Foreigner disembarkation card [Arrival]
Family Name : SANUBARI Given Name : SUAR
PURPOSE OF VISIT : [ ] TOURISM [ ] BUSINESS [ ] VISITING RELATIVES
I could tick all those boxes. It was my fourth time visiting Tokyo. I was using the same suitcase I bought for my first trip to the Eastern Capital, in 2011, when I was travelling with my big Indonesian family. My family’s idea of travel is a change of sceneries in a protective familiarity bubble afforded by an Indonesian speaking guide, halal foods; being transported from one sight to another, pictures to be posted to Facebook.
It was, however, the beginning of my independent travels.
On my departing flight to Tokyo in 2023, I reread Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. I was so mesmerised by the book. My first tattoo is a Sputnik—the first artificial satellite that orbited the earth, the Soviet’s head start in the Space Race; Russian for ‘travelling companion’. Made in London, The Family Business tattoo parlour. I had forgotten what the plot was about. I just remember the feeling. I was prompted to reread it because it has been adapted as a play in London, playing at Arcola Theatre.
You cannot read the same book twice. You have changed. I feel that Sputnik Sweetheart is lighter now. I have developed stronger reading muscles.
And it came to me then: Sputnik Sweetheart is about travel. About Europhilia.
Sumire is a promising twenty something writer. She writes everyday and lives a non-conformist life. She only wants to write and does not want to do the practical things people do to live in this modern life.
She is passionate about writing. However, she couldn’t produce a novel. Miu, her older sweetheart, suggested and paid for her travel—accompanying Miu on business trips to Europe. Along the journey, Sumire learned the impractical but important things in life (like developing a taste for good food and fine wine) by doing the practical and necessary things (budgeting, preparing itineraries, haggling for transport). Things which cannot be learned from books. Allowing her to develop the strength, with time and experience, to dig deep and to open that lid of the unconscious.
Murakami makes an inference about this living-before-you-can-go-about-writing [novels] in Novelist as a Vocation (unless you are a genius like Dickens or Tolstoy, in his disclaimer).
On my second trip to Tokyo the summer of 2013, I have already gained some mileage as an independent traveler. I know how to do research and how to plan, budget, and improvise (thank you, Lonely Planet). I fairly knew what I liked or, at least, what I didn’t like.
The firm I was working for had an outing to Japan. I extended my stay and met up with my wife and friends who travelled separately. We booked different return flights. I had to fly from Tokyo, they were flying back from Osaka.
I had one night as a solo traveler in Tokyo. I stayed in a hostel, K’s House Asakusa. I enjoyed (perhaps still enjoy) the convivial communality of hostels. You can meet with fellow travellers. Experience the unexpected connection that may not last but stays with us forever. If you are lucky.
That night I shared a dorm with an 18 year old American boy taking a gap year. Not rude or annoying. His suitcase stank when opened; full of dirty clothes. I was in my late 20s and thought about how disorganised ‘kids’ are.
I got out of the room to avoid the stank. There was no one in the common area. So I went out that night.
I haven’t developed a taste for alcohol (or even coffee). I still needed ‘sights and attractions’ when travelling. Tokyo has plenty, but I was low on budget. I considered Robot Café, but even that was too expensive for me.
At least, I was already an avid reader. I bought After Dark and spent the night reading. I have been to the red light district of Kabukicho. The memories of male hosts loitering around, the pimps soliciting with broken English, the neon lights of the establishments, made my aloneness as a solo traveler a lonely experience.
A story of the exploitation of Chinese sex workers, psychopaths, and sociopaths among us. From my travel to Amsterdam and Mariska Majoor’s When Sex Becomes Work, I know some sex workers are empowered. But there are actual victims of human trafficking or outright poverty.
Japanese sex establishments are not as straightforward as the rest of the world. Most of them are not open for business to gaijin. Many of the girls are not Japanese. But I read it’s changing now. With Japan’s current economy, sexless marriages, and a staunchly patriarchal society, more Japanese women are supplementing their income as sex workers.
My third time in Tokyo was in the winter of 2018. We stayed in a hostel dorm room because we couldn’t find other options (it was New Year’s Eve). We had awful roommates. White trash couple, loud and rude. They even fucked in the dorm (note to backpackers: the pod’s curtain does not provide sufficient privacy). Next to us was an awkward Asian who set his alarm but slept with earplugs. His alarm woke the entire room, except himself. I banged his pod.
In hindsight, the hostel is near a tourist hotspot. Budget accommodation too close to that kind of area is never a good bargain.
We met two Asian Canadian girls, of East and South Asian descent, at Keffir Lime, a Thai restaurant in Omotesando. Their main vocabularies are ‘Oh My God’ and ‘This is da bomb!’ to describe everything they ate.
