At about noon last Wednesday I boarded a train to Kofu with the intention of getting to Tokyo and spending the day and most or all of the night there. I wanted to see the famous Tsukiji fish market during its prime time of 4-6am. I still didn't know exactly how I would get there. My plans did not include a stay at any hotel, except possibly a capsule hotel.

On the train to Kofu a man came on and asked if he could sit across from me in the 4-seat booth. I said sure. He seemed very out of sorts, fidgeting about and looking for something, and glancing at me several times as if he wanted to talk to me. Eventually he did, and we had a nice conversation. He was a teacher of Chinese and an avid hiker, and spoke quite good English. I spoke Japanese to him as much as I could--it seems odd in these situations for us both to be speaking second languages, but it really does work well. He said some very kind things, like how "there are two kinds of Americans, gentle, and [makes body builder pose]", implying I guess that I'm in the first category, and that he hoped I stayed in Japan for a long time. I thought the latter went against the stereotype I had heard, but I later was told his was a common sentiment toward westerners but that the opposite was still felt toward non-Japanese Asians. At Kofu I asked him if there were buses to Tokyo, and he said yes, that he took them often because it was cheaper than the train, and agreed to help me get a ticket. This turned out to be fortunate, because although I probably could have gotten the ticket on my own, I might not have done it in time for the bus that was sitting outside and leaving in two minutes. I thanked him and such and was off, feeling buoyed and excited.

The bus arrived at Shinjuku station. The size of the stations here is ridiculous, and Shinjuku is the biggest; I had to walk for 15 minutes or so before I stopped seeing entrances to it. I explored the area a bit, stopping in at the used Mac shop, where the prices didn't seem all that great. I found out the Tokyo Metropolitan Government office was nearby and decided to pay a visit, remembering the Tokyo Damage Report entry that described it as a great (free) view of the city. It was great indeed, if a bit intimidating, because I truly could not see the end of this city, except in one direction where the bay was barely visible, and in the dim outline of Fuji. When I had had enough I descended and walked back to Shinjuku station to take the Yamanote line to Shibuya.

At this point I should mention that Tokyo has some of my favorite place names in the world, and Shibuya is at the top of that list. Also up there are Harajuku, Ginza, and Akihabara.

It didn't take long in Shibuya to find the spot where Scarlett Johansson stood with her umbrella and watched a Brontosaurus walk across a building facade in "Lost in Translation." I spotted some other gaijin who seemed to recognize it as well. The number of people who cross the street in this spot, and the way they do it, really is amazing, although I was unable to capture it very well in a picture. After wandering the area for a while I stopped in at a conveyor belt-sushi place, a nice deal at about a dollar a plate. I was a bit disappointed at the lack of variety, and almost complete lack of maki, and too shy to call out a special order as the salaryman next to me was doing. My ability to blend in reached a new low when I got confused by the tea machine above my seat and received a stream of scalding water on my hand instead of in my cup.

As it started to get dark I walked around Shibuya some more. I saw a group of teenage girls in a line that had no apparent purpose. I took some discreet photos of Engrish-y t-shirts in stores. I saw Tower Records and decided to check on the inventory of my two favorite Japanese artists, Tommy February6 and The Pillows. They were well-stocked with both, but at a little under $30 a disc, I was hardly going to buy up the catalogues. But I was able to finally confirm the title of a Tommy February6 song that I've heard variously called "Futari no shisatodo," "...no seaside," and "...no suicide". Turns out it's the second (it means 'our seaside'). The Pillows had a large and strange catalog. They seemed to have a whole lot of singles, and every one would have 10-15 other songs on it. The overlap of songs from one disc to another was substantial and had no apparent structure. The result was that I couldn't even tell the albums from the singles, and I wasn't going to buy any of it without spending an album's price. Eventually I settled on "Fool on the Planet," which had 16 songs including all of my favorites from FLCL. By the way, I still haven't talked to a Japanese person who has heard of either of these bands.

It was now about 9:30 and time to plot my next move. I consulted my map and saw that Roppongi was reasonably nearby. Lonely Planet had raved about its "nightlife," and it was night, so I decided to give it a try. I headed northeast on Aoyama-dori, planning to cut southwest at an opportune time. After a few blocks I came to a pleasant looking university campus and thought I would walk through, going in my intended direction. I also thought I might partake of a bathroom. The first building I tried was open, but down the hall was a sign specifically informing me in Japanese that there were no bathrooms in this building, and to please go to building 12 instead. Wow, who said speaking is less important than reading?

Properly relieved, I contined through, but the first exit I came to had a locked gate. As I approached another one, a guard-looking fellow in the distance turned around and seemed to be eyeing me suspiciously. I turned around myself, and at that moment another guard came out of the nearest building and also didn't look too pleased. At that point I realized I'd have to go all the way back to where I had come in and walk around this damn campus. Such a significant waste of time and walking was not welcome, as I was beginning to feel some fatigue. But after the college was where my troubles truly began.

My goal was to get from Aoyama-dori to Roppongi-dori. They formed a triangle that took them further apart as one went East, but did not look very distant overall. But there was a distinct lack of landmarks between them, and only the main streets in Japan have any names. Between these two streets I probably looked at my map about 10 times, and none of those times was I able to exactly determine my current location. I had to question nearly all of my assumptions about where I was. I walked through a cemetery and later wondered which of two cemeteries it had been, before later realizing I had probably walked through it in the opposite direction from what I had thought. The neighborhoods of Aoyama and Akasaka that I could not seem to get out of, were like Greenwhich Village with huge blocks, so that after deciding what direction I should head in and then running into a dead end, I would often have to go a quarter of a mile or so before being able to go in some direction resembling the one I had intended to go in. This is all among residential areas with no street signs whatsoever. Having to do this several times has a way of causing one to lose one's sense of direction very quickly. Several times I cursed myself for not bringing a compass, which I had thought of doing but dismissed as too much effort for being in a big city.

During this period I also became increasingly frustrated with the Tokyo map that I had with me. Tensions came to a head when I passed the Cambodian embassy and, remembering that the map had diplomatic landmarks, tried to look it up and for once find out exactly where I was. Sure enough, there was Cambodia in the index, apparently in C5. But on the map...where was it? It had to be there...but it wasn't. Once again I only know my approximate location.

After 1.5 to 2 hours of wandering, I came to a street that looked like it had to be some change of neighborhood. But it wasn't Roppongi-dori, it was the street that formed the other side of the triangle between that and Aoyama-dori. Aside from probably getting completely turned around 5 other times, I had ended up turned around 90 degrees. Well, at least I could follow this one to Roppongi-dori, it would be difficult to screw that up.

When I got to Roppongi, of course, it turned out to be totally crappy, thus invalidating all my wandering. I could see that there were a few bars and clubs, with too-drunk people sitting on their steps, what fun. But at least I had gotten there.

It was now about 12am, and there were two goals: to get some rest, and to get to Tsukiji between 3 and 4am. I had been told by a girl named Yuki that I could sleep on the Yamanote line that runs in a loop around the city. I figured the way to do this was to buy a ticket for the station I wanted eventually to get off at, then ride around however many times I want and finally get off there. In my case, this was Ebisu, a few stops away, where I could transfer to the Hibiya line that stopped near Tsukiji. Consulting my map, I realized the rather humiliating fact that the closest subway station was still Shibuya, and that Roppongi-dori ran right into it. I could easily have gotten here if I had kept things simpler and not gone over to Aoyama-dori. But that didn't matter now.

My plan seemed to be going smoothly, and there were other passengers who seemed to be doing the same. Then at Shinagawa, about 5 or 6 stops after Shibuya, they said it was the last stop for that train. That was okay, Yuki had said that would happen sometimes. Just have to wait for the next one. A train came going the other way, so I thought why not, and hopped on. It went back one stop, to Otsuki, before also stopping. Now this was getting annoying. Signs on both sides of the platform were now saying "Out of Service." Why? Because of the crucial last piece of information that Yuki had given me, and I had forgotten: the last train is at 1am. I was now stuck in Otsuki, considerably farther from anywhere I wanted to be, and I realized that if the Yamanote line was not running, the Hibiya line was not either. So a taxi was the only way, other than on foot, that I was going to get to Tsukiji on time. But after walking this much, a taxi would certainly be admitting defeat.

So I planned to walk in the general direction of Tsukiji, and rest for a while if I found a suitable place along the way. Being in an even more remote and residential area now, there was no way I could trust my map, so I followed the train tracks along which I had just ridden. But even that has its troubles. At one point, predictably, a big building rose up against the tracks that I would have to go around. So I did, and returned to the tracks as soon as I could. I saw a footbridge and decided to cross it, thinking there might be fewer obstructions on the other side. But as I walked up to the crossing point, something was very wrong. There were no tracks down there, there was water. I don't have to tell you what kind of thoughts passed through my mind at this point. But I regained my composure and searched for the tracks, finding them after not too long. I found a point where I could cross the real tracks by walking right across them; I crouched on the tracks and took a picture with a nice long exposure, trying to hold the camera as steadily as I could with my muscles beginning to give out.

Walking through the streets looking for a place to sleep, I began to appreciate how well a city is designed to deprive people of just that. Everywhere there was a ledge, it would be entirely covered with plants. Everything is either too public or not public enough. When might the people who live or work here return and find me?

Finally, around an office building complex, I found a place that seemed reasonable. Along a brick walkway above the street there was a ledge perhaps 10 inches wide, with a hedge adjacent but not overhanging. Semicircular turrets that house more plants would provide back support and some cover. I had already made it past two or three train stops and felt more confident about making it to Tsukiji on my own. At about 1:30am I settled down to rest.

Sleeping on the street was strange, but probably not as strange as it could have been. A policeman walked by, but appeared not to notice me. There was someone who jogged back and forth a few times, making a quick hissing sound as they breathed which I was able to hear from afar before I heard their footsteps, and that was a bit creepy. I fully awoke at about 3:30am with an unpleasant chill, and realized I had to get going if I was to make it to Tsukiji on time.

I had already walked back to Ebisu along the tracks, the stop where I had intended to transfer to the Hibiya line, so that meant following these tracks was no longer going to take me where I needed to go. It occurs to me now that I didn't think about following the Hibiya line tracks, but it might have been a subway anyway. I was still in an area where using my map was really not an option due to the lack of signs and landmarks. I knew that Tsukiji was still quite far, but I was feeling better and thought I just might be able to make it on foot, or at least make it a significant part of the distance so that a cab would not cost so much.

Reluctantly consulting that stupid map, I saw that Tokyo Tower, the city's rather pathetic smaller recreation of the Eiffel, was almost directly between me and Tsukiji, and since it was only half as far and probably still pretty tall, I might be able to see it from here and use it as a landmark to get at least that far. To look for it I walked up on one of the tall pedestrian overpass footbridges that were way too common and made it even more tiring just to walk around. I did some shaky calculations with the map about which direction it might be in. Sure enough, there it was! Well, it didn't seem quite right...it didn't seem bright enough. But surely this was it. Probably they turn off some of the lights late at night so as not to disturb people's sleep too much. So I headed on in that direction.

After several blocks I realized that the tower was a lot closer than I had originally thought. When I came upon one ridiculously long block I accidentally walked past it in that direction and had to double back. But these trifles didn't bother me. Not until I came to the tower a lot sooner than I had expected, and realized that it was not the tower at all, not even close. It was more like a very narrow smoke stack, a slim cylindrical pyramid, gray, with maybe 6 rows of lights at regular intervals going to the top. The building it was attached to was wholly unidentifiable, but I don't think it looked very industrial.

Why did I think this was Tokyo Tower? I was delirious, of course. Obvious, but it's not often that one gets to experience this combination of delirium and sudden awareness of it. I did some more shaky and desperate calculations with the map and figured that I definitely had not gone in the right direction, probably somewhere between 90 and 180 degrees off. Heck, perhaps I'd gone in a circle, the way one supposedly does when in the desert, and like I did in Central Park on the day of the blackout last year. The important thing was, I was rational enough to realize there was no fucking way I was making it to Tsukiji on foot. My mind and body both were drained, and the pain with each step was not diminishing. A cab really felt like the ultimate surrender, aside from probably being expensive. But after all Tsukiji was the one thing I had really come here for tonight, and what the hell else was I going to do?

I could swear the cab meter had an acceleration to it. It stayed at its initial setting for an incredible interval, but by the end of the trip the slightest movement seemed to be setting it off. The cabby was talkative and we got along pretty well with the I-speak-Japanese, he-speaks-English thing. The ride came to $30, more than I had spent to get to Tokyo, but oh well.

Right away it was obvious that Tsukiji was quite a place. I got there at about 4:45 and it seemed I had made it with plenty of time. All the fish vendors were still setting up their stalls, arrayed in a huge grid within a quarter-circle shaped building. Lots of people drove the goods around on these strange little vehicles, carts that had their whole mechanics contained within a cylinder near the front, behind which the driver stood, steering with an amazingly flimsy plastic wheel that was on top of the cylinder. It sometimes seemed like these drivers were maniacs, but after a while I realized they were quite expert at this specialized task, and they were patient but efficient when someone or something got in the way. Deep-frozen fish were cut on bandsaws. This was all pretty cool, but what I had really come to see were the tuna auctions.

After walking around pretty thoroughly I found them, in a closed section next to the last aisle of the main market area. There were small, dirty plastic windows in the cloth walls that closed it off, which allowed me to see what was going on and snap some poor pictures. In full effect were the rows and rows of giant tuna, deep frozen, and buyers walking around inspecting them. I was surprised then when a midwestern American woman with her son tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I knew how to get in there. I said I didn't think we could, but she then completely showed me up by asking a nearby market employee and being let in; I followed her.

Being there was quite a different experience from looking in. It also turned out to be the greatest concentration of tourists that I saw the whole time I was in Tokyo. I guess the word is out on this place. In any case, it was fascinating. There were hundreds of tuna, all in this one long hangar-like area. The frost created a mist over the floor. Each tuna had a couple of cuts in the same place so the flesh could be inspected. The buyers walked around with hooks used to slide the fish around, turn them over, and sometimes apparently just to see how it felt to jab them in. They got down close with flashlights and stared intently. Sometimes they picked out some flesh from a cut near the tail and rolled it between their fingers, and a couple of guys even chewed on it for a bit.

They called the auctions by ringing a bell, and the auctioneer would get up on a little stool and everyone casually gathered around, all standing between the tuna. I don't imagine it went too differently from auctions anywhere, but this was great to watch nonetheless. Each auctioneer had his own style. One did something I think I'd heard about, where the price calling was like a rising melody, punctuated by high notes at each change, resolving itself as the final price was called. Another flailed about so much that it was hard to imagine how he could see the subtle signals from the bidders, and used a lot of guttural grunts that gave the whole presentation a rather epileptic feel. It's always tough to know what a number means in these situations, whether "one" is one hundred, one thousand, one million. But I think I heard prices ranging from $100 to $1000 and probably more. The bidder signals varied as well, sometimes taking the form of thumbs up, sometimes turning the hand around, sometimes seeming to grip or tweak an imaginary small object. The coolest part was how they all looked at each other instead of the auctioneer. Everything seemed to be pretty routine, I didn't pick up on any of the dramatic reactions I'd read about when bidders did well or poorly. I was suitably careful in raising my camera, but I got the feeling they had no trouble distinguishing me from the participants.

The pleasantness of Tsukiji having met my expectations made me feel a lot better, despite the fact that I'd still been basically awake and walking for the last 14 hours, brief rests aside. I found the energy to do things properly and eat at one of the sushi places around the market, and it was tasty indeed. After that it was a half-awake drift across some of the Old Tokyo and Ginza area to the Yamanote line that would take me to the bus back to Kofu. I had one last bit of trouble as I attempted to walk around Shinjuku station to where I had to get the bus, and ended up walking in some kind of outward spiral with the station getting bigger and bigger. Finally I realized I'd gotten completely turned around again, and made it. I collapsed appropriately in bed upon my return.

As a New Yorker I don't like to take it lying down when a city threatens to overwhelm me and swallow me up. I haven't felt such a threat for as long as I can remember. But Tokyo, with its neverending nameless streets and vast array of neighborhoods, seemed to accomplish it effortlessly. I actually enjoyed being among the huge masses of people in Shinjuku and Shibuya, feeling less alone and, having no particular place to go, not being inconvenienced by the crowd's density. But they do all disappear somewhere at night, and then it's just you and the city.

When I sing something to myself, of course I can't sing the note of the guitar line or the harmony at the same time as the melody. But somehow it seems like I'm always 'thinking' that part, even if I'm not 'hearing' it. Sometimes there's a song where a part will be repeated, but with a different backing part. Sloan has a couple of very effective moments like this on their new one, in which the chorus gets short-circuited by being resolved a line early. When I sing these to myself, I find that sometimes I can't very well control which backing part I'm 'thinking.' I'll plan on it being one part, but then I get there and...somehow, it just ends up being the other. At first it seemed like maybe it was that one part was just easier to imagine. But in a past instance of this I noted that it switched after a while; first I could only do one part, then at some point the other became much easier.

When I recently started singing these Sloan songs to myself I started to realize how strange this all was. How do I know what backing part I did if I'm not really hearing it at all? I wonder which parts of my brain are able to think about a frequency so abstractly. Then I wondered what it would be like if the melody itself were being processed on that same level. So I tried to hear that in my head without moving anything in my mouth or throat the way I would if I were actually singing it. I found this rather difficult. Often I could not restrain the slightest moves in my mouth toward forming the words in the lyrics, and in my throat shaping my vocal cords to make the frequencies in the melody. When I was able to do it, it took quite a bit of concentration to feel like I was keeping the right melody going, and it always seemed somehow distant. The difficulty of thinking about the backing part seemed about the same though. This whole layer of thinking notes without hearing them must be a way that we get around the brain's lack of polyphony with a sort of lo-fi representation. Or, considering that we can hear chords just fine, is the brain polyphonic and is it our vocal mechanism that's not up to the task?