I was in Atsugi Japan in 1965. We had flown in there from Guam after chasing a typhoon and we had a day off. I wanted to go to see Tokyo but couldn’t get anyone to go with me, so I struck out on my own. I boarded a train bound for Tokyo and whatever adventures were ahead.
It was easy to locate the correct train out of Atsugi so I settled in for the roughly hour long trip to Tokyo, observing the sights as they appeared through my window view. Once in Tokyo I wandered out of the station and sauntered down the streets with no plan or purpose other than to observe and enjoy.
I stopped in a pachinko parlor to play for a while. The object of play was to buy so many of these small steel balls and feed them into the machine and then they were shot up a channel and over the top of the enclosed board only to fall through a series of steel pins that bounced the ball in entirely unpredictable manners until it eventually made its way to an escape hole which scored a number of points. The drain hole at the bottom took the ball out of play if it made its way that far down without being swallowed by one that scored points. At the end of play on a given machine a ticket slid out indicating the number of points earned. The points could then be cashed in for prizes. I was a rank amateur; not knowing what was going on, but the serious players could hold fists full of the steel balls and thumb them into the machines at a machine-gun rate. They seemed deadly serious at their play.
I left there wandering down the avenue and being a young man I was hungry so I looked around for some lunch. The restaurants had plastic models made displaying their various dishes in the front windows. The name of the dish was listed in Japanese along with a number. I saw one that looked delectable to me so I went inside and asked for that number. As I sat there waiting for my order to arrive I observed the waitresses bringing other diners their lunches and was amazed at how the luncheon plates were exactly as the models shown in the window. My lunch arrived and it too was an exact duplicate of the one in the window. I’m not sure of what was in the dish, but it tasted very good. I had a difficult time not laughing out loud during lunch because the Japanese would slurp when they sucked up their noodles. That was perfectly acceptable and a compliment to the chef. One person would have been silly to me for doing that but a restaurant full of people doing that was like being on a “Three Stooges” movie set. I had been admonished as a child when I slurped my soup and was forced to learn not to do so, but here was an entire culture that saw nothing wrong with slurping and enjoying their noodle soup.
After lunch I wandered down another street and saw a marquee that indicated live theater, so I paid admission and went inside to find a seat. The show was already on and it was a variety type performance with some dance, some skits and some songs. I didn’t understand any of it but found myself caught up in the visual performance and laughing when the audience laughed. The costumes the performers wore were traditional, very detailed and rich in dramatic colorful birds, dragons and local scenery. The last act of the show started as stage hands rolled out a silvery shiny cylinder and then the new music started, the top lifted off of the box and out comes a tall American blond woman wearing just half of a silvery shiny costume. Her dance choreography was designed to send matching parts of her anatomy into a swaying, jiggling resonance that seemed to delight the business men wiling away the afternoon there.
After the show I ambled down another street and found myself in search of a watering hole. I found what looked to be a nice place and started to walk in for a drink. I was met in the vestibule by a stocky, well muscled Japanese man in a well tailored business suit who blocked my way. I asked him what the matter was. He didn’t speak English, but managed to convey the message that this was a high class place and Americans weren’t allowed, especially American sailors. I weighed the circumstances and decided even if I could best this mini-sumo wrestler, I was in his town and the law might see things his way, especially since just twenty years earlier my parent’s generation was busy dropping napalm all over his town.
It was getting late in the afternoon so I thought it best to head back for more familiar and friendly territory. I walked back to the train station. The train station was easy enough to locate but when I looked at the signs, they were all in Japanese. Oh no! The signs in the Atsugi station were in Japanese and English, but in Tokyo they were just Japanese. I scanned about but found no help. No one seemed to know English either because this wasn’t a Navy town. A young woman was walking down the passageway and as she walked within a few feet of me I said: “Atsugi, train to Atsugi.”
She looked at me, her eyes widened like two silver dollars and her voice raised an octave; letting out an expression I didn’t understand as she motioned to me with a hand gesture that to an American would mean go away. I stood there wondering what happened and thinking oh great she’s going to call a train cop and I’m going to jail in a place that doesn’t speak English! She took two steps away and waved at me again with the go away gesture. She then bowed her head slightly as she gestured again, just as I might do if I were to try to coax a baby learning to take a step and walk. It seemed as though she wanted me to follow her, but to where I wasn’t sure. I was hoping it wasn’t to a security guard. I followed slowly and at a distance while she continued to encourage me as one might encourage a sheep into a slaughtering pen. She led me to a ticket booth where a young man spoke very broken English but we did get the message across that I wanted to go to Atsugi and he sold me the ticket and pointed to the correct train. I smiled and bowed to the lady thanking her. She returned the bow and walked away with a smile on her face.
The train came through the station and I boarded it in the last car. I went toward the back of the car and took hold of a rail as there were no seats. I looked around me and I was the only American in the crowded car and the only one not wearing a surgical mask. I felt out of place on a grand scale. The train was whistling along toward Atsugi when I felt I needed to sneeze. I reached for my handkerchief, but wasn’t fast enough on the draw; I sneezed right in the middle of all these people. Every eye in the car was boring a hole right through me. There was a moment there when I was afraid they were going to throw Billy from the train! I kept that handkerchief over my mouth the rest of the ride. Atsugi came into view and I skittered out the door like a rat from a sinking ship. I was back in Atsugi where not everyone would talk to me but they at least understood me.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
It was easy to locate the correct train out of Atsugi so I settled in for the roughly hour long trip to Tokyo, observing the sights as they appeared through my window view. Once in Tokyo I wandered out of the station and sauntered down the streets with no plan or purpose other than to observe and enjoy.
