Arrival . Tokyo Station (ATM) . Shibuya . Roppongi (GasPanic)

It is nearing the end of my first year of neurology residency at UPenn. I am 27 years old at the time. I had a two-week vacation that I had planned for over a year and a half with an old high school friend, Quoc Chung. Originally scheduled for January, it got postponed after the September 11th event in NYC. I invited another high school buddy, Anthony Quon to come along, and he agreed at the last minute. Apart from Quoc being born in Vietnam and leaving as an infant, neither of them had ever been to Asia, whereas I had been to Hong Kong and China in 1982, Japan in 1995, and Taiwan in 1998. We were planning on visiting Tokyo and Hong Kong, and I planned out the Tokyo leg of the trip for us. We arrived at Narita airport on a Friday afternoon, after our 8.5 hour flight out of San Francisco. Travelling with a group of high school friends from home made me feel less like I was in a foreign country, so it took a while for the idea to sink in that we were far away from home... in fact it may never really have penetrated as much as it did in 1995 when I was working in Japan for a summer. At the airport, Quoc kept joking that it still felt like we were in the Bay area.

A light rain was falling as we headed South on board an express train from the airport to Tokyo. Our idle conversation regarding friends and events back in the US petered out as the countryside gave way to industrialized areas, alive with people, signs, cars, and lights which commanded our attention. The train filled gradually with the Japanese (as opposed to the mix of people from the airport). Most of them sat fiddling with their fancy email-enabled cell phones, which is apparently enormously popular in Japan. One guy shared a remarkable resemblance to a Japanese-American friend back in the US, and we were giggling as we noted the similarity. Quoc discreetly took an mpeg video of him nodding off on his digital camera, a Nikon Coolpix 2500, bought especially for this trip.

We arrived in Ueno Station after an hour on the express, and transferred to the subway (Ginza Line) towards Akasaka. Ueno was a bustling station, and I'm sure that Quoc and Ants were getting a bit overwhelmed. With each start and stop of the subway, a pleasant jingle would go off and a recorded voice would warn of the impending arrival and departure on which platform, its destination, and to stand behind the yellow line. On board the subway, a female voice would notify the passengers of each stop and connecting trains. We got off the subway at Akasaka-Mitsuke station and headed up some escalators to the the station exit.

I scrutinized a conveniently located wall map of the local surrounding area to figure out which direction our hotel lay. For some reason, I couldn't quite match it up to the map I had downloaded from our hotel's website, despite rotating my map every conceivable way around. The overcast skies and rain made it difficult to orient myself. I went up to a middle-aged man in a business suit, and started asking for directions in bad Japanese. After two attempts I realize that the guy was deliberately not acknowledging my presence.

As a college student, I had a rose-colored vision of Japan and was unable to see any flaw in their culture... which of course is immature. My opinions changed after I read a book in medical school which instantly increased my anti-Japanese sentiment. It was Iris Chang's [The Rape of Nanking]. I've heard critiques that the book was relatively poorly researched; reviews that people have posted on Amazon.com have tried to discredit the work on those grounds. It was unfortunate that many of the dismissing reviews were written by Japanese people. Although at times written with good points in mind, the appearance is one of impropriety. Despite any shortcomings, there's no denying that the book awakened awareness to those events of the Japanese invasion of China during WWII. In Japan, the events are downplayed in their history books and their government remains unapologetic. Although hardly a fair analogy, the disregard for me by the businessman was vaguely reminiscent to me of the lack of acknowlegement of the wartime atrocities. The only regret I have about Chang's book is that it has engendered some negative feelings, and I do remember feeling happier without them.

Discouraged with that interaction, I decided to give a shot at finding the hotel on our own. Quoc and Ants are content to be led at this point, as I've been in Japan before and I can speak the language on a rudimentary level. Unfortunately, the maps of the subway and hotel that I printed off of the internet were purely schematic and extremely unhelpful. After walking in the wrong direction in the light rain with our heavy luggage and getting confused, we decide to take a cab to our destination. A small koban (police box) is located outside the station, but I don't yet have the courage to test out my rusty Japanese. A cab is a different story; all you have to say is the name of the hotel. After a five-minute ride through a maze of small Akasaka streets packed with multi-level shops, I realized that we never would have found it on our own.

