(Yes I know it's an awful pun. When you get your own travel blog you can call things what you want)
"Apologies" said the the baggage check room clerk, her expression alive with sympathy behind her surgical mask and giant glasses, "I'm very sorry, but there is a fee to store your bag". She indicated the prominently displayed and very reasonable price list as though it were a shameful family secret. She seemed to genuinely lament the embarrassing necessity of charging me money for the service.
Japanese officials are universally polite, patient and efficient. Through some secret communication method they have all agreed that the best way to deal with me is to treat me as if I were a dimwitted small child who has to be gently persuaded not to stuff crayons up his nose. It is undeniably effective and probably much more warranted than I care to admit. Once you have surrendered your ability to speak or read the dominant language and change a few cultural details, it's suddenly a real challenge to operate a payphone.
Fortunately, they seem accustomed to my apish antics, and I was steered through customs wit very little funny happening.
Instantly, on clearing immigration I was seeing upon by a mobile crew from Japanese television. I cheerfully complied with their request for an interview. I doubt very much that they understood half of what I said, which is perfectly reasonable, as honestly, neither did I. They seemed delighted with the footage, however. I was all too happy to oblige and sincerely hope I never see this report.
After forcing the poor baggage check lady to confront the grim reality of her job and exchanging currency, I went to the tourist information kiosk to find a way to spend an afternoon. With the assistance of a sweet matronly woman in a pink kimono and an implausibly American accent, I was loaded with printed instructions, a color brochure and a clearly labeled colorful map of downtown Narita. I was also outfitted with a tasteful sticker that would get me discounts at local businesses. "Most of them close at five. Our program is really meant to start earlier in the day" my benefactor informed me, being the second person to apologize to me for something that was in no way her fault.
With a few false starts, I managed to purchase the correct round trip ticket from the correct window, board the train and within ten minutes was decanted on to the unsuspecting streets of Narita to find the famous temples. Five minutes after that, through no fault of the map I managed to blunder down a side street and get slightly lost.
The town of Narita seems to have one purpose- to drive home how incredibly in Japan you are right now. From the narrow streets, to the charming old style homes, complete with tiled roofs, to the twisting conifirs and statues of Zodiac animals lining the tidy main road, every detail is a storybook vision of a Japanese town. Modern elements like street lights and neon signs blend seamlessly into the general effect, and enhance it. Narita is a perfect theme park copy of itself. Traffic zips by mere inches from the impossibly narrow sidewalk in a manner that would be fatal in any other country. You get the sense that traffic rules are rigorously obeyed not because the penalties are stiff, but because to disobey would be impolite. A group of traditionally dressed women wandered down the opposite side of the road bearing branches and banners and chatting merrily. Given the familiar deference shown them by the shop owners, I assume they were from some religious order.
I found the temple gate just as the stalls surrounding it were shutting down for the evening. This left me with the grounds almost entirely to myself. The temples in Narita are beautifully crafted architectural confectioneries with delicate detailed carvings lining the eaves. The entire site from the massive incense burner in the center square to the tree lined stone stairways are so stunningly well appointed that a towering three tiered Pagoda painted in reds and gold harmonizes with it's surroundings. Stylized lions in stone and wood lurk in unexpected corners. Large slabs of rough edged rock protrude along the pathways adorned with kanjis. The whole atmosphere invites quiet contemplation and it was only with reluctance that I pulled myself away.
Before catching the return train, I stopped at a quaint little ramen place, only to realize as my meal arrived that the only Japanese inhabitants were the staff. Everyone else was Western. It did have good noodles for a tourist trap.
Aside from a brief visit to a supermarket whose piped-in music suggested that a video game character was about to drown and sharing a room with a snowboarder from Kansas with an outboard motor snore, there's not much more to report. As the flight lifted over Tokyo, I caught a glimpse of Mount Fugi, a gleaming white pyramid on the horizon. I hope to see it again at closer range. My time in Japan was entirely too short.
