“Why are you here?” The slender, young customs agent at Narita didn’t seem at all friendly as she thumbed my passport.
“Tourism!” I replied to her, as cheerfully as possible from behind an N100. She stared a moment.
“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Then a cold stare.
Uh-oh… Five entry stamps into Japan since September must have made my accidentally-washed, ragged passport look even more suspicious.
“Irezumi!” I blurted out, first lifting my left trouser to show a completed sleeve, then the right to reveal another in progress: a visually-compelling explanation, I hoped, no other words needed, my fingers crossed.
She immediately brightened and laughed. Two seconds later my frayed passport was back in my hands and we were through the gate and home free! Shortly thereafter we were on a bullet train to Kyoto, marveling at the infrastructure of Japanese rail. I’d learned my lesson on the December trip and this time would do all sightseeing before the inking.
Our Airbnb had perhaps the most elaborate set of instructions I’d ever seen, including a warning that a lost key would engender a $500 fee for changing the lock. We met our host at the apartment; she seemed way too serious for much of a chance of warming-up via the trouser-pull maneuver, so I skipped the reveal and tried to pay close attention to the detailed tutorial on using the shower. (It was very nice, as was the bidet.)
Kyoto is remarkably well-preserved for a city just up the road from Hiroshima. Evidently an American general had honeymooned here prior to WWII and seen fit to remove Japan’s lovely, former capital (794-1868 AD) from the A-bomb shortlist. The city has less than a tenth the population of Tokyo, only two rail lines, and a more relaxed feel emphasized by five antique neighborhoods with lots of wood, bamboo and not a single neon sign in sight. These regions are home to the geisha, who train, live and work tirelessly here.
The highlight of our stay there was an evening of food and entertainment at an *ochaya—*a private and exclusive venue for a geisha experience requiring an introduction by a current member (or, in our case, an agency with a price tag stiff enough to necessitate first sitting down on a tatami mat with an even stiffer belt of shoju). The rule is ‘no first-time customers,’ and they mean it!
We arrived at the ochaya ahead of our guide, having been instructed to wait for her and not attempt to enter on our own. After a little detour for appropriate footwear (socks a must) we were escorted into a stunningly beautiful tea house with a private dining area where we met the Okaasan, the ‘Mother’ of an associated home (Okiya) for geisha trainees and proprietor of the ochaya. After some small-talk out came a beautifully-dressed, white-faced pair of Japanese women who sat down on either side of me and Jaime.
The geisha—called a Geiko in Kyoto, to emphasize both that the city started the whole thing and where the practice remains the most traditional in Japan—and her young trainee (a Maiko) were shy and not too talkative. So I rolled up my trouser once again and showed them part of my left leg, and everything changed: it was as if a door opened, just as it did (literally) at the airport. My irezumi shows a real interest in Japanese culture, perhaps more so than might be accomplished by any easy compliments about their kimonos or the tea house or the amazing food (catered; the house isn’t a restaurant). We learned about how arduous is the training (five years, with only two days off per month), how high the attrition rate (50%), and how much the art form is dwindling (only 200 geisha and 70 maiko in all of Japan). After chatting and pouring our beverages and laughing at the extent of my ink (they really dug Steve’s Butcher’s ass-piece, shown tastefully via photo only), the pair performed song and dance and music on a three-stringed shamisen. The finale was a drinking game which Jaime and I both summarily lost to the Maiko, who managed to remain remarkably demure while gloating victoriously over her conquests.
Back in Tokyo we stayed in a drab and tiny Machida hotel room that featured a bathroom quite possibly reclaimed from a decommissioned Carnival cruise ship. Watch your step!
I’d had a theory that Machida Horiken was going a bit slowly out of pity for his suffering foreign subject; so this time I prepared my best analgesic cocktail. So there I was again, en route to the first day of inking and talking to myself: debating about whether there was time for lunch as I got off the JR Yokohama line at Naruse Station, the fifteenth time I’d done so, and muttering “let’s just get a beer and wait for the drugs to kick in.”
On the crowded train I’d watched a well-dressed gent pull a rugby move, turning his back and shoving his way into the packed car; evidently there are limits to gentility, even in Japan, and there’s actually an official pushing job held by determined workers at busier stations. Heave ho!
At the studio Horiken could see the difference, and delivered: over four days he shaded the ghost and all but the floral areas of my entire right leg (based on another Kyosai masterpiece). The magical calligraphy ink once again clobbered me: I was febrile by the third day, and again my foot and ankle turned into a beach ball. But the stuff is wonderful and worth the struggle.
The final day of inking coincided with my 40th high school reunion. I couldn’t help but wonder what my eighteen year-old self would think about all of this: like most folks I periodically imagine what sort of advice I’d give to my earlier versions along the way from past to present. Would this adventure incur some advice the other way around?
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Word to the wise about body hair and wrap removal! Avoid hair, unless you want to enjoy a slow-motion Brazilian from your ass crack to your heel. Shaving with a razor is something dermatologists don’t recommend before surgery, as little nicks and cuts increase the risk for infection—but since tattooing is pretty much made up of millions of nicks I think it’s OK to get a close shave if you’re going to use an occlusive dressing. You’ll thank me for it!