July 6, 2019
Our first full day in Tokyo was made up of sightseeing–quite literally I may add.
Katie and I were both exhausted from the trip the previous day, so we had decided upon one thing: we’d see the city from two perspectives.
Tokyo Sky Tree
Tokyo Sky Tree is technically the largest landmark of Tokyo, built about seven years ago, and it towers over the other buildings in the surrounding area. From any point in the city (that is, if nothing is obscuring the view), it stands nestled between the river and the city. Tokyo Sky Tree sits across the way from Asakusa, our second destination.
Katie and I emerged on the opposite side of a large mall (from which I forced myself to pull away from the sweets section), stepping onto a terrace adjacent to the tower. It rose above us, industrial and awesome, backed by the morning light. It reminded me faintly of my first trip to the viewing deck of the Sears (I said it) Tower in Chicago, suspended above the skyline, the city sprawling lazily down below. The Sky Tree was different–more of a structure than a building, more impersonal, more sleek–as if it were designed for one sole purpose rather than many.
We spent the whole morning there, in the end, the city shrunk beneath our feet–in one sense quite literally. Seeing the city so small but so extensive, stretching into the horizon beyond us, humbled me. Occasionally I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude as I feel the weight of my own insignificance–well, moreso in comparison–in the vast world. And so few of us get to experience so much of it, relegated to a fraction of the experiences the world has to offer. It’s one of the many reasons, I suppose, I have the desire to travel–I don’t want to waste the precious time I have here.
We sat on the viewing deck for a while.
And I was struck by how ordinary the day felt, how normal. When I travel, I often forget that experiences are not always some grand adventure, but the pleasures can come from the simple nature of being in a different place. Those series of moments, big and small, good and bad, have such a profound impact on the way I see the world.
Asakusa
Sensō-ji Temple sits literally in the middle of a quite popular area of the city. Known as the oldest Buddhist temple in Tokyo, right from the start we could tell it was an attraction. The crowd, massive and chattering, ran through the front gate of the temple all the way back to the main temple complex, lines of stalls open to the swaths of people coming and going. I got swept up in the moment–I got so excited to see the architecture of the main building that we walked straight up to the temple steps, stopping to help a couple of girls take a picture before walking into the open doors.
A prayer session was ongoing.
Buddhist monks sat, kneeling, in a row before the shrine inside a gated area beyond the prayer box.
The low hum of their prayers mixed with the clapping hands of the patrons paying homage to the Sensō-ji itself and the religion and practices it stood for. Heads bowed. Hands clapped–once, twice. An offer was made, clinking coins thrown into the box.
It felt silly of me not to pay my own respects, even if I don’t practice the Buddhist religion myself. It was a temple of someone else’s–a temple of another culture and place in which I was visitor and outsider. So, I pressed my own hands together and thanked the place, the people, the city and country, for hosting me. It was a meditation, a peace.
Katie and I passed a standing shelf next to the main prayer box, which was home to a set of fortunes to tell a person’s luck when praying for a wish or hope to come true. This setup was one of many–a lot of shrines in the area have them–boxes upon boxes of written fortunes tucked away and neatly divided. The fortune sticks sat, stacked together, inside the metal contained in front.
We took turns shaking the container, making some sort of wish (more likely) or prayer. Mine was simple, but hopeful.
I drew it.
Knowing next to no Japanese numbers (I can count to five, luckily), I played a matching game with the display. Searching for the properly labeled box, I found it with a quick noise of triumph. I pulled out the box, taking the slip of paper it contained.
“Regular Fortune,” it read, the lettering glaring back at me.
What luck!
Sam