"Stories help shape the jumble of the present into something reassuring": But where was the real Tokyo?

The Tokyo skyline, with Mount Fuji behind it. Image: Kazuhiro Nogi/AFP/Getty.

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My arrival in Tokyo triggered an audio-visual snow crash. Our group of English teachers staggered red-eyed and exhilarated from Narita airport and slept upright on the train that drew us into the city. Then, stung by sunlight and late-summer heat, we emerged from the underground, falling headlong into the electrified plungepool of Shinjuku.

In the centre, I felt like everything yelled for my attention, and my head soon ached with trying to decipher the crackling static of this new language. Waves of salarymen, miserably overdressed for the heat, poured around us; flashing signs and billboards jostled overhead, and the whole carnival was set to dated muzac, which burbled from escalators and department stores.

And the scale of the place is inhuman. I believed that I had travelled before arriving in Japan in 2006, but I had felt never felt this dumbstruck.


Now, almost ten years and many trips to Tokyo later, I wonder how many of those first few days really happened the way I remember. I was wired on adrenaline, I barely slept. There are dream-like jump cuts in my memory; it’s early morning and I look out from a high floor of the Keio Plaza Hotel; I am being jostled through a narrow street crowded with ramen stalls; I tentatively prod something translucent and fish-like with chopsticks in a dim, subterranean restaurant, late at night.

Long before I came to know the city, or at least have a working knowledge of its surfaces, I'd only ever seen Tokyo’s iconic skyline razed to the ground in Akira, the classic 1980s cyberpunk anime. This was not the only time fiction buttressed experience and memory of Tokyo. That view from the Keio Plaza? I took in the same view at night —sinister red lights now studded the tallest skyscrapers—and all I could see was the opening to Blade Runner, the camera panning over towers and plumes of fire and smoke.

Or my first night in Tokyo, drunk with new friends in a low-tabled izakaya, singing karaoke in a box overlooking the twinkling skyline. Was that us? Or was that Lost in Translation? Where was the real Tokyo?

Whenever I arrive in a new city, especially when faced with the incalculable scale of somewhere like Tokyo, I quickly reach for stories because they help shape the jumble of the present into something reassuring and comprehensible. But stories can also oversimplify and close us off to experience. I love “The Most Photographed Barn in the World” passage from Don DeLillo's White Noise:

Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn... We see only what the others see.  The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future.  We've agreed to be part of a collective perception… A religious experience in a way, like all tourism.

As a foreigner gliding across the surface of the city those first few days, this is exactly how Tokyo felt; otherworldly, unreal. Because, in a way, I had already seen the bustling pedestrian intersection at Shinjuku, or the parade of costumed eccentrics in Harajuku, countless time before.

Take Mt. Fuji. In woodblock prints by 18th century ukiyo-e painters, it is often depicted as serene, dusted with snow. And yet friends who climbed the well-trod icon could only admit to being underwhelmed. It amounted to little more than an eight-hour queue up a steep, gravelly slope to the summit where, if they were lucky and the cloud cleared, they got some half-decent views.

The reality of the experience didn't quite square with the Fuji they'd pre-seen. As Alex Kerr points out in Dogs & Demons, Japanese shrines, temples and zen gardens are regularly shot to keep out of frame the unsightly shops, apartment blocks and telephone wires that crowd around them. It is all too easy to see the cities we've gone looking for.


The city skyline by night. Image: Kazuhiro Nogi/AFP/Getty. 

However, I wasn't illiterate, or a tourist, for long.  Living in rural northern Japan improved my Japanese very quickly, and I threw myself into daily life. And I went back to Tokyo as often as I could afford. My parts of the city, my experiences and stories, took on a tangible, idiosyncratic form that was mine alone. DeLillo's comment came to seem less and less profound.

Towards the end of my time in Japan, a colleague asked me what my favourite Japanese place was. I liked the village where I worked, but it couldn't compare with the capital. Tokyo was a dazzling place, with endless things to see and do, and my strongest memories – an overnight bus trip to see Radiohead, or New Years' at the colossal AgeHa club in 2008 – painted a picture of a city that could never grow boring.

I liked its anonymity. People didn't stare the way they sometimes did in the countryside, and I could float around unnoticed. Yet I also had great friends to ground my experience in something real.

I answered that I really liked Tokyo. He replied gruffly: “Tokyo's not Japan.” OK, I could see what he meant. On the surface of things, the glittering international cosmopolis, its youth and pace of life, bore little resemblance to the towns and villages, where the population is ageing and traditional values and rituals still have a central place in daily life. But after three years on a teaching program where transience was the norm, Tokyo had become a more real place for me, somewhere I could go anytime and start where I left off.


In 2015, I worked briefly in a small tourist town on the Spanish coast. Aside from towering castle ruins and bone-white beaches, the place was only notable for its improbable international airport and complex of EU buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.

On a quiet Saturday morning, I set out early and got purposefully lost in the old town at the foot of the castle. I found brightly painted houses, worn stone staircases, cooking smells and conversations spilling out from kitchen windows. This was the real Spain, I thought, triumphantly.

And as soon as the thought had popped into my head, I knew it was rubbish. The scene had merely resonated with a Spain I already knew from TV, films, books – a Spain I had gone looking for.  I see now that this desire to secure “real” experience is just symptomatic of the loneliness and confusion of a new place. That urge wore off in Spain, once I'd made good friends and found things to do, and it wore off in Japan, too.

Are there any real Tokyos? There are certainly mine. And each time I go back, new experiences reframe my half-remembered stories, and both undercut their verity and make them, and my relationships, more real.

