Well I know that thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death. Love only should one consider.

Oscar Wilde, “Salome”

7 September 2023

• 9:08-9:16 Musashi-nitta station to Tamagawa Station train (Tokyu Tamagawa line), 9:21-9:54 transfer to Tameike-sanno station (Meguro + Namboku lines), 9:58-10:23 transfer to Asakusa station (Ginza line)
• Hokusai Museum (45m)
• Museum of Contemporary Art, Tokyo (2.5h)
• 17:49-18:13 Kiyosumi-Shirakawa station to Shibuya station metro (Hanzomon line), 18:20-18:34 transfer to Tamagawa station (Tokyu Toyoko line), 18:38-18:44 transfer to Musashi-nitta station
• Black spring water bathhouse

The Mystery of Love

This morning, during my 1.5-hour train ride to Tokyo, I thought about love.

I thought about love and my inability to feel it. I’d never understood what the fuss was about. Ever since adolescence, I’d assumed I was simply incapable of developing romantic feelings towards someone. Now, I thirsted to know what I was missing out.

Yet I couldn’t. The only two people I’d ever liked were out of my life now. And by traveling and constantly moving from one place to another, meeting someone and getting to know them well enough to feel something was impractical.

A part of me wanted to cease traveling and settle somewhere, like the Austrian girl had for the Indian guy. At 28 years old, the seed of desire had finally sprouted within me.

What could I say? With the people around me telling me about their blooming relationships, I’d grown jealous.

I even freaked out a little. People were having relationships as early as middle school… experiencing love in their early-to-mid-twenties… while I dreaded the idea of turning 30 without tasting both.

Especially after past experience had taught me not to pursue such a connection again.

The Far East was probably my best hope of overcoming all that. I didn’t vibe with Israelis. I appreciated the mentality here.

Yesterday, the Israeli girl had urged me to take a month-long break from this pursuit and recharge. As I’d recently done after going to the ryokan. Or in Israel, my entire life.

It was a good advice. I probably needed it. But I couldn’t afford to throw away an entire month in Japan, when my time here was so precious, and I appreciated its mentality so much.

It had come to a point where all my hopes were pinned down to staying in this part of this planet.

I really needed something agreeable to happen. Something that did not result from me. I could have a fantastic time sightseeing by myself; planning an itinerary on the spot and discovering a new gem was no problem. But something that came from another person – a job offer, a mutual liking, coupled with ADEQUATE COMMUNICATION – without any progress in one of these areas, I didn’t know what I would do with myself. I wouldn’t be able to do anything.

Asakusa

All this musing transpired during my train ride to Asakusa. My favourite area of Tokyo. I’d formed a full itinerary for today, to re-explore it and the adjacent Sumida.

First order of business: the crème brûlée matcha crepe I’d missed out on September 3. The stand opened at 11:00. I arrived at 10:45. So I was their first order.

That first bite Crème brûlée matcha crepe… perhaps heaven was a food stand on earth.

Then I returned to the best melon pan bakery in Japan.

Next: the tiny onigiri restaurant the German girl had told me about on our visit last month to Asakusa. She’d warned me there’d be a line. There was.

It was a minuscule, traditional restaurant. One could order personalized onigiri by picking the ingredients. The chef then prepared everything in front you.

I asked him to surprise me.

A staff member sprayed alcohol on every diner’s hands. The onigiri were eaten by hand. They were also served on straw baskets.

My first onigiri was filled with light pink fish eggs. The rice was hot; freshly cooked. I’d always eaten cold onigiri from konbini.

The second was filled with tiny brown fish.

Asakusa was foodie heaven to me. Great traditional vibe. Better than Kyoto. Everywhere I looked there were small restaurants or food stands with amazing dishes. I could spend a whole day hopping from one to another.

I continued to a 300-yen ramen shop. It was permanently closed.

From here on, my wandering yielded plenty of traditional Japanese clothing shops with appealing yukata and samue. Yet the jinbei – the article of clothing on my mind – were all either dark blue or black. None of them appetized me.

