Dizzy with the sheer size of this hangar which, at that hour of night, was swarming with people, I took a few minutes to get outside. A retro-modern TV antenna near the taxi rank looked as if it would be more at home in East Berlin than in the city of Japan’s ancient essences.
I got into a taxi that was impeccable inside and outside, with white lace covers on the seats and even on the steering wheel. When I showed the driver the address of theryokanI was booked into, The Blue Frogs (yes, that was the translation of the Japanese name), he nodded respectfully and the car glided away.
I was disappointed to find that the streets were lined by the same kind of modern buildings I’d seen from the train: functional blocks of some ten or twelve stories at most. If it wasn’t for the neon signs written in Japanese script, anyone might think this was a small American city. In fact I knew that Japan’s old imperial capital had a smaller population than my native Barcelona.
The extreme looks flaunted by some of the kids in the streets and the glittering facades of the game arcades, flashing their lights to the beat of deafening techno tunes, only confirmed my impression that there was no Zen in Kyoto that Wednesday night.
The taxi turned off the main thoroughfare to enter an alley where another city began. We’d gone back five centuries. Lanterns hanging from two-story buildings lit up a paved footpath where couples strolled. Some wore traditional dress—the women in delicate kimonos and clog-like sandals, the men in in kimonos too, dark and simple, tied at the waist with a narrow sash.
A luxury car stopped in front of us, blocking the way. A geisha got out and slipped inside a teahouse, all in a matter of seconds—an astounding sight that made me wonder if I was hallucinating. Not long afterward, we drew up in front of the ryokan.
At most, the inn had seven or eight rooms distributed over the two floors of a wooden house with bamboo blinds. The sign was also made of wood. Although the name was written in Japanese, the blue frogs painted on it confirmed that this was the right place.
I paid my fare—the equivalent of around twenty dollars—and the silent driver used some automatic device to open the door and let me out.
A woman who was barely five feet tall peeped out from behind one of the blinds and came to greet me. She beckoned me inside and went to stand beside a piece of wooden furniture that looked more like a dressing table than a reception desk.
Some white slippers awaited me inside the door. I took off my shoes, and the woman made a deep bow saying, “Irasshaimase. . . ,” which I took to be some kind of welcome.
I showed her my passport and my reservation confirmation. As she painstakingly wrote my name in a clothbound book, I asked if I might have something to eat.
The lady’s startled expression showed that she didn’t understand a word of English. She led me up to the first floor and pushed open a sliding door to show me my austere accommodation, which consisted of a futon on the floor, a low bedside table, a wardrobe and a small bathroom. That was all. One hundred and eighty dollars a night. Maybe I was paying for the location of the place in the old city.
It was now half past ten and I hadn’t eaten anything since landing at Narita mid-afternoon. After a quick shower with lukewarm water, I got changed, ready to go looking for a bite to eat in that dreamlike alley. The distant notes of something that sounded like a lute and a girl singing reminded me of the geisha I’d seen getting out of the car. I really hoped I’d see another geisha. I was surprised to realize that, for the first time since I’d sunk into my depression, I wanted something.
The Mushroom Song
The Japanese couples I’d seen from the taxi had now vanished from the alley. All it had to show now were closed shops, a couple of ryokan and the occasional, hopeful glow of a street light.
As I walked past the small houses, I glimpsed human silhouettes gracefully gliding around behind blinds and paper screens. I wondered whether one of them might have belonged to the geisha, now plying her arts in a private teahouse.
The voice and lute I’d heard only minutes earlier were silent now.
Just when I was starting to fear I’d have to return to my futon with an empty stomach I saw, inscribed on an iron plaque lit by the sallow glow from a lamppost, three roman letters that left no room for doubt: BAR.
I pushed open the black door.
On the other side was a tiny room, barely a hundred square feet, with an L-shaped bar that would have accommodated four customers at the most. Behind the bar, a wizened woman in her sixties bowed slightly and gestured at one of the empty stools. At the other end of the L, an elderly man was enthralled by an almost-empty bottle of sake.
As if trying to snap him out of his stupor, the woman went to top up his ceramic cup with what remained in the bottle, and the man nodded. He looked so eccentric it was difficult to guess his age. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a tie; his hair was tousled and his glasses scratched. He peered at me for a moment, as if trying to work out what I was doing there. Then he went back to contemplating his sake.
An old television set with a twenty-inch screen hung aslant from the ceiling, showing music videos of stridently rendered songs and images that looked like some kind of joke but were serious.
I was offered the list of house specialties with another bow. To my great relief, each item—basically different kinds of sake, beer and cocktails—had an English translation written beneath its Japanese name. There was nothing to eat on the menu, although I could see that the man at the end of the counter had a small dish of nuts.
Knowing I’d probably get drunk on an empty stomach, I asked for an astronomically priced Asahi. As the woman filled my glass with the chilled beer, the man with the scratched spectacles suddenly stood up and burst into song. Astounded, I saw that he had picked up a wireless microphone to sing along with the show that now appeared on the screen, consisting of a dance performed by children dressed as mushrooms. The woman turned up the volume so that the man could belt it out, backed by the syncopated beat of chords that sounded like traditional Russian music. The vocal part was very repetitive and kitsch, especially coming from a man who looked as if he’d just escaped from a catfight.
Dokonoko no kinoko kono kinoko dokono
dokonoko no kinoko morino kinoko
morino kinoko wa rappa ni natte
onpu ga kumo made tondetta
puppuru pappa purupappa
puppuru pappa purupappa
