A Tale of Two Cities (adapted and abridged)

Ah, Charles Dickens, where would I be without you? 

Have you ever heard someone make the claim that "all big cities are the same" and been forced to refrain from grabbing them by the hair and spinning them above your head like a human helicopter due to their inattentive presumptions? Me too.

Perhaps it's all a matter of the way you interact with the world, but I've never found myself unaffected by place. Whether in small ways (a cerulean-colored room, a high vaulted ceiling) or large (the gridded streets of New York, the flying buttresses of Westminster Abbey), I always feel altered by the spaces I occupy. There is a transformative characteristic of place for me; a vast open meadow wills me to connect with the expansive, infinite universe, and a crawl space compels me to be introspective. Simple, clear. The psychology of this always made sense to me, and I thought that everyone was influenced in the same way. 

When I think back to what one of my Korean coworkers told me before I went to Tokyo, however, I imagine it must not be true.

"Tokyo? It's a lot like Seoul."

Maybe he was simply referring to the similarities in population--the throngs of people frenetically roaming the streets, pouring out of taxis, squeezing onto escalators--because that's about where the parallels between these two cities end. Exhibit A:

Buddhist temple right near our hostel

I was excited to go to Tokyo, it's one of "those" cities, the ones where the mention of the name alone conjures up visions of an urban wonderland, but I was slightly concerned after hearing Luke's assessment of it. Had I just purchased a rather expensive plane ticket to a place that was no different than the one in which I already lived? 

The answer, fortunately, was no. Soon after I arrived in Tokyo, it became quite clear that these two cities have little in common other than being the capitols of their countries. The visual contrast alone is striking: Tokyo is brimming with futuristic skyscrapers, traditional temples and shrines, even a building that appears to have a radish fashioned on its top, which my companions and I used as a landmark to help us find our hostel. 

Shiodome skyscrapers

Seoul, tragically, is remarkable for its pronounced lack of architectural ingenuity. It baffles me that in a city so large and so thriving that no one thought it would be a good idea to toss in a few attractive or interesting-looking buildings. They just aren't there. One might commend the efficiency and frugality used to create Seoul's cityscape, but unless the whole population were blind, I can't imagine too many people appreciate a landscape that looks like boxes upon boxes scattered down on the earth by a vengeful god. 

Tokyo: 1. Seoul: 0. 

Of course, it's never just the architecture that makes or breaks a city for me. It helps establish the atmosphere of a place, certainly, but doesn't determine it. As I navigated the subway system, wandered the impossibly clean streets, and devoured the most gloriously fresh sushi I have ever tasted, the minutiae of Tokyo began to materialize and make their impact. Fake cherry blossoms dangle from buildings, giving sidewalks an imaginative rather than artificial feel. Bicycles with baskets line every curb. Lanterns set the streets aglow in the evening. Koi fish steer themselves through the waters of small ponds. 

Maybe I'm just romanticizing the city--that's easy to do when you only spend four days in a place--but I fell in love with Tokyo while I was there. Seoul just isn't a city you fall in love with. It's more like that friend of a friend who you grudgingly hang out with once in a while to appease your real amigo. 

In four days I felt like a got a better sense of Japanese culture than I have of Korean culture after spending almost six months here. Again, it could just be a presumption. I'm certain that there is layer upon layer of Japanese culture, and I only experienced the veneer. Still, even on the surface, I was aware of a stronger sense of cultural identity in Japan than I've ever seen in Korea. The second day we were there, my travel buddies and I ventured over to Omotesando and Harajuku, areas famous for teenagers who dress up in costumes that range from "Gothic Lolita" to vampire to favorite characters from "manga," or Japanese comics. I'd heard tale of them before, and when we finally reached Jingu Bridge, the congregation spot for these kids, I felt as if I were seeing a real-life hippogriff. There they were: decked out in platform boots,

 animal-print leggings, hair dyed in colors only found in those large boxes of Crayola crayons...I was fascinated, delighted, and confused. 

Trying to fit in . . .

Why do these teenagers dress up like baby dolls and creatures of the night? I do not know. It did, however, signal a strong sense of Japan's personality to me. I have never seen anything remotely like this spectacle in Korea, and I think you would be hard-pressed to find it. If it exists, it's not out in the open for people to walk by and gawk at or even ignore. In Tokyo, though, it was brazen, right there in the middle of a pedestrian area. Though this costume play isn't the predominant way of dressing in Tokyo (if only), it indicated a sense of cultural identity. To have countercultures, there must first be a culture to counter, yes? 

My, my, I sound very judgmental of Korea right now. But I can't help but prefer a place where people insist on the right to dress outlandishly to one where there seems to be a required uniform for strolling the sidewalks. 

There was a playfulness to Japanese culture that completely captivated me. Just beyond the Harajuku kids were a bunch of middle-aged men dressed like 50s greasers twisting up a storm to music booming out of a CD player. Just for funsies. 

Possibly my favorite thing about Tokyo is something you won't find in any guidebook: As we were transferring subway lines one day, we noticed a very official-looking sign inside the station that read "Giant Panda Waiting Area," with an accompanying arrow. The arrow led us outside where, honest to God, there was an enormous stuffed panda sitting inside a glass box. Just waiting. Best practical joke ever. 

Panda! Giant Panda!

To try to briefly sum up the things I actually did in Tokyo: slurped soba noodles, danced the salsa at a Latin club, made a wish at a Buddhist temple, cooked my insides at an onsen (Japanese bathhouse where the scalding water comes from underground springs), had my muscles pummeled by an old-timey massage chair, touched a giant fish head in the largest fish market in the world, caught the first act of a Kabuki play of which I didn't understand a word but was delighted by the unfamiliar execution of theatre, attempted to recreate Lost in Translation by tracking down the bar where it was filmed and buying a very expensive champagne cocktail, explored the grounds of the Imperial Palace...

The whole trip was sublime. Yes, if I actually lived there, maybe I would have just as many criticisms of it as I do of South Korea. Don't get me wrong: there are plenty of things that I like about Korea, too. It's just more fun to write about my grievances. That's the glorious thing about vacations, though--their brevity allows you to take in the good and ignore the bad. I don't mind if my idyllic vision of Tokyo is unrealistic. An illusion of the temporary is reasonable, especially if it brings reality more sharply into focus.