be leaving empty handed today. My dreams of having a beautiful old steel road bike, the kind Japan was famous for in the 70’s and 80’s, the kind they have up on the walls in the shop collecting dust, the kind I could ride 50 miles from Fukushima on, my dreams crumble.

Shopkeeper looks at the catalog, punches some numbers into a calculator and shows me the result. 78,900 yen. That is over $800. Seriously? Did this guy think I would give me that much money based on a picture in a catalog? I can’t buy a bike without riding it. Sorry, I shake my head. He shrugs his shoulders. I point at the vintage 3Rensho hanging up on the wall and grunt. I know for sure I could get over $1500 for it on eBay. He stares at me coldly and shakes his head. A regular Mexican standoff. The heat is starting to make me crazy and I head for the door, slightly crushed.

Its okay, I tell myself. No money out of my pocket. Me and Akira go get a sandwich. I buy, and thank him for his efforts. He tries to think of another bike shop we can go to.

“Don’t stress about” I tell him. “Let’s head back to Fukushima, and we can catch a movie or something, get out of the heat”.

He looks up at me, “want to go to Sendai?”

I’m dumbfounded; the pragmatist is already hard at work. “What about gas and the time and…” all these concerns come tumbling out of my mouth.

“Don’t worry about it” he says. I continue to gloat and moan thinking that I am inconveniencing him.

He interrupts me “why do you go to work everyday?” he asks.

“Uh…” I have no idea what to say “to make money?”

“What is the point of living if you work all the time and never spend any of that money?” He says. “Why do work if we don’t occasionally enjoy?”

Again, I’m dumbfounded to respond. “Let’s go” I finally say.

We hop in the car, drive to the gas station, fuel up, get some water and head out.

“How long is the drive?” I question once we are on the road.

“About an hour” he says, “but time flies when you have good music”. As he says this, he reaches behind his seat and pulls out a shoe box of cd’s.

“Pick one” he says.

I look through the selection….they are all Michael Jackson. At least 20 cd’s. One Craig David album. This guy is clearly obsessed. I begin to imagine the dungeon and being cut up to little pieces again. I push the thoughts from my mind, pop in ‘Thriller’ and sit back and relax.

Akira explains to me that after MJ’s death he began to listen to his music and has since become a regular super-fan. He says these are only the cd’s he travels with, he’s got more at home, and countless DVD’s. After about 40 seconds I find myself singing along and we are making good time.

We get to the toll box right before Sendai. 1800 yen. $20 to drive on this stretch of road. Wow.

We pull into Sendai and immediately get stuck in traffic. After about 20 minutes we find some insanely cheap pay parking spot, lock the car, and head out on foot.

“I had a girlfriend that lived here for a year, so I used to come visit a lot” Akira explains. “I went to university here for a year too, so I know all the good spots”. We walk toward the main station.

Sendai is a major city, 3-4 million people, beautiful tree lined sidewalks and talk sky scrapers. I notice lots of young people, a nice change from the retirement home feel of Fukushima. There is an awesome jazz band playing near the station and we stop to take in the sounds for a while, basking in the sun. I look out over the raised shopping area above the busy street below. City of the future I think to myself. I’m starting to notice there is one way to describe most big Japanese cities: Endless shopping.

We walk around, check out shoe stores, watch boutiques, a pet shop, art and architecture firms, the Apple store. A noisy parade approaches us. It’s a bunch of people in a traditional summer outfit, which looks like a gi, with no pants and cotton shoes. It actually strikes me as perfect. I would love to not have pants on right now I think to myself. They are chanting and rhythmically carrying this big box type thing. It looks like a moving shrine. There a little girls doing some kind of dance with these multicolored fans, all the while singing the most high pitched insanely loud song I’ve ever heard. Like a millions tiny violins, with drums and the chanting from the pant-less box carriers. It is a feast for the ears and eyes. A regular Japanese marching band.

“Are they religious?” I ask Akira.

He laughs “No, they’re just having a good time. Japan isn’t a religious place”.

I think about that for a while.

As the sun starts to set, we walk by a noisy restaurant with a line.

“That’s the best, most famous gyoza in Japan” Akira says nonchalantly.

