Welcome to the Kawashima Mystery Cafe! Be generous!

Cabel’s Blog LOL reports on a strange cafe in Kawashima, Japan, where you get what the last person ordered, and the next person gets what you ordered:

For the record, here are the rules of the Ogori cafe:

1. Let’s treat the next person. What to treat them with? It’s your choice.
2. Even if it’s a group of friends or a family, please form a single-file line. Also, you can’t buy twice in a row.
3. Please enjoy what you get, even if you hate it. (If you really, really hate it, let’s quietly give it to another while saying, “It’s my treat…”)
4. Let’s say “Thank You! (Gochihosama)” if you find the person with your Ogori cafe card.
5. We can’t issue a receipt.

So what would you do if you found this cafe? Would you try to score while being cheap to the person next to you? Or would you be generous even if you didn’t know who was next?

The American bloggers who stumbled onto the cafe chose the latter option:

Mike went up to the cafe, slapped down a couple thousand yen (~$25), and ordered a little bit of everything: some ice cream, some snacks, some candy, some drinks, a Japanese horn-of-mysterious-plenty intentionally set up as a shocking surprise for the next lucky customer. (After his order, Mike received single iced coffee.)

As we walked away from the cafe, with just the right amount of delay, we heard an extremely excited “arigato goazimasu!! thank you so much!!” yelled in our direction, from an ecstatic mom and her equally excited young son. They truly appreciated the surprise.

It was so worth it.

Oh Japan

There is a new breed of Japanese man, who rejects the caveman macho mentality of his forefathers, who are unmoved by the call of flesh, hence their label: soshoku-danshi, the plant-eating male. Less driven by ambition, money, or sexual conquest, these fashion-conscious herbivores are shy around women, which ironically makes them the chosen prey of more carnivorous women.

“I’m not afraid to show my vulnerability,” Junichiro Hori says, “because being vulnerable or being sensitive is not a weakness.”

While the traditional hard-working Baby Boomers frown at such limp-wristedness, Japan has a long tradition of androgyny anyway, with Noh and Kabuki for men, and the Takarazuka Revue for women.

Look! I'm a girl so it's totally okay to eat parfaits!

And while I have more of an omnivorous bent (I prefer the Middle Way in everything), I’m happy to note that I can finally eat parfaits in Tokyo without people looking at me strangely. I mean, back in the 90s, Ranma had to change into his girl-form just to eat sweet desserts! That’s like… medieval.

Oh, Japan.

Oshino Koi, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

There is the word for something, and then the thing itself.

Koi ponds are a regular fixture of anime and manga, especially because of the koi-as-in-carp vs. koi-as-in-love pun that is used so often it’s attained the status of ‘cliche’. As a younger otaku, I considered this just a small part of my extensive knowledge of Japan, all of it of course attained second hand through comics, movies, cartoons, and video games, the casual expertise of the know-it-all.

Koi ponds outside of Japan, particularly in my country, have an artificial quality about them, like lagoons at a theme park. But the Japanese hold a particular aesthetic that isn’t common elsewhere, or easy to achieve — an exacting attention to detail applied to making the effect seem natural and effortless.

I stared at the crystal-clear waters of the pond in Oshino. This metaphor is apt — Oshino Village makes a healthy trade in selling crystals formed out of the mineral-rich waters of the melting snows of Mt. Fuji. (I bought Maoi a bangle of crystal beads, and something for myself.) The pond was filled with large, fat koi: some orange, some white with black and orange spots.

As I walked through the village streets, it hit me: I was in Japan.

Really, really in Japan.

At that moment, at an isolated pond far from where the other, more outgoing koi posed for pictures, this gray, ponderous koi the size of my arm swam past. It gave me a slow sideways glance.

It was probably thinking: “What a spaz.” Except, you know, in Japanese. And all… feudal.

Path to Hachimangu Shrine, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

At the very end of the Wakamiya Oji, past the huge red torii, the wide path to the Hachimangu Shrine was flanked by stalls selling different foodstuffs, some recognizable (like beautiful candy apples) and some not so much.

The daytrippers who arrived on the train with us were now walking ahead of us, and they all seemed to know what to do. I settled for a freshly-made grape lollipop (made from the biggest, roundest grapes I had ever seen), and made my way to the hand-washing fountain where the crowds were pausing before heading to the main shrine.

Oshino Village, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

The smell of food cooking filled the street as we made our way from the village parking lot to the center of Oshino village. I couldn’t understand any of the signs, and everything that was being sold seemed new and strange.

My fiancee stopped at this particular stall and bought a few green buns fresh off the hot plate. We bit into them happily — they were green tea mochi, piping hot, warming and filling our tummies at the same time.

My Bombe, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

I made my way down the cramped aisles of Don Quixote’s Dogenzaka branch, past pet supplies and cheap electronics and electric yakiniku grills.

A DVD of Mr. Children’s latest concert was playing on all the TVs, and I was standing there, imagining what it would be like to be a foreigner at a Japanese concert.

Would I know the cues? When to jump, when to wave my hands, how to applaud vigorously yet politely? Would I ever understand this culture?

And then, I looked down at the portable stoves and little gas cannisters and saw this.

Hachimangu Stairs 2, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

The crowds of daytrippers at the Hachimangu Shrine moved on from the stage where the Shinto wedding was taking place to the various side shrines with monks blessing little charms for business, travel, health, marriage, and so on. Temple miko briskly walked around, helping with odd jobs like sweeping the courtyard floor and carrying pots and flowers.

The bulk of the crowd, myself included, began making its way up the main steps to the main shrine and Treasure House, housing armor and weaponry from the Yoritomo Shogunate.

It was a cold November morning.

Hachiko Statue, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

It was getting late, and I was making my way from the Tokyu next to Shibuya Station to another, higher-end Tokyu where Maoi’s mom and brother were waiting.

As I made my way back to the Scramble Crossing, I noticed a lone train car in the middle of the square, with people going in and out of it. Next to it was this statue, which I recognized immediately.

Hachiko.

Someone left a bouquet of flowers at the statue. I paused in front of it for a moment, misty-eyed. Then I walked on.

Harajuku Takeshita Street, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

Unlike Ginza, which was dominated by large monolithic malls like Mitsukoshi and Matsusakaya, Takeshita-Dori is dotted with little stalls and boutiques. While my fiancee and her family spent their time (and buckets of 100 yen coins) inside the Daiso, I wandered nearby, carrying shopping bags.

Almost everyone was dressed so stylishly, even this couple, whose style seemed to be thrown together and yet still managed to seem like the height of Cool. I wondered if it was something in the water.

I pass a Japanese McDonalds, a crepe shop with a dubious French name, two princess-kei in pink in front of a TV camera, and entered this Goth shop filled with clothes I would have loved to wear, but didn’t have enough BRAVE to wear back in the Philippines. Belts, boots, shirts and jackets that bore a preponderance of the word ‘Fuck’ that can only be pulled off by a culture with only a loose understanding of the English language.

The shopkeeper, a very sedate-looking middle aged man, asked me in Japanese if I wanted anything. I said no and left the shop.

And now, I regret it.

Japan Railway Station, originally uploaded by demosthenesofathens.

We made our way around a maze of escalators, colored lines, shops, vending machines, and a bewildering array of train platforms. We plotted our stops the day before, and now, bleary-eyed but excited, we waited for the first train on our way to Kamakura.

I wondered what the cloverleaf symbol meant, or what a green car was for.