Pieces of the Past

It is 6:30 on a Sunday morning and i’m off to try to fill a small hole in my personal history. Nothing so dramatic as a wayward relative or lost family treasure. Just some answers to questions that have dogged me from my childhood in rural America to this Tokyo subway line.

For more than a decade, I have been traveling to Japan as a business reporter with a crowded itinerary. But this time is different. After arriving in Tokyo in the spring, just in time to watch the cherry blossoms fall, I savor a rare luxury: unscheduled time. So, I’m headed out to a shrine market, the closest thing the Japanese have to a swap meet.

In the land of the $5 cup of coffee, I hope to find the ultimate Japanese bargain there and perhaps learn a little bit about myself.

Through my work, I’ve met many Japanese who vividly recalled the impoverished years right after World War II, when Japan was not a major consumer of Gucci handbags and Cartier watches. It was, I was told, one reason why many older Japanese preferred not to be surrounded by things that reminded them of their less-prosperous past.

There is also a practical reason for this “discard and replace” attitude. In a land of high-rise apartments, where the main living quarter often becomes the bedroom at night, there is little room for pack rats.

But after numerous visits to Japan, I still didn’t know where all the used things went. I occasionally stumbled across antique stores selling exquisite, high-priced lacquerware or wooden chests in upscale Tokyo neighborhoods such as Harajuku and Aoyama, but I never saw a secondhand store or garage sale.

A few years back, I met an American teacher in Kobe who had decorated her one-bedroom apartment with paintings, furniture and household goods all rescued from the garbage collectors. She did not share her hobby with her Japanese colleagues, however, for fear her predawn scouting expeditions would raise their ire as well as their eyebrows.

A more socially acceptable bargain-hunting alternative opened up when my sister, a consummate shopper, told me about the shrine market she had stumbled onto during a business trip to Tokyo.

“Luckily, I had two friends along to help me carry my purchases back to the hotel,” she confessed later. “And now, I wish I had bought more.”

*

As the child of a scientist concerned with creating the perfect potato, I spent my childhood in southern Idaho and eastern Washington. To the people in these rural outposts, Japan was little more than a former foe and an occasional headline in the local newspapers. To me, Japan was where my four grandparents and my mother had come from.

Occasionally, I would get tantalizing snippets of my mother’s connection to that far-away place--an overheard telephone conversation, a locked trunk filled with musty clothing--but they were fleeting.

My introduction to Japanese culture was mostly through my mother’s love of Japanese food, one of the few things she didn’t leave behind when she sailed to the United States in 1954 as a new bride. Sometimes, after a meal, my brother and sister and I would ask about this place where people ate their seafood so fresh it was practically moving when it came to the table.

Rarely would my mother talk about World War II. She had escaped the bombing that destroyed much of Tokyo because her family had moved to the southern island of Kyushu. But as the war dragged on, no one--even a young girl--could escape the horrors of poverty and deprivation.

However, even as I gathered scraps of my mother’s life over the dining-room table, the holes in the puzzle of her legacy always seemed to grow larger. As a teenager, I had little patience with my mother’s idiosyncrasies. One was her disdain for things old or used, which collided with my interest in secondhand stores and garage sales. When pressed, she would answer--with exasperated voice and rolled eyes: “In Japan you don’t wear other people’s used clothes.”

Years later, when I first visited the country, I discovered that many of the eccentricities I had attributed to my mother were, in fact, shared by millions of Japanese. These included her insistence on honoring tradition and age, her concern for respectability, her superstitions, her desire for the best and the newest.

*

In my temporary home in Tokyo, a residential neighborhood across the Sumida River from the main business district, few people are stirring on this Sunday morning. The raucous laughter of tipsy office workers and giggling teenagers that filled the sushi bars and noodle parlors Saturday night are memories. The dry cleaner and the tatami mat maker are taking the day off.

I treasure these uncrowded moments in Tokyo, where the senses are constantly assaulted by the crush of 11.8 million people living in a very small place. Even the subway station, usually a blur of dark suits and ties, is deserted except for the cleaning crew and two Japanese backpackers suited up for a weekend hike.

