This was my room in Chamama House on the day I moved out. This used to be the kids' room, hence the pattern on the curtains, the bars and the bunkbed platforms for futons.

I paid about $300 a month rent, which covered utilities, and to some extent, meals (they were supposed to charge me $5 per meal, but they kept forgetting). The duplex housed a raucous bunch: two families, four kids (ages 1, 2, 3 and 4), a dog, a cat, two goldfish and (I suspect) a ghost or two, all nestled deep in the heart of darkest Shitamachi (downtown Tokyo).

All dressed up and ready to dance. I'm standing at the front entrance to the house, waiting for Chamama so we can go to the neighborhood Bon Odori.

Chamama House wasn't your typical Japanese home. It appeared haphazardly built, with dark, curving wood walls trimmed with rope, Tokyo Disneyland posters and scary wood carvings of demon heads that some family member had brought back from Indonesia or parts thereabout. There was also an old, elaborately carved cuckoo clock that would go off at random. The floors were linoleum or carpet, save for the one tatami room for the head of the household, and the family had household shrines everywhere. Chamama would spend each morning tending these--leaving rice, water and fruit, burning incense and praying. They had business gods, house gods, kitchen gods, and one big shrine for Ojiisan, Chamama's husband, who had died the previous year. To me, this added to the intrigue of the place. The accommodations were dark and spooky, and--since everyone was too busy to keep up with Tokyo's ever-present grunge--less than pristine. At six every morning, I woke to the sound of trucks pulling into the garage beneath my room--the beeping of backup warnings and some guy yelling, "Orai! Orai!" But when you thought of it as an adventure, as I did, it was also fun.

Since they ran their own business, the family had lots of friends and connections who usually came to visit for a party a week. People from all over would gather at the big dining room table in the living area and eat and drink and talk. I only wish I hadn't been so shy and hadn't spent so much time fretting over what my role in the household was supposed to be. I think I bewildered them--this isn't how an American is supposed to act! On the good side, Chamama introduced me to the joys of sento (public bathhouses) and summer bon dancing (one year she stuffed me into a yukata and we went dancing and freaked the neighbors). I learned a few words of shitamachi-ben, a rough downtown dialect. One extremely hot summer afternoon, Chamama's oldest son lined the bed of one of the company trucks with a tarp, filled the tarp with water and created an impromptu pool party. We saw a couple of near-wrecks as people drove past the truck-turned-pool and gawked.

When it came time for me to move, we had one humongous wingding of a farewell party, with sushi and tempura and steak and other goodies. The liquor flowed freely, starting with beer, then wine, then sake, then a bit of old Canadian whisky. The next day I moved with a roaring hangover.

Chamama House, Tokyo

Rent: 30,000 yen per month, utilities included (long distance phone paid separately). 500 yen per meal. No deposit.

Pros: Never a dull moment. Convenient commute to work via my choice of two train stations. Also convenient to a brand new government-sponsored sports center. Air conditioner/heater in room and free utilities. Huge bathroom with the latest in amenities.

Cons: Noisy, dirty and rickety. The building shook when the wind blew. Loud karaoke bar across the street. Scary walk at night, past empty printing houses and homeless derelicts.