Winter In Tokyo

Winter grinds on in its excoriating way, and I feel as cold and dull as the winds that howl through the concrete alleys of Tokyo. I sleep away one day of my weekend, and resent the outing that has been planned with friends on the other day, and I want nothing more than to sit in my apartment and drink hot tea from my octopus cup and escape into the tropical worlds of Garcia Marquez novels.

In the mornings, the little old man who works as a security guard for the construction site next door bids me a hearty "Itterashai!" as I leave for work. (The greeting is one that is used with family and co-workers, a kind of "See you later!" but not really...I mean, it's really said to someone who is expected to return home, not to someone you're bidding farewell to. Ah, it's hard to get the hang of greetings in Japan. "Ja ne," or "Ja matte" is the usual "See you later!" and is answered with a "Ja" or "Ja ne" or "Ja matte" and is used with friends as a casual parting. "Itterashai" is used when a family member leaves home for work or school or on an errand, and it is expected back. It is usually answered with a "Ittemairimas.'" There really is no accurate translation for that exchange. It's really just traditional.) His is the one familiar and friendly face that I am absolutely sure to encounter each day, and it is not without some sadness that I note that the construction next door is coming to an end. A few days ago, the scaffolding began to come down and clean up on the site commenced. The draping that hides the construction itself (similar to the draping in surgery) has come off on the side that faces my balcony, and I realize that I will be able to see into the homes of some half-dozen new neighbors--and also that about a half-dozen new people will be able to see into my apartment.

They'll also be looking down at the garbage dump of a balcony that I have. Honestly, I haven't taken out the garbage in about a month as it's a task that requires a seven a.m. wakeup call. You can't put out garbage the night before, and it must be out by the time the trucks come around at 8 a.m. I consider these hours to be completely unreasonable, so by means of a one-woman garbage protest, I just let the bags pile up on my balcony.

Lots of things have been piling up recently and my apartment looks like some...

Ah, I was just reminded of the homeless men...

Why was I coming through Ueno? Oh, right.

Sorry, I had a bit of a brain hiccup there. Let me explain:

Thinking about the state of my apartment reminded me of the homeless that I saw as I was coming through Ueno the other day. I've come through Ueno at all hours of the day and night, by last train and by first train, at sunset and at dawn, and so the memory of Ueno at all hours run together. (It's amazing how the day's first and last rays of light can be so similar, isn't it?) Last weekend, I came through Ueno at sunset, and, taking the wrong gate, had to exit the station and use the outside entry to catch the Ginza line. (It's okay, I've been lost in Ueno station so often that I no longer get lost in Ueno station.) Outside the station doors, the homeless men were setting up their cardboard shelters for the night. The homeless have adopted this kind of blue tarp as a symbol, and I have yet to see a single shelter that doesn't, in some way, utilize a blue tarp in its construction.

It was still early, just dusk, and the clock on the building across the street from my exit informed me that it was minus three degrees Celcius in Tokyo. I shivered in my coat, feverish and sick with the cold that I'm still trying to shake. I couldn't imagine ever being warm enough--or spending the night in a cardboard shelter outside Ueno station.

As winter creeps on, I grope for things to be grateful for, and among those things, I have to count my electric bill (an unheard of 7,000 yen this month) and my tiny, warm apartment. I have to count my warm bath and my futon. I have to count my octopus cup and my collection of Garcia Marquez novels. They are small things, yes, but important.