I reach the Nogizaka subway station by 7 a.m.--early enough to escape the worst of the day’s heat, but not early enough to beat the market veterans, who are already crowding the stairways leading up to Nogi-jinja Shrine, just beyond the station stop. While the rest of Tokyo slumbers, these Japanese, and a sprinkling of foreigners, jostle for space in front of the blankets, bamboo mats and tables that cover this wooded hillside.

Tokyo’s shrine markets date back to the early 1970s, when a group of antique dealers decided to get their wares to a wider audience. The city’s Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples offered space, a rare commodity here, and the priests welcomed the opportunity to collect extra revenue by giving their visitors a chance to combine shopping and communing with the gods.

On the second Sunday of each month, vendors bring goods from all over Japan to what is now called the Nogi Antique Market. Over the years, the concept has spread and there are now 10 to 15 regular antique markets in Tokyo, usually held on Sundays.

I ask a vendor if anyone can tell me some of the history of the shrine markets. He points to a man sitting under a large tree, who turns out to be Takashi Shina, a 54-year-old antiques dealer and one of the Nogi market founders. Shina explains that the markets were more popular with foreigners in the early days, when the quality of the antiques was higher and the powerful dollar bought twice as much. Buses would dump U.S. soldiers and their spouses at the market before dawn and return them to the military base loaded down with goods. As the power of the dollar shrank, so did the number of American customers.

History lesson finished, I wander slowly up a narrow, tree-shaded lane, surrounded by distractions. In a land where the vegetables and fruits at the corner market are lined up in perfect rows and the trains always run on time, the Nogi market is in pleasant disarray. Boxes of teacups, coated with dust, sit next to a wooden sewing box and several richly attired dolls in glass cases. Nearby is a box of old wire-rimmed glasses and battered cameras from the days when only Japanese knew what a Nikon was.

Some of the market’s 40 vendors are specialists, while others offer the gamut, from junk to jewels. One table is covered with colorful dolls, tiny lamps and other accessories used to celebrate Hina Matsuri, the Doll Festival, on March 3, and Kodomo no Hi, Children’s Day, on May 5. One vendor is dwarfed by his collection of polished Japanese tansu, the multi-drawered wooden chests that originated in Korea. These pieces are graced by exquisite metal hardware, from elegant handle pulls to corner braces and hinges. Along one wall is a line of movie posters from the 1950s and ‘60s.

I’m looking for Japanese antiques rarely seen in the United States--like the inro, small lacquered containers used as medicine pouches that appeared in Japan in the early 15th century, or netsuke, the miniature carvings that served as catches for money purses or small bags. The netsuke--made from wood, lacquer, ivory, metal or porcelain--were a common accessory until the 20th century, when the Japanese adopted Western styles.

But I discover that these popular Japanese antiques, which have gained admirers around the world, are now rare at these outdoor markets, too. In much greater abundance are colorful silk kimonos and obis, the long rectangular pieces used to tie the traditional Japanese dress. Old kimonos are plentiful and cheap because they’re considered outdated, particularly by young Japanese who might only wear this outfit a couple of times a year. The prices, which begin as low as $15, vary widely depending on the age and quality.

*

It takes me several hours to develop a price perspective. Outdoor markets in the United States often attract people seeking something for almost nothing: paperback books for a quarter; ripped jeans for $5; Grandma’s china cups, two for a dollar. But in Tokyo, shrine market goods range from the surprisingly cheap to the expensive. A box of dusty teacups priced at $1 apiece can be found next to an exquisite stone statue selling for $200. On unmarked goods, vendors are willing to bargain, a practice almost unheard of in Japan.

Among the best buys are the Japanese dolls, which go for as little as $10, depending on their size and condition. Centuries ago, the ningyo, as these figures are called, were used to draw away evil spirits and illnesses. Over the years, the dolls grew more sophisticated. Sometimes, they are dressed in the elaborate costumes of royalty and samurai soldiers.