[MaRRoaD Inn] is a standard no-frills business hotel, red-brick on the outside with tidy, small rooms and windows. We have two rooms on reserve: a single for Ants, and a double for Quoc and I. The manager put us through a brief period of anxiety as he took an eternity looking for our reservation, all the while making noises as if to imply he couldn't find it. Eventually, though, he came through. We go up to our rooms on the 7th floor, settle in, and flip on the TV to find Homer Simpson advertising a drink called C.C. Lemon. He was speaking in Japanese, in a voice very similar to his American one. The striking thing was, the "DOH" was replaced by a Japanese version that sounded like "GEH". Afterwards, we head out for dinner. We each eat a bowl of ramen in a small noodle house across the street. Everyone pretty much has the same thing; I don't think Quoc and Ants were too familiar with Japanese food, so they followed my cue. We head back to the hotel, clean up, and get ready for the nightlife. Quoc put on a tight shirt, clubbing jacket, and heel lifts (he's relatively short). He looked enormous; very different from high school, when he used to be even thinner than me. He went to UCLA, where all the asian male undergrads body build in their spare time. I went to Caltech where I studied hard, stressed out, and lost weight. My favorite pasttime there was catching up on lost sleep.

We had forgotten to exchange our traveller's cheques at Narita Airport, and we had only about the equivalent of $60 each. I didn't think that would cut it for the night out, so we went to find places to grab some cash. At that hour, all the banks were closed. I even tried an ATM machine in a convenience store, but they didn't accept my card. We then looked for and found a first class hotel; although they cashed traveller's cheques, you had to be a guest in the hotel, which was unfortunate. We wound up taking the subway to Tokyo Station; my trusty guidebook told me an ATM machine was located there which accepted American cards. The station was enormous with an underground shopping mall located underneath. We had to get directions within the station to head towards the right area. This turned out to be a good thing, as the information desk person handed us English subway maps. As we were walking around, the stores were closing and the hallway alcoves are lined with relatively clean-looking (but still malodorous) hobos. I asked a couple of old maintenance men who worked there about the location of the ATM, and no one knew where it was. Some of them did not even appear to understand what an ATM machine even was. It didn't help that my Japanese sucked. We decided to ask younger people, figuring that the old guys were out of their league. We enlisted the aid of two extremely helpful young businessmen, but unfortunately they were also unable to find it for us, even after spending ten minutes wandering the mall and trying our cards out on various ATM machines we encountered. I wound up thanking them and telling them that it was alright, as they really tried to go out of their way for us. Anyway, we wasted a lot of time. I figured, $60 will have to do tonight. As we headed back to the platform, we found the right ATM, but it was locked behind an enclosed area. From the posted hours, we missed it by 30 minutes!

Because the young businessmen were so nice to us, I felt a twinge of guilt for my annoyance at the earlier guy who ignored me; I guess in Japan, as in all other places, there are many types of personalities and it's not fair to generalize. On the other hand, it's rather stupid NEVER to generalize. It's a survival instinct, and we do it all the time subconciously. We think of women as angelic, priests as noble, and men as scum. Minorities are given various stereotypes which they have to work hard at to overcome. But if your radar were off and you became an idealistic extremist, you'd probably find yourself in a load of trouble fast.

We took the subway to Shibuya, and stop at its gargantuan station. We get out at the Hachiko exit, so named for a dog who apparently lost its owner among the throng of the station and stayed there faithfully waiting, until it died. The statue of the small dog is on the sidewalk outside. The moment we leave the station, we catch a quintessential panorama of Tokyo: giant videoscreens on several buildings playing videos and ads, pop music from the latest female teen idol sensation playing via speaker systems on the walls of the buildings, blinking neon lights, a busy 5-way intersection filled with taxicabs, the intermittent rumbling of the subway cars heading in and out of the station, and a crush of Japanese rushing, rushing, rushing. The only thing that resembles it in the US is Times Square, NYC... only in Tokyo, there are many of them and on a grander scale. Quoc pauses to take a picture of the madness.

We head towards where the crowd is most thick and lose ourselves within the old section of Shibuya, passing video game parlors, coffee shops, restaurants, karaoke bars, adult-oriented bars, and retail merchandise stores. Most buildings have 4 to 8 stories, with a sign outside displaying what stores were on each floor. Asian urban environments are packed fairly densely, and people seeing it for the first time are at times struck with sensory overload. It was getting late, and most people were rushing against us toward the station, walking, talking, or playing with their cell phones, scrambling towards the last train. Ants made a comment, perhaps this night, perhaps another night, that the urgan ghetto look seemed to be in in Tokyo. This was true among the younger guys. The young women were a sight to see... from office types to high school types with outrageous makeup / tans / dyed hair. Every one of them seemed cute; that look is always in among the Japanese girls.

We follow a couple of inebriated office girls for kicks, hoping to strike up a conversation, but of course we are too shy and this never leads anywhere. Instead we wind up in a section of town where the streets are quieter and filled with slightly gaudy-looking, neon-lit hotels sporting peculiar names. Young couples are walking about, who appear intimate. We realize it is a love hotel section, where the Japanese go to have casual sex by the hour.