“I have to try it, gyoza are my favorite” I exclaim. We wait in line, finally make it inside, and sit down at the bar. The kitchen is open for us to view and the guy hand making the gyoza is right in front of me. He is about 300 lbs, and he is sweating like crazy. His little paper hat is soaked through. His neck is wretched downward to ensure his gyoza come out perfect. Every time he moves to get more filing for the dumplings, sweat comes flying off in beads and lands everywhere. I notice the rest of the cooks have the same situation going on. Lots of sweat flying all over all the food. That is there secret I think to myself, trying not to judge. They are the best gyoza in Japan because they are made with sumo sweat.

Our plate arrives, Akira shows me how to concoct a nice spicy and sour sauce for them and we dig in. Best gyoza I’ve ever had. By far.

We head back to Akira’s car and I see a bike locked to pole. It is perfect. Single speed, tall frame, bright colors. I point at it and groan audibly. I had such an awesome day I forgot what the purpose of the initial excursion was. I no longer care. Somewhere in Japan, there is a bike waiting for me to find it. Until then all I need to remember that little bit of Japanese philosophy I was treated to earlier that day.

“What is the point of working your whole life if you don’t spend a little money here and there? Why, then are we living?”

I’ll find my bike, until then, don’t worry and enjoy the ride. Thanks Akira.

My Mama-Chari

When I was taken to my apartment, I was told there would be a bicycle waiting for me. Needless to say, I was delighted. I was also told that it needed some work. No problem, I thought, when it comes to bikes, I’ve seen it all. I guess I forgot that I was in Japan…

I was shown the bicycle parking area at the bottom of the apartment complex. It was more like a pile of bicycle shaped garbage, next to 4 or 5 bikes that people actually used. Mine, of course, was not one of the 4-5. I thanked them gratefully and went back up to my apartment.

After 2-3 days of walking to work and getting rained on (in a suit, I might add) every single night, I thought it might be a good idea to get working on the bike pile. I woke up early one day and went downstairs to untangle the mess. The first thing I noticed was that all the bikes were locked…great, I thought, they were nice enough to give me a locked bike without a key. Locking a bike is a much different affair in Japan, as compared to the States. In America, when I locked my bike, I had at least a u-lock to secure the back wheel and the frame to a solid implement, and a cable to secure the front wheel. In Japan, you can simply attach a mechanism to the frame that interferes with the wheel turning. You don’t even have to lock it to a pole. Honestly, you could probably put a twig in the wheel, or turn the bike upside down, or put some trash on it, and it will not get stolen. Finding a suitable pole would be nearly impossible as well. There are millions of bikes sitting around everywhere, if someone were to steal a bike, the chances alone that it would be YOUR bike are slim.

So, how did I find my bike? When I moved into my apartment, there was some type of metal device hanging on the door with a battered keychain attached to it. I didn’t know what it was, but made a mental note that it was important, and that I would need it in the future. I decided it was worth a shot and took it down stairs. Like a good male, I went around trying to jam this key of sorts into every key hole I could find. Finally, it went into a slot and clicked. The lock retracted with a rusty hesitation only years of rain and neglect could provide. Eureka! I had my bike. It even had one tire with air in it! The rear tire needed air, but I was all over it. I brought my awesome and portable bike pump from home…that’s right, I packed a bike pump in my checked luggage. I was prepared for this situation, or so I thought. One look at the valve on the tube and my pump was reduced to baton with a hose. It was some crazy fitting I had never seen before (this happens a lot in this country: something so familiar yet insanely foreign at the same time). Luckily, there was a pump in the pile too. But of course, it didn’t work. I dragged the bike to a suitable area and inspected it. It seemed sound. The brakes worked, it had a generator light, fenders, a basket and all the other requirements to deem it a mama-chari.

Japanese lesson for the day: a mama-chari is a bike designed for a house wife to use. It usually has all the aforementioned components, and sometimes a child seat or two. Yes, I have seen bikes with 2 child seats on them here. A mama-chari also must weigh at least 50 pounds, have a low top tube to accommodate a dress, and a massive, yet still uncomfortable seat. It’s a bike designed to take the kids to school, get some groceries and stay somewhat dry on, all while only going about 10 miles per hour. Perfect for a mama.