I left Asakusa near 13:00. Someday, with more budget, I’d spend a whole day here eating and buying traditional clothing.

A month and three days ago, I’d landed in Japan, and spent a perfect day in Asakusa with the German girl. Now, everything felt shittier. Less money, fewer friends, less romance.

Hokusai Museum

I crossed quiet Sumida by foot for forty minutes toward Hokusai Museum, the artist responsible for the most famous ukiyo-e prints in history.

I learned Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849) had spent most of his life in Sumida. He’d undertaken drawing at 6 and carving printing blocks at 14. Moreover, he’d changed his name several times throughout his life, to mark the beginning of a new era.

There were ukiyo-e woodblock prints and nishiki-e (multicolored ukiyo-e). All replicas. I wasn’t sure if the originals had survived. The Great Wave, for example, was not being displayed to the public. The original prints were too fragile for that.

Tokyo Museum of Contemporary Art

Next, I walked 40m to the Museum of Contemporary Art.

First: the permanent collection.

“Instruction” paintings by Yoko Ono (just words printed out on canvas); black and white photographs by Hirawaka Noritoshi of places where people had committed suicide. Crystallized deer and video art and more artworks and didn’t speak to me. Contemporary art, after all… not my cup of tea.

Enormous abstract expressionist paintings by Sam Francis; David Hockney paintings of swimming pools; self-portraits of Andy Warhol; and loads of graphic paintings by Yokoo Tadanori, a maximalist pop artist.

A Dark Night’s Flashing: Double Darkness (2001) particularly fascinated me. Many nights in Japan strolling through dark alleyways as these.

Second: a temporary Hockney exhibition, recommended to me by my current host in Ota.

There were blankets one could take to the galleries, because the temperature inside the gallery remained at 21 degrees to preserve the artworks. Viewing Hockney with a soft blanket? Very artsy. Very cosy.

There were iPad paintings like those hung in the University of East Anglia (my M.A.); and two artworks I’d studied in Tel Aviv University (my B.A.).

Man in Shower in Beverly Hils (1964): a phenomenal piece of homoerotic pop art, in my humble, sexually-unbiased opinion. The black plant in the foreground obstructing the viewer’s way to the naked man was a brilliant addition in my humble, not-at-all-frustrated opinion. The afterthought-like addition of tiny chairs in the background amused me. I imagined Hockney thinking: “Hmm, the right side is a bit barren, I need some depth. And colour. It’s not gay enough.”

Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy (1070-1971): I vividly recalled my medieval art professor revealing the brilliant yet scatching subtext of this portrait. A wedding present to a couple, modelled after medieval art, that screamed: “THIS MAN LIKES MEN.”

The exhibition ended with large-scale iPad paintings of the changing seasons.

Third: a temporary exhibition aimed at teenagers, who, as the museum put it, often experienced difficulties in relationships with friends or family. The exhibition proposed that, “in order to respect both oneself and others, it’s okay not to empathize.”

If a museum was telling me to stop caring about others, then I guessed it was official…

I wasn’t planning on doing this exhibition, too, but it only cost 100 yen, when paying for the collection and Hockney exhibition. So I went into it without knowing what to expect.

The first section, company-related booths by Shigeo Arikawa, was a bit meh. The house modelled after Makiko Yamamoto’s you could walk into was interesting. I imagined stepping not only into another person’s house, but their mind as well.

In this sense, taking off my shoes at the entrance was very symbolic. More than a hygienic act. Like putting on the artist’s shoes instead.

The dark room by Atsushi Watanabe, a former hikikomori, with pictures of the moon sent by lonely people during quarantine… curtains with pictures of hikikomori bedrooms peeking in-beteeen. It felt grim and isolated and romantic and joyless, somehow all at the same time.

I chose not to take photos of the exhibition, even though I could. It wasn’t the visual component that mattered. It was the physical and emotional experience. Which photos couldn’t convey.

At the textbook café by Riki Takeda, I sat on fake grass and leafed through a textbook used by an elementary school student in Japan. Someone touched this, I thought. Someone highlighted this passage. Someone with feelings and emotions.

