Japan Stories, Episode 2: Follow the River

I lost a day somewhere along the way, between the 12-hour flight and crossing the International Date Line. After sleeping a total of no more than two hours on the plane, in and out of consciousness, I arrived in Tokyo confused but needed to muster some coherence to get to Nakano. I had errands to do at Haneda when I arrived: exchange train voucher for my actual pass, pick up my pocket WiFi device. Then I had to begin the journey to Kanako’s house, figuring out the trains first. My bag emerged immediately, then I took it to customs. Immigration had given me problems about not listing my exact Airbnb address, with which I’ve never encountered problems in other countries. Customs actually asked me to retrieve it and write it on the form. That involved looking through my phone since I couldn’t get on WiFi at that moment. In my distress, the agent decided he’d be thorough. He flipped through photos of opium, cocaine, and marijuana, asking “Any of this?” No, I insisted. Regardless, he asked me to open my bag, which involved digging for my keys, another annoying delay for him. He unzipped my bag, gingerly removing my meticulously rolled clothes to feel the bottom of the bag. TSA had inspected it as well, evidenced by the note they left inside. Surprisingly, he replaced each item as carefully as I had packed them and announced I was free to go. His suspicion evoked wonder why a woman would be travelling alone for tourism. 

I emerged into the arrivals hall to do my two airport errands, noticing a sign that welcomed YouTube star Logan Paul, whom I knew was on my flight. I saw him at LAX, and only know of his existence because of my ex-boyfriend’s son’s obsession with him. I joined the throng of Japanese fangirls and fanboys to get a photo. He was wearing a surgical mask, as many Japanese do, and turned away from his security detail to momentarily pose for us. 

The helpful woman at the train office planned my route to Kanako’s house for me, marking up two different maps. The WiFi was temperamental, so we had a difficult time figuring out the actual address. I boarded the monorail to the Yamamote line, then switched to the Seibu-Shinjuku line, all the way to the Numabukuro stop. I’d neglected to prioritize my pocket WiFi setup, as I was sure I’d studied the map well enough: exit north from the station, walk past the shrine, follow the river to the ramen shop, then turn right to Kanako’s street. Sounds easy when you’re coherent and well rested. I exited the station to the south and figured I’d walk around the block. Instead, I saw a 7-Eleven and police station, both unfamiliar. I entered the police station to ask for help in the right direction. What I’d already noticed about Japan, after four hours in the country, is that hardly anyone speaks English. I showed the officer the address and phone number. He called Kanako, but she didn’t answer. He pulled out his book of maps of the neighborhood. Another officer produced a sheet of essential vocabulary words, similar to aids we use for English learners in the classroom. On a separate sheet of paper, he drew the river, and knew that vocabulary. He asked me to step outside the station hut to give a visual. We both pointed to the river and laughed “RIVER! Oh, RIVER!” He was trying to demonstrate that I should follow the river. He drew the train tracks on the map, then five streets designated by notches. He drew  a marker to symbolize the apartment building. Sounded easy! I thanked him profusely and set out to follow the river. The river started curving away from any civilization and I started to panic. It was only 5pm but completely dark. I decided it might be better to walk back to the train station and test my original plan. I found a young man and his grandmother walking along, asked them for help, but they didn’t speak enough English to understand what I needed. I found a main street and waited outside a grocery store to approach someone. A young woman emerged from the store and mounted her bike. “Excuse me! Can you help me?” I ventured. I showed her the screenshot I’d taken of the map as well as the police officer’s map.  “Follow!” she said. We zigzagged round and round the blocks, and I eventually gave her Kanako’s phone number. This time she answered. As the woman and Kanako were talking, I looked to the right and saw a tall building with a spiral staircase up to a rooftop that resembled the photos on Airbnb. “There! There!” I pointed. We walked down to the building, and even though the front door looked different from the photos, it had a lock box that accepted the combination Kanako had given me. I thanked the woman profusely, apologizing for adding 30 minutes on to her shopping trip. She just smiled and took off. I hoped she could find her way home. I found my miniature bedroom, turned on the heat, and crawled under the covers to finally rest my eyes. Ramen could wait until tomorrow.

Japan Stories, Episode 1: Seat Equality

I boarded my flight to Tokyo and walked to the back of the plane, looking for 39A, the seat I had staked out on the plane map while booking my ticket. Several reasons surrounded my choice of this seat. 1) its a window seat 2) it’s close to the toilet, which some people view as revolting but I find it convenient 3) from the map, it looked like there was more room between the window and the seat than in the rows closer to the front of the plane. A diminutive woman in a red coat was in my seat. I thought I’d have to calmly and pleasantly explain to her that I had booked the seat, proffering my boarding card. Her travelling companion greeted me. “Hi, are you in 39A? So are we. Delta made a mistake....” “No,” I interrupted, “No, they didn’t. I booked this seat several weeks ago.” I knew when I booked the seat that the plane was filling up, yet the seat next to me was still available. Other window seats were open at the time of my booking, but sometimes luck strikes and you have a row to yourself. Today was unlucky. “Oh,” the man persisted, “it’s also our honeymoon and we’d like to sit together. Her seat is an aisle seat a few rows up.” “No,” I repeated, as if clarifying a concept for a child, “Find me a window seat and I’ll consider it.” I moved past them and into my long awaited seat. “Sorry,” I offered, and then immediately regretted it. Why should I have to apologize? He was off to escort his wife to her seat, and I realized I would have to endure his presence for the next 12 hours. He returned and immediately donned his eye mask, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and fell asleep. I hoped I wouldn’t need the toilet anytime soon. As I organized myself and grabbed a magazine to leaf through before takeoff, I recalled several instances of intrusions into my carefully selected long haul flight seats. 

On my 2016 return trip from Dubai, the Nigerian couple in the middle and aisle seats were nice enough, until she draped her feet across her husband to relieve the ankle pressure caused by her pregnancy. The husband turned to me, motioning to the empty, dreaded middle seat in the row in front of us. “Move there?” “No, I like this seat,” I replied, after careful consideration for the pregnant woman’s discomfort. He continued to motion, so I reluctantly put away my book and pretended to sleep the remainder of the flight. 

My favorite story occurred many years ago on a flight from Amsterdam to LAX. The flight attendant asked if I would move to a middle seat so a family could sit together. I gave my typical response, “No, I booked this seat a long time ago.” I made a comment to my neighbor about people booking their seats ahead of time, and he, unfortunately, turned out to be the displaced father of the family. As we were disembarking after an awkward flight, a woman approached me and said, “I really admired the way you defended your seat back there. They think they can move you around, but you have to stand up for yourself.” I’m grateful to that woman for easing my guilty conscience. 

Today’s incident reinforces the stigma solo female travelers still carry. People think it’s acceptable to move the solo female around the plane, as if her travel plans were spontaneous and flippant. Even more susceptible to stigma is the assumption that the solo female will acquiesce, not wanting to cause a scene and remaining “nice.” If a man defends his seat, with or without a smile, nothing is thought of it. If a woman dares to defend her seat, she’s labeled a bitch. So go ahead, call me a bitch. I’m enjoying the last hour of my flight to Tokyo from the comfort of 39A, legs stretched out under the seat in front of me.