We're eager to hit the bars, clubs, and nightlife, so we start walking back towards Shibuya station with the intent of catching the subway to Roppongi. On the way, we pass by a Citibank ATM cluster. Slightly irritated at having wasted our time at Tokyo station, but even more relieved to have a monetary source, we each withdraw 20,000¥ (~$158). That ought to be enough for drinks and club admissions tonight. It is getting very late, so we take the cab to Roppongi. I sit shotgun and tell the guy, "Roppongi". As we near, he blabbers a question in Japanese; the only word I can make out is "Koosaten". I repeated the word questioningly as I was struggling with a vague idea of its meaning, and he makes a large X with his arms in a fashion reminiscent of a Power Ranger pose. Something clicked in my mind. "Hai, hai, hai, ii desu yo"... yes sir, that'd be fine. Please drop us off at the Roppongi crossing (the main intersection at the heart of Roppongi).

We step off into the loud and bright area. It is hopping with bar- and club-goers. Not quite the masses as at Shibuya, but a young and partying crowd. Foreigners abound. There are men in dark suits advertising for hostess clubs. Some of the places are a bit on the racy side, others are straight up nudie bars. There are also women in large quilted trenchcoats who seem to be associated with the men in the suits. I wonder if they're prostitutes. We pass by many clubs and bars, sampling several as we make our way through the streets. Finally, we settle on one called [GasPanic]. The bouncer outside tells us there's no cover. He is our best friend until we indicate that we're coming in, at which point he stops the high pressure charade and ignores us.

We climb up a metal staircase on the side of the building to get to the main club area. Inside the GasPanic club is a small crowded dance floor. It is dark and the walls were painted red. The bar area was on the far wall, and a set of stairs led up to the second floor bar and seating area. A big sign in multiple languages read, "Everybody must be drinking to stay inside GasPanic!" Very young-looking waiters are prowling among the crowd, and when they notice that your drink is empty, they take it away and ask, "What can I get you?" What a brilliant scheme. Two girls are dancing near the door, one cute, the other not very. They were there all night long, in the same position, dancing the same bad dance, not talking to anyone: probably hires to lure guys into the club, Quoc tells me after I unsuccessfully try to make conversation with them. Another brilliant scheme.

I try many drinks that night, and spend a small fortune. The stench of cigarette smoke was overpowering, the alcohol tasted bad, and the music was typical loud house techno; it all sounds the same after a while. After several drinks, I was feeling pleasantly buzzed and numb in my face. Being more of a conversational coffeehouse and bookstore type of guy, I was out of my element, but I think it is healthy to put yourself in different environments every once in a while. Ants isn't faring too well; he's neither a drinker nor a clubber, and it's painfully obvious that he is putting some effort into trying to have a good time. As for myself, my effort is not as apparent; I can adapt, and I figure it's bad to hold your friends back by displaying mild unease. I walk upstairs, past a wall display of GasPanic T-shirts, mugs, and other goods. At the upstairs bar, I try talking to an average-looking Japanese girl. It turns out she's a hotel worker in Akasaka, and our age. Ants is included in the conversation, but pretty soon it dies out for lack of things to say and a lack of language skills. She was pretty passive when it came to conversation, as I usually am.

A trio of Japanese office workers arrive at the upstairs bar, two guys and a girl. The girl is attractive (at least in profile), and they're all drinking bottles of beer. They seem to amuse themselves by placing the bottles on top of her head before taking a drink, in a manner like a toast. It was rather cute, yet simultaneously their actions made her appear as if she were not a person you can take seriously professionally, despite her attire. Quoc comes up at this point, and walks by the group of office workers to get to me and Ants. He smiles a friendly smile at her, and she turns her head to look directly back at him and smile back; not your generic smile between strangers in a club, but rather, an inviting and slightly mischievous one... perhaps one enhanced by alcohol. Quoc and I shout to each other through the deafening music; it seems that out on the lower floor, he has met a group of people. He asks me to join him. Soon he heads back downstairs.

I leave Ants upstairs chilling out with his drink, and find Quoc among the crowd below. He is talking with a number of people that have formed a small network. Among them is a Japanese girl who had spent some time in Ohio and spoke English well. What was her name again? Oh yeah, Ellie. She has a friend wearing a tight black shirt with "Mango" written on the front of it. I meet a young Israeli military man who had just arrived in Tokyo this week for work. "WHAT is UP with those suicide bombings?!" I yell. "I just pray for peace, man," was his response. Later, he winds up making out with Mango and leaving together. Ellie has left as well, accompanied by a tall caucasian man. The fragile and rapidly evolving social web spun in environments such as these is extraordinarily fascinating.

The dim sky is already gathering light as we exit the bar at 0430. We take a cab back to our hotel; it is surprisingly close by, thanks to my good foresight when making the reservation. A hotel worker behind the desk appears and bows as we walk by the small lobby towards the elevators. We hit the sack, reeking of cigarette smoke odor, exhausted but giddy from our first night out in Tokyo.