As your reward for suffering through my whining I shall get back to sharing the wonders of Kyoto with you. Yahoo.
Last night (which was Wednesday), Bob, the kids and I set off to go to a small Kyoto suburb called Uji to see a summer fireworks ("hanabi") show. The show was set to start at 7:45pm and end around 8:45pm. One hour. Nice and compact and easy. (Fireworks shows we have seen in Japan in the past have lasted 2 or 3 hours, and resulted in permanent flash echoes in our eyes for hours afterward)
So we set off from our house for the 15-minute walk to our local subway station. 3 minutes from the house and we were all dripping sweat. I was carrying my requisite summer humidity weaponry—namely a small brightly colored towel (for sweat dabbing) and a folding fabric fan (to frantically thrash in front of my face so as to create a cooling breeze). Bob had his requisite long neck towel for sweat absorption. Patrick loped along, mysteriously sweat free in his long jeans and sneakers. Aya plodded along, discreetly dabbing at her neck now and then, cheeks blazing red.
We arrived at the subway station and purchased tickets to our next transfer point, Kyoto station.
All was well.
At Kyoto station, we transferred from the subway to the JR line, which goes above-ground to the more rural or remote areas. We purchased more tickets and started for track 10, to board a train bound for Nara.
This is when things started to get ... well ... I'm not sure I have enough adjectives for it all.
We reached track 10 at a run, since our train was set to leave within minutes and we only had 30 minutes until the fireworks were set to start.
The train platform was packed—packed, smashed, overflowing—with humans. Young Japanese women in summer yukata and ornately coiffed hair. Young Japanese men in creatively decorated and shredded jeans and t-shirts emblazoned with odd stylish English phrases. Grandparents and parents with young children. Babies. Here and there fellow foreigners. Businessmen, shopping-bagged women coming from spending sprees.
And the train? Bodies were falling out the doors. Every millimeter of space in each train car was taken up with a body part of some sort. Dozens of train agents stood, shooing people here and there, extracting overflowing bodies that were dangling out of train doors. We scooted from car to car, looking for a spot in which to cram ourselves. Aya, not at all keen on the prospect of getting smashed against strangers, began softly griping. Patrick was muttering as he ran.
We finally gave up and went to track 8, where another train was set to leave in 10 minutes. Track 8 was also crowded—although less so—with a similar assortment of people, but the train had not yet arrived, so we felt hopeful.
With a whoosh of tepid air the train pulled up—fairly empty, much to our delight. We got into the first car and stood directly under an oscillating fan that was suspended in a cage in the train car's ceiling. Out the front window, past the conductor's cab, we could see the track stretching off into the night.
And all was good. With a lurch and a squeal the train lumbered off.
Aha, but this was a local train, which meant it stopped at every micro-station along the way. It also meant that in the outskirts of the towns, where there was one track with side switches to accomodate passing trains, we had the short end of the stick and had to wait while faster express trains roared past us.
Minutes ticked by. More celebrants and random people got on at each stop, until the four of us were smashed against the glass separating the passengers from the train conductor. A young Japanese man chewed a McDonald's cheeseburger in my left ear while his giggling, hot pink yukata clad female companion tried to tickle his neck. It was all very romantic.
More minutes ticked by. 7:45pm came and went. Bob squeezed his arms up and tried to get his iPhone to load a live feed of the fireworks show.
At 8:10pm we started slowing and pulling into Uji station. The train tracks near Uji are raised above ground level, so we could look down onto the narrow streets of Uji.
Below us, thousands, THOUSANDS, THOUSANDS of people were packed on streets lined with festival food booths. Glowing blue, yellow, pink and red yukatas dotted a sea of dark haired heads. A barely perceptible blur of thousands of waving fans seemed to buzz through the crowds. There were so many people that I could not see the ground beneath their feet. I could not see the fronts of the food booths or the shops along the streets.
Aya's head spun around to look at me, wide-eyed "We're going into THAT?!" she gasped.
Even if we wanted to stay on the train, we had no choice but to be swept away on a shoulder-to-shoulder tide of humanity, swept up the stairs, past the ticket taking station clerks. All around us were station employees wielding megaphones, which bellowed and squeaked instructions and information to the crowd at decibels that threatened to shatter my glasses, if not my ear drums. Patrick kept muttering "geez. GEEZ" while Aya, wide eyed and slightly freaked out, grabbed my wrist in a pointy-nailed death grip, in an effort not to get separated from at least one of us.
