So I packed my rucksack, which to be honest was the thing I was most dreading, but everything fits well and surprisingly I freed up some space in my laptop bag too.

I decided to go for a walk around Asakusa and Sensoji Temple, and it was most definitely a Japan moment. Big band Mario on my headphones. Crowds of people to-ing and fro-ing. Happy smiling people laughing and enjoying themselves. An American girl and an English boy back in the hostel who just happened to sit next to each other striking up a conversation, discussing Goldfrapp, and eventually appearing to fall in love. Awwww.

So, anyway, I’d arranged to see Sarah again for some last-minute sightseeing, except I didn’t have anywhere in mind. She suggested meeting in Shinjuku. Was there anything I wanted to see in Shinjuku?

And then it hit me.

Park Hyatt Hotel.

Featured prominently in a movie called Lost in Translation which an issue of Metropolis, I recall, described as “the reason we’re all here in the first place”.

I’d found the hotel once before, but never dared to go in. The entrance to the hotel proper was on the opposite side to where we first went in, up some steps. In we went… and… whoa. Instantly, we both felt underdressed. A minimalist, wood-panelled interior, with important looking people sitting here and there. Expecting to get thrown out in seconds, we wandered through to the damn shiny elevators. (There are mirrors everywhere, to make me feel self-conscious about my grungy hoodie and jeans.) My intended destination was the New York Bar, 52nd floor, and I didn’t even know if they let non-guests in. But we pressed on regardless.

Up the lift to the… 48th floor? And… whoa. A restaurant in a great big room, with a forest of bamboo in the middle of it, and a huge window looking out on Shinjuku and Tokyo beyond. We wandered down the plush, incredibly expensive-looking corridor. (It’s important to emphasise how completely out of place we felt. Check their website for an idea of how posh it is. This hotel is for the very top layer of society. Rooms start at 57,750 yen per night, more than a month’s rent at my old guesthouse.)

Past another restaurant. Initially I thought they were piping in Spanish-style guitar muzak, until I realise that sitting in the middle of the restaurant are two actual Spanish guitar players, just there. You know. If you wanted some light music while you ate, there’s two guitarists. And that’s when I realise: this is … posh. I don’t mean a moderately fancy hotel, or driving a Rover, or owning a small house in Spain. I mean a world of such splendour and expense that only the true upper crust of society gets to experience it. It was an amazing insight.

Past the restaurant, and through what appears to be the exquisitely-stocked library for a 17th century scholar, and we find the lift to the 52nd floor. The New York Bar. Up we go, step out… and a woman stops us. We want the bar, of course. Oh, a cover fee? 2,000 yen?

And I think: I can’t really afford this. But then the voice kicks in - When am I going to be here again? Logic goes out the window. Let’s go! I’m paying. I’m leaving tomorrow, anyway.

And: here it is. The New York Bar itself. I dunno what I noticed first: the staggeringly beautiful vista of the Tokyo skyline? The rows and rows of important-looking people drinking cocktails and smoking? (As an aside, although I always have and continue to abhor smoking, I … I actually like Tokyo’s smoky bars. There’s definitely something missing in Blighty since the ban came in.) Or the four-piece jazz band, complete with flamboyant singer?

“This is just like a movie set,” I think.

Except it’s way different to what I expected. Have you ever visited a place you’ve seen in a movie, or somewhere you’ve only seen photos of? Have you ever noticed how your mind fills in the blanks to create an entirely fictional version of the place when you actually experience it and see the disparity?

The New York Bar is small. Not titchy, but certainly not the massive, entire floor-sized thing I got from the movie. The ceiling is high, but the whole thing is… I dunno what to compare it with. The tables are all crammed much closer together than I expected. The “bar” which Bill Murray spends so much time sitting at is actually a long counter with customers on both sides. But it’s definitely the one from the movie. I think. And the live music just completes it.

We met this guy called Jack, who — had that distinctly American brand of overbearing polish and charisma. He bought us drinks, though, so he’s alright by me.

Anyway, an hour or two passed. Going to leave, we paused to take a few more photos.

And I realised for the first time just how gigantic Tokyo is. Like I said before, I had to leave Tokyo to realise how the city has its own character, separate from my notions of Japan as a whole. And looking out at the city, I realised how big it really is. Every other city I went to had edges. If I looked out from my hotel window, I’d see skyscrapers, roads, houses, then mountains. In Tokyo, it’s just buildings. All the way to the horizon. In every direction. Just more city, sprawling endlessly. Tokyo, truly, is the closest thing to the idea of, say, Coruscant from Star Wars. Just urbanisation, everywhere. It’s beautiful, in a way.

With nothing better to do we resolved to head to Tokyo Tower. Except it was getting late and the trains were going to stop soon, so we wound up back in Shibuya, at the Starbucks. Cue LIT location 2.

A taxi got stuck. We laughed, cruelly.

Anyway, time came to leave, so we said our goodbyes, and I was lucky enough to catch the last train to Asakusa. (I asked the guard if it was going to Asakusa, and then when I went to get a ticket, he motioned to the train and said something I assume translates as “Don’t worry about that! Just run!”)

And so, walking back to the hostel listening to Air’s “Alone in Kyoto”, I had another Japan moment. Sensoji temple, and the streets leading up to it, are normally jam-packed with tourists. At midnight, however, it’s absolutely empty, something very strange in Tokyo. I mean, not a soul in every direction, the whole massive temple and the surrounding area sitting silently, like some sleeping creature. The pagoda standing stark against the unnaturally-bright light-polluted midnight sky. Down a small road, teams of road crews work through the night. Nearby, slightly drunk salarymen and construction workers engage in an impromptu midnight chat together. It’s something impossible to put down on paper.

So, I have to be up in six hours. I can sleep on the plane. I can sleep on the plane.

[One year later]
MATT: Every Friday night I, I fly from London to Hong Kong or, Singapore, Sydney. And then I, I get off and I, have a drink, and then I fly home.

SARAH: Why?

MATT: Because I wanted to be diverted, Sarah. I don’t care about anybody else on board. Every little bump we hit or turbulence, I mean I, I actually close my eyes and I pray that I can get back.

SARAH: This is not gonna change.

MATT: No, I’m sick of lying. We made a mistake. We were not supposed to leave.

SARAH: Yes, we were. Goodbye, Matt.

MATT: We have to go back, Sarah. … We have to go back!