They invited us to come with them to a club around there. When I ask what kind of club. They said, ‘a nice one.’
I asked them to describe ‘nice’. They went silent for a while, eyes rolled to their left brain—thinking.
‘It is full of tourists, like us. And it has loud music.’
Unfortunately, we had different views on ‘nice’.
This time, autumn 2023, I came for ‘work’. Meetings, networking (I almost puke using that word) with lawyers and clients exporting capital to Indonesia.
Good thing those bengoshi are busy. Hosting me for two hours—non-billable—put a strain on their schedule. So our meetings were short and sweet, a series of quickies. Not those ‘Yamanote Line meetings’.
Japanese corporate culture can sanction a meeting to discuss why the meetings are too long.
I borrowed that from the comic Meshida. I came to his live stand up show, in English (or should I say, ‘Engrish’ as he pronounced it on stage). I got to know him courtesy of YouTube algorithms. Many of his jokes are aimed at Japanese and Asians. Of course, he punches Americans and white people too. As he said, ‘Japanese are not racist. We don’t differentiate people by skin colours. We just call them gaijin. We are just xenophobic.’ *Except for Korean and Chinese.*
For lunch meetings, I mentioned that Japanese food is my comfort food. I can eat them everyday. I don’t mind eating local food only whenever I’m travelling here (the same applies to France and Italy). A senior partner of the biggest Japanese international law firm took me to the Michelin star Sushi Umi for omakase.
She is a member of the management board, speaks English with a hint of a British accent. In corporate Japan, only 6% of women made it to top leadership; female lawyers make up for 18% of the profession. That is the recent statistics on diversity. She has been practicing for decades. She must be so exceptional. No wonder many of the other partners seemed intimidated around her.
Her dad is a retired journalist, her mom’s business is kimono. She has a scholar and a merchant lineage. The perfect mix for a lawyer.
She lives with her parents. She said she’s more like a son than a daughter. She’s rarely at home. The firm has offices around the globe, so she’s a frequent flyer. But because of the pandemic, she could be a daughter. Spent time with her mom, cooking together.
I am glad that she is not the type of lawyer whose only interest is work. She is personally close with my boss. They travelled together to Timor Leste for a charity project. She thinks of my boss as her ‘little sister’.
She asked how is my stay in Tokyo so far.
I went to Kitanomaru Park after a meeting. The ginko trees were blooming. Momiji leaves were starting to show brown and red hues. I did what a first world denizen does: sat under the autumn sun. The weather was perfect: not too cold (you don’t need to layer up), not too hot (you don’t sweat from walking). I listened to Arcade Fire’s ‘Photograph’. I attained Nirvana for 2 minutes 25 seconds.
I passed through Yasukuni Jinja. Unnerved that some Japanese still bowed towards the gate; the Hinomaru flag flown. The Germans would not salute any monument associated with their fascist history. My late grandmother told me that she was rolled in the carpet by her parents when the Imperial Army was doing a house search, looting for supplies and materials and ‘comfort women’.
I got to know Shiko Munakata at MOMAT. Like many 20th-century Japanese, he was inspired by Western modern art. He wanted to be the Japanese Van Gogh. But he did better: he became the Munakata. Thus the special exhibition: ‘The Making of Munakata Shiko’, celebrating his 120th birthday. I bought rubber stamps, imitations of his woodblock prints, at the museum shop.
I made spiritual pilgrimages, first to Aoyama Cemetery and then to the LV flagship boutique in Omotesando. I didn’t shop, I came for the ‘L>espace)(…’ installation by Cerith Wyn Evans. Exhibited at the ESpace, part of the ‘Hors-les-murs’ programme, on the fifth floor. We came at the perfect time: the sun was setting over the Tokyo skyline, basked it with an autumnal orange ray. We witnessed the atmospheric changes from the golden to the blue hour. It was a sublime visual and auditory sensory experience. A chandelier transmitting morse code, the flutes with discordant music, the neon lights, and the rotating bonsai. Their shadows fall onto the floor aesthetically.
We had cocktail drinks at Bar Trench, one of Asia’s Best Bars featured in Netflix’s Midnight Asia. Tasted wine and cheeseat Bar Bossa in Shibuya, pretending that we were in a Murakami’s story. Drank shots of single malt at Albatross in Golden Gai. Rubbed shoulders and elbows with Asian Californians who were equally annoyed by loud Japanese bantering with a Hawaiian and his Filipino girlfriend (no wonder Americans never said ‘I’m from America’, they always pinpoint the State; people from Austin, however, never said they are from Texas—another Meshida’s insight).
Tokyo overwhelms me. To wind down every night, I made use of the sento facilities of The Square Hotel Ginza (tattoos allowed). There is something liberating in communal bathing. It clears my mind of body image issues. When washing before soaking in the hot water, I look at my naked self in the mirror. One day, this all will decay. So enjoy while it lasts.
