Kaiju restoration

It's amazing what reconstruction can accomplish.

The boy and I exit the subway station in downtown Tokyo, into the cool, clear January air. A few blocks away it rises above the buildings, looking a little like the Eiffel Tower.

There it is, I say to the boy. What you've wanted to see for years.

The Tokyo Tower has a beleagured history that also stands as a symbol of resilience of the Japanese people. Built in the late 1950s, it was a sign the Japanese people had recovered from the devastation of World War II, were excited and ready for the future.

Remembering the souls lost at the Tokyo Tower.

Then came disaster in 1961. Mothra, at the time in her giant caterpillar form, climbed up the tower, and began to pupate. Upon emerging from her cocoon she flew away, leaving the tower in ruins.

It's amazing to see the Tower today. There's not even a hint of the damage and devastation. Gift shops, restaurants, and even a McDonalds serve thousands of tourists who visit the tower daily.

Of course, it's been 50 years. But the Japanese have put the incident behind them. There's weren't even any commemoration events planned for this year, the half-century anniversary of her second attack on the city.

What a brave, noble people.

We're short on time, so we skip going up the tower. We hop on the subway again, and head for the business centre of Tokyo. We emerge into gleaming skyscrapers and upscale brand-name advertising. We walk a few blocks, past businessmen in three-piece suits and pretty girls dressed up as geishas for the tourists. We round the corner of a massive hotel, and there's the Tokyo Municipal Towers. Fantastic in design and scope, the towers were a symbol of Japan's pre-eminence in the mid-80s, when the housing bubble was still expanding and the country dominated a half-dozen global markets.

Of course, that all came to a crashing end. And it was about the time Godzilla appeared for the 18th time, and even the towers fell to his destructive force. In a sign of how the Japanese attitude towards government had changed, people at the theatre, still probably living among the chaos and carnage, actually cheered as the Tax Offices (as they were colloquially called) came crashing down.

A determined Japanese government seemed to have decided it was best to soldier on. Walking among the slick concrete and architectural landscape features, public sculptures, and gardens today, you'd never know the giant monsters destroyed so much of a people's hard work and aspirations in a few outrageous, unpredictable incidents.

And of course, it's not just Tokyo. The Kobe Port Tower seems to have been rebuilt exactly as it was first constructed, after Barugon knocked it over with his ice-tongue breath in 1966. And in Osaka, the Japanese have done an amazing job of rebuilding its historic monuments, including the 16th-century castle there. As we ascended the huge stone steps of the six-storey structure, we were reminded time and again of the furious fight between Godzilla and Anguilas in 1955- before the two monsters became fast friends and allies in protecting humanity (while generally destroying it at the same time).

Godzilla-sized view from the Sky Tree

Of course, it's not just the big office buildings and historic monuments that got destroyed. Many people must have lost their lives in the crowded neighbourhoods, on public transport, fleeing for their lives. But it's remarkable, and I think somewhat telling of the Japanese 'stiff upper lip' mentality, that there isn't even a memorial to those people anywhere in these cities. Sometimes it's best to leave painful memories buried.

Today, the Sky Tree is the tallest building in Tokyo, and one of the tallest towers in the world. It's blue light spins, Cylon-like, in the dark over the Asakusa neighbourhood. We enter its base, with its shopping, restaurants, and markets, and pay the extortionate rate to go up to the lower viewing platform.

The view, though, is tremendous, even with a cold fog blanketing much of the city and obscuring views. We wander around the observation lounge. Of course, the boy can't help himself.

"Do you think Godzilla will attack this in the future?" he asks me. I shush him, look around to make sure no one overheard our conversation. People can still be skittish, for good reason.

"No son, I think we're fine this time," I say. But I peer nervously into the distance, looking for  a dark spot on the horizon.

Silent Japan

It was a lousy 30-hour journey from Melbourne to Tokyo, with airplane-seat catnaps and long layovers. I'm still groggy but my internal clock- and excitement- pushes me off my thin-but-comfy futon and out the door of our ryukan. I'm in Japan!

It's cozy and quaint outside the hotel door. We're in one of those densely packed neighbourhoods that fill this city, two-story homes and businesses squeezed together, spotless, well-maintained, and orderly. The narrow street of our hotel leads to another narrow street that looks pretty much the same.

