2 JAPAN STORIES
2024-12-24
The Tokyo neighbourhood of Ochanomizu was recommended to me by a man at Haneda Airport, a frantic, animated gentleman who seemed to love the sound of his own voice. At 2:30 a.m, somehow not sleep-deprived, he repeatedly grabbed my phone to open Google Maps, jabbing at the screen to emphasize his points about where I should go. Despite the chaos of his delivery, his enthusiasm was infectious. He said it was great for instruments and music stores. Having already visited most of my to-do list, I decided to check it out after a few days.
After wandering for a while, I stepped into a record store with the swagger of someone overly confident in their limited language skills. The shop had the sort of ambiance that felt timeless: walls lined with vinyl, the faint crackle of jazz playing through hidden speakers, and the quiet reverence of customers flipping through crates of albums. The comfortable environment contrasted sharply with the structure itself—a cage of steel beams wrapped in corrugated metal, with a hard concrete floor that echoed every footstep. It felt industrial, almost post-apocalyptic, yet somehow that starkness enhanced the charm of the place. I was surprised my phone was getting any reception.
Casiopea was the goal—a friend's favorite—but the record selection was overwhelming, making the experience feel less like shopping and more like treasure hunting. My fingers brushed against countless unfamiliar names as I browsed, each one a potential discovery or a missed opportunity.
After a long search, I finally found what I was looking for. Holding my prize, I approached the counter, record in hand, and casually asked in what I thought was flawless Japanese, “can I pay with my card?”
The cashier, an older man with a serene expression and an air of quiet precision, paused for a moment. He fixed me with a look, then, speaking in crisp, perfectly enunciated British English, he corrected my phrasing. He then added, in the manner of a language professor slightly offended by a student's clumsy mistake, that I sounded a bit rude.
His words hung in the air, sharper than I believe he had intended them to be. How could I be wrong, when I had read an entire phrasebook on the flight here? My cheeks burned, and my stomach dropped, as though all my confidence had sunk to the floor beneath me. Feeling the gaze of the other patrons descend upon me, I muttered a quick apology, paid for the record, and left the store. Outside, I clutched the small victory of my purchase and the weight of my embarrassment in equal measure.
In Shimo-kitazawa, I stepped into a ramen shop, drawn by the promise of comfort in a bowl. The place buzzed softly with activity—pots boiling, orders being relayed, the clatter of bowls, and the rich aroma of soup thick in the air. Two patrons sitting bar-side were focused intently on their steaming bowls of noodles. As I took my seat, I noticed a man in a green suit drop his similarly green wallet onto the floor—but he was too engrossed in his meal to notice. When I pointed it out, his still-chewing mouth gave me a quick thank-you, and I figured that was the end of it.
I settled in and ordered what turned out to be the best ramen I've ever had. It was pure indulgence, manifested in a bowl: soft-boiled eggs, fried chicken, tender pork, and spring onions floating in a velvety broth that felt like a warm hug. The soup clung to the noodles as I hoisted them upwards with my chopsticks—they had been infused with a memorable, creamy flavour.
After I was three-quarters through my meal, the man in the green suit stood up. He walked to the register, caught my eye, and casually raised his credit card in the air before tapping it on the machine. I didn't think much of it at the time—just assumed he was paying for his own meal, while also trying to thank me once again.
When I finished eating and made my way to the register, an employee smiled at me, and with a thumbs-up said, “It's OK!”
Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?”
Three employees joined in, gesturing animatedly and stumbling through fragmented English. "Already paid!" one said, his hands miming a card tap. Another pointed to the register, then to me, saying, "Gift! Thank you!" while the third nodded vigorously and clapped their hands together, as if sealing a pact. One of the chefs, taller, younger than the others, simply kept repeating "Already paid." I tried to clarify that I wasn't confused about what had happened, but why. Who paid for my meal? The green-suited man? Was it a thank-you for the wallet? Or something else?
My questions only made things worse. They looked increasingly determined to explain the situation, and I could feel the entire shop watching our awkward exchange. Eventually, I gave up, nodded along, and thanked them profusely before walking out.