Zen and the Art of Drinking in Ebisu
I never did see him again. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just as well... better to keep the mystique. Anyway, it was at La Boguita, a Peruvian dance spot near the station, where I'd run into him. He was tall enough, gentle enough in his manner, and articulate. He could dance salza pretty well too.
I was happy to have found a spot where the primary language wasn't Japanese. With only a week in-country under my belt I'd already tired of older salarymen trying to touch me, grope me, pick me up, or simply drool with whiskey-glazed eyes ready to pop out. As I said to Art (the guy in La Boguita), no more Izakaya's for me.
"I can show you where there are a dozen bars all within walking distance. And they all speak English!"
"The bars speak English?" I asked. ..."or the people do?" (Guess he wasn't an English teacher.)
He grabbed us a cab and the thought of what a taxi might cost in Tokyo really made me shudder. I knew not at the time that Art intended to pay for everything. We traded small details, that my new job would start in a week, that I had an apartment in Chiba, that I was nervous about teaching in Japan. Come to think of it, he said barely a thing about himself beyond that he'd been in Japan for six years.
Zest, across the tracks and up the street, was like stepping into a Tex-Mex restaurant back in Montreal. After taking in Art's concept of why Japanese writing [Kanji] is not so difficult (that's his opinion, not mine) we scrambled under the tracks and over to Piga Piga. Down a dark and tiny set of stairs, we entered a whole different world of African Hip Hop. We wanted to catch a live band. No luck. There was plenty of Jamaican and African music, but only on CD- nothing live. A large African man with a turban and thick accent served up a pair of drinks. Again I tried to pay, but Art wouldn't hear of it.
Up the hill we entered a Japanese version of Irish green. Inishmore was bright and cheery. Here as well, English was the language of default. Several men from diverse countries were bending elbows and trading travel stories. It reminded me of a smaller version, if more expensive, of Margaritaville in the Philippines' Angeles City.
One Guinness later, Art took my hand and we breezed into another small place down the street. Billy Barew's had nearly a hundred different beer brands- a rare occurrence in Tokyo. The prices were astronomical and necessitated our sitting at the bar tightly against a couple of purple-haired teenagers that Art referred to as "Harajukus." They spoke incessantly in a Japanese slang that even Art couldn't understand. Time to move on. we thought in unity.
A bit further down the street we ascended into the distinct reverberation of live rock and roll. At the entrance I could see this was British territory to be sure. The Brits were screaming and jumping up and down. At first I imagined it a brawl, then I suspected some serious drugs. Rather, it was a radio bringing them a major soccer match. Neither of us being soccer fans, and wishing more to escape crowds rather than become part of one, we ventured inside.
As we entered What the Dickens, a tall woman with hair any girl would die for in my country, swooped over to Art and spoke. "Hi, I'm Keiko. Wanna buy me a drink?" I felt my blood pressure rattle with jealousy. But upon what basis could I complain? I'd known Art for three hours or so. By what right had I any claim? As a matter of fact, I never realized any interest, beyond simple friendship, in Art... until that moment. She spoke to him in English and he, spoke back to her in Japanese. It struck me as strange, but among those fluent in both languages, why not? We weren't in Kansas anymore, Todo.
What the Dickens was bold and fun. The music was live and aside from that woman, who returned to pester Art every time her drink was empty, we liked it best of all. But if the saying "all good things must come to an end" is true, then the pub closed for the night and we'd already lost our trains. I regret it now, but at the time I was suspicious that Art had planned it this way. Where could we go now, to a love hotel?
Credit though should be given where it's due. Art never mentioned a hotel. He mentioned instead, food. As hours before I'd said, I reminded him that Izakaya restaurants make me gag. He asked that I trust him, so I did.
What we devoured at Good Honest Grub was exactly that. What a menu! We sat by the street and marveled at the quantity of people who were still out bar hopping as dawn approached. One man in a wrinkled dark suit stuck his whiskey-glazed face at me and mumbled something unintelligible. Hadn't I seen him somewhere before?
I don't know why it never occurred to either of us to exchange telephone numbers. Neither did we exchange last names. Maybe it just seemed like the night would never end. I don't go out to bars and clubs much- especially in a foreign land that names their train stations after beer brands- but is was a nice experience (Thanks Art.).
I might even try it again sometime. If that is, the right guy asks me.
by Angela Staple
SPECIAL
FEATURE
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Through the Cracks in Japan
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