I decided that I need some help. I took my mama-chari to the local dealership, pointed at the flat tire and grunted. The man working there was about 130 years old, and asked me about 500 questions, all of which I answered with a resounding “hai” or yes. He eventually started to work on the bike. He removed the tire and inspected the tube. It had already been patched about 15 times, no surprise there. He found the whole, which was on a patch, and placed another patch over it. I asked him his name. He looked surprised and said “Hori”. I thanked with a very low bow, and 1000 yen. $10 to patch a bike tube, highway robbery. I would’ve given him 2000 yen, because after that, I hopped on the seat and rode off into the sunrise with the biggest smile I have had so far on this trip. If you are reading this, Hori-san, thank you very much. My bike is a “Best Cycle Freak fashion cycle”. At least that is what the top tube stickers reads. I don’t think I could’ve named it better myself.

shinjuku harajuku shibuya ginza roppongi

Brian and I set off for the train station at about 11:30 one Saturday morning. We were going to be ultra tourists: see all the sights, smell the smells, take all the pictures, get lost, eat out, buy a souvenir, and hopefully make it back for the midnight train. It took us about 30 minutes in the Omiya station to figure out how to get to Tokyo proper, and which ticket to buy, and which side of the platform to stand on (we couldn’t remember if the trains drove on the left too…they do). We decided to head to Shinjuku, it was an easy transfer, which we found out later was unnecessary, and it was the cheapest ticket. We waited in the heat, climbed aboard and were whisked away.

My first “really packed train” experience; it was not to be the first of the day either. The nice thing about the train being so full is that you do not have to hold on to the little handles, you just lean on the person next to you, and they, through many others, lean on the wall. Nobody falls over, its impossible. The not so nice thing is the smell, and the claustrophobia, and the panic attack, and the person next to you sneezing, and the old lady ramming her massive purse into your genitals, and the little kid staring at you the entire way…actually the kids are unbearably cute. The smell was by far the worst thing. Not because it smells like human, but because they pump in some type of cleaning agent that makes the train smell like a bucket of frogs ready for dissection.

I never thought the air of a city of 28 million would smell so good, but after the train, the smog and humidy of Tokyo smelled like 28 million roses. And it was hot. About 85 degrees and 40 percent humidity. Me and Brian set off to see what Shinjuku had to offer. We followed a sign that said “skyscraper district”. It was quite boring. We walked through a few alleys, found a map and headed for a Buddhist shrine.

The entrance to the shrine was bordered by a massive Tori, and even bigger trees. The Tori is the gateway looking thing that all shrines have at the entrance. Very beautiful, very humbling. We walked down a long, wide path and enjoyed the peace and quiet. It is very easy to forget you are in the biggest city in the world. The humidity was about twice as high as outside the shrine, but the temperature dropped by about 10 degrees.

We toured the actual temple, tried out the hand washing ceremony and left. The exit to the shrine dropped us right on the border of Harajuku. We stocked up on water and headed back into the noise. Harajuku was fun for about 5 minutes. Between getting hastled by street vendors, yelled at through megaphones, gangs of girls with pink and blue hair, other tourists and usual stink that accompanies touristy places(aka urine), we decide to walk straight through and not look back. We took our first right and headed toward Shibuya.

On the way I ran into my friend Cecile, some of you might remember her as the Italian exchange student. Yes, that’s right, I bumped into a friend (that I haven’t seen in years), in the middle of Tokyo…I walked around the rest of the day trying to wake up from some type of zany dream. After some quick catching up and story trading, she joined our hike and we were off through Shibuya. Shibuya is trendy, pricey and pretty. Not much else to it other than a few interesting buildings. Very European. Off to Roppongi.

Roppongi was very similar, a little more dirty, a little less pricey but not much to do. It was only about 4pm so there was not much going on. We walked around an observatory and a manmade garden that looked like a mini golf course compared to the shrine. We left.

Ginza was the next stop. Let me just say that Ginza makes 5^th ave NYC look like downtown Tucson AZ. Over the top lavishness, Ferraris, jewelry stores, clothing stores, old guys with 20 year old girlfriends and big cigars, not a single piece of trash on the floor, manicured gardens line the sidewalk, and expensive restaurants. Very beautiful, but very inaccessible. We went to the Apple store and chatted with some English speaking employees and the manager, they were very nice and helpful. We left and found the nearest train station.