When I ask why the dolls are so cheap, one vendor explains that young Japanese “don’t really care about these old things and don’t have room to keep them in their small apartments.”

Some older Japanese are reluctant buyers because they believe that certain items--such as clothing or dolls--carry the spirits of the people who owned them. After learning this, I realize my mother’s aversion to used things might also have been a hesitation to inherit someone else’s unhappy past.

A fierce samurai doll in a glass box, tucked away in a stairwell next to a pile of World War II songbooks and medals, catches my eye. It reminds me of a miniature soldier on horseback that my mother kept in her bedroom. It would be a perfect gift for my young son, who has begun asking his own questions about his ancestors.

I ask how old the doll is. The vendor, an elderly man with a kind, wrinkled face, shrugs. He guesses that it dates to the turn of the century, based on the fabric lining the box. His price is $80. I’m tempted, but don’t know how I would get such fragile cargo home. After 10 minutes of painful indecision, I reluctantly wander on.

Several hours later, I return for the third time, chanting my shopping mantra: “If it’s still there, it’s meant to be mine.” The man and the doll haven’t moved an inch. I offer him $60. “How about $50,” he replies with a smile. I don’t know why I am getting a break. Does he somehow know that it will have an honored place in my home, thousands of miles away?

*

Market veterans cautioned me against buying costly antiques without first doing the proper homework. When I called Hiromasa Iwasaki, editor of Tokyo Antique News, for advice, he told me to visit an antique shop for the best quality items. Generally it’s the less valuable inventory, or the goods deemed too old or useless, that find their way to the shrine markets, he said.

But younger Japanese, and foreigners, are turning tradition upside-down in their search for the unusual. Old kimonos are made into evening jackets or colorful silk pants. Obis become table runners, place mats and pillows. Hibachis, used as portable heaters in traditional Japanese homes, find second lives as coffee tables.

One shrine market aficionado is Joan Mondale--wife of U.S. Ambassador to Japan Walter F. Mondale--whom I ran into one Sunday at the Togo Antique Market, located at the Togo-jinja Shrine just north of the hip Harajuku shopping district. She had already picked up two old kimonos--one red, the other peach and purple--that were destined to become suit-lining material.

Mondale said she owns several colorful silk garments made from old kimonos, including a short jacket and a pair of evening pants.

“The colors don’t have to match, no one else will see the inside,” she said of her suit-in-the-making. “But I will. Whenever I open it up to put it on, I will see these beautiful colors.”

*

It’s 2 p.m. at the nogi market. For a few moments, I escape the crowd and head up the hill to the Nogi-jinja Shrine, which is empty except for a few wispy clouds of incense and two young, bald priests sweeping with straw brooms. I pause at the entrance and inhale deeply, breathing in the pungent mix of old wood and smoke.

After wandering down the street for a quick meal of tempura and noodles for less than $6, I return to the market for one final look. The vendors, who have been here since before daybreak, are starting to pack up.

Walking past one table, I notice a box of yellowed photos and stop. In my halting Japanese, I ask the middle-aged man behind the table how old the photos are. “About 50 years old,” he replies brusquely, and turns away.

The photos appear to be professional studio shots: a stern father with his young children, a mother and daughter, a group of young women. I become so engrossed, I don’t notice that the vendor has moved back in front of me.

“If you have a face like yours, you should speak Japanese,” he says sternly, all but shaking his finger at me. I flush and glance around to see if anyone is nearby. There is just one foreign woman looking at colorful masks at the neighboring table.

He isn’t through. “If you don’t speak Japanese, we might think you are Chinese or Vietnamese. There are many of those refugees coming into our country.” He does not insert the word “undesirable” in front of refugees, but it is clear what he means.

I nod, wishing once again that I had learned my mother’s language. The first time I visited this country, most people assumed I spoke Japanese. These embarrassing moments still occur, though less frequently now that the Japanese have more contact with Americans of Japanese origin.

I always walk away from these encounters with mixed feelings. Of course I should try to master the complex language if I want to understand the culture and communicate with the people. I’ve tried, but always got sidetracked before progressing beyond the barest of social niceties. Every year, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to make yet another run at what now seems like a lifetime undertaking.

