Poolside life

July 28, 8:03 pm, Tokyo

Sunday turned out to be a lesson in Japanese culture if there ever was one; however more convenient a classroom might be, however much easier simple factoids would be to digest, yesterday was evidence that observation of everyday life, perhaps more effectively than anything else, can open doors to powerful truths about a people.
I spent my day in Odaiba with a couple of Russian friends at the swimming pool. “Swimming” may not be the best word: “wading” is more like it. The pool was a circular doughnut no more than four feet deep with the swimmers pulled around it by an artificially produced current. On the outside of the doughnut were stalls selling yakitori, ice cream, ramen, drinks, and the like. Families sat on towels on the brick, facing inward. Inside the doughnut of the pool was an island with typical pool recliners. Confused as to why people would sit on the brick walkway instead of on open recliners, we (Elena, Kyril, and I) went to the inner island. The island was itself split into three parts; one for sunning on chairs, one for yet another, shallower wading pool for children, and finally a hill filled with grass and imported palm trees. Lying on the recliner I gazed up at the palms. They seemed out of place, of course; this is Tokyo, after all, and the leaves looked yellowish from the more temperate than usual clime. It seemed they were here to give an atmosphere to the place, an exotic flavor. To me palm trees seem over-played, but perhaps to those here they send a message of far away places, of well hidden treasures. Indeed, getting here was no easy task. The three of us met at Suidobashi (水道橋, waterworks bridge) station, on the Japan Rail system. We changed trains onto a Tokyo Metro system line, and then finally got on a monorail unaffiliated with either to get into the heart of Odaiba. Odaiba is a relatively new part of the city, and the monorail is telling; it has only one line, is the only rail in the area (unlike in the rest of Tokyo, where trains are the preferred method of travel), and intersects with the rest of Tokyo’s public rails at only one point: its beginning. As a result, the subway map of Tokyo looks like a web in most places, with a single long tendril curving its way through the glittering silver mass that is Odaiba. It was in this setting that I encountered palm trees.
In the water, I took to looking at people as they slowly made their way around the doughnut. There were hordes of children swimming their days away, the occasional person walking against the current, and the hilariously tanned lifeguards in their ridiculously small Speedos ostensibly watching over us. For the most part, though, people were content to be pulled along with the circling waves, pantomiming a normal walk as the water pushed their legs for them, or laying on inflatable tires. One young couple caught my eye. The man was inside a clear plastic tire, the hole around his torso, his arms laying relaxed across the inflated exterior. His female companion was holding on to the tire, herself standing up, slowly spinning him around. His expression was one of deep satisfaction, eyes half shut, lips pulled as if to smile but closed in the acknowledgement that it would be energy wasted to describe what was already understood; her face was filled with smiles, though not, it seemed, prompted by an emotion, but by a message she was sending to all that cared to look her way, including me: I am happy, her smile seemed to say, just where I am, doing what I am doing right now, and don’t you wish you could look as happy as me, doing what I’m doing right now?
Perhaps this is the feminist in me talking, but it almost seemed like her smile came straight out of a 1950’s good wife’s manual. Japan seemed remarkably traditionalist to me from day one: both my host parents are college grads, but only one works. Female teachers are seen as bad mothers because they spend more time with their students than with their children. Though women can be found in positions of significant influence, they are still exceedingly rare, and any women I’ve seen on TV shows in such positions seem portrayed in a sinister way, sometimes even de-feminized altogether. The pieces came together with that woman’s smile. Here it is still the gospel truth that a woman has a place she ought to fill, and any deviation thereof is seen as less than feminine.
Tell that to a female fighter-pilot or astronaut.