Nostalgia: Hiro-o

Finally, the Office of Student Affairs had something I wanted to read. Ignoring the piles of useful but depressing fliers--gems like 'Pass your boards with Kaplan review!’ or 'Join the Army Corp! Free medical tuition!'--as I looked for something to pass the time while the secretary was away, I instinctively grabbed at a sliver of red poking through, finding something most gloriously unexpected. "Study Abroad Opportunities". I flipped through the glossy pages, mumbling to myself happy thoughts about a simpler, more decadent time (read: college). I'm sure something like this had been misplaced. It should be in the Dental school's office, at least these people have time to spare. Whose cruel joke is this, flaunting and taunting med students with words like 'leisure', 'introspection', and 'humanity'?

Whatever. I'll take any bit of escapism I can get. The brochure is pretty standard, offering chances for college credit at Beijing U. or language immersion classes in Florence. Been there. Loved it. Next.

And then I found the ad for Tokyo. The content I skimmed right past, but the pictures--this was my photo montage. There they were: the Hiro-o stop on the Silver line. Japanese schoolgirls in uniform knee-high socks, smiling with funky hair and peace signs posing for the camera. Ropongi at night, with glitzy lights and a million people rushing across its streets. A steaming bowl of Udon. I know, these are all standard commercial images some underpaid intern probably found on the Internet and slapped together for the study-abroad office. Still, they brought back memories of my home stays in Hiro-o, gregarious British and American ex-pats who host us year after year, sponsoring bbq parties at the Harvard Club and black tie events in 100+ degree weather at 99% humidity. I remember the confusion and panic that accompanied the end of every performance, the onslaught of Japanese high school students storming the lobby to purchase our overpriced wares. I tried to answer their questions while furiously scribbling my signature on napkins and shirts and CD jackets, smiling, nodding, posing for pictures, overwhelmed by it all. And then there was Ropongi, the party district, decked out in nightclubs and chocked full of hip harajuku girls ignoring cat calls from what seemed like roving packs of American frat boys, drunk and obnoxious. Giants ads were everywhere: Suntory Whisky, Tom Cruise promoting shampoo, 24 hour game arcades. Jamaican hustlers who lined the sidewalks of Ropongi, greeted all who walked passed them in every language imaginable, beckoning for customers, often succeeding with Americans and fanny pack-wearing Russian tourists. In the middle of all this sensory over- stimulation, quiet moments were rare and special. But they could be found, like the calming sound of trickling water in the gardens of Shinto shrines, so many of them tucked away behind narrow streets around Hiro-o. Beautiful solitary spaces these were, with immaculately kept bonsai landscapes and air that tasted of incense. I miss it all, especially those steaming bowls of Udon with shrimp tempura in rich dark broth, ‘student food’ for 500 yen (5 dollars), dirt cheap compared to any other meal to be had in Tokyo. This city was an amazing, perplexing place.
If only Mike could see it the way I saw it. If only we had the time and money to go. If only...