Day 2: Part I

At some point during that night’s dream, I began thinking of time, then of the alarm on my phone, and hadn’t I been sleeping too long--I awoke. It took the popcorn ceiling, the unusually large bed, and the dim beams of the curtained window for me to remember I would not be going to school. I opened the curtains. There was Tokyo liberated by the morning sun yet still concealed behind clouds like a maiden behind a folding screen.

I began getting ready as I would for school, including my five-step Korean skincare routine. Maintaining a somewhat attractive face is one of the only substitutes in terms of romantic appeal for someone who has prioritized academics over athletics. During my rice paper mask, I checked in on Sean. Some sheets were sliding off the couch as he put on his shirt. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” He said, pulling his shirt down.

“Did you want to get breakfast here or go out?”

“Up to you.”

Money wasn’t a concern for me, not because I had plenty, but because I was still indulging in the blissful ignorance of an income with no obligation of rent, groceries, or knowledge of taxes. “A café would be nice,” I said, although the kind of café I had in mind was one that typically served lunch with, well, I’ll call it something sweet. Truth be told, there was a special reason why I was doing my mask that morning. “You know, somewhere with…atmosphere,” I smirked, hoping he’d read between the lines.

“Well,” he began, hesitating in the way that only one who was ashamed of their curiosity like myself. “I’ve been meaning to go to this café, but, you know, it’d be weird if I went alone.”

“I completely understand.”

We left soon after. On our way out, we caught a glimpse of the hotel breakfast--a few bagels and bananas, which, compared to dinner last night, would have been a welcomed feast had not the allure of the café thrust us out the door.

The grayish-white that covered the sky was painted along the sides of buildings that followed a standardized rectangular pattern. We ventured beneath the overhanging trees from a fenced in park as we walked along the empty highway towards the station. There were some leaves but not large enough to block a view beyond the fence. The park was a cluster of slender gravestones, some with flowers and assuming incense. “How do they fit so many bodies together like that?” I asked. It took Sean a moment to catch on. He had been too distracted by the look of the sky as seen through spring branches.

“Cremation.”

“Not buried? Dang, culture shock.”

“What do you mean?” He said, “Don’t they cremate in the States.”

An old couple departed from the graveyard up ahead. “Guess I hadn’t thought of it.” The old man used a cane. The old woman leaned on him. I could see her fingers tightening around his arm. I wondered if it was pleasurable to feel an arm between your fingers. “Self-culture shock,” I said, but my mind had wandered elsewhere. Sean chuckled.

The couple turned left at the corner towards an overpass bridge. From the same direction emerged a group of day-care children and their teachers. They were wearing matching yellow rain hats with mix-matched coats and boots. They all held onto a string led by one of their teachers.

Across the street to the right was a playground. Left from the playground and beneath the bridge was our station. As they approached, the children began to stare. It was cute how clear their thoughts wore on their faces. Although living in a city like Tokyo, I suppose the chance to see a foreigner up close was still rare. Then I noticed the teachers. Whether their looks of concern were borne from a general hesitation to all strangers or from a more general concern for the young man who wore shorts in rainy weather, is impossible to tell. I bowed then they followed suit. The light changed and we let them pass.

It was after rush hour. The station was empty, save a stranger or two. The train car was the same. Despite this, when I took my seat, Sean opted for the handrail across the aisle. “Don’t you wanna sit?” I asked, pointing to the seat beside me with a thumb.

He thought about it for a moment before shaking his head no. “It’ll wake me up.”

Emerging from Shibuya station, we were confronted by the bright contrast of the vibrant advertisements and bustling streets with the quiet overcast sky. Sean navigated us through the crowd using his GPS that, without, would have turned the streets into a labyrinth of architectural homogeneity. Shibuya, to me, was the same street we walked down towards the station but crowded like New York. We walked down a hill, around construction, and turned into a slim side street that ran uphill. Electric wires hung between buildings like vines in a jungle. 

Down a cramped alley where the buildings got older, made of stone and brick, we came across a green vertical sign. It jutted out from the wall and was written in katakana, marked at the end with a square drawing of what appeared to be a dragon. “This is it,” Sean said, pointing to the sign. “Lion.” It was not the kind of café I was suggesting that morning. It looked more like a tavern from some castle town in medieval Germany. There was a sign alongside the entrance. It looked like a Grecian urn made of stone instead of clay and instead of an ode was the café name and lion logo.

“1926?” I said, it being the only thing I could read. “Isn’t that the year Great Gatsby came out?” I was surprised that a European-inspired café in the far east could be as old as American literature itself.

“I don’t know,” Sean shrugged. “I never read Gatsby.”

“I don’t know either. I just saw ‘1920s’ and it was, like, 'oh, I read that book.'  Wait. You haven’t read Gatsby? What are you, some kind of slacker?” I certainly was. I only finished it because it was short.

 “We had to read Kokoro.”

There was a slight squeak from the door as we stepped inside. We were greeted by the chords of a piano. At the time, I did not know the name and it made no difference to me. But now, after having spent many hours in the university library, I look forward to hearing those few sad notes as the image of the dark room subdues my mind. It was Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor.

An employee with a powdered white face like that of an Evanescence album led us to the tables. The tables faced a library of vinyl records and CDs like an orchestra pit at a concert hall. Dust floated in the few beams of dimmed sunlight that crept through the curtains. Speakers that rose to the balconies were set beside a podium holding a bronze bust of some German composer.

I sat and scooted over to make room for Sean but he took a seat across the aisle. The waitress handed us menus. There were only drinks. The song ended and our waitress moved to the front. She spoke into a microphone by the turntable announcing the next piece. It was something more orchestral. I wanted to leave; to go bach outside and return to my Japan debut--see the liszt of the most art that was haydn from me. Yet, Sean enjoyed the personal darkness of shut eyes. Why’d he even bring me here if we’re not gonna hang out? Our drinks arrived and we listened.