CUL286 FLPA Tokyo: Scavenger Hunt | Faculty of Arts

Monday, February 26

A handful of us are standing with hunched shoulders at the finish line of the Scavenger Hunt. It is dark out. Tiny rain pellets, accelerated by constant gusts of win, nip our cheeks. Before us flow streams of overcoat-clad pedestrians, both locals and tourists alike, which I imagine is a typical scene in Shinjuku, the entertainment district of Tokyo.

If I stare long and hard enough at the streams of people, I can make out among them the ghosts of my students. They are darting in and out of the crowds in search of a Godzilla statue, a quote from a Harajuku hipster fashionista, or the statue of Hachiko, a dog who waited for his owner at the same spot everyday for nine years after his owner’s death. This all occurred earlier in the day. The once clear skies and fresh faces, however, have now given way to darkness and blank stares.  

GG informs us we don’t have to wait for the other teams to arrive. We are free to go. With quivering lips, I announce to those present that I’m going back. Back to our hotel. Muhammad, who is in his 40s and the elder statesman of our class, stops his pacing and quickly approaches me. A few of my other students – Michael, Denise and Mahjabeen – follow right behind.   

We wade through the waves of people. I see a metro station up ahead. Seibu-shinjuku. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Oh well. I’m too cold to care now. We step inside. Seibu-shinjuku is part of the turquoise-coloured metro line. The line we took this morning to get here was green. Oh no. I forge ahead to the end of the platform. We come to a concrete wall. Oh shit. I ask a man walking toward us for directions. We are unable to understand each other. We awkwardly bow to each other. I swing my group around to go back, avoiding any eye contact (I know I am testing their patience). I notice an information kiosk at the station entrance – I swear it wasn’t there before. The kiosk worker speaks English. Oh good. “Go right pratporm, trenspuh Takadanobaba station.”  Arigato, I say. We walk twenty meters to the platform to our right (we’d gone left earlier). We stop. I take a breath. I look up at the digital display: 3 minutes to arrival.

Our train arrives exactly 3 minutes later.

Once inside, we all find a seat. The heated air flowing out from below my seat caresses the back of my feet and calves. I look over at Muhammad, who is seated across from me. He manages a smile.  “Can we rent feet here in Japan, because I think I need to!” We burst out laughing but then deaden the sound immediately, mindful of what we’ve been told numerous times: be courteous by being quiet on trains in Japan. The Japanese take silence seriously in public places.

By Glen Choi

Featured Image by Ashton Davis