It wasn’t until we were on the bus, riding from Narita International Airport, that it finally sunk in – we were in Japan. My brother and I had been planning this trip for the better part of year, but even during the ten and a half hour flight from Los Angeles, it never seemed real until that moment. With a light rain falling outside, I pressed my face to the window for most of the hour ride into Tokyo; trying to see everything all at once.
From our hotel room, twelve stories up, we could see a great multitude busily going about their business in the district known as Shinjuku below. As real as all of this had been from the bus window, the thought of actually going out there was more than a bit disconcerting. I do not sleep in buses, I do not sleep in planes. By the time the bellman closed the door and left our hotel room, I had been awake for the better part of twenty three hours. The thought of just letting the city wait until morning crossed my mind, but we had come too far to allow uneasiness to stop us. Besides, I was starving.
The best American equivalent to Shinjuku is the French Quarter in New Orleans. The streets are impossibly small with a great number of pedestrians. There are literally restaurants and food stands everywhere, separated by the occasional arcade and seedy pachinko parlor. Standing at street level, the smells of a hundred different types of food, storm drains, and cigarette smoke coalesce into a scent that is truly unique. One level beneath us lay the busiest train station in the world. With several miles of tunnels, the subterranean shopping arcade connected the basements of all the adjacent buildings with the station entrance at the far end.
Close to the stairwell we used to come down into the arcade, there was a curry shop. Japanese curry is really all about the sauce, to which really any other food can be added along with rice. In a window outside the restaurant, examples where shown of all that was served within. There was hamburger meat, hot dogs, even bean paste croquettes mixed in endless variation and variety with the reddish brown sauce and sticky white rice. Deciding on the hot dog curry, I proceeded to sit down. The restaurant itself was made up of a counter with stools with the kitchen window in the back. This looked to be a place for commuters, as the other patrons were more interested in eating quickly than talking with their neighbor. Other than food, the only thing on the counter was a pitcher of water, some glasses, and several dishes of very foreign looking condiments.
Almost as soon as I sat down, the chef came out from the back, yelled something in Japanese and pointed outside. With the distinct impression he wanted me to leave, I stepped outside more than a bit perplexed. What does a man have to do to eat in this town?
As my brother and I were debating what we did wrong, another gentleman walked towards the restaurant. What would he do? He walked over to a vending machine at the far end of the display window, put his money in, and got a small ticket. He then took the ticket inside and sat down. We waited, watching to see if he would also be asked to leave. But, instead of a yelling cook, the waitress took his ticket and promptly brought food. Taking the other man’s lead, my brother and I did the same. Moments later, with a steaming plate of curry in front of me, I heard Karen Carpenter singing over the radio “I’m on top of the world…” While I might not have felt quite at the top, I knew I was a long way from home.
