In Tokyo at This Hotel

Someone has put a remarkable amount of work into thinking through the seasons at the Sheraton Miyako Hotel, in Shirokanedai.  There are cherry blossoms in the spring of course, and the dense, green summer canopy that extends over and across to the neighboring Hapoen Garden.  I hadn’t expected much left this late in the year.  Over in Beijing the leaves have fallen.  Colors went from green, yellow to brown, in just a few days.   But the garden here in this final week of November had an outstanding variety of trees, dramatically turning.  The Japanese maples were blood red.  Two sugar maples were electric yellow and between them both some other commanding deciduous had held on to a few remaining broad yellow leaves as if on request. Green cedars and pines frame the garden.  There is a large mallard at swim in the pond.  Someone has thought through the way this garden looks in each of the four seasons so there is always something just about to happen, that is indicative of whatever time of year it is.

We switched rooms.  I’d made one reservation and my colleague another.   They were full up and wanted me in a room looking out at the city.  I explained that this wouldn’t work.  “A garden side room, please.” as I always say.  She frowned and looked for awhile in her system and eventually came back with a room I’d knew would have a good view.  Indeed, it was a bit further down the hall and one floor lower.  A different angle.  A different group of trees to consider, stunning in a different way.

Across the street is a new tower.  It was only a few months ago that I was last over in Tokyo at this hotel.  Was this really thrown up in that short a time?  I seem to remember the construction site, but not this thirty-story tower.  There are dozens of single story dwellings just behind it.  It’s the second tower I’ve seen go up across the street in the time since I’ve been coming here.  Looking up I thought what a lovely place it would be to live, with that commanding view, but how shitty for everyone else it would be to now have this gargantuan construction to contend with here in the neighborhood.

The Bamboo Lounge would have the two-piece jazz combo for a few more hours. But they offered happy hour high balls with single malt whiskey, which sounded a fare bit better then the bottom-shelf crap they have for free in the lounge.  Predictably my colleague and I wound up down in the basement Mbar for more, later that night.  The young kid chips the ice ball and measures out precisely whatever unpronounceable Pictish pour you’ve chosen.  Two seats down an older salary man is passed out, head back and further down a young woman is laughing at whatever it was the older gentleman just said.  “Last-u call-u.”  “I think we’re good.”

Wednesday, 11/29/17