Shibuya After Dark

I’ve noticed a weird pattern emerge in my life. One that involves me having to sleep in rather unexpected places after I’ve recently moved to a new area. Maybe that doesn’t sound so weird at first, because you’re probably imagining, “Well yeah, that Matt is a gorgeous babe, I’m sure that happens like every weekend for him.” Well, you couldn’t be more wrong, dingus. Besides, I’m saving myself for either an alien or mermaid if they are ever discovered.

No, this pattern of ending up in an unexpected place for a night is due to me being an idiot.

I managed to live in Michigan for over 3 years before being involuntarily taken to spend the night in Lansing Sparrow Hospital on a cold evening in January during my college years. I’m sure you can imagine the stupid reasons why that happened.

And it only took about 2 years in California for me to accuse a friend of trying to prank me by hiding my keys (to be fair, he literally had just pulled my wallet and phone from my pockets, and after I got them back, I assumed he still had my keys when I couldn’t find them), storming out of the bar I was at, turning down offers to crash at a friend’s place, and paying $20 for a taxi to take me back to the apartment I knew was locked and knew that neither of my roommates were returning to that night. Boy, I sure showed that guy who just kept his prank going on for too long, despite insisting he didn’t have my keys.

That night, like some kind of urban Bear Grylls, I semi-slept in my gated community’s hot tub to keep warm by letting my eyes shut in 5-10 minute bursts for the next 3-4 hours to make sure I didn’t actually fall asleep and drown (I know I was in California, but it was like January and probably 40 degrees and I was probably in shorts and a ¾ length sleeve shirt at best, so it was cold; just accept this part of the story). I also removed all of my clothes except for my underwear before getting into the hot tub so I wouldn’t have to deal with wet and cold clothes later, and body part by body part, meticulously re-emerged from the hot tub to dry off before putting my clothes back on and watching the sunrise from the inside of a Carl’s Jr. where they messed up my order and gave me a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit instead of a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. Honestly, I was happy to be alive, so I just ate the damn thing.

If you’re wondering what really happened to my keys, turns out, I lent them to a friend so she could use the UC Berkeley bottle opener on my key ring and just forgot to get it back.

Welp, it only took about one month in Japan before I had to sleep in an unexpected place. But before we reach that point, allow me to share some nice sightseeing/typical travel blog details that happened on that day before I screwed everything up.

I went to meet up with some friends in an area of Tokyo called Odaiba. Odaiba is actually an artificial island that was built in the 1850s as a defense fortress. But today, it feels more like a giant island playland. A place that’s on eternal vacation. There’s beaches, shopping centers, an onsen (hot spring) theme park that replicates the architecture and look of old Edo-period Japan, restaurants with all kinds of international cuisine, an indoor arcade with interactive 3-D games/rides called Joypolis, and a ton more. When I got off the train at Odaiba, it felt more like I was at an amusement park than anything else.

The Rainbow Bridge from Tokyo to Odaiba.

During the day in Odaiba, I saw a monkey jump over increasingly high hurdles to “He’s a Pirate” from the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack, watched hula dancers perform during the Hawaii-festival going on at the European Renaissance themed Venus Fort shopping center, and then went to an Oktoberfest celebration in April, where a bunch of famous German brewers had beer stands set up and were selling gigantic steins of pilsner and weisse at even larger prices. I also got pulled into a dance train of drunk people near the live music tent where Japanese musicians were playing and singing some kind of Japanese-German polka hybrid. Everybody was super hype and super buzzed, myself included.

 

Eventually, my friends and I bade farewell to the man-made paradise that is Odaiba and went to a bar in Shibuya to finish off the night with some more affordable drinks. I drank an (6 or 7) Umeshu Sour(s) for the first time, which went down as fast as watered-down vodka cranberry drinks for a 19-year-old girl who just used her fake ID to get into a college town bar for the first time. After encouraging the DJ to play all the J. Biebz jams the bar would tolerate, it was getting late and time to make a decision: catch the last train of the night going back to my place in Tscuhiura, OR try to meet up with some friends that split off from our group earlier in the night and were going to rent a karaoke room for an all-nighter (which people totally do in Japan) and take a train back home the next morning. 

I would end up doing neither. But not for lack of trying to do both.