I continued to a dark-and-bright area, divided by a yellow wall with tiny openings, by Kayako Nakashima. I stood alone inside the dark room and peered through the openings. Light flashed all of a sudden from the ceiling.

Then I crossed to the bright side and noticed a button. Pressing on it made light flash in the dark side.

All in all, the museum of contemporary art was an expensive attraction, well worth the fee. Each exhibition took me 45 minutes, and gave me something interesting to look at or ponder upon.

A Pure Black Onsen

I returned to my host’s at 19:00. We headed out to a local bathhouse soon after. I’d found out the night I’d arrived at his place that this area of Tokyo (called Ota) was known for black hot spring water. And one of the bathhouses featuring it was a ten-minute walk, straight all the way from his home.

There was a launderette right next door. I put all my clothes and bags into the washer while we entered the bathhouse. It was my first time at a Japanese sento; I’d always been to onsens instead.

The water was indeed black. From some kind of a mineral. A phenomenon unique to Tokyo’s onsens. I hadn’t expected to discover a new onsen experience inside a city.

Even though my host’s apartment was at least an hour away from the city, the black water onsen alone was worth the distance. And staying at a nice Japanese guy’s place. Always a good experience.

Afterwards, he went to the grocery store to buy us dinner, while I waited for my clothes to dry. It started raining on my walk back; I carried my laundry-filled bag on my head and walked straight all the way, managing to navigate without my phone (which I’d left at his home).

Dinner included an absurdly cheap squid sashimi. We watched another GTA livestream, and passed the time.

When I’d arrived at my current host’s apartment, he’d offered to host me for a full week, until my flight to Sapporo. I’d turned down his generous offer, feeling in no position to accept it, hoping that one of my friends from Tokyo would invite me over for the weekend.

This hadn’t happened. They hadn’t even agreed to hang out. And the 30 or so couch-surfing hosts I’d messaged still hadn’t replied. So I’d asked my host if I could extend my stay, rather than leave in the morning.

It was too late for that now.

Tomorrow, I’d have to figure out where to stay, and how to pay for that, until I left Tokyo. With my new workplace still not replying, not paying me for my work in August, and not giving me any work whatsoever for September, this would be a bit of a challenge. Figuring out how to afford living – how to live in a society that didn’t seem to care whether I lived in it – how to navigate adult friendships and relationships that struck me as immature – all of this would be a challenge. But most of all, finding a reason to face this challenge.

Right now, I had none.

At least today was a success. As long as I formed itineraries for myself and had the funds to execute them, I could enjoy most of my time on Earth.

Two days ago, I lost a spark. Today, I gained a nugget. How I felt wasn’t anyone’s problem. Even if I wanted it to.

Today’s highlights: crème brulee matcha crepe; the melonpan; the onigiri restaurant; the red Asakusa alleys; a Hockney exhibition and a cosy blanket; the adolescent exhibition; black hot spring water at my first bathhouse.

8 September 2023

A Typhoon Day

There was a typhoon in Tokyo today. Only today. But the whole day.

It wasn’t dangerous or anything. No gales. This basically meant just a lot of rain.

The downpour flooded the roads and the floors of the trains. Everywhere was wet and slippery.

For me this was actually fine, since I had zero plans for today, and errands upon errands instead. I found a cheap hostel north of Ikebukuro as soon as I woke and resolved the spend the day inside it.

Finally, I could make progress with my Hokkaido itinerary, send some couch-surfing requests that were bound to be ignored, write about the last few days, catch up with people (even though the common area was silent and I felt bad for talking on the phone, so I went to talk by the showers), and cut my nails and shave, because such activities felt a bit rude when couch-surfing.

I checked in at 10:00, completely deluged. The air might have been a swimming pool. I hated how my sneakers grew stinky-wet every time it rained in the far east during the rainy season. No wonder Japanese guys wore sandals even in such weather.

In the afternoon, I met a local guy my age who’d lived in Candada, the UK, and the US in the past. One would think that I’d get along with a Japanese guy like him, whose mentality was half-western. Yet it felt awkward, and neither of us, I thought, enjoyed each other’s company much.

