Nagoya: Things I Couldn't See

Suddenly I realized that I was all alone in this strange country, with almost zero knowledge of the language and the fact that I didn’t know anybody here. However, in a moment like this I was never really afraid of getting lost—it was more like a comfy feeling. Well, this journey officially turned into an adventure.

The bus stopped for a while at an amusement park called Fuji-Q Highland. From a distance, I could see a roller coaster spinning and the passengers’ screams reverberating out loud. A group of juveniles, perhaps from the same high school, entered the bus. A female student nodded as if needing my consent for the seat beside me. In front of me, two of her friends peered back and chuckled as if wanting to tease their friend. I asked her where they were heading but apparently she didn’t understand English, so I typed the question on Google Translate and showed her the Japanese translation. “Ah. Shizuoka!” she replied. I kept using the same way for the following questions and she replied in the same way as I did.

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I arrived at Nagoya Meitetsu Bus Center around 10 PM. My hostel location was about one kilometer from the bus center. It was a men-only hostel—well, this was a new experience for me, so I was curious what the underlying story was since I hadn’t encountered any kind of hotel/hostel like this except the typical ‘Syariah’ hostel in Indonesia which requires you to show marriage proof or book if you bring a partner. But a hostel for men only? Was this perhaps a kind of hostel for people on abstinence or avoiding sexual encounters? The building was concrete with several levels and it was fully operated by old women. There were two receptionists who welcomed me with a delicate gesture. They couldn’t speak English at all except for ‘check-in’ and ‘passport’. After handing me a form to be filled, one of them guided me to my room on the third floor. The interior of the hostel was constructed like a labyrinth full of interlaced aged pipes, murky hallways, tubes with a hole stuck on the wall to drop the key for check-out. It felt like being in the middle of the ’90s. It looked like scenes from Wong Kar Wai’s movies.

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I’ve learned that in order to get noticed and a suitable response, I should say a single word out loud and clear. Just like the old lesson of being lost in the middle of a crowd. Some people I’ve met seemed to understand English if I gave them an individual word, not a long phrase or sentence. For example, if I wanted to know where the toilet was, instead of saying ‘where is the toilet?’ I just said ‘toilet’ or ‘toire’ which slightly worked as a clue. Like many Indonesian words, Japanese words have a bunch of loanwords from English which have been assimilated with local nuance.

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In the morning, I could barely wake up. I felt so lethargic, my calves were swollen, three big calluses popped up on my feet and it was painful when I put them on the floor. I laid my body down again and slept like a shrimp.

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When I woke up, I couldn’t find the plastic bag of banana and orange juice that I’d bought last night. Very weeeel. I might have left it somewhere. I drained the callus fluid from my feet—it felt much better. I took a hot shower then asked the grandma about my plastic bag. Fortunately, she’d found it in front of the receptionist table and kept it in the refrigerator. I checked out around 10 AM and left my bag at the reception.

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Because of the soreness in my calves, I walked gingerly on tiptoes while enduring the pain. I visited Nagoya Castle. In front of the outer complex, a big samurai statue named Kato Kiyomasa sat tight, holding a sword handle in its left hand and a tassel in the right. The environment was almost the same as the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. The main castle was mighty and beautifully carved. I hoped I could see the interior part of the main castle but it turned out there was maintenance inside. Visitors could still reach inside the complex. My disappointment was at least relieved by a samurai performance near the gate entrance and some ninjas in black suits wandering around, surrounded by people who asked for photos. On the way back to the hostel I encountered a shopping street called Endoji Shotengai. There was a street performer playing traditional Irish songs, an energetic boy doing step dance in the middle of the mini orchestra.

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The thing that I still don’t understand since I was in Tokyo is why houses and buildings have plastic bottles in various sizes filled with water neatly arranged outside—always in specific spots, but why those spots?

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Hotel: Shochikubai Hostel No.3 - Men only
Hotel Environment: Cozy outmoded
Treatment: Not available
Others: Single room, hospitable, Meitetsu Bus Center about 10 min walk
Impression: time travel to 90s