One of my favorite things about Japan is the public transportation. It is incredibly efficient, there are frequent trains so you’re never waiting any longer than about 10-15 minutes before a train stops at your station, and it’s actually not too complicated to figure out. Japan’s train system is far superior to any public transportation system in America. The only negative thing for me is that to get back home the same night, I have to leave Tokyo typically around 11:30 when the last train going to where I live leaves, which is a bit early for my liking.

Such was my original plan for this night. Here’s all I had to do: (1) Board a train for the Yamanote Line at Shibuya Station (2) Change train lines at Ueno Station (3) Get off the train at Tsuchiura Station. Not at all really that complicated. Honestly, I could probably drop you off at Shibuya with these directions, and you could do it. So let me tell you how I fucked this up.

When I got on the train at Shibuya, it was packed. Not “guards trying to shove people in so the doors can close as the train is already taking off,” but it was getting there. It’s either 14 or 15 stops from Shibuya to Ueno depending on if you take a train going clockwise or counter-clockwise (this train line just runs in a big circle), so it was probably about 20-30 minutes to get to my transfer station.

The Yamanote Line.

For the first few stops, I just stood there hoping I didn’t accidentally rub up on a Japanese person and freak them out. After a few more stops at some of the major Tokyo neighborhoods, the train was mostly cleared out, and I could finally grab a seat.

Apparently, this would have also been a good time to take all of my clothes off and only let my eyes rest in 5 minute intervals to avoid falling asleep—well, maybe I wouldn’t have had to take my clothes off—because the next time I opened my eyes, I immediately knew I had slept past my stop. I doubled checked on my phone just to make sure and confirmed it. I was not getting back to Tsuchiura. In fact, I slept so long, that I was about two stops away from Shibuya station again.

I had no idea what I was going to do at this point, but I figured I better just get off the train and come up with a plan. Almost immediately, I ran into another problem. I couldn’t get out of Shibuya station. My train card wouldn’t let me out because I was trying to scan to leave at the same station where I got on. Or at least I assume that’s why.

After walking in circles near the station exit for a few minutes—getting up close to the ticket gates to leave, but then quickly running away, looking like I’m Stoop Kid from Hey Arnold or something—I eventually summoned the courage to walk up to a station security worker, incorrectly conjugate the past-tense form for the verb “to sleep,” and let him know in broken Japanese that I’m a complete moron foreigner.

Mr. Hero security man allowed me to get out of the station without having to pay anything (isn’t my stupidity punishment enough?). I sent a text to one of the people at karaoke and prayed to an almighty Daibutsu that they hadn’t changed plans and would actually see my message and be cool with me joining up with them.

Man, if they only knew the velvet-smooth pipes on this little lost boy wandering through Shibuya’s neon wonderland after dark; with a honeyed voice that could transcend language barriers and make even the happiest of hearts ache with the shared pain of a thing longed for that could never be attained; of the recognition and regret of the limits on each and every single person’s fleeting life just through a melody; of frontiers that could never be explored because we are all just temporary; of strangers passing in the night that look at one another and hop for even the smallest acknowledgement, but because of fear, let another opportunity expire, another moment in their transient lives simply a skipped track that could never be played again once passed; with a timbre that could make weeping willows cry out for joy; that would probably picks songs like Wrecking Ball and Stacy’s Mom to sing at karaoke.

Well then, there would be no doubt at all of getting a response from his friends and having a place to call home for the night, finding shelter in the art of song and music that had so often provided sanctuary for the lonely and forlorn with no place, no body, to go to throughout the centuries.

I got a text back pretty quickly. Karaoke was still a go. I was more than welcome to join. And could I pick up a bottle of vodka as an offering to the karaoke gods (or maybe just for everybody to drink from so we didn’t have to pay for some drinks for awhile). I put the location into my phone and headed for my first karaoke sleepover.

I bought some vodka, reached the point on my phone that said where the karaoke place was supposed to be, and I just couldn’t find it. No matter what my phone was telling me. I found one of the 3 taco bells in all of Japan, which I returned to a few weeks later to eat at, but I could not find this karaoke place.

I was now in borderline panic mode. It was like the scene in Home Alone 2 where Kevin’s out late at night in New York and everybody is super scary. Seriously, I had to close my eyes as a kid when that taxi driver turned around after Kevin said, “It’s scary out there” and replied with “Ain’t much better in here kid.” I watched it again tonight, and while he seems to be just a normal human being with no movie makeup work done to him, when I was a kid, I swear his skin was like Freddy Kreuger’s.

