Shirokane

A Summer in Shirokane.

A brief journal about my time in Tokyo.

From the window in my bedroom the elevated expressway hums with constant traffic. The small single bed is pushed up against the window looking down over a canal that runs underneath the highway, all the way to Tokyo Bay, and out further still to the Pacific. When there’s a rare break in the hum you can hear the trickle of water, but that gap in the constant sound of the city is often interrupted by the sounds of this house. Seven other people live in the converted old machinists building that we call home. Each room is tiny. Large enough for a small bed, a small fridge, a small wardrobe and a small desk. Everything is small, but it’s enough.

This is the second time I have moved to Japan. Nagasaki, seven hours away by Shinkansen, seems like another world. Tokyo is titanic. Gigantic. Seemingly endless and infinite. Not just in geography but in history. The canal I sleep next to once transported goods from the rice fields from the west to the ports in the bay. The streets I walk on are the same peasants and samurai walked on. The shrines I visit have heard the prayers for countless generations. The parks and the buildings and the waterways are all filled with a history I’m too a part of.

Next door to me is Stefan. A Croatian working in UBH downtown. The walls are so thin I often hear him and his girlfriend have sex, which is depressingly often.

Taylor is an American studying to be a diplomat (I think) at Keio University who last week at Karaoke continued demonstrating how perfectly adapt he is at existing with a rendition of Crying Lighting by The Arctic Monkeys in perfect pitch.

Karen is Canadian and speaks Japanese fluently. Last week I feel out with Mason after we agreed to meet at Hooters (Yeah, Hooters) but didn’t because we waited at different spots. It’s weird the type of cultural conflict that arises. For me, waiting outside was the most natural thing in the world but for him he couldn’t understand for the life of him why I didn’t go inside. To be honest, I actually wasn’t too keen on going inside Hooters and risk him not being there and leaving. Hooters. The fuck even is Hooters? In Japan? Fuck that.

There’s two locals in the house. Mari and Ken but they both speak perfect English. When I asked Ken why he lived with here he said ‘I like foreigners better’. I asked Mari on a date a few weeks back. She seemed interested but I was still struggling to find my place in a new city, distracted by what to do for the next six months, I couldn’t light a spark. There’s an awkwardness now in the living room, especially since her ex came back. There’s also Loic, a tall Parisian who mostly keeps to himself. Unsurprising for the French, I know.

Others come and go. The nomadic way share housing works in Japan means that anyone could leave at any time. You just never know. I run into the others mostly in the living area downstairs. There’s a huge TV in the middle of the room with a dining table and some low chairs. Behind it are the female bathrooms and in front of it is the kitchen. We bond over cheap meals made of rice and tall cans of beer that clutter the fridge.

I’ve just finished a twelve week intensive language course at Waseda. When I tell people I go to Waseda they gnaw with astonishment. ‘Oh, Waseda! Wow! Sugoi!’ Waseda is one of the top universities in Japan you see, but the twelve week course was run in buildings at the back of the main campus. Like lepers shuffled and hidden away from the real learning. I’m not complaining. It really is a beautiful campus. An iconic tower sits in the middle and there’s large gardens to walk around in. There’s even an American style University cafeteria, serving cheap Japanese lunches. The twelve weeks I spent here felt almost like I really was an international student at a prestigious university… but I was only ever role playing.

Now I don’t know what to do. I have an interview at Apple in Ginza, finagled from my connections back home but my Japanese is still shit so I’m not confident I’ll get the job. Maybe I’ll just nod and say ‘そですね’ over and over again and hope no one asks me a real question other than what food I like. I’m not that cool to get a job outside teaching in Japan.

Mum always tells me ‘Don’t get attached to outcomes.’ By her logic you don’t get too disappointed if you miss out but that kind of advice flies in the face of why I’m even here. To me seems all the more important to get attached to outcomes given I’ve pretty much made my mind up I’ll never get to live here again if I don’t achieve what I set out to do.

If I don’t become fluent in Japanese I won’t be able to live the life I want. That’s the truth of it. It’s not a weeb thing, which is always the immediate thing you think people think of you when you say ‘I’m studying Japanese’. It’s the lifestyle thing. It’s integrating two cultures into my life. It’s becoming a more complete me. How can I not get attached to that outcome?

Right now I am sitting on the grass in Shiba Koen, a small flat park, halfway between the Ginza Apple and my home in Shirokane. I’ve ridden my bike here to familiarise myself with the path so I’m not late for my interview. Summer has arrived and the colours of Japan are starting to ripen. The sky is still a muted blue and I’m letting the sun warm my arms. The shadow of Tokyo Tower is casting a long shadow over the short grass while children, all wearing the same round white hat are throwing nets in the air trying to catch bugs.

I am studying with an open book. I am looking for a photo to take. I am lying on my back staring up at the sky. I am hustling for a job. I am riding a bicycle without a helmet. I am sipping an iced coffee from a vending machine. 

I am with my friends. 

I am alone.

I am in Tokyo. I am living in Shirokane.

When I remember my time in Shirokane this is what I want to remember.