On Thursday morning we were literally off to see “The Wizard of Oz.” The play would be a nuigurumi-geki play. Nuigurumi-geki means big mask, because the actors would be wearing big masks (slightly smaller than a school or sports team’s mascot’s head wear). The theatre was in Asakusa. Asakusa, in case you don’t know, used to be the entertainment center and red light district in Tokyo, before it was flattened during WWII. Asakusa, which lies on the Sumida River, has a large park that plays host to an annual summer fireworks display. Sensoji shrine, reportedly one of the busiest temples in Tokyo and its famous Thunder Gate – housing a statue of Kaminari-san, the god of thunder – have been rebuilt and serve as the focal points of the town. The lane from the gate to the temple is lined with stalls and is a mandatory stop for all tourists. Asakusa is at the East end of one of the oldest metro lines in Tokyo, the Ginza line. It is just three stops from the Ueno train station, the large train station close to our home.
We have been to Asakusa countless times. The play was going to be in the same theatre where we saw “Peter Pan” the previous year. And since I use the Ginza Sen (line) a lot, I figured the most challenging part of my day would be explaining the scary parts of the play. Because of my familiarity with all of this, I, purposely, left my Tokyo atlas at home and the yochien life paper in the trash. Without destroying the plot, these decisions were as dangerous as Dorothy not getting in the storm cellar when the tornado hit.
I was feeling so confident that we didn’t leave the house till “Babar” went off (that’s nine o’clock for those of you who don’t get the Tokyo version of Cartoon Network.) I had plenty of time to ride our bike over to the station, stop at my favorite kiosk to get a paper, hop on the train and make it to the theatre. I mean, in all honesty, this was as easy as following the yellow brick road: it’s there, you follow it, no problem.
We parked our bike in the bike parking lot. (In one of the first Tales I wrote, Vending Machines, I mentioned that there are vending machines on the train platforms. Additionally, there are kiosks on some of the busier train platforms and in areas around the ticket booths. You can get papers, drinks – yes, some, like the vending machines sell alcohol – snacks, comic books, nearly anything. There is a nice little ol’ lady (Glenda the good witch, if you will) who sits in a kiosk next to the station master’s booth by the entrance to the Ginza Sen. She always smiles, always talks to me, will even answer my questions. You see, she is the exception to the general rule. There is a problem I face on a regular basis. I have never thought of myself as intimidating. And yet, here, I find that I scare a lot of people. I guess I am kinda like the Wizard of Oz. Most folks aren’t exactly sure how to talk to a big face that towers above them.
The fun ended after I bought my paper and introduced Glenda to my daughter. I turned around to see a swarm of metro workers directing people away from the ticket turnstiles. It was as if the evil little flying monkeys had formed a blockade preventing us from moving along our yellow brick road. One of the monkeys was explaining that the line was closed; they were giving out tickets so that folks could take the other metro line in the station. This is a fine solution if you are going North, South or West. But we were heading east. I went to the head monkey and asked when the train would start running again. I apparently scared him as he kept telling me he didn’t understand and at the same time crossing his arms making a giant “X” which is the Japanese gesture for “NO!” Thanks! I had already figured that out!
What do you do when you can’t follow the yellow brick road? Take a bus! I knew were the bus stand was, but wasn’t sure which bus took the most direct route to Asakusa. I was going to ask a different monkey, when a lady – clearly a munchkin! – asked the monkey I was moving toward. I stopped to listen. She asked the same question twice. She didn’t like his first answer. And she didn’t understand his second. This is one of those cases where I think if she is Japanese and didn’t understand the explanation a fellow countryman gave her, me and my fledging Japanese don’t stand a chance.
What do you do when you can’t follow the yellow brick road or take a bus? Take a taxi. The taxi stand is right next to the bike parking lot, so we retraced our steps. Other pilgrims headed east had already formed a line jumping quickly into taxis as they arrived. I don’t like to ride in taxis for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I don’t like to ride in vehicles where the driver is more concerned and scared by what is sitting in the back seat than what is around them on the road. Taxis are also one of the few places I absolutely HAVE to use my Japanese.
We waited patiently in line. I am now internally reaming myself out for not having brought the yochien life paper. If I had brought the yochien paper, I could have simply shown the piece of paper to the cab driver and all would have been well. But oh no, I pick today to be cocky.
The next cab will be ours. Two cabs have stopped about 20 meters away to drop off passengers. Cab number two finishes his transaction first, pulls along side taxi number one and is about to pass him. That is when I make eye contact with taxi driver number two and he promptly slams on his brakes. (I am not making this up! And I told you I scare people.) I didn’t want to ride in the cowardly lion’s cab anyway. Taxi number one then pulls up and Samantha and I hop in. Little did I know at the time but the Scarecrow was driving this one.