But there is a difference between a misunderstanding--”Oh, I thought you were Japanese”--and an accusation, “You are Japanese!” I return to my box of photos, determined not to let one man’s disdain ruin my day.

A few minutes later, I hand him $10 and leave the market with three photos that are now among my treasured keepsakes. My favorite is a portrait of three rakish young Japanese men lying in a field with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Who are they and what happened to them? Did one become a soldier? Did one write a literary masterpiece? Did they become husbands and fathers? Are they still alive someplace, unaware that a stranger holds a little piece of their lives in her hands?

As I stroll home from my subway stop, my photos in my backpack, my samurai soldier bumping up against my legs, I realize that what I have really gone shopping for is a piece of my past. And in the shrine markets of Tokyo, I not only discovered something about where I’m from--my mother’s Japan--but also who I really am--an American abroad.

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Guidebook

Tokyo Trading

Telephone numbers and prices: The country code for Japan is 81. The city code for Tokyo is 3. All prices are approximate and computed at a rate of 100.7 yen to the dollar. Hotel rates are for a double room for one night. Restaurant prices are for lunch for two, food only.

Getting there: Delta, Northwest, United, All Nippon (ANA), Japan, Korean, Singapore and Varig Brazilian airlines offer daily nonstop flights to Tokyo from Los Angeles.

The shrine markets: Open from dawn until midafternoon year round. Bargaining is expected; discounts of 10% to 15% are common. Some vendors, particularly those selling furniture, will ship. Some accept credit cards for major purchases. Yen only for cash transactions. Nogi Antique Market: second Sunday of the month in Nogizaka district. Take Chiyoda subway line to Nogizaka station. Take stairs out of station and turn left. Antique market is straight ahead and to the left up the hill. Togo Antique Market: first, fourth and fifth (if there is one) Sundays of the month at the Togo-jinja Shrine in the Harajuku neighborhood. Take the Japan National Railway’s Yamanote line to Harajuku station. Head east through Harajuku neighborhood on Takeshita-dori Street and north on Meiji-dori Street. Stairway to the Togo shrine, on your left, will be lined with vendors. Heiwajima Antiques Fair: Japan’s largest indoor antique market is held five times a year, at the Heiwajima-Tokyo Ryutsu Center Building. Take the railway to Hamamatsucho Station and the Tokyo Monorail Line to Ryutsu Center Station. For more fair information, call 3950-0871.

Where to stay: Mitsui Urban Hotel, 8-6-15 Ginza, Chuo-ku, telephone 3754-4131, fax 3572-4254. Superior but small rooms. Attentive service from an English-speaking staff. One-minute walk from Shimbashi railroad station in upscale Ginza shopping district. Rates: $210-$240. Marunouchi Hotel, 1-6-3 Marunouchi, Chiyoda-ku, tel. 3215-2151, fax 3214-8036. Centrally located; also has some English-speaking staff members. Two-minute walk from Otemachi station on the Tozai subway line. Rate: $238.

Where to eat: Near Nogi-jinja Shrine: Don Don Tei, 9-6-23 Akasaka, Minato-ku, tel. 3796-0888. Specializes in tempura and rice; $10-$14. Azabu Kokusai Club, 8-11-20 Akasaka, Minato-ku, tel. 3405-2551. Chinese food, including dim sum; $30. Near the Togo-jinja Shrine: Harajuku Furusato Club, 1-8-10 Jingu-mae, Shibuya-ku, tel. 5413-2330. Open for lunch and dinner. Japanese lunch including cold noodles, sashimi, chicken and pork; $16-$18. Tenho Chinese Restaurant, 1-6-8 Jingu-mae, tel. 3402-3661. In a crowded alley near Harajuku station. Chinese food and dim sum, with appetizers starting at $3.50; $15-$17.

For more information: Japan National Tourist Organization, 624 S. Grand Ave., Suite 1611, Los Angeles, 90017; (213) 623-1952.