Where were all these people going?

Location: Japan

The days of cosmopolitanism push the regular city dweller further from his real identity and assume an image that is unremarkably faceless. When was the last time you broke a rule?

Think about the many failed attempts you planned for a vacation for your friends or family; the annoying last minute cancellations and the lame excuse you’ve endured. It is a bottomless pit of funeral attendances family reunions.

Fact. You are wasting time if your vacation planning is just as stressful as your regular nine to five. Myth. You can’t enjoy a vacation by yourself. Fact. It is so much easier to coordinate with just yourself.

The essentials: a passport, a compact digicam (a DSLR for the true enthusiast), a decent command of the English language and an open mind. My first of many solo adventures abroad took me inside the “bubble city” of Tokyo a few years back. Not one luxurious spending splurge on my first night except for the ubiquitous Narita Express Train from the airport to Shinjuku and a convenient taxi ride around the metro. The Narita Airport itself was a feast to look at (this is the third world citizen in me talking).

No English, said the bemused cab driver. No problem, as I gestured a thumbs up. I showed him in Japanese the name of the hotel I intended on staying. Looking back, the most exciting times of the trip were times spent as an amused bystander watching the entire surrounding take a life of its own. With my backpack still on, I crouched in the backseat to get a glimpse of famed Shibuya Crossing in front of the equally famous Shibuya 109 building (a haven for trend-watchers and fashion mongers). Where were all these people going? The picture I saw in a magazine of a slew of impatient salary men and gothic lolitas crossing the pedestrian lane in the morning was the same at night.

I didn’t reserve a room ahead of time but the Shinjuku Prince Hotel had a nice view of the city skyline. I wasn’t lucky I had a room there for that night. I could’ve been luckier had I been turned away and treaded the yakuza-infested streets of Kabuki-cho to look for another hotel. The night was young. And the young night was extra cold. I wondered what hypothermia was in Japanese.

I didn’t even notice the HD TV in my spacious dog house of a room. What a great view I had of the city’s neon lights! Just below the building was an alley of colorful pachinko parlors and boutique restaurants. A nice dinner and a cold Kirin beer should be a good way to cap off my first night in the district. How cool is that, I thought to myself, upon seeing a Philippine flag under what seemed to be a neon signage for a gentleman’s bar. I suppose I could’ve been well-received over there, but I was keen on making this whole trip as uncomplicated as possible. Awesome; to the yakisoba bar that it was.

I want whatever he’s having, I gestured to the pleasant looking lady chef behind the counter. Walking almost two blocks from my hotel (with only the Philippine flag and a blushing neon girl to guide me like the star of Bethlehem did the wise men), I was delighted at the sight of hot noodles with dried seaweed on top.

Sitting just beside the glass window of the restaurant, I saw a group of black crows huddled on a withered tree branch; the incandescent street lights made them look more sinister than usual. Perfect, I said. I set up my tripod and camera to a long exposure and took a “hail mary” snapshot (there wasn’t much available light to focus on the birds).

It was a pleasant surprise when I unfolded the Shinjuku map I had gotten earlier from the hotel and found all legends in kanji characters. Parks will always have tree signs and trains will never be squares. The street signs taunted me. Let’s get lost. The plan is there are no plans.