Nara
Nara is not my favourite Japanese city. As far as tourist attractions go, there isn’t much to do once you’ve exhausted the deer park, overpriced restaurants, and small collection of, admittedly very beautiful, 600 yen person temples. It’s hard to get around, it smells of deer shit, and it’s thronging with some of the most clueless tourists I’ve ever seen. And yet, I went home feeling more reincarnated than I have in quite some time.
If you’ll indulge me in a bit of geomancy, Nara, nestled in the serene Yamato Basin, surrounded by mountains and proximal to water, is situated nicely to protect itself from spiritual noise. The deer feel it too, which is of course why they live there, free from predators and men and fear. Just an hour or so walk from the city centre and you can find yourself at the top of Mt. Wakakusa, at the summit of which stands a grave site, and from where you can get a 360-degree view of the surrounding low-lying city to the west and the mountains to the east. I could, and did, stand up there for hours. One could certainly do worse than to be interred here for centuries.
As much love as I have for the forest, the vibe highlight of my journey came from a rather unexpected place. If, from the tourist centre, you walk east rather than west, you’ll come into a vast bedroom community. I stepped into an eatery, which smelled exactly the way it looked: like incense, mouldy tatami, and remnants of Shōwa-era cigarette smoke. The staff, initially shocked at my arrival, breathed an audible sigh of relief when I greeted them in Japanese. This is the real Japan, I thought, just 20 minutes walk from the fake Japan.
Making my way further inward towards my ultimate destination (a bathhouse), the sights became even more familiar. Quiet, single family homes set on large lots, whose quality in a single block ranged from “shed” to “McMansion”, interspersed with purring factories and godowns which, though still in use, had surely seen better days. Though still undoubtedly Japanese, there was something distinctly American about this neighbourhood. I reach for a word that the English language lacks; that suburban feeling where at once you feel comfy and safe, and at the same time as though you’re once again a teenager, swearing to yourself that the minute you turn 18 you’re getting a ticket on the first express train bound for anywhere but here. Like if Hideaki Anno and David Lynch were jointly tasked with depicting the concept of hygge.
I remembered I had a home like these once. A one-story-plus-finished-basement rambler across the lake from Seattle. I remember coming back to it from Singapore for the first time, stepping outside having just awoken at 1pm, jetlagged as anyone could ever be, and the only thing happening whatsoever was the slow, rhythmic squirting of the neighbour’s spinning lawn irrigator. Familiar, but brand new in contrast to Orchard Rd. Peaceful. Boring. Even then it didn’t feel like home anymore.
I remembered something else from that house, a fleeting moment of fulfilment which I’d never felt before and haven’t yet been able to replicate. It was a family gathering; you stayed the night, along with my parents, my brother, his girlfriend and the family dogs. The place had never had every bedroom occupied before, not even close. Getting up in the morning and eating breakfast with everyone was… unexpected. Look at all these people, in my house, laughing and talking and supporting each other. Wow. Is this what it’s like to have a family? It doesn’t even feel real in hindsight, like that one Star Trek episode where Picard lives an entire simulated life to preserve the memory of a long-dead civilisation. That place is my home, but that me was a different me, that you a different you, but I keep both of them alive in my head and resurrect them involuntarily at times like these, beckoned to remember by the welcoming streets of suburban Japan, the horizon subtly lit with orange fading to blue by the lingering spectre of sunset.
On the train back home to Tokyo I tired to read, but I kept getting pulled to look out the window, cupping my hands against the plastic to see the night lights go by. Suddenly I felt the urge to cry and I did, silently. I wasn’t sad per se, I just wanted to apologise, but I didn’t know to whom or for what. To you? Maybe. Maybe you were right and we should have figured out it wasn’t going to work sooner. Maybe I was selfish for dragging it out for so long. I hope you can forgive me. I just wanted to be your friend.