Had today yielded any highlights? I wondered, as I went to bed. No sightseeing. No good food – only one konbini meal for lunch. I’d missed breakfast, and in the evening, lost my appetite.

Today’s highlight: writing, by default.

9 September 2023

• 13:28-13:36 Naka-Itabashi station to Ikebukuro station, 13:46-13:54 transfer to Shinjuku station, 14:08-14:11 Hatakaya station (NEW Keio line! Not the original one! I got lost inside Shinjuku station AGAIN!)
• Curry for lunch
• Mosque (~30m)
• 18:44-18:51 Yoyogi Uehara station to Shinjuku station train, transfer to Shinjukuy Gyoen mae station

Tokyo Mosque

I checked out at 11:00, at the last minute, with zero plans until the evening. How was I going to spend the entire day? Where would I sleep and store my luggage?

Right before leaving the hostel, I asked if I could have my shoes dried, per the service advertised at reception. My shoes were still deluged. They stank. The staff offered to dry them for the next couple of hours. So I had a konbini breakfast in the common area, and worked on my computer.

Travelling to Hokkaido’s farthermost points for two weeks, starting in late September – this would require a lot of expensive trains, buses, and hostels… no couch-surfing possible there.

At lunch, I texted Saki (my Tokyo friend), asking for recommendations. Preferably ones that didn’t cost money. I was poor and bored. 

He suggested going out for curry near Hatakaya station.

It was a charming, tiny restaurant, where he was a regular. The staff all knew him by name, and some of the other regular patrons as well.

We sat at a table shared by other diners. (The restaurant was this small.) Wooden tables and a record player. Beatles, Bowie, Dylan. His favourites (and mine, although I didn’t know Dylan songs that well). Books upon books and soap imported from Syria, which he always bought after dining.

The restaurant was named after a speech by Murakami Haruki at the Jerusalem Book Fair from around ten years ago.

The curry was excellent, homemade, with vegetables and a thin, crunchy bread. I gave Saki my meat.

Yet lunch with him felt a bit awkward at first. We didn’t chat much. As if we’d run out of things to talk about.

I felt that we’d grown a bit distant. I didn’t know why. He did mention at some point that Japanese people didn’t engage in small talk.

And indeed, the atmosphere improved once we got around to discussing more intimate topics. For example, my explanation of money being a sensitive topic in Jewish families (particularly Israeli ones), including mine.

Dessert was a delicious rum pudding.

Afterwards, we browsed at a nearby record shop. My last time at one was with another 28-year-old Japanese guy, in Itaewon.

Saki suggested walking for twenty minutes to visit the biggest mosque in Japan. This was his regular Saturday stroll. The restaurant, the shops, the mosque.

It was wild to behold Arab and Islamic architecture, here of all places, especially after so long. I spotted a lot of Muslims in hijabs and people who appeared Arab. This was an interesting and culturally refreshing experience, even if watching people pray inside the mosque made me a bit uncomfortable. I recalled doing 108 prostrations during my Korean temple stay, and the similarly zealous impression I’d gotten.

But the mosque’s shop was a delight. Full of Middle Eastern wonders: hummus, tahini, dates, couscous, halva, baklava, that potato salad Ashkenazi Jews from East Europe always made (dominated my childhood, that dish). Saki said it was his first time seeing me excited by something Israeli. I would’ve bought some tahini if I’d had a kitchen.

A Turkish girl who worked at the mosque spoke to us in perfect Japanese. I divulged that I was from Israel. As Saki himself remarked afterwards, she hadn’t seemed content by that piece of information.

We walked to the train station, where we said goodbye. I continued to Shinjuku, to go out to ni-chome at night.

Shinjuku Ni-chome

The sun had already set by now. I found myself changing clothes at a dark parking lot, and scoffing at how pathetic I’d become.

Then, at 19:30, I had one of my worst encounters.

It started with me looking for a coin locker. We found one at last inside Shinjuku san-chome station.

