By Adam Brownstein — January 21, 2025
The first time I visited Kyoto was nearly a major minor tragedy.
After spending several pleasant days and nights wandering the cobblestone paths of Gion, sitting in silence at the Chōraku-ji Temple and eating sumptuous hammo fish, it was time for me to return to Tokyo. I spent one last day touring around some lesser-known temples, and upon returning to my inn I noticed that my beloved Nikon F-80 SLR was missing.
Beyond the undeveloped stories of Kyoto the camera housed in its film case, the item held sentimental value. It had been a gift from my father, one of many that lovingly projected his own hobbies and fascinations upon me. Sitting in the lobby of my inn gazing out at the hustle of the street and the stirring beauty of Yasaka Shrine, I began to spiral into a mild depression.
The innkeeper was the wife of the monk who presided over Chōraku-ji, and she offered me tea to combat my glum mood. In the most kind and gentle way she asked what was bothering me, and I shared all about my precious Nikon. When I mentioned that the last place I had remembered seeing my camera was in a taxi her eyes lit up.
“Which taxi cab company? Do you recall?” she prompted.
“Oh,” I demurred. “I did not know there was more than one. I’m really not sure.”
“We have three taxi companies here in Kyoto,” she explained. “They are denoted by the charming color array of their cars. They are black, yellow and green. Do you perhaps recall the color?”
“I’m so sorry,” I retorted. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well you still have a bit of time until your shinkansen back to Tokyo,” she noted. “Why don’t you stroll around Yasaka Shrine a bit. It’s such a nice afternoon, and the walk may help to ease your worried mind. Leave it to me to find your camera.”
With that, I took her leave and advice. Setting out for Yasaka Shrine, my slow, easy gate helped to calm my shpilkes. I arrived back at the to collect my bags, only to see the innkeeper offering a knowing smile.
“We’ve been able to locate your camera,” she explained, a tinge of pride breaking through her calm countenance.
“Oh my God!” I rejoiced. “But how did you find it?!?!”
“Well, I simply called all three taxi companies,” she shared. “It was actually in a car of the yellow cab company! I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of sharing your business address from your meishi. The cab company will ship it to your office, and it will arrive tomorrow.”
Humbled and surprised, I offered a bit of thanks, laced with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry to cause you the trouble of calling all three taxi companies. You really didn’t have to do that.” I confessed. “And how much do I owe for the shipping of my camera back to Tokyo?”
“Please. It was not much effort at all,” the innkeeper noted. “And as for payment, the yellow taxi company insists on payment. And they added to share a message with you. They are sincerely sorry for the trouble they caused.”
Trouble THEY caused? This was the first of many examples of how my own acts of mindblowing stupidity would somehow be the fault of kindhearted and righteous Japanese people. And, sure as Shinola, my beloved Nikon F-80 was waiting for me back at my Sony office the very next day.
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I spent last week as a Junior Ambassador for the New York City Board of Tourism. Particularly, I was in town to host an affable group of Japanese executives who were attending a technology conference. Most of our guests had never been to New York and viewed the trip with a mild amount of trepidation. It was an assignment that, through provenance and training, I was eager to accept.
I had spent the happy days of early childhood in Riverdale, shuttling into the City to take in the T-rex at the Museum, Shirley Temple mocktails at Trader Vics and heaping plates of marinara with meatballs at Patsy’s. In college, when Philly began to feel small and hackneyed, my pals and I would hop on PATH to Jersey and then crossover into Manhattan. In the days of our youth we could take down a whole pastrami sandwich at Ratners and pint after pint of ale at McSorleys. Somehow, we never gained a pound. And in the years prior to my expatriation to Japan I savored the best of Gotham. I joined Bnei Jeshurun and the New York Road Runners Club, and one week later I took up residence on 87th and Columbus, a mere block away from Barney Greengrass.
Beyond my tender attachment to New York, I had also enjoyed a spell after college doing advance work for the Federal government. This meant flying all around our country to scope out locations for political events prior to the guests showing up. Beyond the standard operation hotel ballrooms, famed for their tolerable rubber chicken lunches, I had to investigate local haunts for sidebar meet and greets. Diners in Jackson, Mississippi and Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Taco trucks in Albuquerque, New Mexico and Salt Lake City. Utah. Steak houses in Kansas City, Kansas and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Being an advance man was a hoot, the best bit being a vision of all of your guests filling up a spot that you had scouted.
In crafting our itinerary for the week, my Tokyo team and I left little to chance. We balanced massive meals, from mezze at Miriams to strip steaks at Smith & Wollensky to cacio e pepe in Bocca, with long walks around the City. Each morning to fuel our guests we descended on one breakfast institution after another. The Tik Tok Diner (no relation) near the Garden. Broad Nosh Bagels, the one on 9th Avenue AND the one on 58th Street. And during the conference at the Jacob K. Javits Center, I made sure to sneak away to Russ & Daughters on 34th Street for a steaming bowl of matzo ball soup along with chocolate rugelach for my guests from Japan. Our esteemed company ate it up, literally, much to my delight.
One evening we all ventured to Madison Square Garden to enjoy a Knicks game. The Garden is dubbed “The World’s Greatest Arena” for good reason, given it’s storied history and prsent standing. As we entered off of a bitingly cold 7th Avenue we immediately began to admire massive photographs of famous people watching other famous people. Spike Lee goading Magic courtside. Tom Cruise offering sage advice to teenaged Justin Bieber. John Bon Jovi shooting pics with a high powered SLR. Taylor Swift fawning over yet another sellout audience.
The game itself was a treat. Our National Anthem was rendered brilliantly by Jasmine Forsberg, presently enjoying a turn as the fourth queen in Broaday’s SIX. From the first tipoff to final buzzer the competition briskly ebbed and flowed. The dribbling artistry of Villanova product Jaylen Brunson and big man tres courtesy of Mr. Karl-Anthony Towns came up short against the surging Pistons. No one seemed to mind given we were all visiting from Tokyo, and the Japanese delegation was simply happy to take in their first-ever NBA game.
But our High-C’s quickly descended into a pale of concern as we made our way towards the exit. A senior member of our party, let’s call him Mr. K, had lost his cell phone at some point, putting us into an awkward situation. Upon realizing he had misplaced his keitai, my new friend issued a heatfelt apology to all of us for putting a damper on the evening. In turn, I provided a proactive mea culpa given the probability of finding a lost item in thick of the New York night was egregiously low. My Japanese apology, provided henceforth in quasi-literal translation, was graciously received by Mr. K.
“My great sorrow I share with you now, my new kind of friend,” I noted. “We are in my country now, not your country. Here in my country the New York way when we lose the phone is not to get the phone back. Again, please catch my sad apology.”
Despite the poor odds, I made the empty gesture of attempting to locate the phone. I began by befriendling a broad and alert security captain named Alvin. Alvin politely asked which section of the Garden we were sitting in for the game. With this information duly in hand Alvin instructed all of us ot proceed to the main entrance of the Garden and await instruction from the Head of Security, Mr. Ahmed.
Standing by near the entrance, Mr. K and I continued to exchange words of contrition for several minutes. Then, a squat man dressed in a blue suit wielding a walkie talkie approached me.
“Are you the guy looking for the cellphone in Section 213?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I replied. “Are you Mr. Ahmed?”
“Just Ahmed, yes, and by the way, here’s your phone,” our hero obliged, handing me Mr. K’s keitai.
And with that, we exited the Garden into the frigid night on 7th Avenue, aglow with a Kyoto miracle in the City that Never Sleeps.
The Tokyo Yenta 