21/03/2026
The patina has darkened on the bronze Hachiko statue through the years. The exception is around his front legs. They have remained shiny from tourists holding on while taking pictures. Sitting across from the Shibuya, Tokyo railway station, the memorial has become more than a favorite tourist spot; it embodies the entire district's culture, from branding to celebrations. The legend began when an Akita dog started following his owner to the train depot every morning and waited there after the workday was complete. Shopkeepers set their watches by his punctuality. The community observed this loyal companion and drew inspiration from his unwavering dedication, which continued even after the owner’s death.
As a fan of the motion picture Hachi with Richard Gere, I wanted to see this shrine during our visit to the city. We waited in a short line to get a photo. The polite custom of taking a picture for the person ahead impressed us. It kept things moving, and soon it was our turn. I handed my phone to the nice girl behind us, and she did the honors of capturing this special moment in time. After seeing the movie many times and getting teary-eyed when poor old Hachi makes his last walk to the station, it was a personal achievement making it here.
Next, we blended into a much larger crowd and waited to conquer the iconic Shibuya Crossing. Signs did a countdown before the lights for the massive intersection changed red to stop the endless flow of transportation. In a human wave, we moved as one. Some stopped in the middle for a selfie, many made videos as they walked, while some only wanted to cross to get home. Hundreds shuffled in a hurried but methodical fashion from every direction. A yellow warning flashed, and the stragglers hustled out of the way as the traffic roared back to life at the first second of green. A variety of street racers, delivery trucks, motorcycles, and Mario-style go-karts sped past, vying for position, evoking the feeling of a real-life video game.
An ocean of colorful neon stretched to the stars. The buildings featured giant, mesmerizing advertisements ranging from artsy and cosmopolitan to the absurd. The scrumptious scents from countless food vendors led our noses into an open market area. We chose a restaurant from a vast selection of posters. It was on the tenth floor of a high-rise building. When the elevator doors opened, it was a two-man operation in a residence, and they were cooking out of a broom closet. The guy sat us at the only table in their living room and gave out tall menus, with even bigger prices. I am sure they served only the freshest meals from their make-shift kitchen, as their ad board on the street claimed, but we passed.
We went from the penthouse to the basement and found another place. Evidently, the entire high-rise was nothing but mom-and-pop cafes. The next spot was a little more legitimate, with three tables divided in half by a red rope. We shared a spot with a young Japanese couple in business casual clothes. They were friendly, but also awkward toward each other, as if on a first date. Splitting their personal space with strangers was not ideal. They both stared down at their food, making hushed small talk while never acknowledging we were sitting with them. The seats opened up to store our coats, which was practical in the limited space. I picked veggies, crab, and pork with long, white, spaghetti-type strands, except thicker and more rubbery. It was a pay-by-the-bowl offering, but with a language barrier on my part, I ended up ordering double the noodles and triple the hot spice. We paid the cashier and handed her our container of raw goodies for the chef to turn into a popular Raman dish. When mine came back out, it was the size of a mixing bowl. The base was a syrupy rice-milk mixture, and it was not what I was expecting. With hunger pangs growling and the $20.00 cost of the meal after the money conversion, I dug in with my chopsticks. This was my first time using these utensils, and I did okay spearing the proteins, but the noodles were like slippery eels. Twirling, scooping, clamping onto them with the wooden sticks, nothing worked. The ones I did chorale dripped milky spots down the front of my shirt. When the reserved couple left, their bowls and area were sparkling clean. My part of the table had a bucket with enough noodles to feed Hachi for a year, with a pile of tiny napkins that I used to wipe my hands, face, and clothes. No wonder they did not make eye contact. I am sure it was a date they will never forget.
