DRINKING BEER AND BUYING A BAG IN NIHONBASHI

Originally published in The Australian newspaper, May 2013.

We received umbrellas and hand-drawn directions to the nearest izakaya from the concierge at the Mandarin Oriental and made our way through the warm, driving rain toward an area of Tokyo with no name and no street signs and no taxis, past the noise-and-heat blast of a pachinko palace, in and out of swelling puddles, all the while looking for a red lantern – or rather, the right red lantern of the dozens we passed – down alleyways and side streets and finally into a tiny wood-pannelled room that seated eight and was already more than half full. An izakaya is a popular, inexpensive type of bar that serves food, usually just one style rather than a menu full of selections. They are also often themed, and the theme of the one we’d stumbled into shortly after arriving in Tokyo on a torrentially rainy Saturday night in September, was novelty toys; the wooden walls were festooned with plastic Groucho noses-and-glasses, spinning tops, snapping gum and paper planes. All were for sale and immediate enjoyment or takeoff. Because it was Saturday, and because it was Tokyo, my wife, Sally, and I each paid a Y500 (USD $5.50) cover charge to sit on the stools at the bar looking at the toys and the noodles and the six other customers crammed into the hut-sized establishment. It was my first time in Japan – my very first few hours, in fact – and everything, from the glowing red lanterns that hang outside these establishments to the cold wet ‘refresher’ towel you receive when you walk in, was terrifically exotic and fascinating. Even the dense, clinging, enervating humidity unique to Asian countries was a source of jet-lagged joy and wonderment.

We’d been drinking creamy Asahi draft for about half an hour when the young barman, in between cooking noodles and pouring beer and selling whoopee cushions, said that the three women in the corner wanted to buy Sally and me a drink. Politesse is a much esteemed quality in Japan (as is drunkenness) so we accepted the invitation.

English isn’t terribly widely spoken here but alcohol has a handy way of assisting with language difficulties – it’s the great translator, and we were all drinking plenty of translation fluid – and before too long Sally and I had learned that the three women, Tomo, Miki and Nao, lived about an hour outside Tokyo, played soccer together and used English phrases like ‘positive thinking’ and ‘I am down with that’ for their own amusement. Befitting everything I’d heard about Japanese people, the three of them were friendly, generous and exceedingly polite. They were also knocking back the whisky-and-sodas like a bunch of salarymen and before I knew it two hours had passed, we’d changed venues and I was immersed in a concurrent suite of Japanese clichés: drinking sake, bowing every couple of seconds and singing a song (‘Sweet Caroline’) in a smoke-filled, sound-proofed room in a Big Echo karaoke joint. It was four o’clock in the morning; I’d been in the country less than twelve hours and my list of ‘must do’s’ was already more than halved.

We were staying in Nihonbashi (translation: ‘Japan Bridge’) which is home to Tokyo’s business district and therefore not overly popular with tourists. It is, nevertheless, quite lovely, with dozens of excellent restaurants, small shops and the original Mitsukoshi department store, which began life in 1673 as a kimono shop, and whose underground food emporium is one of the best in a city boasting literally thousands of first-class eating outlets. According to the Japanese female shoppers, everything down here was “Oishi!” (delicious!) or "Kawaiiii!" (cute!). I observed two schoolgirls in plaid miniskirts standing at a counter ogling this week's ‘it’ sandwich, white-bread triangles layered with whipped cream and sliced bananas and kiwis. For the girls, the sandwich was a perfect blend of kawai and oishi, although not to my taste in either area. Nearby a businessman was deep in contemplation of a $75 cantaloupe, no doubt intended as an ‘omiage’, or obligation gift.

In a city relentlessly expanding through land reclamation, excavation and redevelopment, both private and government interests are engaged in a unique revitalisation project in Nihonbashi that’s bringing new life and dynamism to an already prestigious (if often overlooked) neighborhood. The result is an appealing mix of international cosmopolitanism punctuated by visual references to the area’s grand historic past.

The first wooden bridge was completed in 1603, and the current bridge, made of stone, dates from 1911. Shortly before the 1964 Summer Olympics, an expressway was built over the Nihonbashi bridge, obscuring the classic view of Mount Fuji from the bridge. (This being an example of a mix of old and the new that doesn’t work quite so well.) Up until about 1860, the bridge at Nihonbashi was where criminals were taken to be executed; if it was a clear day, Fuji-san was the last thing they got to see before they were beheaded.

Located in the heart of Nihonbashi, the Mandarin Oriental hotel is a key element of the area’s transformation. In keeping with its surroundings, the hotel dynamically blends the best of architecture, old and new, with 179 oversized guest rooms and five restaurants (including the Michelin-starred, Sense), all situated on the top nine floors of the soaring Nihonbashi Mitsui Tower. When the electric blinds in the rooms are raised there are sweeping floor-to-ceiling views over Tokyo Bay to the east, and the Imperial Palace garden, Ginza and the towering skyscrapers of Shinjuku to the west. On a clear day – and there are some even in this smoggiest of cities – the majestic, snow-capped Mount Fuji can be seen. Our lovely room at the Mandarin Oriental was indeed west-facing but my glimpse of Fuji-san remained elusive. I really wanted to see Mount Fuji while I was here; so much so that I almost envied the soon-to-be-beheaded miscreants of yore.

The day after our izakaya/karaoke misadventure I made a purchase at one of the upper levels of Mitsukoshi. What I bought is not important (a very nice Patrick Cox bag, if you must know), however the purchase process was quite memorable. This is how it went: Choose item. Hand item over to exceedingly polite female shop assistant, who bows. Return bow. Meet shop assistant over at register. Receive bow from female register clerk. Return bow. Shop assistant puts on white gloves and proceeds to stroke item repeatedly. She then unzips and unzips each zip on the bag about fifty or sixty times. There are a lot of zips and this part of the process lasts quite a while. The shop assistant and the register clerk both smile and nod at me a lot. I smile and nod back, because the respect and courteousness in this country is infectious. Once the zipping is complete, assistant-san puts my bag inside a cloth bag then puts both bags inside a large paper bag. With what I think is a final nod and smile, I reach for the package but – wait! – I am premature. Shop assistant carries my purchase, rested on her two upturned, perfectly level palms, to the perimeter of the store then presents it to me. And bows.

The ancient art and custom of bowing in Japan is no joke. You get bowed at by elevator button-pressers, who stay bent over until the doors have closed and you’re out of sight. Train ticket collectors bow at the whole carriage as they back out of the car. Men bow at women. The sun bows and the moon. Dogs bow at cats.

A lovely example of the aesthetic grace that the Japanese put into almost everything was a long line of witch’s hats placed beside a construction site. It was evening, and the plastic yellow hats they were lit by candles placed inside, creating a safety measure of singularly beautiful light. Adding substantially to the pervading sense of peace, beauty and mutual respect is the complete absence of graffiti and general hostility toward society and its people.

In a densely crowded society like this one – Tokyo’s population is thirteen million – if you don’t follow the rules it leads to chaos and added stress. So everyone sticks to the rules, the payoff of which is an incredibly efficient ‘system’ and greater tolerance of your fellow man. No one pushes, everybody sticks to the correct side of the escalator, nobody goes outside the lines, there is no-one – not a single person, much less ten or twelve or fifty people – jabbering away on a cellphone in the subway or listening to their headphones at excessive volume. And contrary to the result being a sterile, strictured city, it is in fact one of great vitality. Because it’s all about respect; indeed Sally and I were even there on a national holiday day entirely devoted to Respect for the Aged. All the other days are respect for everybody in general, including tourists.