We were expelled, sweaty and with megaphone imprecations ringing in our ears, onto the street in front of the station. We gathered together and made our way to a human-covered grass strip on one side. Directly in front of us over the nearby river, massive fireworks exploded and roared.
A side note, I know how patriotic fireworks make all of us Yankee Doodles feel. The booming music, the shower of light and fire. Very American. Heart swelling. I agree.
But I have to tell you, our little Fourth of July fireworks shows back at home are a drop in the bucket compared to the fireworks here folks. These aren't just fireworks. They are layered paintings, done in fire. Not one weeping willow shower of yellow and blue, but dozens of them, layered on each other. Red and orange concentric circles popping one on top of the other. Relentless repetitions of what we would call "the finale." Even arriving late to the show as we did, the variety and complexity of fireworks dazzled our eyes. For half an hour, both kids forgot their thirst. Aya forgot that she wanted a snack. I forgot that my feet were ready to melt into puddles of aching goo.
Lovely.
Once the fireworks had definitely ended however, both kids remembered they were hungry and thirsty. We made our way to a 7-11 convenience store (one place where we can get money from an ATM without being charged a service fee), to get money and sustenance. However, there were so many people jammed into the store that they had moved all their magazine racks right in front of the ATM machines.
No ATM, no cash.
No cash, no goodies.
No goodies, no peace (you parents out there know this routine, I am sure).
We considered wandering around for a bit, but quite frankly, with 10,000 people filling every nook and cranny of Uji, wandering was something that just wasn't going to happen. Perhaps moist shuffling would be the best we could hope for.
So, with just enough money for our return tickets home, we made our way around to the other side of the station where thousands of people were crammed, 10 bodies across, into neat, noisy lines aimed for the station and train rides back home. Yellow plastic "caution" tape marked off the sides of the line-up area, and every 5 feet or so there was a station agent with a megaphone, blaring out instructions once again.
Patrick and Bob, standing head and shoulders above most of the people around us, began heckling each other with mock megaphone instructions that were only slightly less obvious than the actual ones a police officer repeated every few minutes. "Listen everyone!" Bob hooted "You are in a line! I repeat, you are in a line!" to which Patrick would cackle, "Remember, it is crowded here. Very crowded! Don't forget this!" Aya, intent on not losing us, while at the same time trying to see everything and everyone, largely ignored this nonsense.
As for me, I tried to pretend I was not with Bob and Patrick—a feat made difficult since Patrick kept calling me "mom" and Bob kept cackling, "Oh, Christina doesn't approve! No no! Naughty!"
We finally made our way, along with the rest of humanity, up the stairs, purchased our tickets and heaved ourselves up to the train platform where we were once again surged towards a train car. The first car we tried to get into was full to bursting. Station agents waved us to the next car, and then the next, where we finally smashed ourselves into a narrow strip just inside the door, with Patrick's nose barely skimming the rubber door seals where the 2 doors slid shut.
This trip, back to Kyoto station, was just as crowded, but there was an air of relaxed submission in the air. Everyone was overheated, crowded. Everyone was smashed up against a stranger. The train lurched and swayed away from the station, sending most of us not in seats careening into each other. At the next station, 2 young Japanese women got on the train. Their flower-festooned yukata were wrinkled and their heavily chemically treated hair tangled into a messy nest, they looked unsteady on their feet. In a total breach of proper Japanese train manners, both of them slid onto the floor in front of the exit doors, and proceeded to doze, taking up as much space as 3 or 4 of the adults standing around them. All around them incredulous faces turned, eyes quickly scanning the collapsed bodies on the floor before looking quickly away.
Bob, always the sociologist and always out to spot a broken norm, pulled up his camera and began taking pictures, much to the muted delight of several of our fellow passengers.
From here, however, the excitement started waning. We reached Kyoto Station and tumbled off the train, stopping at a Mister Donut shop to spend our spare change on sustenance for our children. By this time it was 10:30pm. We made our way back to the subway tracks, and from there into refreshingly and beautifully empty subway train cars back to our local station.
It was a long, hot walk back home. But, as is always the case after a frantic trip out, behind the tired feet and buzzing megaphone ears, was the gathering of another experience here in Japan.
Of course, we may not ever be able to convince Aya and Patrick to board another crowded train ... but then again, we might. We have learned to expect the unexpected.
Until next time.
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