I pick a random direction, note a few landmarks so I can find my way back, and start to walk. It's late January, and we're back in the cold, after a month of blistering summer in Australia. I have every layer of clothes on I brought with me. But it's Vancouver-cold, not Yukon-cold. I'm fine.

It's morning rush hour. The neighbourhood alleys lead to a six-lane boulevard. Just like William Gibson said: the sky's the colour of a television screen, tuned to a dead channel. I've waited decades to see that. I'm in Japan!

And… it is utterly silent.

I stop for a minute and look around. There's traffic, but not a lot. And what there is, is making no noise. No angry horns. No revving engines. Not one of Asia's ubiquitous motorcycles two-stroking through the traffic. There's no birdsound for the blind when the pedestrian sign turns. Cyclists on nerdy old bikes glide past without so much as a chain rattle. It's a little creepy as I cross the street.

Daughter, left, shushing father next to her in mall.

It's not that early- eight in the morning. This is a city of 13 million people. Asakusa is an older part of the city, touristy, with temples and museums and old markets. I figure we're just out of the action here, away from the downtown hustle.

Across the boulevard now. The brick-paved lane has an arched overhang, enclosing the shops and restaurants from the elements. It's quite pretty. Shopkeepers are just arriving, unlocking their doors and rolling out merchandise.

No one is talking much as I wander, looking for coffee. Groups of office workers hustle to their destinations, making asides to each other in barely-audible tones. Women's heels clip-clopping are about the loudest sound I hear. Traffic is banned from this street-turned-market area.

Score one for this gaijin, who finds a McDonald's and can feel safe ordering his first coffee of the day. A few young people, a senior or two, sit silently reading the paper or surfing their mobiles, eating their morning meal.

The next few days reinforce the notion that this is a quiet place. We walk through huge shopping malls, visit tourist destinations, ride the subway, eat in busy restaurants and fast-food joints. There are no screaming kids; no workers shouting instructions to each other. No canned music blaring from shops- (a few times, I catch some mellow jazz playing from a stereo store). Trucks don't seem to have airbrakes (there are a lot of electric cars, I figure out, explaining part of the traffic's lack-of-noise). No jackhammers bang on the street, hydraulic pistons lift nothing, noisy trains are buried deep underground. A police car zips by- even its siren is not much louder than a car horn.

But it's the people that spook me most. No drunks yell abuse down the street, no one shouts their market order, teenage girls don't scream in joy, teenage boys don't bray and puff, no children wail in tantrums, worshippers quietly approach silent temples.

It's like being in some vast library.

I realize a lot of our family communication occurs at pretty high volume. The boy tends to wander ahead of us, or behind- so we call out pretty regularly across a distance to one another. Or when I get mad- when he does something thoughtless or rude in public- I have to work to keep my voice to an excited whisper. And he, like us, speaks at Volume 7 most of the time.

We visit our daughter, in Kobe. One of the first things she does, after the hugs and kisses are done and we're walking down the street, is shush me. More than once, she's mortified when I theatrically react to something, or belly laugh. "Indoor voice, Dad" she says, looking around at the crowd for signs of communal disapproval.

An exchange-program classmate of my daughters (from B.C.) who came along to greet us leans over and says to her 'Your parents have a lot to learn about behaving here, don't they?".

I guess we get the point. Over the next few days we learn to check ourselves. I stop speaking quite so loudly, stop doing cartoon-voice over-reactions to funny things we see, stop calling out to the boy or the wife across the way to come see this or that. Not successfully, not all the time. I am quite aware of being the boorish gaijin.

But there's something sad about how quiet it all is. Japan is mired in a deep, ugly recession that's lasted nearly a generation. In a tougher, increasingly younger and competitive world, it's dominated by a population that's getting older, sicker, more set in its ways.

See that man talking to the guy next to him? Neither do I.

This isn't the Japan I grew up envisioning- the one that, in the early eighties, was going to own us all, with the latest gadgets and most futuristic society. Instead, there are hardly any construction sites in downtown Tokyo; the buildings are all seem designed circa 1995. Archaic tech- like CD stores- still rule. Infrastructure is well maintained, but dated. No one hustled down the street in the Tokyo business district- paces were measured, unhurried. Like they weren't going to get very far anyway, so there was no rush.

Can a whole population be depressed?