"Apologies" said the the baggage check room clerk, her expression alive with sympathy behind her surgical mask and giant glasses, "I'm very sorry, but there is a fee to store your bag". She indicated the prominently displayed and very reasonable price list as though it were a shameful family secret. She seemed to genuinely lament the embarrassing necessity of charging me money for the service.
Japanese officials are universally polite, patient and efficient. Through some secret communication method they have all agreed that the best way to deal with me is to treat me as if I were a dimwitted small child who has to be gently persuaded not to stuff crayons up his nose. It is undeniably effective and probably much more warranted than I care to admit. Once you have surrendered your ability to speak or read the dominant language and change a few cultural details, it's suddenly a real challenge to operate a payphone.
Fortunately, they seem accustomed to my apish antics, and I was steered through customs wit very little funny happening.
Instantly, on clearing immigration I was seeing upon by a mobile crew from Japanese television. I cheerfully complied with their request for an interview. I doubt very much that they understood half of what I said, which is perfectly reasonable, as honestly, neither did I. They seemed delighted with the footage, however. I was all too happy to oblige and sincerely hope I never see this report.
After forcing the poor baggage check lady to confront the grim reality of her job and exchanging currency, I went to the tourist information kiosk to find a way to spend an afternoon. With the assistance of a sweet matronly woman in a pink kimono and an implausibly American accent, I was loaded with printed instructions, a color brochure and a clearly labeled colorful map of downtown Narita. I was also outfitted with a tasteful sticker that would get me discounts at local businesses. "Most of them close at five. Our program is really meant to start earlier in the day" my benefactor informed me, being the second person to apologize to me for something that was in no way her fault.
With a few false starts, I managed to purchase the correct round trip ticket from the correct window, board the train and within ten minutes was decanted on to the unsuspecting streets of Narita to find the famous temples. Five minutes after that, through no fault of the map I managed to blunder down a side street and get slightly lost.
The town of Narita seems to have one purpose- to drive home how incredibly in Japan you are right now. From the narrow streets, to the charming old style homes, complete with tiled roofs, to the twisting conifirs and statues of Zodiac animals lining the tidy main road, every detail is a storybook vision of a Japanese town. Modern elements like street lights and neon signs blend seamlessly into the general effect, and enhance it. Narita is a perfect theme park copy of itself. Traffic zips by mere inches from the impossibly narrow sidewalk in a manner that would be fatal in any other country. You get the sense that traffic rules are rigorously obeyed not because the penalties are stiff, but because to disobey would be impolite. A group of traditionally dressed women wandered down the opposite side of the road bearing branches and banners and chatting merrily. Given the familiar deference shown them by the shop owners, I assume they were from some religious order.
I found the temple gate just as the stalls surrounding it were shutting down for the evening. This left me with the grounds almost entirely to myself. The temples in Narita are beautifully crafted architectural confectioneries with delicate detailed carvings lining the eaves. The entire site from the massive incense burner in the center square to the tree lined stone stairways are so stunningly well appointed that a towering three tiered Pagoda painted in reds and gold harmonizes with it's surroundings. Stylized lions in stone and wood lurk in unexpected corners. Large slabs of rough edged rock protrude along the pathways adorned with kanjis. The whole atmosphere invites quiet contemplation and it was only with reluctance that I pulled myself away.
Before catching the return train, I stopped at a quaint little ramen place, only to realize as my meal arrived that the only Japanese inhabitants were the staff. Everyone else was Western. It did have good noodles for a tourist trap.
Aside from a brief visit to a supermarket whose piped-in music suggested that a video game character was about to drown and sharing a room with a snowboarder from Kansas with an outboard motor snore, there's not much more to report. As the flight lifted over Tokyo, I caught a glimpse of Mount Fugi, a gleaming white pyramid on the horizon. I hope to see it again at closer range. My time in Japan was entirely too short.
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