My second Japanese teacher – the really smart nice intelligent one; not the first one that was afraid of me – taught me a phrase for dealing with scared taxi drivers. I now repeated it slowly and clearly to my taxi driver:
“Daijyobu desu.” Literally, “It’s OK.”
This didn’t work, and I suddenly felt like Dorothy stuck in the field of flowers.
I back-tracked and tried again,
“Ohayo Gozaimasu! Asakusa o kudasai.” Good morning. Asakusa, please.
NOTHING! I get nothing, but a confused look. There has to be at least an 80% chance that if a gaijin (foreigner) is standing at this taxi stand, on this side of the station, at this time of the morning, that the gaijin will want to be taken to Asakusa.
“Asakusa onigashimasu.” Asakusa, please. (Please oh please oh please oh please!)
NOTHING! I am now the tin man, locked in rust. I am unable to escape!
Oh hell, might as well go for three times:
“AH-Sah-Ku-Sah.”
“ASAKUSA! HAI!”
(Why does he sound so surprised, was it really that hard?)
He started to pull away and I was feeling brave and so I added,
“Kaminari Mon onigashimasu.” The Thunder Gate please.
With pride he responded, “Kaminari Mon. Hai!” Excellent! We are on our way and we just might make it on time.
As we are driving along, my daughter is rapid firing questions at me as she is still confusing the story of Alice in Wonderland and the Wizard of Oz. This will happen when the child hasn’t had the opportunity to view a Disney DVD of the story a gazillion times. So I am getting questions like, “Was the yellow road in the hole?” “Did, what’s that girl’s name?” “Yea, her, did her mom know where she was?” “She wasn’t supposed to do that was she?” “Was Dorothy a princess?” “Was the rabbit a witch?”
The driver finally approaches an intersection that looks familiar and if I am right he will turn right at the next light. I am and he does. Fortunately we stop at a red light after making the turn which allows me to slide forward and slowly, gently, carefully, scare my driver again.
“Sumimasen, shingo de, hidari ni o kudasai.” Please excuse me, at the next light turn left please.
Thank goodness we were stopped because he turned around to look at me. Fear in a taxi driver’s face from two feet away is not a re-assuring thing.
I am pointing now, because I doubt my ability to actually get the guy to do what I want him to do. So I speak slowly and clearly, but not too slowly.
“Shingo de.” I say confidently and point. “Shingo?” I ask this time because he is still frozen in fright trying to figure out why I want him to turn a block before he gets to Kaminari mon.
Finally he looks and says, “Shingo. Hai.” He is now pointing and I feel we have started to connect.
“Hidari ni!” my long arms nearly touching his front dash, my left hand pointing out to the left at a ninety degree angle from my arm.
“Hidari?” He remains unconvinced, notices that the light has changed and begins moving.
He pulls up to the corner, turns around and asks me if I am sure if this is where I want him to turn?
“Hai! Hidari ni, onigashimasu.”
My daughter, ever the devoted Toto, who bless her heart has been quiet and taking this whole thing in, now chimes in, “Dad, I understood everything you said.” (Great, now if only you were driving the taxi!)
Thrilled that my daughter could understand my Japanese, I now have a new problem. The building I want to go to is at the end of the street. I cannot remember what it is called. I have been trying since I was standing in line at the taxi stand to remember and I still can’t think of it. But with it only a block away and on the right hand side I can see it. While thrilled that things are starting to go smoothly and the end is in site, the next sentence, like the gate keeper to the town of Oz, poses a potential hazard. I need to tell the driver which building to stop at. The word for building and word for beer are very similar. So I am about to ask my driver to either “stop at the big red building on the right” or “stop for a big red beer on the right.” At this point, and despite the fact that it is 9:30 a.m., the later sounds better than the first.
“Sumimasen, oki aka biru migi ni tomete onigashimasu” (Yes, I know, I have issues with Japanese particles, but hey I said, “biru” correctly.)
I got an immediate, very relieved, and enthusiastic, “Hai!”
Of course by this time he had noticed that there was a line of taxis in front of the big red building and that both side walks were full of parents walking kids in little yochien uniforms toward the same building.
With something resembling glee in his voice he told me the amount. Then, once again turned around in his seat. Realizing now that my daughter’s uniform matched the other children’s uniforms he now, NOW, wants to talk to me in Japanese… sorry buddy, I am clicking my heels together, and your time is up.
We jumped out and dashed to the door. My relief upon seeing sensei was akin to Dorothy seeing Auntie Em back in Kansas. I resisted the urge to hug her and simply took my place with the other parents and waited to be seated.
Who needs to watch the play? I just lived it.
Written -June 17, 2005