I stopped in a pachinko parlor to play for a while. The object of play was to buy so many of these small steel balls and feed them into the machine and then they were shot up a channel and over the top of the enclosed board only to fall through a series of steel pins that bounced the ball in entirely unpredictable manners until it eventually made its way to an escape hole which scored a number of points. The drain hole at the bottom took the ball out of play if it made its way that far down without being swallowed by one that scored points. At the end of play on a given machine a ticket slid out indicating the number of points earned. The points could then be cashed in for prizes. I was a rank amateur; not knowing what was going on, but the serious players could hold fists full of the steel balls and thumb them into the machines at a machine-gun rate. They seemed deadly serious at their play.
I left there wandering down the avenue and being a young man I was hungry so I looked around for some lunch. The restaurants had plastic models made displaying their various dishes in the front windows. The name of the dish was listed in Japanese along with a number. I saw one that looked delectable to me so I went inside and asked for that number. As I sat there waiting for my order to arrive I observed the waitresses bringing other diners their lunches and was amazed at how the luncheon plates were exactly as the models shown in the window. My lunch arrived and it too was an exact duplicate of the one in the window. I’m not sure of what was in the dish, but it tasted very good. I had a difficult time not laughing out loud during lunch because the Japanese would slurp when they sucked up their noodles. That was perfectly acceptable and a compliment to the chef. One person would have been silly to me for doing that but a restaurant full of people doing that was like being on a “Three Stooges” movie set. I had been admonished as a child when I slurped my soup and was forced to learn not to do so, but here was an entire culture that saw nothing wrong with slurping and enjoying their noodle soup.
After lunch I wandered down another street and saw a marquee that indicated live theater, so I paid admission and went inside to find a seat. The show was already on and it was a variety type performance with some dance, some skits and some songs. I didn’t understand any of it but found myself caught up in the visual performance and laughing when the audience laughed. The costumes the performers wore were traditional, very detailed and rich in dramatic colorful birds, dragons and local scenery. The last act of the show started as stage hands rolled out a silvery shiny cylinder and then the new music started, the top lifted off of the box and out comes a tall American blond woman wearing just half of a silvery shiny costume. Her dance choreography was designed to send matching parts of her anatomy into a swaying, jiggling resonance that seemed to delight the business men wiling away the afternoon there.
After the show I ambled down another street and found myself in search of a watering hole. I found what looked to be a nice place and started to walk in for a drink. I was met in the vestibule by a stocky, well muscled Japanese man in a well tailored business suit who blocked my way. I asked him what the matter was. He didn’t speak English, but managed to convey the message that this was a high class place and Americans weren’t allowed, especially American sailors. I weighed the circumstances and decided even if I could best this mini-sumo wrestler, I was in his town and the law might see things his way, especially since just twenty years earlier my parent’s generation was busy dropping napalm all over his town.
It was getting late in the afternoon so I thought it best to head back for more familiar and friendly territory. I walked back to the train station. The train station was easy enough to locate but when I looked at the signs, they were all in Japanese. Oh no! The signs in the Atsugi station were in Japanese and English, but in Tokyo they were just Japanese. I scanned about but found no help. No one seemed to know English either because this wasn’t a Navy town. A young woman was walking down the passageway and as she walked within a few feet of me I said: “Atsugi, train to Atsugi.”
She looked at me, her eyes widened like two silver dollars and her voice raised an octave; letting out an expression I didn’t understand as she motioned to me with a hand gesture that to an American would mean go away. I stood there wondering what happened and thinking oh great she’s going to call a train cop and I’m going to jail in a place that doesn’t speak English! She took two steps away and waved at me again with the go away gesture. She then bowed her head slightly as she gestured again, just as I might do if I were to try to coax a baby learning to take a step and walk. It seemed as though she wanted me to follow her, but to where I wasn’t sure. I was hoping it wasn’t to a security guard. I followed slowly and at a distance while she continued to encourage me as one might encourage a sheep into a slaughtering pen. She led me to a ticket booth where a young man spoke very broken English but we did get the message across that I wanted to go to Atsugi and he sold me the ticket and pointed to the correct train. I smiled and bowed to the lady thanking her. She returned the bow and walked away with a smile on her face.
The train came through the station and I boarded it in the last car. I went toward the back of the car and took hold of a rail as there were no seats. I looked around me and I was the only American in the crowded car and the only one not wearing a surgical mask. I felt out of place on a grand scale. The train was whistling along toward Atsugi when I felt I needed to sneeze. I reached for my handkerchief, but wasn’t fast enough on the draw; I sneezed right in the middle of all these people. Every eye in the car was boring a hole right through me. There was a moment there when I was afraid they were going to throw Billy from the train! I kept that handkerchief over my mouth the rest of the ride. Atsugi came into view and I skittered out the door like a rat from a sinking ship. I was back in Atsugi where not everyone would talk to me but they at least understood me.
Copyright Bill Weber 2006-2019 and beyond.
No comments:
Post a Comment