Weapons Grade Matcha Latte

日曜の午後

On Sunday afternoon, everyone goes to Yoyogi Park. As the train pulled into Harajuku Station, I looked out of the window at the mass of people on the platform and regretted my decision to come here. I only had a few seconds to weigh up my choices: stay on the train for another stop or get off here and join the crowd.

"Harajuka eki," the automatic announcement burbled above me. "Harajuku station." I felt a surge of motion as the doors opened and the passengers around me started to move. The decision was made for me. I let the force of the motion take me out of the carriage and drag me into the queue. Together, we made our slow way up the stairs and across the bridge - a minute to move maybe a dozen metres. All the time more trains were arriving, depositing their passengers onto the platform behind me. There was no way for me to turn back now. I fumbled in my pocket for my Suica card, holding it over the scanner in the ticket gates, and emerged onto the pavement.

The crowd thinned, some heading up the street towards Yoyogi Park, others heading down the street towards Takeshita-dori. I grabbed hold of a lamppost, steadying myself against it. A few curious heads turned to look at me, watching the gaikukojin to see if he would do something strange; then they went on their way. From somewhere behind me, beyond the station buildings, came the sounds of merriment: American rock and roll music from the portable sound systems of the rockabilly dancers, the rhythmic pounding of taiko drumming circles, the shrill voices of children. I made up my mind. Tonight was going to be a night for peace and quiet and beer.

I merged back into the stream of people making their way to Takeshita-dori. Being tall, even for a westerner, I could see the multicoloured arch on the other side of the road above their heads. I followed the crowd across the street, then broke away again. Takeshita-dori was for the young and fashionable. It had been a long time since I had been either of those. I made my way past the department store hoardings and down a side street.

Every city has a maze of streets that run parallel to the main thoroughfares. These are the quiet streets, the streets that only a few care about. The tourists never see these streets. Why should they? There is nothing interesting on them. The streets around the Harajuku were narrow - just wide enough for one of the ubiquitous Mitsubishi white vans to pass through. Apartment blocks, built sometime in the last twenty years, lined either side and reached up maybe ten storeys into the sky. A few shops intended for the residents were at street level. The neon light from the displays spilled out into the twilight street. Out of curiosity I looked into a couple of the konbini, peering at the racks of magazines, soft drinks and snacks; but I know what I was looking for.

At the end of one of the apartment blocks was what looked like a fire escape. A spiral staircase wormed its way up the side of the building to a landing about two floors above me. I climbed the concrete steps and pushed open the door at the top.

"Irasshaimase!"

I nodded politely to the Japanese on the door and held up one finger. "Ich'nin, kudasai."

"Dōzo."

The greeter bowed and showed me to a seat at the counter. I had been here before. It was a small bar, run by a pair of Americans. A friend who liked craft beer had introduced me to the place. "Best place in Tokyo," he said. "And everyone speaks English."

I waved at the barman. "Hi. What's on the menu?" It felt good to speak English again, to not have to translate my thoughts into Japanese.

The barman passed me a laminated sheet. "We've got some new brews in this week. You might like the bock. Or maybe the IPA."

"It's warm out there." I scanned the list of beers. "I think I'll skip the bock, have something light." I named two of the drinks. "And I'll have the chicken tamagoyaki. And some rice crackers while I'm waiting."

"Sure thing," the barman said.

I settled back on my stool and turned my attention to the sumo match playing out on the big-screen television.