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spiderpigAfter a failed trip to school, because I do not have enough common sense to realize that offices do not open on Citizen's Day no matter what, I scratched my plans to visit Nakameguro (that will wait for next week, tomorrow will be reserved for clearing up some things in my room) and headed to Asakusa instead, because I realized that the Shitachome Comedy Film Festival screening it's opening film at 6pm. Ticket sales started at 2pm and I left the dorm at 3pm because I was talking to my dad on Skype.
Quite obviously when I got there, the tickets were sold out, and apologetic "supporters" (volunteers) rushed in and out from the Public Hall to inform me that it was all sold out and "why don't you stay and watch the red carpet (procession)?" And so I did.
I squeezed myself into semblance of a second row against the barricade and watched the Shitachome band wheel itself from one end of the carpet to the other, the lead singer crooning tunes reminiscent of the Showa era. It was nostalgic in a way that I couldn't possibly be nostalgic about, having not been born then. Yet, there was something touching being surrounded by small aged ladies and their equally small husbands. The same small ladies who excitedly reached out to touch the hands of passing celebrities as their husbands benignly smiled on.
This is the Japan that I know and love, the same Japan that obediently puts away their cameras when the emcee announces that photography and video recordings of the event is prohibited, the same Japan that whips out its keitai camera when Aikawa Sho strolls past.
I only recognized Aikawa Sho because of his appearance in The Quiz Show and Kurosagi, and immediately there are ladies from behind pushing frantically. They reach out, and I can only see their hands stretching out, disembodied, from behind, as they struggle to touch him.
I mimick the crowd and shout "アニキ！" (Older brother, in a more rough manner) and stretch out my hand too. Very briefly, he smiles, and shakes my hand. "シンガポールから来た！" I continue to shout, and he nods and gives me a thumbs up. I am slightly stunned and increasingly overwhelmed.
The crowd abates for a while as lesser known stars walk past us. Then it's a mad rush as two お笑いさん, comedians, young comedians, walk past and they start shouting for them again. I briefly touch one of their hands as his brushes past mine to reach for an uchiwa to sign. Wow.
Finally all the red carpeteers disappear into the building and we're left with disgruntled Japanese people and empty barricades. I walk back to the main Asakusa compound and wander for a bit.
Besides the constant renovation that the main temple has been undergoing, Asakusa has never changed since I first came back in 2000. It's comforting, just like how much Japan changes, it's soul is still very much intact. Walking towards the omikuji booths, I remembered what it was like to be here with my dad, with L and E, with my family again, -- and now, by myself. I love the shitamachi. the down-town and dirtier areas of Tokyo. The sounds and smells, most importantly, of the shitamachi are what stick with me the most. Not only do they stay in my clothes and hair for hours after I leave, they tattoo their scent into my heart and brain so that whenever I'm in Ueno, or Asakusa, I think "Ah, I know this place."
So going to Sensoji has become a routine for me. 100 yen for the omikuji, get my fortune, pray at the main building (now heavily boarded up), and then circle the grounds before leaving. I like things that are constant, things and places that don't take you for granted.
Good night, Tokyo.
Quite obviously when I got there, the tickets were sold out, and apologetic "supporters" (volunteers) rushed in and out from the Public Hall to inform me that it was all sold out and "why don't you stay and watch the red carpet (procession)?" And so I did.
I squeezed myself into semblance of a second row against the barricade and watched the Shitachome band wheel itself from one end of the carpet to the other, the lead singer crooning tunes reminiscent of the Showa era. It was nostalgic in a way that I couldn't possibly be nostalgic about, having not been born then. Yet, there was something touching being surrounded by small aged ladies and their equally small husbands. The same small ladies who excitedly reached out to touch the hands of passing celebrities as their husbands benignly smiled on.
This is the Japan that I know and love, the same Japan that obediently puts away their cameras when the emcee announces that photography and video recordings of the event is prohibited, the same Japan that whips out its keitai camera when Aikawa Sho strolls past.
I only recognized Aikawa Sho because of his appearance in The Quiz Show and Kurosagi, and immediately there are ladies from behind pushing frantically. They reach out, and I can only see their hands stretching out, disembodied, from behind, as they struggle to touch him.
I mimick the crowd and shout "アニキ！" (Older brother, in a more rough manner) and stretch out my hand too. Very briefly, he smiles, and shakes my hand. "シンガポールから来た！" I continue to shout, and he nods and gives me a thumbs up. I am slightly stunned and increasingly overwhelmed.
The crowd abates for a while as lesser known stars walk past us. Then it's a mad rush as two お笑いさん, comedians, young comedians, walk past and they start shouting for them again. I briefly touch one of their hands as his brushes past mine to reach for an uchiwa to sign. Wow.
Finally all the red carpeteers disappear into the building and we're left with disgruntled Japanese people and empty barricades. I walk back to the main Asakusa compound and wander for a bit.
Besides the constant renovation that the main temple has been undergoing, Asakusa has never changed since I first came back in 2000. It's comforting, just like how much Japan changes, it's soul is still very much intact. Walking towards the omikuji booths, I remembered what it was like to be here with my dad, with L and E, with my family again, -- and now, by myself. I love the shitamachi. the down-town and dirtier areas of Tokyo. The sounds and smells, most importantly, of the shitamachi are what stick with me the most. Not only do they stay in my clothes and hair for hours after I leave, they tattoo their scent into my heart and brain so that whenever I'm in Ueno, or Asakusa, I think "Ah, I know this place."
So going to Sensoji has become a routine for me. 100 yen for the omikuji, get my fortune, pray at the main building (now heavily boarded up), and then circle the grounds before leaving. I like things that are constant, things and places that don't take you for granted.
Good night, Tokyo.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-23 06:30 pm (UTC)