My first and only trip came and went in 2014, maybe a year earlier. That detail matters less and less, than the memories. Tokyo is a city I’m sure I wanted to live up to the fantasy, mine built mostly on recycled images: bird’s-eye views of pedestrian rivers, billboard neon and noodle bars, punk hair and automation. Much of it was real. Discovering Ginza on a night walk from Tokyo Station was satisfyingly Blade Runnerish while Shibuya and its manic Scramble Crossing supplied my pedestrian scene. It’s the only intersection I know that doubles as tourist attraction. The Meiji Shrine is a reasonable walk away and a peaceful green escape though the emperor’s grave resides in the former capital of Kyoto. I wasn’t necessarily looking for it. I was lucky enough to witness a wedding ceremony there however, or some part of it, in a courtyard containing a “wishing tree.” Did I purchase and hang a hope? I don’t remember. 

As I tend to, I spent a lot of time on foot, exploring, in part with a plan. I walked until I was sick of it, until I felt entitled to people-watch with a coffee or a glass of beer. I didn’t shop, didn’t even eat “well” considering the breadth of food available. My first meal was a footlong airport hotdog and the next day a Hawaiian burger at the foot of the Tokyo Skytree, a finger-of-God broadcast tower in the city’s Sumida ward. It’s the world’s tallest tower in fact, and despite a haze that kept Mount Fuji from view, I spotted places that I planned to visit, including the Asakusa district’s Sensō-ji Temple. This is Tokyo’s oldest and dedicated to the Buddhist goddess of compassion. It was firebombed during the Great Tokyo Air Raid of 1945 and later reconstructed. I walked there of course, over a bridge and past the Asahi Super Dry Hall and the 360-tonne sculpture that caps it. Asahi Flame. Flamme d’Or. Golden turd. There are various names. The crowds were thick along the brightly colored market street leading to the main temple hall at Sensō-ji. I didn’t partake but watched some of the customs at work, one where visitors rub themselves in the smoke from a massive insense burner. The act is thought to have healing effects, even intelligence raising if applied to the head. I might go back. 

Then there was Shinjuku. For better or worse, the ward is notable for its stash of corporate headquarters, the Kabukicho red-light district, and the planet’s busiest subway station (between 3 and 4 million passengers daily). And more. Always more. The attraction I can’t shake though, the one that stays with me through dream and dinner, is the Robot Restaurant. Picture if you will the bizarro entertainment progeny of Optimus Prime, Mothra and a Polynesian Sailor Moon on acid. Better yet, don’t. Words are wasted on this one. See it, don’t read it. The rest of the trip added more checks to the list. Tokyo Tower is a city icon with loads of film and anime cameos, an anti-climax after touring the much taller Skytree but as someone who’s never done Eiffel, standing in the presence of a truss tower was…cool.  

Ryōgoku Kokugikan. Marbles in the mouth but I was more interested in attending than correct pronunciation. The sports arena is best known as a venue for sumo wrestling and again I’d lucked out. A fall tournament (the Aki honbasho) had overlapped my four-day stay. I bought a ticket for my last day and left the airport hotel early to grab the metro into town, anything express-like. I was defeated by jumping on a suburb commuter. Hit every blessed stop. I’ll only take some of the blame given the complexity of Tokyo rail service: 158 lines, 48 operators and a map that resembles a fallen plate of spaghettini. The saving grace was in how sumo tournaments run, all day, with the lower ranked grappling earlier in the day and the top divisions later on. My schedule kept me from experiencing the electricity of a packed house or the fierce grunts of a yokozuna, but I can’t say I minded having the hall nearly to myself. A steamed bun, a beer and the 10 a.m. echoes of sumo-tainment. It’s a memory.