I took an immediate liking to the Japanese culture, because it has a fascinating and wonderful quality that for want of a better term I will call: "lack of height." I have read that, on the average, the Japanese are getting taller, but at the moment they seem to be about the same height as American junior high school students, only with fewer guns.
Throughout my adult life, I have described myself as being "about 6 feet tall," which is how American men describe themselves when they are about 5 foot 9. Growing up, I was always one of the smaller, punier boys, the kind of boy who could be easily lifted up by other boys and held upside down over the toilet. I was also a late bloomer (see footnote No. 1). At parties in eighth grade, when the other kids were turning out the lights and necking, I was the dweeb who was putting the little plastic inserts into the 45 r.p.m. records.But in Japan I was big. I started noticing as soon as we got off the plane. We were walking through a crowded airport concourse, and I realized that I could look over the top of everybody else's head.
"Hey!" I remarked to my wife, Beth. "I'm the tallest person in this concourse!"
This was a recurring observation of mine for the entire time we were in Japan. We'd be in some beautiful temple, or an important museum, and Beth and Robby would be having significant cultural insights, and I'd be saying: "Hey! I'm the tallest person in this temple or museum!"
Lost in Tokyo
I'll get the bad news out of the way right up front: Tokyo is ugly. It looks like it was hit by an anti-charm missile. It had the bad fortune of being almost entirely rebuilt after World War II, during what architectural historians refer to as the "Age of Making Everything Look Like a Municipal Parking Garage, But Without the Warmth."
And it goes on for miles. Tokyo is huge. Something like 15 million people live there, and I would estimate that at any moment, 14.7 million of them are lost. This is because the Tokyo street system holds the world outdoor record for randomness. A map of Tokyo looks like a tub of hyperactive bait. There is virtually no street that goes directly from anywhere to anywhere.
Adding to the excitement is the fact that almost none of the streets have names. You think I'm kidding, right? Look at a map of Tokyo. Look at a detailed map. Look for street names. There are hardly any. This is one of the biggest, busiest, most important cities in the world, and most of the streets don't have names. Ha ha! That's a good joke on YOU, Mr. or Mrs. Visitor!
But wait! There's more! On these streets without names, there are buildings with meaningless numbers! Yes! Number 17 could be right next door to Number 341, which could be miles from Number 342!
So getting to an unfamiliar destination in Tokyo is basically a matter of going on the Treasure Hunt from Hell, especially if you don't speak or read Japanese.
We couldn't take many taxis in Tokyo, because we had no way to tell the drivers where we wanted to go. We often rode the subways, which are (of course) clean and efficient, but sometimes very crowded. No doubt you've seen photos of Japanese subway workers shoving commuters into a subway car that's already visibly bulging. Of course subway workers would never try a crazy stunt like that in the United States. There would instantly be 57 commuters writhing on the platform screaming "WHIPLASH!" But the Japanese tend to be far more cooperative and docile and group-oriented. It would be easier to get the entire population of Tokyo to wear matching outfits than to get any two randomly selected Americans to agree on pizza toppings.
In fact, at times it seemed as though the entire population of Tokyo already was wearing matching outfits. All the men seemed to be wearing dark suits, white shirts and dark ties. All the women seemed to be wearing darkish conservative dresses, often with hats and high heels. All the children seemed to be wearing some kind of school uniform. It was like a giant funeral. We didn't wear particularly casual clothes over there, but I always felt like The Hippie Tourists. Not that anybody ever said anything. Nobody ever hassled us about anything in Japan, where open confrontations about anything are considered horrendously embarrassing to everybody. But people always noticed us. Whenever I happened to glance up in the subway, I'd catch people staring at us, not in a hostile way, but frankly curious, because we were different, and I think the Japanese find being different fascinating, because it's the one thing, above all, that they're raised not be be.
Bold culinary adventures . . . NOT!
I certainly would never say anything judgmental about another culture, but in certain food-related areas, the Japanese are clinically insane. The new culinary rage when we were in Japan was to eat fish that were still alive. I cannot imagine doing such a thing unless I were really desperate to get into a fraternity, but according to news reports, people pay top yen in fine Tokyo restaurants for live, gasping fish. The waiter brings you your fish, still gasping (see footnote No. 2), then quickly slices it open right at your table, then you're supposed to eat it while the fish is staring at you with its nearer eyeball and a facial expression that says "Go ahead and enjoy yourself! Don't mind me! I'll be dead fairly soon!"
And that's not the weirdest culinary activity that the Japanese engage in. There is also fugu. This is a kind of blowfish that the Japanese eat raw. So far, you are not surprised. You are saying: "Big deal, the Japanese eat a lot of fish raw." Well, what you are apparently not aware of, Mr. or Ms. Smarty Pants, is that fugu contains an extremely lethal poison. It's the Blowfish of Doom. The liver of the male and the ovaries of the female contain one of the most toxic substances in nature, for which there is no antidote, which means that if your fugu is not prepared exactly right, with all of the dangerous organs removed, you are soon going to meet the Big Maitre D' in the Sky.
Clearly this is a fish that Mother Nature is telling us we should leave underwater, but to the Japanese it is a great delicacy. Every year they eat tons of it. They'll pay the equivalent of hundreds of dollars to eat it. And every year several people die because their fugu was prepared wrong.
I suppose it probably wouldn't be so scary if you ate fugu prepared by a trained professional chef (see footnote No. 3), but suppose you were invited to dinner in somebody's home, and the host decided to pull out all the stops and really give you a treat?
HOSTESS: Guess what?
YOU: What?
HOSTESS: Roger's making fugu!
YOU: What?
ROGER (who has clearly had a few drinks, shouting from the kitchen): Yes! I picked this up today at a little place right next to the whale-uvula stand! (He waves a blowfish, which is a hideous greenish-black color and is puffed up with rage). I'm going to prepare it now!
YOU (hastily): I hate to see you go to all that trouble. Maybe we should just . . . .
ROGER (starting to hack the blowfish apart with a knife): Nonsense! This will only take a second!
HOSTESS: Roger loves to cook.
ROGER (holding up a fish part): Honey, does this look like an ovary?
I think one useful Japanese phrase they should include in the tourist guidebooks is: "Does this particular dish kill you if prepared improperly?" Of course at many Japanese restaurants, once you see your bill, you might wish you had consumed an improperly prepared blowfish, because the prices, especially in Tokyo, are extremely high. I cannot overemphasize the importance, if you go there, of having Random House pay for everything.
FOOTNOTES
1. Or, in modern terminology, Puberty Impaired.
2. I mean the fish is gasping, although I suppose the waiter could be, too.
3. Notice I say "you." I'd never do it.
From the forthcoming book "Dave Barry Does Japan" by Dave Barry, by Dave Barry. Reprinted with the permission of Random House Inc. Distributed by Tribune Media Services Inc.