Tokyo Station Blues, Part 2

I decide on a whim—perhaps the planets are aligned perfectly today—Tokyo Station deserves another chance.  It doesn’t, of course.  I’m being generous.  “This doesn’t happen often,” I want to say to the station, an inanimate object with no capacity to be grateful.  “Don’t get used to it.  It won’t happen again.”

I have thirty minutes before my train leaves to go up north, and I decide to go down into the abyss to the “Tokyo Station Lost and Found Office” to locate my stolen wallet.  Perhaps some kind soul picked up my wallet and turned it in.  Perhaps the pickpocket, after taking my money out tossed it into the trash and one of the cleaners found it.  This is Japan.  This happens here all the time.  Wallets dropped and stolen are often returned.

Before I navigate the multiple passageways down into the catacombs, I must first figure out where this office is.  I need a map.  Usually displayed on one face of the rectangular columns holding up the sky (ceiling), so long as I can find the map I can find the office.  Yes.  I can do this.  I do indeed find a map and look at the hallways, stores, escalators, elevators, and restaurants spread out, the crisscrossing intersections making the station look like it’s a city.  First floor, B1, B2, I keep looking and finally find it, tucked away deep into the corner, far away from anything civilized.  Of course.

Undeterred, I begin.  Following the signs, I only get lost once.  When I turn the corner, I see a long hallway leading to a large window where two seated men await.  It’s like a scene from a dream—“You must first walk down this long hallway before you can…” and here Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones would either say “find your way into heaven” or “find the Holy Grail” or “fulfill your destiny.”  There’s nothing between the two men seated behind the window and me.  They see me coming, and I see them watching me.  I start walking towards them down this very long hallway.  This is some how comical.  Truly.  This is like a movie.

I finally stand in front of them and say, “My wallet was stolen by a pickpocket awhile ago and I’m wondering if anyone turned it in.”  The two men look at each other.  What?  Was I not clear?  I feel like turning around and saying to the ceiling, “Well?” hoping to hear Mr. Freeman or Mr. Jones say just the right thing.  I don’t, of course.

“What did it look like?”

I describe it.

“Was there anything that had your name written on it, inside the wallet?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Driver’s license, health insurance form, Alien Registration card, credit cards…”

“Got it, got it.  So your name would be clear, address too, if anyone handed it in.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”  I tell him.

One of the two men is typing in my name while I realize the other has been typing in what I’ve been saying up to this point.

“Well, I don’t see it under the description you gave me,” the second man says.

“When was it stolen?”

The date?  The exact date?  Hmmm.  I don’t actually remember the date.  Awhile ago?  I inhale, looking at the calendar on the wall and pick a random date three weeks back.  That feels about right.

“Whoa,” the first man says.

“That long ago?”

“Yes,” and then, “Wait.  I have a copy of the police report.”

“You went to the cops?  Did they find it?”  Huh?  No, they didn’t find it.  That’s why I’m here.

“Yes, I went to the cops, and no, they didn’t find it, and the date…..January 29^th.”

I swear I saw them both roll their eyes.

“Well, that’s different,” the man on the left says, evidently annoyed he has to retype the date.

“That changes everything.”

Now I’m annoyed.

“How does that change everything?” I ask.  “You’re a slippery little man and I’m not in the mood,” is what I really want to say but don’t, because my mother raised me with manners.

“I have to retype the date now.”  Yes.  He actually said that.  I’m this close to turning around and throwing my hands into the air, yelling at the imaginary Mr. Freeman and Mr. Jones to “Get down here and fix this!” but decide not to because….I’m sane.  Or something.

“Nope.  It’s not here,” he says, leaning back as if he accomplished some intricate and complicated deed.  The first man folds his hands in front of his chest and says, “You know, if we’d found it, if it had been turned in we’d have sent you a postcard by now.”  I swear I have to keep from laughing.  You’d send me a postcard?  But, they’re serious.  It’s true.  I would have been sent a postcard saying, “Your wallet has been returned to the Lost and Found Office in Tokyo Station.  Please call this number to schedule a pick up time and date,” or something of the sort.  I would have squealed hoping the photos of my son and nieces were safe, the little bits of paper I’ve collected over the years are still tucked away in the side pockets, my lucky $2.00 bill safe.  Back to the postcard, though.  I cock my head to the side and say, “So, if you’d have found my wallet you’d have sent me a postcard.”