Dan Bradley is a writer and translator from Japanese. His translation of ‘Mambo’ by Hitomi Kanehara appears in The Book of Tokyo: A City in Fiction, an anthology of new Japanese fiction from Comma Press. He lives in London.

 
 
 
 

12 things we learned by reading every single National Rail timetable

Some departure boards, yesterday. Image: flickr.com/photos/joshtechfission/ CC-BY-SA

A couple of weeks ago, someone on Twitter asked CityMetric’s editor about the longest possible UK train journey where the stations are all in progressive alphabetical order. Various people made suggestions, but I was intrigued as to what that definitive answer was. Helpfully, National Rail provides a 3,717 page document containing every single timetable in the country, so I got reading!

(Well, actually I let my computer read the raw data in a file provided by ATOC, the Association of Train Operating Companies. Apparently this ‘requires a good level of computer skills’, so I guess I can put that on my CV now.)

Here’s what I learned:

1) The record for stops in progressive alphabetical order within a single journey is: 10

The winner is the weekday 7.42am Arriva Trains Wales service from Bridgend to Aberdare, which stops at the following stations in sequence:

  • Barry, Barry Docks, Cadoxton, Cardiff Central, Cardiff Queen Street, Cathays, Llandaf, Radyr, Taffs Well, Trefforest

The second longest sequence possible – 8 – overlaps with this. It’s the 22:46pm from Cardiff Central to Treherbert, although at present it’s only scheduled to run from 9-12 April, so you’d better book now to avoid the rush. 

  • Cardiff Central, Cardiff Queen Street, Cathays, Llandaf, Radyr, Taffs Well, Trefforest, Trehafod

Not quite sure what you’ll actually be able to do when you get to Trehafod at half eleven. Maybe the Welsh Mining Experience at Rhondda Heritage Park could arrange a special late night event to celebrate.

Just one of the things that you probably won't be able to see in Trehafod. Image: Wikimedia/FruitMonkey.

There are 15 possible runs of 7 stations. They include:

  • Berwick Upon Tweed, Dunbar, Edinburgh, Haymarket, Inverkeithing, Kirkcaldy, Leuchars
  • Bidston, Birkenhead North, Birkenhead Park, Conway Park, Hamilton Square, James Street, Moorfields
  • Bedford, Flitwick, Harlington, Leagrave, Luton, St Albans City, St Pancras International

There is a chance for a bit of CONTROVERSY with the last one, as you could argue that the final station is actually called London St Pancras. But St Pancras International the ATOC data calls it, so if you disagree you should ring them up and shout very loudly about it, I bet they love it when stuff like that happens.

Alphabetical train journeys not exciting enough for you?

2) The longest sequence of stations with alliterative names: 5

There are two ways to do this:

  • Ladywell, Lewisham, London Bridge, London Waterloo (East), London Charing Cross – a sequence which is the end/beginning of a couple of routes in South East London.
  • Mills Hill, Moston, Manchester Victoria, Manchester Oxford Road, Manchester Piccadilly – from the middle of the Leeds-Manchester Airport route.

There are 20 ways to get a sequence of 4, and 117 for a sequence of 3, but there are no train stations in the UK beginning with Z so shut up you at the back there.

3) The longest sequence of stations with names of increasing length: 7

Two of these:

  • York, Leeds, Batley, Dewsbury, Huddersfield, Manchester Victoria, Manchester Oxford Road
  • Lewes, Glynde, Berwick, Polegate, Eastbourne, Hampden Park, Pevensey & Westham

4) The greatest number of stations you can stop at without changing trains: 50

On a veeeeery slow service that calls at every stop between Crewe and Cardiff Central over the course of 6hr20. Faster, albeit less comprehensive, trains are available.

But if you’re looking for a really long journey, that’s got nothing on:

5) The longest journey you can take on a single National Rail service: 13 hours and 58 minutes.

A sleeper service that leaves Inverness at 7.17pm, and arrives at London Euston at 9.15am the next morning. Curiously, the ATOC data appears to claim that it stops at Wembley European Freight Operations Centre, though sadly the National Rail website makes no mention of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

6) The shortest journey you can take on a National Rail service without getting off en route: 2 minutes.

Starting at Wrexham Central, and taking you all the way to Wrexham General, this service is in place for a few days in the last week of March.

7) The shortest complete journey as the crow flies: 0 miles

Because the origin station is the same as the terminating station, i.e. the journey is on a loop.

8) The longest unbroken journey as the crow flies: 505 miles

Taking you all the way from Aberdeen to Penzance – although opportunities to make it have become rarer. The only direct service in the current timetable departs at 8.20am on Saturday 24 March. It stops at 46 stations and takes 13 hours 20 minutes. Thankfully, a trolley service is available.

9) The shortest station names on the network have just 3 letters

Ash, Ayr, Ely, Lee, Lye, Ore, Par, Rye, Wem, and Wye.

There’s also I.B.M., serving an industrial site formerly owned by the tech firm, but the ATOC data includes those full stops so it's not quite as short. Compute that, Deep Blue, you chess twat.

10) The longest station name has 33 letters excluding spaces

Okay, I cheated on this and Googled it – the ATOC data only has space for 26 characters. But for completeness’ sake: it’s Rhoose Cardiff International Airport, with 33 letters.

No, I’m not counting that other, more infamous Welsh one, because it’s listed in the database as Llanfairpwll, which is what it is actually called.

 

This sign is a lie. Image: Cyberinsekt.

11) The highest platform number on the National Rail network is 22

Well, the highest platform number at which anything is currently scheduled to stop at, at least.

12) if yoU gAze lOng into an abYss the abySs alSo gazEs into yOu

Image: author's own.

“For I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved”, said Thomas.

Ed Jefferson works for the internet and tweets as @edjeff.

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