A pause in Tokyo

A random walk that ends with a fishing rod. And wondering what this might have to do with culture, country, clothing, and everything that protects, integrates but also distances us from others.

Edited in English by Kathelijne Bonne.

A discovery

The business is run by an elderly man and a young guy. The building is humble but dignified like everything else in Japan. I’m told that they’ve been here for about seventy years. And it is intriguing that yards away from the luxury and the big hotels, there is this refuge where parents and children can fish from little wooden boats.

It all happened because sometimes we take our children on random trips. This time it was my turn with Tomás to get on the subway and tell him: let’s get off at the stop you want. And with his beautiful little finger he pointed to an unpronounceable stop. That’s the thing about Tokyo: you feel safe everywhere.

I don’t know why in the end I told him: I like the name of this stop, let’s get off.

We got off at Tokyo Garden Terrace Kioicho on Nagatacho St, a very luxurious building with very elegant people. In Tokyo, many subway stops are above the ground, others are inside massive office buildings and shopping malls. On that day, we got out at a five-star hotel with bars like Starbucks and Dean&Deluca.

Cuddles and kids in Japan

Tomás and I walk hand in hand, and that is already striking in itself, because here children walk around by themselves or, at most, the parent next to the child.

Every now and then, I try to loosen my hand, to let him get used to going independently or get a better sense of the road.

I realize that it is liberating to be on my own as well. He still wants me to pick him up from school, even though many of his classmates already go by themselves. I love to pick him up and I keep waiting for that back-breaking hug.

In Japan, children are not overindulged. This contrasts with the ever-present infantile universe that marks all the aesthetics of the city. Buses, trucks, stuffed animals, clothes, even dogs. Indeed, the adult world is very cute but that does not translate into more physical contact with children.

An oasis in the city

We walk several yards. And as soon as we cross the bridge, something happens. He lets go of my hand and peeks over the railing. We realize that we are crossing what looks like a river, although I later find out that it is the rushing waters of the canal that surrounds the gardens of Edo Castle (Tokyo is full of waterways). What we saw from the bridge causes unbridled enthusiasm.

Fishing boats.

Tom pulls at my hand. I get a little tense because I have never fished in my life and I don’t quite know what to do. But, as in my whole life, and now in Japan all the more, I engage into conversation with strangers to make things work. I like being a foreigner. I like being strange to them and I like them being exotic to me.

The elderly man behind a counter attends the Benkei Fishing Club, located on the border of Minato and Chiyoda, in the elegant Akazaka area, the young, smiling boy is his assistant. I hesitate, but I always make myself understood. Between my English and his Japanese, we reach an understanding.

Culture and refuge

I have had to lower my English level because otherwise no communication is possible. I also have to listen attentively because they speak softly and mumble a bit in other languages.

One advantage: in Spain I had to shout to be understood. All my conversations started with someone saying to me: speak up, I don’t understand you. Here this is not necessary, or perhaps the words are not so necessary because they become useless and one must make them more rudimentary to have any effect.

I quite like this idea of going back to the basics in order to survive.

Culture is like an immense layer with which we cover ourselves. A transparent screen that protects us, lets in the sun and heat, but is difficult to penetrate. It is also a garment. It dresses us and protects us. It also pushes others away. A culture functions as a glue between those who share it.

But it also marks a territory.

It tells you: this is as far as we go. You must turn around now. Culture separates. Isolates. Excludes. Singles out. Everything a good garment does, to give warmth, to protect, to cover up, to show off, is done by culture too. It seems to me that culture functions as a shelter and a protection from the elements.

I realize that there may be a relationship between the character of the Japanese and their geography. Their culture leaves you out, but not out of hostility (which may happen in other countries). They take refuge in their culture. It’s like a comfortable sofa where they are at ease. It’s an attitude I have not seen in other countries, where the foreigner is sometimes an enemy. Here, the foreigner is never an enemy. Either way, the Japanese always remain polite also from a distance.

Thinking this over, I turn to Chantal Maillard:

«A culture is the result of the effort of human societies to accommodate themselves in an environment governed by forces that while uncontrollable may nevertheless prove to be in some way predictable.» [1]

She sees a clear relationship between cult, cultivation and culture. Is their silence the most efficient way to accommodate themselves to their environment ?

