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European Costume Flip-flops, Women and Socks August 22, 2008

Posted by dodo in : Europe, Hotels, Japan, London, Rail Pass, Restaurant, Tickets, Tokyo, Tour, Trip , trackback

Once Europeans had become accustomed to flip-flops, it wasn’t all that difficult to get used to mitten- shaped socks, each holding the big toe in its own little pocket and letting the other four doss down together. But the very first visitors to Japan assumed, from the local socks, that the Japanese had only two toes. And the Japanese, on the basis of the visitors’ socks, thought that Europeans had none.

Well, that’s the essence of Japan: mystery and misunderstanding. You can’t understand what people are saying, you can’t read the street signs, and you can’t find out where the buses are going to. Nor can you read the Tokyo tube map. Even if the trains are coloured according to the line they run on, the map itself is like an action painting by a hyperactive centipede.

But the compensations for being unable to read or carry on a casual conversation are overwhelming. The sight, for instance, of a fat wrestler dressed in a bright open kimono and what appears to be a black chastity belt sitting on the train reading a comic book. Or the children from primary school on an outing, dressed in sailor suits like Victorian children on their way to the seaside, snaking behind their teacher in twos, each round head and pair of button eyes topped by an identical pudding basin of black hair and blue sailor hat.

The cafés provide a nice easy introduction to the delights and puzzles of Japan. Avoid the hotel restaurants, and beware of Colonel Sanders. His larger-than-life statue with its slightly oriental cast of features serves as a warning that you are approaching the junk food area.

Travel GuidebookThe most intriguing cafés have steamy windows filled with plastic replicas of the real food inside. It is certainly a better way of choosing food than trying to read the menu. The displays clearly represent food. The question is: what food? You can’t go wrong with anything shaped like a noodle. It is almost certainly a noodle. But look out for those exquisite confections that look like liquorice allsorts. About the size of matchboxes, they are perfectly symmetrical — some tubular, some round, and some square, with black and white patterns relieved by little buttons of green or red. They are not liquorice allsorts. They are fish; that is, they are made from fish. There’s nothing wrong with the taste, but it’s a culinary shock if you order one or two for dessert under the impression that you are about to eat some oriental sweetmeat.

If you see something that tickles your fancy you’ll have to force yourself to bring the waiter outside and use sign language. But it’s less risky than pointing to totally unknown items on a menu.

Sign language is almost essential in shops too, but it’s a little less embarrassing because you can be more discreet. A tiny gesture towards a desired item and a slight flick of the eyebrows is almost enough to complete most transactions. Not like dragging a waiter out of a warm cafe into a cold street while you point at plastic puddings.

Paying for your goods will lead to further mysteries. In this country of robots, minuscule calculators and pocket TV, they use little wooden abacuses to add up your bill. You can, for instance, buy a computer, a digital watch and a transistorised tennis game, and the shopkeeper will reach for his abacus (called a soroban in Japan) to calculate the cost. In the upmarket shops they’ll use a calculator to start with and then check the answer with a soroban.

It’s obvious that in their heart of hearts the Japanese don’t really trust calculators.

The same uneasy juxtaposition of man and technology is evident if you take the lift in a department store. Two uniformed girls will bow you in and another two will bow you out. They will also say something to you. Could it be: ‘Did you have a nice trip?’, or: ‘You’re looking well today’? Whatever it is, they say it hundreds of times an hour with endless patience and cheerfulness. The lifts of course are automatic and run without attendants.

Another way to get the flavour of Japan, but requiring a little more courage than merely eating in a local café, is to stay in a Japanese-style hotel. There are five or six in Tokyo and many more throughout the country. You can get a list from the Japanese Tourist Board in London, which for some inscrutable reason gives only half of them. You can get a full list in Tokyo.

In this kind of hotel you will sleep on the floor, wear a kimono (provided by the management) instead of pyjamas and share a bath with strangers. You’ll also be given a new toothbrush every evening. Of course, if you’re more comfortable in a lounge suit or twin-set and pearls, prefer eggs and bacon for breakfast, insist on using the same boring toothbrush day and night, and like to take baths alone, then you can go to the Hilton. There’s one in London too.

In the Japanese hotel your bed is a comfortable mattress on the floor. In the mornings the chambermaid will roll it up leaving the floor space free. This is covered in rush mats which is why they ask you to wear slippers, not shoes, when you go into your bedroom. The surface is quite delicate.

Whatever breakfast consists of, it is brought to your table arranged so exquisitely, and with each dish packaged so cunningly, that you cannot refrain from tasting. You’ll discover mussel soup and pickled plums among other unknown delicacies, and you can find out what those liquorice allsorts taste like. You can always fall back on good old rice and tea if the aesthetic qualities of the food are not enough to overcome your apprehension. But persist! After a while you’ll find yourself beginning to enjoy breakfast.

As for the communal bath: it’s not really for washing. This is Japan after all; part of the mystery, and so on. If you want to wash yourself you can go to the real bathroom, usually en suite. In there you’ll find a sink on the floor, just large enough to stand in, and you can have a good long soak up to your knees. You’ll have to wash the rest in air, as it were. Then, when your’re really clean, put on your kimono, drape a bathtowel over your shoulders and join the other guests in the big bath.

There are Western-style concerts in Tokyo; if you’re brave about food and hotels, I reckon you can treat yourself to a bit of Bach or Mozart, usually played with maturity and feeling by six- or seven year-olds. Don’t forget: this is where Suzuki started. At a recital I attended, when an elderly twenty-one-year-old was performing, the first two rows were taken up by tiny children watching the performer’s every move like little sparrows watching their mothers bring in the worms. And God help the little sparrow that dares to close its eyes or shuffle its tiny feet during a performance. Mums and dads in the rows behind will soon give a practised twist to its ear.

I saw so many of these earnest young hopefuls that one day, I’m sure, we will be invaded by battalions of these wunderkinder descending by parachutes above the Royal Festival Hall, violins strapped to their backs.

The nice thing is that, at least in music, the girls are on par with the boys. Not anywhere else. The Japanese male seems to think that women have only recently developed skills and abilities they never had before.

`Women and socks,’ the men say, ‘have greatly improved since the war.’

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