Confused in Tokyo

Emerging from CTC into the early afternoon sunlight, I decided to walk rather than enter the lunch competition. Sanity check 122: lunch mobs. I was amazed at how much productivity was lost by the mandate that lunch must be served and consumed in the hour between 12 and 1. Restaurants must be sized for a tidal wave of a crowd. Office workers still had to wait in lines for 20 minutes or more, leaving them only enough time to scarf and run.

What happened to all that process engineering that made Japanese assembly lines so efficient? Mechanical engineering in Japan was easy. Social engineering — not so much. Granted, the American timetable for lunch centered around the same hours, but with more flexibility. Back home, I tried to miss the rush: 11:30 or 1:30 were good times. Not so in Tokyo.

Finishing a cup of espresso at a Pronto cafe, I let myself wander the streets freely. I loved seeing the young schoolchildren, all dressed alike and walking roughly in a line. I wanted to capture them in pictures. Waving my hand, I watch their curious stares — sometimes followed by a returning wave. I recalled seeing schoolgirls near CTC in Chiyoda-ku, all with matching blue outfits and hats. As I snapped a picture, one girl looked, then hurried to catch up with her partner, who stuck out her tongue. Startled, I was unable to process the meaning of the gesture, beyond its obvious disapproval. But there it was: an honest expression of emotion I would never see in my adult Japanese peers.

Entering a bookstore, I perused the shelves, recognizing little. Upstairs, I opened a book and skimmed, back to front. Apparently a busty young woman was lonely and went out. An aggressive young man on the subway couldn’t contain his hands. They exited at the same station — and it went on from there.

Here again was the pointed, slightly upturned nose and the sizable breasts I had only seen in Roppongi. I found nothing indigenous in this image of a Japanese woman — nothing beyond the implicit desire to be something she perceived as more glamorous. Or was it the men who were so perceiving, so desiring? Another unsolved puzzle — one that I could not easily broach.

My preferences in women hit a hard stop in Japan. They were so petite that I felt sexual attraction would be positively pedophiliac on my part. I loved the spirit so many demonstrated; I enjoyed how easily I befriended them. But sexually, they just didn’t hit my number — attraction being a complicated and individual thing. Bad boy, I knew. Biased, absolutely. Insufficiently appreciative, for sure. But hey, did I get any points for not desiring adolescent-looking girls?

Ironically, as rows of Japanese were streaming into their seats on a subway car, I caught sight of a young woman whom I found strikingly attractive. Same straight, black hair and general features, but with high cheekbones, full lips — subtle differences that conveyed to me a sense of grace, beauty and verve. Suddenly, my quandary about Japanese car models with simplified descriptors on the back came to mind. Then it became clear: for me, she was “Exciting Version!”