It was about 9pm and the people were starting to come out. We were on a packed train heading back to Shibuya to get some dinner and see Cecile back home. And more people were coming out…eventually it dawned on me that it was Saturday night and everyone in Tokyo was heading out for the evening. Instantly, it was incredibly crowded, every street crossing was at maximum capacity, every train packed, every station, every line full.

I almost had a panic attack.

So we went to Denny’s. As I soon found out, Denny’s in Japan is like some kind of exclusive fancy restaurant. I was shocked, Brian assured me that it would be good, and it was. There were nicely dressed people, café style seating, and black gold aka American drip coffee. Totally different from Denny’s at home. I had South African style curry dish, I kid you not, at Denny’s. It was good, not spectacular though.

We said goodbye to Cecile, got on the most packed train of the day and stood very still all the way back to Omiya. We both felt like we walked about 15 miles we went got back home. Enough big city for me for a loooong time. I can’t wait to get to up to Fukushima and see some trees and mountains, breathe some clean air. 16 hours left here.

Clover Bar

Me and Brian went out to meet up with a lady he was interested in. She said she worked at a bar called Clover, near the next train stop in Omiya. We looked at the map, realized it was actually quite close to our house, and hoofed it.
The walk was nice, we got lost for a bit, found our way and eventually stumbled upon the train station. The bar was tucked right around the corner; a big red hand painted sign in English read CLOVER. The door was ornate with stained glass, the door jam was covered in all kinds of beads and bits of indescribable colored stuff. Me and Brian looked at each other with the “I’m about to pull the door open on something, in a foreign country, and I will be surprised, but the people inside will undoubtedly be more surprised” type of face. I love when I have to make that face…something good is about to happen.
Peering inside we were of course greeted with the instant “irasshaimase!!” followed by the mumbling of conversation which I usually translate in my head as “how the hell did these white boys end up here?” This is Japan though, so of course that banter is much more polite. We saw smiles, so we entered.
The air was thick with incense and the sound of The Beatles, we were in 1968. The walls were covered with 60’s memorabilia, bits of shiny plastic and rhinestones and gems. It was like a distilled Hippy Gypsy store, plus Japan, of course (a common trend here believe it or not!!). The whole bar was a about 10 feet by 20 feet.
Brian mumbled some Japanese, I stood and smiled. We were given stools, more stares and things started to come together. I blathered my best “birru onegaishimas kudasai” (translation: beer please!) and we were in business, kind of. We found out that Brian’s friend had quit 10 minutes before we got there.
We were the only people there, except for a very nice bar maid type lady and her hippie styled coworker, which I will describe shortly. They were genuinely concerned for us, I think they thought we were lost and just trying to play off the fact that we landed in their strange bar in the armpit of Saitama, Tokyo some rainy summer night.
Me and Brian sat and chatted, and enjoyed The Beatles….it was nice to here some English. We were just starting to get bored when in walks a young guy with an oversized, funny looking suit case. He sets it on top of the only other table in the bar, pops it open, and eyeballs me and Brian. After rummaging around for a while, he pulls out a wad of rubber bands. At this point he starts grinning and chatting up me, Brian and the coworker who is dressed like a hippie comes out and sits across from the man with the suitcase. She points and says “ma-gi-cu” and starts laughing and clapping.


He is a magician. He amazed us for a quite a while, the whole time the hippie girl clapping and cheering, other patrons came, some stayed, some left and fun was had by all. Card tricks, magic rings, bending spoons, making things disappear, the standard fare. By this time I was starting to realize what the hippie girl was there for. As soon as the bar became quiet, or people weren’t laughing, she would run around and get everyone riled up. She was a hostess. It was very interesting, a first for me, and it worked. Me and Brian spent much longer in there than we originally thought we would, we were constantly occupied.
I had a stack of Tucson themed postcards in my pocket, so I pulled them out and gave them to the bar. I’m sure they will end up on the walls covered in dust for some other American to see and wonder over. Me and Brian stumbled home.
Thank you Clover Bar!