Emily Articulated: Greetings from Tokyo

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

There are some things we can’t truly comprehend, and others we perhaps shouldn’t — at least not too often. Like people who visit sensory deprivation chambers and suddenly hear the sound of blood rushing through their veins — confronted with the unsettling truth that the only thing separating their insides from the world is a layer of soft, penetrable skin. Or like me, soaring through the sky at 500 miles per hour, 40,000 feet above the ocean in a 400-ton hunk of metal — realizing I have absolutely no idea how planes actually work.

Looking down at the patchwork of buildings, streets, trains, cars and people in the Tokyo Metropolitan Area, I’m forced to admit that 37 million people in one city is something my brain may never fully grasp. 

I live in a small town so I can see and feel my impact, so I can recognize myself in my surroundings. But I travel to be reminded of my smallness — to feel, in some visceral way, the vastness of other lives just as meaningful as mine.

Emily Erickson. Courtesy photo.

If we understood the full weight of these truths all the time, we’d be paralyzed. But if we never considered them, we might forget what miracles we are — and how, despite all our self-importance, we and our seemingly massive problems are often so very small.

My partner and I chose Japan to experience something completely different from our day-to-day lives. As an architect, he was excited to see some of the world’s most iconic buildings — both modern and traditional. As someone with a near-insatiable curiosity, I was thrilled to explore all the small, strange details that differentiate a place on the opposite side of the planet. (Also, I was dying to see capybaras in real life.)

We arrived in Tokyo in the afternoon, but after a 12-hour flight and a 16-hour time change, the only thing left to cling to was the question: What is time? We hopped on the Sky Rail and sped past rice paddies and tightly clustered farming communities until the city began to emerge. Eventually, amid a sea of concrete, glass and flashing lights, we were deposited in the Ikebukuro neighborhood — swept into the flow of moving bodies like fish rejoining their school.

My first “aha!” was that, despite all that should be overwhelming about the experience of being in their one-of-many equivalents to our Times Square, it was missing the one ingredient that completes a sensory-overload: excessive noise. In a city that relies almost entirely on public transit — without honking car horns and screeching brakes and road-enraged shouts — the experience became a magic trick; a sleight of hand. See the crowds, hear the quiet hum of voices and shoes on pavement.

The next “aha!” was just how much joyful absurdity you can get away with when your consumer base is 37 million people. In direct contrast with the small-town convenience stores needing to be an all-in-one experience (gas stations, grocery stores, movie rentals, and home and garden centers), there were whole buildings dedicated to the most unique things. Like the pocket-size animal rescue, with only the smallest cats and dogs on display to prospective adopters. A miniature chihuahua wrestled a toy poodle puppy, and two kittens the size of my palm yawned sleepily from their plush beds. There was a line out the door to see them.  

Or, most gloriously absurd, a glowing five-story building called Me Tokyo, devoted entirely to claw machines. The first floor was packed with kids and teens expertly guiding joysticks in pursuit of plush characters. The upper floors? Adults — mostly older women and men — working the claws in what could only be described as gamified Costco: bulk-sized grocery items at bargain prices, if you’re blessed with good depth perception and a steady hand. I nearly fainted from the frivolity.

On day three of 12, there is so much yet to be revealed, and so many “aha!s” left to experience. We’ll leave the big city for smaller cities, the mountains and everything in between, and I’m excited for all the many ways we’ll be transformed in the process. 

Until then, I hope you find ways to confront the incomprehensible, and jaa mata (“see you soon”)!

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.