I attended the annual Azabujuban Matsuri with some friends this past Sunday (you can find photos of the event by clicking here or by clicking on the photos listed under Flickr to the right).  As I’m sure you’re wondering, matsuri means festival in Japanese (or so I’m told).  And each year around this time, the enclave of Azabujuban (a neighborhood right next to ours in Roppongi) has a popular, three-day street festival the features lots of fun little food stands and a crush of humanity.  It’s kind of like the Taste of Chicago but with about 10% of the space, so it’s not an event for the claustrophobic among us.  Though I’ve walked by the event in the past, I never mustered the courage to meander through.  But this year was different, mainly thanks to an invitation from a Japanese friend (Naoko).  Though there are plenty of street festivals like this throughout the city during Obon season, this particular matsuri is apparently a famous one.  Maybe it’s because some guys did a Michael Jackson Thriller rendition at it a couple years back.  Or maybe it’s because Azabujuban is known as a sort of melting pot, so the fare is particularly gaijin-friendly.  Indeed, beyond the standard Japanese offerings, there were also plenty of Korean stands as well as a special international section that featured the countries of India, Brazil, Argentina, Thailand and the Philippines, among others.  Whatever the case, it was a pretty cool event.  The food was great and the nama biru (draft beer) flowed smoothly.  And, thankfully, the oppressive mushi atsui weather (hot & sticky) gave us a break from the standard August routine.

And to top it all off, I got to see this awesome shirt.

One of the stranger things to see in Japan is all the women walking with umbrellas on perfectly clear days when the risk of rain would appear miniscule.  The rationale goes like this: while us gaijin go to varying lengths to make ourselves darker (i.e. tan), the Japanese would prefer to be whiter and so do all they can to avoid catching any rays.  As a result, you routinely see women wandering about the city outfitted like those pictured below.  And in the more extreme cases, you’ll see not only an umbrella, but also a hat, gloves, and long sleeve shirts.  All while it’s 90 degrees out with 100% humidity.  Crazy.

We’ve got a few things today:

1.  A 50-year old cram school teacher (cram schools are like those Kaplan study courses) was busted for plugging toilets on Tobu line trains because he felt that “[Tobu] employees have a lackluster work attitude.”

2.  A 70-year old woman received a mandatory two-year jail sentence for shoplifting a 98 yen (~98 cents) eraser from a supermarket.

3.  As I was out walking Hurley today, I passed by a Chevrolet-branded bicycle with the trademark “Heartbeat of America” and all.  I had no idea Chevy (or GM) made bikes, but perhaps they’ll have better luck with them than they have with cars and trucks!

These are melancholy days in Tokyo.  The economy continues to sink faster than the LDP, and the obligatory frown and furrowed brow so loved by the Japanese have somehow managed to grow more intense.  And, worst of all, it’s hotter and stickier than probably anywhere on planet earth.  Indeed, the summer doldrums have fully settled in.  But, believe it or not, I’m generally content.  My walks to the office suck – I show up a dripping, blotchy mess – but my morning runs grow more gratifying as the mercury rises.  Put simply, I love to sweat when exercising, and ending my runs with entire shirts turned darker shades by the perspiration is a downright wonderful feeling.  Of course, the mushi atsui weather also means that beer mugs and Coke cans turn to slobbering messes instantaneously upon serving.  And I immediately pour sweat each time I exit the shower, making me ponder the wasted effort of it all.  But it’s all OK because I know that tomorrow’s run will more than make up for it.

Speaking of those runs, my morning path usually takes me through the infamous Roppongi Crossing.  This is an intersection of the two main roads that slice through our area of town, and it forms the nexus of decadent and devious behavior for Tokyo-based gaijins (the Japanese have their own crazy part of town called Kabukicho).  During the day, Roppongi is an area famous for its high class living, working, and shopping.  It’s the home of Goldman Sachs, Bentley dealerships, and crazy expensive condos where famous people dwell.  At night, Roppongi is better known for its restaurants, funky bars, hostess/dance/strip clubs, and karaoke booths.  And it’s home to TGI Fridays, Tony Roma’s, and the Hard Rock Cafe, which draws an interesting mix of people, including a certain gaijin businessman who, insisting that the jukebox is great, can be found most Fridays at TGIF for a little taste of home – a couple cold beers and a cheeseburger.

Roppongi Crossing is also famous for the dozens of Nigerians roaming about trying to lure the scores of drunk, stumbling gaijin into their clubs.  The score for them is this: get the gaijins to the door, get paid.  They could care less what happens to you after you’re delivered to their club’s bosses.  It’s a volume business and you’re the package.  These guys are an enterprising and persistent bunch, and they are happy to tell you anything – no matter how far it is from the truth – to get you into their club.  There’s no honor among these hucksters, to be sure.  Once stuck inside, gaijins are sure to be plowed with $50 beers by trashy women of all nationalities who, very nice of them, are happy to let you buy them lots of $50 drinks too.  It’s a great racket, and I have no doubt it serves as the primary revenue source for the yakuza – and for lots of working girls.  That’s fine by me.  But I must say that walking through there at night – as someone with zero interest in the bars being advertised – is a total nightmare.  These Nigerians are aggressive in the most annoying of ways, and a gaijin walking alone is like blood in the water to these sharks.  I call it running the gauntlet.  You’ll walk fifteen feet batting away one guy promising you “beautiful titties” only to immediately be descended upon by another guy promising basically the same thing just as soon as you shake the last guy loose.  And once you think you’ve managed some breathing room away from the Nigerians, you’re not in the clear yet, as you’ll soon be beset by Chinese ladies offering “massaji?”.  This process repeats itself over and over again until you finally reach the area’s perimeter and make your way back to the land of the living.

In case you’re wondering, the club promoters are, in fact, all Nigerian.  I’m not sure what the arrangement is, but the Nigerians have a monopoly on the badgering business here.  I’m told that it used to be Iranians who ran the show, but once the bubble burst they were all shipped back home because they were doing jobs that needed to go to Japanese desperate for work (an interesting form of protectionism, to say the least).  I did happen across a young American guy once who was peddling the same thing, which confused me to no end.  Turns out he was a wanderer just looking to score some dough before moving on to his next spot.  Strange but kind of cool all the same.

In any event, it’s always a surreal experience when I pass through this area early each morning on my runs.  By the time I reach the crossing, I’m at the tail-end of my jaunt, feeling healthy and able as sweat streaks off of me in every direction.  And as I come to the crossing, I always marvel at the remnants from the prior night’s festivities: empty beer cans, bags of trash, half-eaten McDonald’s cheeseburgers, Nigerians surrounded by women, and the occasional misguided gaijin.  Lizzi and I once saw a very drunk American guy standing almost sideways and attempting to negotiate rather loudly with a working girl.  And one time when I went to the Citibank ATM for an early morning cash run, I observed a British man (I could tell by the accent) standing there with a very European- and “professional”- looking woman.  They were engaged in deep discussion (right by an ATM, mind you), all under the watchful eye of your friendly neighborhood Nigerian.  Good times.

Each time I pass by this scene, I can’t help but marvel at the dichotomy revealed by me running against such a mischievous backdrop.  It’s a wonderful contrast that leaves me entranced more often than not, probably because that’s right about the time the endorphins start to kick in.  Alas, this sweatball of a man is invariably snapped out of his daydream by a woman’s voice, gruff and heavily-accented.  “Massaji?”