‘You enjoy Tokyo much more than me,’ she commended.
We did talk about the private practice industry. The firm is rebranding, changed the logo to be more modern and international, more visible. Hired a former marketing officer of a big Japanese fast fashion company.
She said she’s old school. A Bubble Era girl. She likes wearing a kimono for official ceremonies, a hassle but it makes her move and speak more slowly—gracefully. She was taught by her mentor back then that law firms’ identity should be muted, colourless (‘Like Tsukuru Tazaki?,’ I said). Lawyers should be like kurogo, the black clad puppeteers in bunraku—moving things forward for the clients, behind the screen. We are business services, after all.
Of course, we should be visible when necessary. But the spotlight and focal point must be the clients.
Despite being a millennial, an elder one, I agree with her. I am skeptical of the bashful self-promotion normalised on LinkedIn. I am not denying that you need marketing. Private practice is a business. I just don’t think copying the marketing styles of tech companies—which are, mostly, B2C—is effective marketing.
Congratulating yourself or your firm (‘I am honoured…’) for a deal or a case that no one cares about seems like an arms race. Not to mention masturbatory.
I was impressed with the law firm’s office in Otemachi. The interior design is a modern version of a Japanese castle. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my inner voice. The support staff, all of them women immaculately groomed like flight attendants, made way and bowed to me; saluting me with ‘Sensei’. I felt like a lord in feudal Japan. This kind of strict hierarchal etiquette between fee earners and support staff is something you won’t find even in US white shoes or UK silver circle law firms.
The younger me would have been swelling with pride to have a business trip to Tokyo. But I am old enough to know that Murakami’s adage: of learning the impractical but important things in life (photography, writing, tasting exquisite sushi and Japanese whisky, enjoying coffee, sitting in a park) by doing the practical and necessary (presentation on ‘Indonesia related Commercial Disputes’, networkings, videoconferences in preparation for hearings).
It’s not about how ‘important’ you are to be paid for making this trip. I’m always willing to pay for my travels (I am, after all, a traveler). It is just I also happen to earn my living (and my intellectual capacity) as a lawyer. I got some of my expenses covered and I get to do the important things.
When my business trip period ended, we extended our stay. Visited my brother who lives in Kamakura. Then we returned to Tokyo and stayed at Suzumeya Tsukiji. A Showa era styled minimalist accommodation. It has that Fumio Sasaki’s Goodbye, Things vibe.
Waseda University has a beautiful campus. Tourists come for a photo at its square, with is Okuma Auditorium. As much as the clock tower is an iconic building, it is an imitation of European university halls.
We came to the International House of Literature, the Haruki Murakami Library.
If Fujiko F. Fujio, with his Doraemon, filled my childhood’s literary appetite. Murakami fed me in my adulthood. Like all books I read, they seemed to appear in my life at the stages in which I require their contextual wisdom. Murakami’s books consistently reappear whenever I need them. Perhaps because I live a boring life. I have to find or make meaning out of the mundane modern urban life.
The library has a listening room playing Murakami’s playlist, where you can take any book and read (or just listen). But I didn’t read. The Library feels more like a temple to me. It exhibits the original and international editions of Murakami’s works. In my ‘networking’ presentation, I used the book cover of Tsukuru Tazaki Tanpa Warna dan Tahun Ziarahnya to show Japanese culture’s penetration in Indonesia.
We played a game of title guessing. We had to look for keywords and images (for editions in languages with no Phoenician alphabets, like Hebrew or the original Japanese) for clues.
I took La regazza dello Sputnik from the shelf.
Now I am older. I am of Miu’s age, instead of Sumire. I have travelled to more than 25 countries. I have read hundreds of books. I can write more and better. I am less gregarious now. Despite being a man, I have realised that I need emotional connection more than sex itself. Before Midnight is right, there are only a few people you met whom you’d feel connected. Something you took for granted when you were young.
I have come to grasp the impermanence of our connections with our loved ones. Just because something does not last, it does not deprive its meaning. We must come face to face with our loneliness and work on ourselves. We have to find our values and do what we must according to them.
On the last effective day in Tokyo, we pretended to be samurai. We attended an introduction class to Japanese swordsmanship. After contemplating the austere aesthetics of feudal warriors, we had lunch at Tokyo Sky Tree.
Consumers’ paradise that is Tokyo. The bags, the Wagyu and Kobe beef, the coffees, the whiskies, the fancy hat, the dinner jacket, the longsleeved gym shirts, the pens, and the leatherbound notebooks. And of course, the books. I was a minimalist who fell from grace here.
I have a feeling that I will be back for more.
