Timothy de Paris Portfolio +
Shinjuku
To the chorus of an infinitely looped portion of the Grease soundtrack (She's a real pussy wagon!), I enter Tokyo's world of sensory overload. Innumerable neon signs seek to entice customers into a host of ultra modern fashion boutiques, mobile phone stores, steamy strip bars, hostess clubs, Japanese izakaya pubs, restaurants and junk shops.
As the crowd disperses and thins, I am able to start choosing my own destination, rather than simply complying with the masses. The gently persuasive requests of young Japanese neo-punks and university students drum up business for nearby bars, while the more finely tuned ear can hear the bass riff and kick drum of an exceptionally talented jazz band trying to make a living busking on these Hip Hop obsessed streets.
The smell of sesame oil and soy sauce renders my satisfied stomach empty with just one sharp intake of breath. I am drawn to a side street dedicated to the culinary delicacy of yakitori, where one devours numerous chickens, one skewered body part at a time, ending with the liver and a small glass of rice wine. But before I can choose a restaurant, the bustling crowd pushes me out of the alleyway and across the main street. It's ok; I had dinner before I left the apartment anyway.
With my white skin and Russian military inspired coat, I do not attract the attention of many touts. Only occasionally am I noticed, prompting broken English such as 'You come American pub. New Japan American love Soviet!' But even delightfully insular statements that only the Japanese could conceive won't entice this stingy tourist to spend 1500 yen on a beer and a bowl of peanuts.
Timothy de Paris
2006