We're in Japan 10 days. In the end I drop the wife and boy at Narita airport, and take a bullet train (silent, of course) back to Tokyo. I'm heading to Malaysia and Thailand for work. There's a handful of people in our car, all reading or speaking softly on their cell phones. The train’s pre-recorded hostess murmurs information as we come to stops.

Then I hear it. From the back of my car comes a deep, throaty, hearty laugh. I can identify it right away. It's a North American laugh. Uninhibited, smile inducing. Someone sharing an open, positive emotion with a friend, in public. Out loud.

It's one of the most beautiful sounds I've heard in two weeks, I think.

Also, he'll learn.

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Christmastime and the living is easy

It’s 35 degrees outside, and I’m driving down the Frankston Freeway, heading for Melbourne, somewhere in the distance. The windows are rolled down, and I have the iPod blasting The Stooges from our rental car’s sweet little stereo system. The sun is creeping towards the horizon, but still packing a punch on my arm and side of my face. I take a deep breath of the warm air swirling around me.
It’s Christmas Eve in Australia.
I’m keeping a close eye on the signage, watching as the traffic grows and the highway sprouts more lanes. Marvellous public art lines the highway as you approach Melbourne- a huge false hotel, sweeping abstract constructions, coloured panels polarizing the sun’s rays and turning patches of the road orange and green.

All this, and kangaroos too

What a beautiful place.

I got here a few days ago, ahead of the wife and boy, to set up the next house-sit. For a month we’ll care for two dogs and a cat in Mount Martha. Think Kelowna, but with kangaroos. Baking hot, tinder-dry,  with vineyards, fertile farmland, long clean beaches, and cool breezes off the clear blue bay.

We’ve hit the jackpot on this house-sit- staying in what amounts to a small villa on a hill in a well-to-do modern subdivision. A kilometre’s walk takes to a tiny village plaza

and a gorgeous beach, at the height of the Australian summer. Our place has four bedrooms, air con, satellite, wifi- the works.

The Mornington Peninsula, as it’s called, extends south from Melbourne on the east side of Phillip’s Bay. It’s been a holiday destination for settlers since we were fighting the war of 18-goddamn-12 in our crappy, cold country.

The view is magnificent from our perch on Mount Martha. We watch tankers coming into the port city, helicopters patrolling the shore for swimmers in trouble. On Wednesday night, we watch the white sails of the weekly regatta launching from a nearby yacht club. Yeah. A yacht club.

 It’s going to be crazy for the next week, as city folk head for the shoreline to suntan, surf, and barbecue. It’s a living Nat King Cole or Mungo Jerry song- girls in bikinis, beach bums, hot rods.

And it’s Christmastime.

I get a little wistful as I think about Christmas. The lead-up was non-existent in New Zealand. For weeks we waited for the inevitable onslaught of decorations and Christmas music- only to find that they don’t do that there yet. It’s like we were 50 years ago, before Black Friday and A Christmas Story and artificial trees- people only seemed to get in the mood a week or ten days before the event. And even then, it just doesn’t work when you have flowers blooming and palm trees swaying.

Why don’t these folks just switch the whole thing to their winter solstice in June?

Still, it’s hard to get too upset. I watch the changeable traffic speed signs (don’t get a ticket in Australia, I’m warned) and follow the spaghetti-lanes through the city, skirting the downtown on the way to the airport, on the northern fringe of the city. There I pick up the family. Reunited for the holidays.

The morning view from the patio. Sigh.

I fill them in on the amazing location as we head back to the house-sit, 90 minutes away. I switch to the soundtrack for A Charlie Brown’s Christmas for the return drive, to try to put us in the mood.

The next few days are fine. It’s not Christmas as we know it- barbecue steaks and gin-and-tonics at outdoor restaurants, sulphur-crested parrots squawking in the trees. But we’re together, and that’s what counts. We avoid leaving the house, more to miss the holiday crowds than anything. The Sci-Fi channel is running Star Trek Enterprise (my guilty pleasure), and the days are constant, glorious sunshine.

One morning in January I walk out onto the patio. It’s already getting hot, and can just make out the Melbourne skyline, floating on the horizon, obscured by haze from a brush-fire somewhere to the north. I drink my morning coffee- fresh ground, imported. Tropical fruit and yogurt for breakfast, maybe a swim later in the day.

It’s been three years to the day since I got knifed by my boss at work.

Fuck him. I think I won.