“Yup,” they say and they’re so proud.

“So, there’s no way it would be here,” I say as a statement and not a question.

“Not unless they turned in just the wallet and took all your IDs out or it just showed up today.”

“Hmmmm.”  I nod.  I feel there’s a sort of “Oh, dear poor woman.  If you only knew how things worked here, you could have avoided wasting our time” attitude hanging in the air and right there, I choose to fully embrace the fact I will never see that wallet again.  Ever.

I also decide Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones are having a good laugh at my expense and start retracing my steps leaving behind what surely must be a sort of Hollywood version of hell.  Tokyo Station is full of tricks—nasty ones at that—and I just wasted 20 minutes trying to relocate a wallet I’ll never see again.  Perhaps it’s time to start riding the bullet train from Ueno Station and avoid Tokyo Station altogether.  In fact, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do from now on.  Ha.

Tokyo Station Blues

Let's establish some basic facts:  1).  I am not directionally challenged, 2). I am comfortable in large crowds, and 3). I'm not careless.  How then can one location I visit repeatedly cause me so much grief?  Enter Tokyo Station and I'm off my game.  The ground under me must shift into another dimension.  If it were an isolated incident here or there, if these mysterious encounters with confusion happened elsewhere with similar frequency I would be more inclined to acknowledge the possibility I just might be slipping.  This is not the case.  There's something about Tokyo Station that throws me.

I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week.  Yes, in Tokyo Station.  Of course.  Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people.  I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life.  I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan.  So, no.  I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime.  That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.

I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well.  The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time.  Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?" 

I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time.  This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times.  Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year.  A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change.  So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else.  Surely that store wasn't here last time?

Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease.  Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place.  Do I dare hope?

No.  Of course not.  Why do I let myself think these things?  Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from.  When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back.  All roads lead to Tokyo.  So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up."  It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.

So, I look at the train car.  It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything.  Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hi!"  A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me.  I have no idea who he is.
"Hi!  I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is.  "How are you?"  Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay.  Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?"  I stall with this question.  I've still got nothing.  No clue who this man is.  He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it.  I'm pretty sure, in fact.  Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?"  He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look.  What?  I'm wrong?  This isn't that fire fighter guy I know?  He tells me who he is and where we met.  I'm so off it's embarrassing.  It's bad. 
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly?  "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.

And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo.  Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues.  Evidently, however, today is not that day.

The Perils of Japanese Language: Semantics, Nuances, and Dialects

I came back down to Tokyo from Tohoku for a quick meeting.  Done with my day, I head back up to Tohoku to continue my work at Rikuzentakata City Hall.  I'm in Tokyo Station.  Return ticket bought, I walk around the station for a few minutes looking for this famous bento store (boxed meal).  This is the only place in Tokyo that sells the most amazing sushi box and I have high hopes they'll have a box left.  I take my ticket out of the back pocket of my wallet, go through the gate and proceed towards the store.  I find it, make my way through the swarms (why is this place to packed??) and do not find my sushi box.  Undeterred and convinced I just can't find it, I ask one of the staff members where it would be.  He checks. 

"We're out."

Crap.  I decide to settle and pick what has to be the next best box of goodness and reluctantly proceed towards the cashier.  At which point I begin 24 hours of major hassle. 

My wallet is gone.  It's really gone.  I dig through my bag.  I move things around, take things out.  It's not here.  I had it five minutes ago when I took the ticket out.  Someone I bumped into in the last five minutes grabbed everything I need to operate fully in Japan and walked off with it.  It's not panic I feel.  It's the five-stages-of-pickpocket-angst that hits me in 15 seconds.  Disbelief, shock, rage, "oh, this is so not cool" and then reality.  I have no cash, no cards, no paperwork.  My passport is in another little bag in my purse.  Is it there?  Yes.  Relief.  I must find a cop and report this.  And so it began.

I make calls.  Alpha Male first. 

