By Anna Kunnecke
I'm a city girl. Specifically, I'm a Tokyo girl. My many years in Japan have all been spent right here in the metropolitan sprawl that connects Yokohama, Tokyo, and their bazillion respective burgs. So when I venture outside my urban comfort zone, I feel like I'm entering another country.
My family spent nearly a month in a small town this summer, and it was odd to be outside my stomping grounds. For starters, everyone drives. You need a car or a bus just to get from your house to the train station. This is as different as could be from where I live: my apartment building is perched in extreme proximity to not one but two modes of efficient public transportation. We may not have a whole lot of greenery happening, but hey, it sure is convenient. The subway entrance is only one minute from our building's entrance, and while it takes three whole minutes and an extra set of stairs to get to the JR station, I pass my daughter's preschool and our coop grocery store on the way, so it's basically a wash. I never drive downtown, even though I have my Japanese license, partly because I have no car but truthfully because Tokyo driving takes serious guts and I prefer to get my kicks doing nice calming activities like bungee jumping and snake handling.
Aside from the reliance on four wheels, one of the things that was jolting about being outside the big city was feeling conspicuous all the time. In Tokyo, where people are blasé and don't blink at Little Bo Peep outfits or foreigners traveling in packs, I walk around all the time minding my own business and hardly ever cause scenes. Out in the sticks, however, I was something of a spectacle. Or maybe not so much me as my daughter: blue-eyed, blond-haired, and prone to singing loudly in public, she was a magnet for attention. People sneaked glances in stores and looked up when we stepped onto trains. The looks weren't malicious, just curious. I chafed a bit under the steady gaze. I forget sometimes; it may be my city, but it sure ain't my country.
Something I love about Tokyo, or really any big city, is that little bubble that you get to pull around yourself. Call it antisocial, cold, or disconnected: to me it feels like a little bit of healthy personal space. In the city I can quell well-meaning old ladies with an icy look when it comes to my daughter: look if you must, but don't touch. In the country, strange hands would muss her hair, pat her head, and hand her candy. I appreciated the warmth, I really did, but it bothered me that people felt so free to get so close. It was as if because we were obviously different, none of the social codes applied.
One of the ironies of city living is that even when people are packed together, you still keep your little bit of breathing room, even when you're breathing other people's air.
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