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Whilst living in Fujisawa, Japan, I began chronicling my observations of this fascinating country and its inhabitants. These articles were subsequently published in an
English language magazine in Tokyo under the title ‘Impressions of Japan’.
Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, sometimes with a twinge of pathos, this is Japan seen through the eyes of a foreigner (a ‘gaijin’ as we are known to the Japanese), with a keen and irreverent sense of observation.
From these essays, I hope that you will gain an insight into the real nature of Japan and the Japanese, and that you will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing
them.
Michael Curley.
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If you were dropped from the sky right onto the beach at Enoshima you would find it hard to believe that you were in Japan. As you gaze
about you, there are multitudes of teenagers with sun-bronzed bodies, sun or salon-bleached blond hair. Surf boards stick up out of the sand and groups of muscular youths sit around chatting and
smoking on the black beach, waiting for the waves to pick-up. The young girls with their strawberry blonde hair, pastel-colored bikinis and matching nail varnish, strut their stuff, giggling and
flirting with their nonchalant male counterparts. There is hardly a black-haired person in sight.
Yes this is indeed the beach at Enoshima, a short drive along the coast, south of Tokyo, and this is surf country. The waves never equal
those of more famous surfing resorts such as Hawaii in height, rarely rising to more than 2 meters, but this does not deter the enthusiastic surfers from taking to the sea in droves once the wind
picks up. And at Enoshima, this is most of the time. Temporary wooden edifices line the roadside, erected by enterprising surfers. These serve as bars, restaurants, changing rooms, showers, and also
occasionally a place to sleep for the people who work there. With names such as “yellow” and “deep blue” they offer a place to quench your thirst and also to escape from sand
blown about by gusts of wind.
From the beach, you can walk to Enoshima Island in ten minutes. The island offers two temples, many shops and restaurants, and on the far
side of the island are rock pools, more waves, and a grotto which you pay to enter and reach by way of a wooden bridge. A sign warns visitors to beware of Tsunami.
OkudaPark
It is 09:30 on a Sunday morning in July, and it is already hot and humid. As I pass through Okuda Park on my bicycle I remark that
the grass needs cutting on the circular patch of green, 100 metres in diameter that constitutes the ‘park’. Backing onto the park there is an array of apartment blocks, arranged like a
honeycomb of cells in an enormous white beehive. In front of them, a sweeping line of palm trees add a Mediterranean flavour.
The residents of the apartments make full use of their allotted open space. This morning there are several dog owners exercising their pets
(small dogs predominantly); a group of elderly men are stripped to the waist doing their daily morning stretching exercises, continuing the routine which they acquired long ago, whilst employed by
their company as “salarymen”. Two elderly ladies are chatting under parasols which shade them from the heat, the parasols bobbing in time as they nod their heads at regular
intervals as prescribed in polite Japanese conversation. On one of the green metal benches which circle the grass area, a homeless man lies asleep. All of his worldly goods are assembled about him in
a collection of plastic bags. On the bench next to him, a young couple kiss and cuddle, apparently indifferent to his misfortune. On the grass, a young mother tries with difficulty to play football
with her two energetic sons.
Two perfectly manicured middle aged ladies pass by, wearing neatly pressed tennis outfits. As I look up, a short distance away I can
see the roof of the Ito Yokado department store and the netting which covers its rooftop tennis courts.
Two Japanese teenage girls pass by on their way to the beach. They are riding identical, new, silver-grey scooters. Barefoot, wearing
brightly coloured shorts and T-shirts, they each have a small surf board wedged precariously in front of them, resting on the footboard. The surf board is kept upright by gripping it between their
knees. Underneath their identical silver-grey, flat-rimmed crash helmets, their hair is dyed blond and their bare shoulders display a deep golden tan. As they speed past me, their long hair flutters
gently in the breeze. They are a perfect picture of carefree affluence.
As quietly and inconspicuously as possible, a man is washing his body with his handkerchief which he wets with water from a drinking
fountain. To his left, suspended from the branch of a tree, his blue shirt and white socks have been hung out to dry in the morning sunshine. They too, flutter gently in the breeze.
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