Finally the tako seller has arrived. I was beggining to think that the rain might be keeping him away. It was unlike him to just not show up though. Every night he is here. Usually there's a line of at least three people. But now he's setting up. He starts his generator. Connects a hose to the tail pipe of his van so as not to esphixiate himself while he works dilligently on his specialty; octopus tentacles, veggies, things that looking like bacon bits, all wrapped up into fried balls. Judging from his customers, he's a pretty popular guy. Many of the people walking by will wave to him as they pass. Or they make small talk while he prepares their order; something I hardly ever see in Tokyo. He seems seperate from this world. A piece of the past. A street vendor that has been able to modernize his buisness and fit in with this normally fast paced, often unsocial, city. A part of old Japan that was left behind.
But now he works hard, preparing for the late rush.
My train is actually part of the subway system. The Mita line. It runs above ground for about half of the trip and my stop, Shimura-sanchome, is a station that rises above the street. One exits the train and heads down two flights of stairs to reach the tako seller. He sits under a bridge directly below the oncoming and outgoing trains. But he sits there among a variety of likely competition: McDonalds, Family Mart, izakyas galore. I've usually spent the later part of the evening here, the time when the tako seller has a line. Now it is early though. Those that would want his treats instead are forced to eat fried chicken from the Family Mart or maybe something from the cheap soba shop that is next door.
There is actually any number of things to do around the station. I often marvel at how close everything is. Anything you would need can be found within three minutes. So I just sit and watch, trying to observe what it is that people do when they get off the train.
Tonight it was raining. Exiting passengers quickly let their umbrellas unfold to offer protection from the downpour. Many line up for cash at one of the three ATMs, others head into Family Mart to sneak a look at a magazine or to get a bite to eat. Very often the mothers and the elderly, it seems, head around the station, presumably to shop at the grocery store around the corner. School children walk toward the station but simply stand around talking to each other on the corner. I assume that they are waiting for the last minute to say their goodbyes until tomorrow when they will no doubt follow the same routine, as it been this way for three days. There is always an unsteady trickle into and out of the massive pachinko parlor. It is crowded as usual. When the doors open you can hear the sound of slot and pachinko machines ruining someones life or making another's day. McDonalds reminds me of the way it was in the 1980's. Crowded with families that have never seen "Super Size Me" or read "Fast Food Nation".
Unlike other stations in Tokyo, mine isn't one to be used as a meeting grounds. It's the last stop for most people. People getting off at Shimura-sanchome are either heading home or going to an izakya with co-workers that live nearby. The feeling here is one of a small community. It's as if we're not really a part of Tokyo. The town can function independently from the greater Tokyo area because everything one could need is right here. All of it: entertainment, food, groceries, electronics; anythig you would need is here. And it's all within three minutes walk from the station.
Then there's the tako seller. With everything he needs to cook right in the back of his van. Everyday. He seems out of place to me, but at the same time he fits. Back home in California, none of it would fit. Everything so close, never having to use your car to get somewhere. Yeah right. I see now that it needs to be this way, it couldn't be another way for Tokyo to function properly. With trains being the main source of transportation it is no wonder why it is here that a mini city pops up.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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