The Incident on Heisei Dori

Last week, I was trying to draw a map of the route from the train station to my hotel, but I became frustrated because Google had few English names for streets and areas. So I stopped.

Bad idea in retrospect. I realize this as I'm staring at a street sign that reads "平成通り".

“Uh… let’s try this one, it looks familiar…” I guess. I lead my mother down this street, having the vaguest “feeling” that my “intuitive sense of direction” would lead me to our destination. The address was fairly straightforward: 2-13-5 Nihonbashi Kayabacho. We’re near the right street; I remember that from the map I attempted to draw last week. Plus, I have a pretty good sense of converting birds-eye-to-first-person point of view. But I'm having trouble making sense of the way building numbers progress through the blocks.

“2-1... 2-2…” I say, walking in what I thought was the right direction, “4-1?! Wait why does it just jump like this?”

There is no one around to witness my outrage. It’s 8:30 am on a Sunday in the business district… I shouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes people pass by, but they’re usually running, so I don’t stop them to ask for directions.

I approach the first stationary person I see. He’s a construction worker, standing firmly with a raised chin, his elderly face watching over other men lifting pipes and carrying them off.

“Excuse me?” I ask, “uh… I… uh…” I point at the address written down on a piece of paper. He speaks to me in Japanese, and I try my best to make sense of what he’s saying. I understand nothing.

I never realized how beautiful Japanese sounds. Their cadence and syllables are just… they’re like birds—short and distinct, things aren’t drawn out, things aren’t boorish. I really enjoyed listening to him. He points in a direction, so we begin walking. After wandering for fifteen minutes, we run into another construction site. I approach the nearest man, younger than the last one, and speak of my uncertainty, pointing at the address on my piece of paper. He examines the address and looks confused. All seven of his coworkers come and look, debating amongst each other about where the “hoteru” was. One of them took out his clipboard and pulled off a map of the area. He drew arrows on it, and gave it to me. I didn’t see another map in his clipboard; I hoped he didn’t need it today.

“Thank you! Arigato!” I say, bowing, and venture onward. They cheerfully wave goodbye, a sendoff fit for any explorer.

Soon, we end up back to the construction site we first walked past. The old man looks confused to see us. He exclaims in Japanese and points in the same direction, and I stand silently and give him the same blank stare. He then starts leading me across the street, and I realize he was never pointing at where he thought my hotel was. He was pointing at a police station. He leads us inside and speaks to a few officers, who bring out large maps and start searching.

They speak in Japanese, I shrug apologetically.

“Parlez-vous français?” one of them asks.

“Uh… no. English?”

They shrug. They surround a large book and start flipping through the pages furiously. I try peeking in between their shoulders, looking back at my mother for a moment to make sure she’s okay.

“Hai!” one of them emphatically yells, pulling me into the circle of people. After more pointing and nodding, I finally figure out where I’m going. We’re only a block away. As I walk past the construction site, I give the old man a thumbs up excitedly. He laughs and gives me one, too.