Ni-chome was a bit too quiet at this early hour. We wandered in search of a bar. I recalled meeting in Itaewon, in late July, a British drag queen who performed every Saturday night in one of the more popular spots. So we went there for a drink.

He was on his phone the entire time. Scrolling on Instagram and Facebook. Texting other people (I knew he was searching for a better one). Barely tried to make conversation.

Instead of doing the same, I just looked at him, waiting for him to look back. It felt awkward and forced from the first moment. But at least I tried to give it a shot.

“What do you want to do?” I asked him every now and then.

“I don’t know,” was his response.

I could not wait for tonight to end.

Around 21:00, the club started to fill up. More people, more music.

“I want to go now,” he snapped.

So we just walked around the bustling ni-chome, until I said:

“If you don’t want to do anything, it’s fine. Do you want to go back home?”

“Yeah.”

He started striding lightning-fast to the station. Left me in the dust. I hurried after him, to at least say goodbye.

“Sorry, you can stay there, I want to be alone,” he said. “Bye.”

He continued walking without even looking back.

Great.

This was supposed to be my only night of going out in Tokyo, for the first time since Itaewon, on July 29^th. In a few days, I’d fly to Hokkaido. One weekend in Sapporo, followed by several weeks back in the countryside.

I felt hungry and angry. I hadn’t had dinner. But most of all, I felt disappointed.

Yet again.

At 22:00, I had a konbini dinner on some steps. I watched the crowded streets from afar. People drinking outside bars, chatting, having fun.

At 23:30, I returned to the club. Now there was music. I could at least try to dance. 

The DJ almost seemed on a mission to play songs I did not like. Only one Korean song that played was fun. I wanted to find myself in a Korean nightclub. No one smoked on me inside Japanese clubs, but no one danced like crazy, either. Where were the Korean twinks who out-danced the K-pop girls?

It didn’t matter that I’d faced rejection after rejection in Korea’s clubs. The same had happened in Japan.

Why did I go out, then? I always felt bad during, then forgot about it, and went out again.

At least I chatted briefly with an American girl who’d studied Arabic in Morocco. She seemed excited by my visit to the mosque.

At 1:00, I left the club. The drag queen hadn’t showed up.

I spent the rest of the night hanging out with a guy from California. Ironic, how tonight’s best interactions were with Americans.

Today’s highlights: curry with Saki; Islamic architecture in Tokyo; browsing Middle Eastern delicacies.

10 September 2023

• 12:16-12:28 Shinjuku San chome station to Kasumigaseki station train (Marunouchi line), 12:31-12:32 transfer to Toranomonhirozu station (Hibiya line)
• Shinjuku Gyoen national garden (2h)

Shinbashi

I woke in ni-chome and immediately looked for a cheap hostel for tonight. I’d slept less than five hours, on a thin mattress, in a bright hall. No pillow, nor self-respect for that matter, either.

My capsule hotel was in a new area for me called Shinbashi. An upscale part of the city, near Ginza and Roppongi. Quiet streets and apartment complexes with guards.

I checked into my capsule hotel, charged my phone, and headed to Ginza, to hang out with a local guy.

Except I’d forgotten my phone inside the hotel, and the door had already locked.

I knocked on the door for thirty minutes, waiting for someone to hear me. No one was inside. Neither guests, nor staff.

Finally, some aunties I approached on the street called the hostel for me and asked them to open the door.

Successful Date #1

When I checked my phone, I saw that the guy had already arrived in Ginza. I’d kept him waiting.

We decided to take the train to Shinjuku instead. He said Ginza was too busy.

Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden was it. My second time there. Arguably, the best park in Tokyo for greenery.

He was 21 years old, with short, thick hair and small, rectanulgar glasses. The opposite of those large, oval frames most Japanese guys sported.

We had a konbini picnic at 16:00 (my first meal of the day) and lay on the grass. Discussed everything. I found him extremely easy to talk to and be around, especially after two days in a row of uncomfortable encounters. He sounded like me, but with Israel. He disliked Japanese people and the Japanese language, preferred to converse in English, and knew without a shred of doubt that in the future, he would not live here.