Every Japanese person was 10 times more Japanese (and I don’t need to tell you, anything past Japanese to the 2nd power is just too much). The language sounded just a little more sinister. Each word overheard sounded like a threat. Could I have asked my friend to come out and meet me somewhere? Probably. Could I have gotten a more specific description of how to get to the karaoke place if I asked? Yeah, without a doubt. But did I choose the easy route? Come on, I’m the guy who went back to an apartment I knew I was locked out instead of taking an offer to stay at a friend’s place.

With Plan A and Plan B out the window, I quickly came up with Plan C. Capsule Hotel. If you don’t know what a capsule hotel is, allow me to explain it quickly. It’s only a hotel in the sense that multiple people can pay to stay inside a building for a night. You basically pay to sleep in a cryo pod from a sci-fi movie. Your “room” is no larger than a double-sized bed at best, and is grouped with several other capsules containing who-knows-what kind of people all around you.

With an unopened vodka bottle still in its plastic bag in my back pocket, I found a place that could basically charge me whatever they wanted to sleep in for that night. I’m sure you’re all aware, but I just want to remind of the constant language barrier I’m facing at this point. Despite a sign on the building saying “Capsule Hotel,” I still had to make sure I wasn’t about to pay some random guy behind a desk a bunch of money and end up getting God-knows-what. So I asked the guy “Kapuseru Hoteru desu ka? (Is this a capsule hotel?). He said yes and pointed me over to a vending machine in the “lobby” where I was supposed to purchase what kind of hotel capsule experience I wanted. I picked the cheapest option that looked like it would give me a ticket for a bed to sleep in and not whatever else it was I could choose. The price came out to 40,000 yen, which is like $35.

The actual Capsule Hotel I stayed at that I actually found again a few weeks later by pure accident.

As you can see from the picture, this was a capsule hotel “and sauna.” Maybe that’s fancy and a something special that not all capsule hotels have. Maybe that’s a typical thing. I really didn’t know. A bunch of people that seemed to be already checked in were in cotton robes, so I had no idea if I was supposed to take off all my clothes and ask for a robe to sleep in or what. Maybe they chose the more expensive capsule hotel option from the vending machine and got all the perks. It’s still a mystery to me. What I did know, was that like most places in Japan, I was supposed take off my shoes and place them in a locker before going any further than the lobby. So I did that and made my way to my pod number as fast as possible before something else went wrong.

I got into an elevator with two other Japanese men. One in a full robe. One not. My pod number was 627 or something like that, so I was on the 6th floor. At this point, I was incredibly relieved to be in a place where I had a bed that I was going to be able to sleep in. Every problem seemed solved.

And that’s when it happened. The elevator doors opened on the 3rd floor. The floor with the sauna I could have paid an extra $15 to use. And there they were…a bunch of naked Japanese butts and penises staring at me; beckoning me to join them like the ghost family from the Tower of Terror who suffered a terrible fate that stormy night. I’m pretty sure Rod Serling’s voice came over the speaker at that point: “You are the passengers on a most uncommon elevator,” followed by the Twilight Zone music. 

There were 7 naked men standing around headlocking each other, engaging in some friendly horseplay with steam from some hot water spout enshrouding them in a divine-like mist as if this was a totally normal thing to do at 1 a.m. on a Saturday night.

I actually felt guilty and looked away. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to gaze upon these unashamed men unless I was taking part myself and letting everyone else see me in my true, natural state.

The robed man next to me on the elevator got off (not like that, you sickos), apparently ready to shed the towel and previous week’s stresses to take part in some bare-skinned high jinks with the fellas. If I could read Japanese, I would have I hit the “door close” button as fast as I could once he stepped off. Instead, I was privileged to the red band trailer of Shibuya After Dark before the doors closed slowly, giving me one last glimpse at an aspect of Japanese culture I never expected to see.

The elevator finally reached the 6th floor, and I tried to get into my bottom level capsule-bunk as quietly as possible, since I had no idea what the appropriate level of noise-making was for this kind of thing. The capsule bed was equipped with an elevated TV and mini night stand and was actually pretty comfortable all things considered.

The next morning, I made sure to take the stairs down to the lobby, grabbed my shoes from the locker, and took what honestly felt like a walk of shame back to Shibuya Station.

Would I have been more comfortable If I got back to my own place that night? Sure. Would it have been more fun to see how long I could sing before falling asleep? Yeah. But would I have as good of a story as this if either of those plans worked out…I doubt it.