There are too many bicycles on the pavements here. You have to be quite alert when walking, limit your sightseeing to that space a few paces before you. Unfortunately there are no beautiful temples or impressive skyscrapers in that field of vision. Only no-smoking signs painted on the floor, and concrete. Luckily for me I like concrete. When the fast wheels of the bike comes into that field of vision, one can only hope that they are adept enough to swerve away from you, which they usually are. It's just that I can't help imagining that this field of vision will end up with me under the wheels of a bike, unable to free myself from the tentacle-like spokes, being dragged along towards my fate under the deathly wheels of a bike. But this observer is not quite ready to puncture a tyre yet. There's plenty more to see.
Like that Japanese doll-girl over there. She's far too manicured to be displaying anything at all natural. Even her walk is unnatural as she hobbles along about on heels as high as Icarus. It's like watching Bambi learning to walk all over again, figuring out that odd relationship between ground and feet. And of course the story ends just as tragically as that of Bambi's. The girl's mother was gunned down by hunters right in front of her. Strangely similar to the fate of Bambi's mother too. If only she was wearing more practical footwear, she could have intervened. Oh well. (She actually just horrendously fell over).
To your right up here, at the end of my road is the local park, which has solved that age-long problem of grass by having a green painted floor. Best of both worlds. Looks kind of like grass and avoids issues of maintenance, like cutting, and shit. A brilliant notion, one that the managers of Central and Hyde park would do well to heed.
Across the road, over there, is an office worker, or kaishain, as they are called here, as inconspicuous as a black suited salary-man in one of the many financial districts of Tokyo - which he is. So that was a pointless simile. Must do better next time, like a black suited Japanese office-worker... He is unhappy you see. For in Japan most people who work in offices are labelled as kaishain, a generic one-for-all term applied to pretty much everyone. But he is much more than that! He is a systems analyst coordinator, and he wants to go to the top of the Tokyo Skytree and shout it to the world! But he can't for although there is probably a word for it, here in Japan he will always be a kaishain. But deep down in his heart of hearts he will always coordinate analyses of systems.
To your right you'll see a group of Yakuza. The correct collective noun is a smank of Yakuza. They are very common and can usually be seen in one of the seedy, sex-filled side-streets of Shinjuku, or Kabukicho for short. Although this sighting is a little more out of the ordinary, or extraordinary, if I was more to the point, which I'm not. There are over ten of them altogether hanging around a doorway that must lead to the offices of the sex club just below. I believe they've just had a conference. The suited older men are probably the only few in Japan that are not labelled as kaishain, even though they do probably spend most of their working lives in offices as public as any other, with plaques of their Yakuza group on the entrances. Oh twisted world that places more interest on the lives of Yakuza than systems analyst coordinators. It's obvious that they are Yakuza. You don't need someone to point it out, for there is a swagger of un-inherited confidence they have, expressed in every movement. It's quite riveting to watch. This sense of entitlement has to be earned though, and the younger members among them are in the process of doing it, opening the doors of the convoy of people-carriers lining up to drive the bosses away. I can't loiter about too long though, just look over like any normal passer-by observing a large group of people. Don't push your luck though and ask for directions or maybe even a group photo, using the reverse camera function on your smartphone. The temptation is strong, but I resist. I must remain the observer in this one. Also the next one, for your humble observer must dart off to the next scene.
You'll see on your left a rebuilt and serene looking temple overlooking a large sandy rectangle in the middle. It is empty except for a few people, which means it wouldn't be empty, would it? God, what's wrong with me, another badly phrased sentence. Must to do betters next times. Further along behind the temple, in a secluded corner resides a tiny tranquil pond, over which a tiny bridge connects to an even tinier island, hosting the tiniest of shrines. The red bridge fits perfectly with the red kimono of a Japanese bride, beautifully make-upped and proud. She is holding the hands of her new husband, appropriately decked out in a formal kimono, albeit a little less colourful, black with elegant white reliefs. On what I suppose could be called the mainland were the parents of one of the happy couple taking photos on the normal camera function of their smartphones, along with a professional photographer, capturing memories for no more than 6,000 yen/hour. The going rate he would say. This idyllic fragment of nature lies in the shadow of one of the most densely skyscrapered communities in the world, the towers of west Shinjuku. I have seen it so many time in films before, seeming impossible that this place existed, yet here I am now observing this most traditional of Japan under the peaks of the most modern of Japan.
P.S.
Right, I'm off to write an essay about this:
