Small Space

Tagged as: cities, memories, Shibuya, small

I went out for the first time in Tokyo one cold Novem­ber night. The air was filled with the spir­it of fes­tiv­i­ty and the smell of saké, and the Yaman­ote train was espe­cial­ly crowd­ed with busi­ness­men well ahead of my friends and I in alco­hol intake.

One of them approached us and asked the usu­al ques­tion “Where are you from?” and struck up a con­ver­sa­tion about Japan, year end fes­tiv­i­ties and whether or not we liked raw fish. It was a good thing he spoke Eng­lish, oth­er­wise it would have been a very short con­ver­sa­tion. Any­way, by the time we arrived at Shibuya Sta­tion, he had already invit­ed us for a drink and we had accepted.

We got out of the sta­tion and he led us first across the main street, then under a bridge, then into a small­er street and then anoth­er. I’m sure if some­one today asked me for direc­tions to the bar where we end­ed up, I’d have a very hard time giv­ing them. Any­way, I stood out­side the bar not sure what was expect­ed of me. The exte­ri­or was made of three wood­en boards that were fas­tened togeth­er by what looked like door hinges. The boards ran all the way to the under­side of the bridge over­head, so there was no need for a roof. I untied my shoes, left them at the door and went in.

The inte­ri­or of the bar was even more sur­pris­ing. I know no bet­ter way to describe it than to say: It was real­ly, real­ly small. There was an L‑shaped counter about one and a half meters long, behind which stood a mid­dle-aged woman cook­ing oden. On the oth­er side of the counter sat two cus­tomers on high stools with their shoul­ders prac­ti­cal­ly rub­bing against each oth­er. We squeezed into the bar and two of us sat at the short end of the counter while the oth­er two stood. The woman behind the counter looked like she did­n’t  even notice us, but she greet­ed the busi­ness­man with a cheer­ful “okaeri­na­sai” (wel­come back) and poured him a glass of beer. He ordered beer for me and my friends and we were all set.

When we had arrived, every­one in that bar had seemed more or less sober, but after an hour all of them includ­ing the woman her­self were becom­ing much more talk­a­tive and loud. They told us sto­ries about that bar, about how it was built and that it had the best oden in Tokyo, a lit­tle of which the woman, los­ing some of that ini­tial reserve, final­ly offered us on the house. At the end of the evening we thanked our busi­ness­man friend, the two cus­tomers and the shop­keep­er. Every­one helped with clean­ing up and we all closed up the bar and left.

Now, almost eleven years lat­er, I still remem­ber that night as if it were yes­ter­day. Since then I’ve learned a lot about Japan­ese cul­ture. I real­ize that such small shops can be found all over Tokyo, thriv­ing in the most out of the way places, each with its spe­cial food and select clien­tele. How­ev­er, the more one knows the less one is aware, and though I am now more knowl­edge­able about Tokyo, I am less aware of these lit­tle details that make up the city.

Through the course of my liv­ing there, it seems I grew used to what had ini­tial­ly struck me as very for­eign. I think that’s the worst thing that could have hap­pened because get­ting used to the city dulled my sens­es. When I first arrived I was like a child in Dis­ney­land, wide-eyed with won­der. By the time I left sev­en years lat­er, I had become blasé.

That tiny bar in Shibuya is one of the rea­sons I miss Tokyo.

This sto­ry is from Mee­do’s upcom­ing book Small Space in Tokyo and its Archi­tec­ture. Please feel free to con­tact us for more details and read relat­ed sto­ries here.