Being on the outside may be not be bad

The contrast with Spain is striking. Being in Japan is like watching a silent movie: because of the mute gestures become powerful, because it’s the only thing I have. I no longer struggle with the fact that I may not be able  to get to the bottom of this culture. I know it is difficult. When I enter a bookstore and see so many books in a language I don’t understand, I become aware of a whole universe that will always remain out of reach, its rules, its laughter, its magic, and from which I will always be on the outside. But there is no bitterness, I just realize and accept it.

Lafcadio Hearn said that, even living there many years, it was very difficult to gain a deep knowledge of Japanese society [2]. He had even become a naturalized Japanese citizen and was married to the daughter of a samurai.

Through my Japanese courses, I’ll do what I can, but I’ll barely scratch the surface. Maybe I’ll grasp a gesture, a tone of voice, or some word. Maybe we should get used to that. To the idea that we cannot conquer everything. Or that knowledge is not a land waiting to be accessed and dominated. That there is something out there, perhaps beautiful, that is off-limits.

And that is fine.

The young guy fishes and helps the kids and their clueless mothers. Actually, there are no other mothers. I am the only one. Mothers don’t fish with their children. Even in Spain on the beach, in Asturias, I was always the only mother fishing with the brail. It seems like a very male occupation. But if there is one aspect I love about motherhood, is that it forces me to do things I would never have done otherwise.

I see the landscape, children and parents, the evening light, the stillness of the water, a young couple fishing for goldfish in a children’s pond. Silent, calm images that stop time that rushes on in a hurry only a few yards away. That’s the great thing about Tokyo. One thinks it is a furious and raging city but it is not so, escaping from the avenues, without walking much, one finds corners of slowness everywhere. Areas that escape gentrification. Spaces of pause. Alleys, workshops, hardware stores, greengrocers, a neighborhood life that lasts.

And the fishing club where fish are caught and thrown back into the water.

Playing with the children

The young guy comes by every now and then, he helps us put the bait on the hook. Tomás plays with the net. There are plenty of fish. I watch him intently, watching the fish approaching the rod. His gaze slips among the aquatic plants. I sit and watch the human fauna. I take pictures. The breeze is no longer hot. And I laugh because I end up fishing myself while Tom tries to catch fish with his net.

A bit further a father fishes from a boat, his son plays Nintendo. We always end up doing the kids’ job which is to play. They make us play their games while they do something else. I guess what they want is to keep us close and on our toes. They can’t express it, but maybe they need to know that you’re on standby and they call that playing. I don’t know if it’s evolution or culture. Their insistence on fishing, my proximity, the kisses and hugs we give each other. How much of this is mere instinct? Is love just an attempt at survival[1]?

The boy in the boat is still absorbed in his Nintendo. He is at ease, he knows his father is fishing beside him.

And all these activities take place in silence. Tokyo is a silent city indeed. There is something nice about that. I like it, because sometimes I like to be left alone.

In Japan they mind their own business.

They never bother you. They are not invasive and that is appreciated, but I have yet to sort out whether Japanese society is highly communal or highly individualistic.

I hesitate and while thinking about these things, I walk over with my bucket of fish. The guy counts them and scores us. We are now members and have a membership card.

Tomas kisses my arms in happiness.

[1] Passage translated by the author based on:  Maillard, Chantal. La venas del dragon. Galaxia Gutenberg. 2021

[2] Hearn, Lafcadio, “Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation,” The Haiku Foundation Digital Library, accessed December 8, 2023, https://www.thehaikufoundation.org/omeka/items/show/157.

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[1] Editor’s Note: The opinions vary and the debate is far from resolved, but they all boil down to one question: what makes us human? According to Richard Dawkins’ The Selfish Gene love for family members benefits the survival of our own DNA, but Jane Goodall (Reason for Hope) find these claims reductionistic because they denigrate some of humanity’s most noble acts of self-sacrifice, also towards people we don’t share DNA with (see chapter 10, Compassion and love, p. 137).

Dawkins, Richard. The Selfish Gene. Oxford University Press, 2006.

Goodall, Jane & Berman, Phillip. Reason for hope: a spiritual journey, Thorsons, 1999.

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