Much of our conversation thus revolved around the aspects of Israel and Japan we disliked. After only talking to Japanese people about the sides in their cultures that I valued, it was refreshing, and eye-opening, to hear him delve into their bad aspects. He spoke as if he wasn’t Japanese, with a self-taught American accent, and a severe dislike of the culture he was born to. The things we were looking for in life, in people, in society – we were pretty much of the same mind.

He taught me two key words in Japanese mentality:

• 本音- inner thoughts; one’s private self
• 建前- outer appearance; one’s public self

The Japanese veneer, in other words. Remaining polite and avoiding conflict at all costs. Even when lying to someone about how you felt, and cutting them from your life as soon as strife rose.

Then he’d asked me some intimate questions whose nature didn’t surprise me, but the fact that they’d come from a Japanese person did.

He was direct, yet considerate. The rare balance I told him I’d been looking for. He preferred the Israeli and American directness, bordering on rudeness, over Japanese manners.

The park closed at 18:00, so we walked toward Shinjuku and ate donuts at Mister Donut. (My last time, a guy treated me to some at Hirosaki station, in February…) He had to leave at 19:00, as did I. But I wanted to continue talking to him.

Unsuccessful Date #1

For dinner, I’d made plans with 27-year-old Chinese guy who’d been living in Tokyo for six years now, working in graphic design. Delicate bangs and delicate features. We ate dinner at Kura, my favorite chain of conveyor belt sushi. I recalled my first time at this chain, in Kyoto, with the 28-year-old Taiwanese guy who worked in video game quality assurance. I’d even ordered the same probiotic drink that had made me melt.

The Chinese guy and I spoke Japanese the entire time. Ironic, after opting for English with the Japanese guy. The former did not vibe with Japanese people, either.

As always with Kaitenzushi, the meal was fun, delicious, and memorable. I found him easy to talk to as well. Even though I was yawning more and more at some point, having slept less than five hours.

His birthday was coming up. He spoke about his fear of turning thirty and still being single. I thought about my lack of dating history (unlike his), and grew perhaps even more afraid.

“What will I do once I’m thirty?” he wondered aloud. He seemed to be downplaying his fears in front of me.

So did I.

Suddenly, I regretted leaving Tokyo so soon. I wouldn’t be able to see him or the Japanese guy again.

We left at 21:00. He mentioned going out to drink in ni-chome, at his usual, locals-only bar. I wanted to join, but wasn’t sure if he wanted me to.

“You’d better get some sleep…” he said, watching me yawning.

I realized my check-in time was probably until 22:00. No choice but to do as he bid.

“I’d like to see you again,” I said, and hugged him. He barely touched me back.

“Let me know when you come back,” he replied. Akin to the average Japanese person, I wasn’t sure if he meant it.

I returned to my hostel disappointment by the fact that yesterday had marked seven months of travel. Time had proven to me again and again how rare it was to find someone with whom the conversation just flowed.

Someone who, on top of that, maintained direct communication with me, and stayed in my life, was a rare bird I’d yet to find.

In my early twenties, all I could think about was publishing my novel. Now, I just wanted to date and travel.

When it came to the two activities, it might be now or never. Publishing could happen at any age.

This night at my crappy capsule hotel was one of those nights when I wished the life I was living was someone else’s.

Today’s highlights: Gyoen garden with the Japanese guy; the crème brulee donut; discussing Japan’s less than favourable aspects – a refreshing conversation with a Japanese person, for once; kaitenzushi with the Chinese guy.

Thing I missed about Japan:

• NO SMOKING OR VAPING INSIDE CLUBS

Stray observations:

• After more than a month in Japan, this week marked the first time a konbini staff addressed me in English. “Baggu?” they asked, gesturing a bag with their hands. So far, I’d always been addressed in Japanese.
• Recently I’ve noticed how Japanese youth sport a much wider variety of hairstyles, as opposed to Koreans. This includes both length and colour. Japan feels less restrained and narrow-minded in that regard.