He walks slowly, meandering down the street. His steps are even and certain. He’s been down this route many times before, the walk from shibuya to harajuku more pleasant than the three-minute train ride. The pavement is cold in the early winter morning, the sun low in the east. The early morning sun, rising, a swirling sunflower up from the east, a beautiful roaring orb casting beautiful warmth on his hands, face glowing in the radiant morning sun. He passes boutique after boutique, harajuku a warren of exclusivity coming to life at the start of a day, passes the Duffer of St. George, passes Nike Sportswear, Burton flagship, Beams, BOA design all hip and retro Eams lounger on display, all the illusion of hype, limited edition color way, air max 90s, Japanese exclusive, cats street is hip, cats street is boutique street, exclusive hip and harajuku is “the mecca.” On past the funky French café on his right, cats streets spits him out onto Omotesando, beamers, audis, Ferraris, Maseratis. Tokyo is madness in concrete and steal magnificent urban chaos, cosmopolitan and striking madness.
On Omotesando he picks up the pace, city beat, city bob and weave the sidewalk is coming to life and will soon be teaming with thousands of consumers, buying, buying, buying. He hops left to avoid a family of French tourists, weaves right and leans left to skirt a salary man, ipod, PSP, black trench, finds an opening between a young couple on his right and kicks it into high gear making his body thin he weaves and jukes his way to the meiji dori crossing, city beat. The Gap across from him, Condomania on his left, city landmarks the equivalent of ancient wizened oak trees or giant boulders in a far off and mythical land called: the country, the countryside, grass, nature, natural beauty, he strains his memory, casts his memory back, trys to picture “verdant rolling hills” the “big sky” and forests of pine. He draws a blank. The concrete consumes him the urban landscape overcomes him, who needs countryside when you have 100,000 restaurants, 1 million hair dressers, 36 million friends and comrades at your elbow, who needs countryside when you have “the urban park?”
Red light, green light, he’s worked his way to the front of the pack, and steps out when he sees the Omotosando street light turn amber. Only amateurs watch the pedestrian lights. He’s half way across Omotosando before the Italian hipster tourists behind him can say “buona mattina.” At the median he spots her, back to him sitting on the railing across from Wendy’s. Next to her a line of funky, ultra cool hype beasts, hipsters, weirdos all spiked out hair, amber hair, black hair, blonde highlights, crew cut, supreme box caps, skinny jeans, baggy jeans, black leather jackets, black rimmed glasses, bowler hats, fitteds, all over , Bape Exclusive, Nieghborhood. Dressed in streetwear that costs as much as a tailored suit from saville row. Harajuku is “the mecca” and there she is wedged between a box logo on the left and a boat shoe on the right, a diamond in the rough of the urban street scene. Her hair is in a crinkly, crunchy shock of a ponytail exploding from the crown of her head, exposing the beautiful coffee colored nape of her neck.
He picks up the pace, city beat has no time to wait, time is not on your side in the city, in the city the hands of the clock move faster, spin fast like propeller blades, like the heady blur of a jet engine intake. Across omotesando, stay on the street, cut the crap, only tourists stick to the sidewalk. He almost runs up behind her, hops to the curb, over some shin length bushes, comes to a joyous crashing halt at her back, arms around her shoulders.
“How’s my girl?” He steps over the railing brushing past the APC model on her right and comes to rest for the first time since hoping off the Shonan Shinjuku in Shibuya twenty minutes ago.
“Wouldn’t know, why don’t you ask her?”
He throws his head back and lets out a quick burst of rapid, growling laughter. A smirk creeps across her face.
“Apartment café?”
“Apartment café, I’m fucking starving.”
He’s on the move again, now with his partner in crime. The sun rising in the east, heat in the east, the city is alive, the city is teaming with life, we are the city and the city is alive within us, thirty-six million people and not a friend in the world but one. In the city all you have is yourself. The city will swallow your friends, will swallow your girl will swallow your dog. Omotosando is ten thousand people full, the clock strikes eleven and the day is begun, roaring in beautiful urban insanity. Beautiful urban insanity: Tokyo.
