One of my favourite experiences in Japan is a very simple one: the shinkansen trip from Shin-Yokohama to Tokyo at night. Small things and small minds? I used to travel along this route regularly when I lived in central Tokyo and worked in Shin-Yokohama; these days I occasionally do it for fun.
OK, I confess: I love trains.
A shinkansen bound for Tokyo arrives roughly every five to ten minutes at Shin-Yokohama Station. If you take into account that these trains travel at speeds of 270 km/h, you will realize that a space/distance of five minutes between two trains is not a lot. If something were to go wrong, all the drivers on the line would have to stop their trains immediately or you would have one giant chain accident.
The shinkansen has different designs. When I worked in Shin-Yokohama, I usually took a train called the 300 Series. It is not particularly beautiful – it has a brutal, blunt, wedge-shaped nose – but it suggests pure power. It glides into the station accompanied by a sizzle of electricity, and stops in exactly the right place so that each door opens exactly next to the demarcated spot on the platform, where passengers wait until everybody has exited before they enter. Since the shinkansen stops for only one minute, it requires discipline from all concerned. It amuses me vastly to imagine this scene with a crowd of my compatriots from Africa.
The train departs as smoothly as it arrives: one minute you are suspended in silence, the next minute you are slicing the night to shreds.
The shinkansen runs on elevated tracks to Tokyo. "Elevated" does not refer to a few meters: the tracks are high enough to pass over 10-story buildings. That means you float above an urban landscape that disappears over the horizon in four directions, in an endless expanse of sparkling lights. Buildings flash by and offer glimpses into windows and lives: sararimen in their offices at 10 pm, a futon in front of a flickering TV set, washing left in the rain on a balcony. You peer into narrow alleys where even the neon cannot penetrate; look down, godlike, onto gravestones huddling in tiny cemeteries under curving temple roofs; cross wide black rivers and wider black highways; sweep like a phantom through people, thoughts, dreams and disappointments.
When you reach Shinagawa, the first station in Tokyo itself, the wall starts: a solid glass-and-steel wall that surges thirty, forty, fifty stories high. Now you are not floating above – these behemoths overpower even the mighty shinkansen – but streaking past a non-stop blur of energy, activity, reflections, neon, glitter, advertising, activity, buy! sell! do! live! love! work! go! go! go! Stations flash past, a solitary man smoking at the edge of a platform, slower trains packed to capacity, neon flashing in pools of water, raindrops falling into a river of headlights, the pachinko parlours of Shinbashi, the glitter of Ginza's shopping district. When you reach Marunouchi, you are surrounded by towers of light that reach so high you cannot glimpse their summits through the shinkansen's windows. Then, in the middle of this glittering future world, there she is. The young upstarts step back in their slinky silver gowns and stilettos to make room for the Dowager Duchess. That is what I secretly call the Tokyo Station building, which opened in 1914 and stands to this day. She is an anachronism: a battered, slightly worn-down but still gracious old lady holding her own amidst a crowd of slim, sequined, dressed-to-kill young vamps. She looks a bit awkward, as though she does not belong, but she keeps her poise. She is made of warm red brick, not cold steel, and she provides unexpected warmth in the cold heart of Tokyo.
(Tokyo Station is currently being renovated. From Wikipedia: "The Marunouchi side will be restored to pre-war condition and the surrounding area converted into a broad plaza extending into a walkway toward the Imperial Palace, with space for bus and taxi ranks: this construction is scheduled for completion in fiscal 2011. On the Yaesu side, the current multi-story exterior will be replaced by a much lower structure with a large canopy covering outdoor waiting and loading areas, and twin high-rise towers at each end. This project is due for completion in 2013.")
This, Tokyo Station, is where all shinkansen hiss to a stop. As I walk through the shinkansen ticket gates, two guards call out arigato gozaimashita, "thank you for travelling with us". If it is really late at night and the station is quieter with less traffic, they bow. I slip through the crowds and catch the Yamanote Line on Platform 4. Mamonaku, yonban sen ni densha ga mairimasu. Abunai desu kara, kiiroi sen no uchigawa e, o-sagari kudasai. "Next, a train will arrive on Platform 4. Please be aware of the danger and stand behind the yellow line." The Yamanote Line, crowded beyond capacity, runs in a loop around central Tokyo. It is a human conveyor belt that runs every two minutes (every two minutes!) to feed the rapacious appetite of an economic powerhouse.
It is a small thing, this 20-minute trip from Shin-Yokohama to central Tokyo, but to me – raised on the vast, empty plains of Africa – it remains a breathtaking experience. It does not matter how many times I do it, I will never lose my sense of awe as I travel through this living, breathing, impossibly complex creature called Tokyo.