"What do I do?  I've not ever been robbed in Japan."
"Go find a station employee and ask where the nearest police box is."
I look around.
"I can't find a station person."
"Relax.  Keep looking.  They're there."
I keep looking and still can't find anyone in station uniform.  Where have they all gone?
"I can't find anyone!"
"Where are you?  Specifically.  Which exit did you come through.  Go back there.  Someone will be at the gate you walked through."  Of course he's calm.
"I see them."
"Good.  Go.  Call me again when you're at the police station."
"Okay."

I call another friend, a cop, and leave a message.  I call a friend and say I'll need to borrow some money, completely forgetting she's on a date.  I call someone up north and say I won't be coming back up, until at the very least I have a new driver's license.  Really?  Do I have to go through that whole process again?  The last time I went to the two police stations in Tokyo that issue licenses to foreigners, I left having had words.

I find the police station and tell them what happened.  So began three hours of paperwork.

Here is where Japanese language comes in.   The cops, two of them in full uniform (what are all those gadgets for?) are polite but unsympathetic.  I tell my story, and they make me repeat it.  I do.  And again.

Several times in the three hours I filed my report, the younger one taking my statement said, "When you lost your wallet" and I politely corrected him by saying, "When my wallet was stolen."  Semantics, I know, but "lost" is when I put a credit card on my desk piled up high with things, and then can't find it in that pile whereas "stolen" is having something taken from me by someone who shouldn't have it.  The cop, evidently not accustomed to being corrected, does.  Correct himself, that is.

"Right.  Stolen.  Not lost."
"Yes.  Stolen."

I head back to my apartment.  With no cash, I'm grateful for the fact the pickpocket did not get my train pass.  It has enough money on it for me to ride the train. 

The next day I start the process of going to all the right offices and banks filing more paperwork, explaining again what happened the night before.  At the immigration office (foreigners in Japan have to carry an ID card) I sit with other foreigners all speaking different languages.  When my new card is issued, I'm handed it with a warning.  "This is a very important document.  Don't lose it again."

It's the nuance of the word "lost" here again that rattles me.  I didn't lose my card.  I didn't misplace it.  It was stolen.  I decide not to correct the official who is surely tired of dealing with opinionated foreigners but am not happy with the insinuation.  Fine.  Whatever.  Since when has the Japanese language gotten this passive-aggressive? 

On the way home, I receive a call on my cell phone.  I don't recognize the number but decide today to take the call.  It'll be fine.  I usually let calls from unknown numbers go to voicemail but today I'm feeling risky.

It's one of the grandmothers from temporary housing in Minami-Soma whom I've worked with.  She introduces herself in thickly accented Japanese, her Fukushima dialect coming through loud and strong.

"Oh, hello!"  I say.  It goes downhill from there.  I do not understand what she's saying.  In person, I can figure out what's being said.  When she's in front of me, I can keep up.  On the phone, however, I'm guessing, assuming, hoping I'm getting the nuances of what she's trying to tell me.

I'm pretty sure she's telling me they've made something new, this group of grandmothers in temporary housing who in the past have made beautiful origami kusudama balls.

"Oh, really?"

And, here I think she's trying to explain to me what these are.  If I'm wrong, my answer will mean nothing--be completely out of context, so I think fast about how to respond safely, not giving away the fact I have no idea what she's saying.  I decide to go with "I see."  It seemed to work.

Next I think I'm being invited up.  I'm pretty comfortable with this assumption.
"I won't be able to make it until some time in late February" I say, and she replies with something, oh please help me, but I'm lost.  Say what to this??  Think, woman.

"Uh huh."  Now there's silence.  Crap.  Did that not make sense?  Not giving her a chance to think through my incorrect (?) answer further, I decide to butt in.
"Is it okay that I can't come until late February?"  She's excited, rattling fast and I'm so lost.

In the end, I believe I agreed to go down for a visit sometime in the spring to see something they've made, but I honestly can't be sure.

Having spoken Japanese since I was a child, I'm not accustomed to having to correct, stand down, defend myself, explain, listen hard, and hope I'm making sense.  Between the pickpocket incident and having to make sure my Japanese is clear to cops and government officials, conveying exactly what I'm putting out there, I'm exhausted.  Twenty-four hours of drama, indeed.