I have driven in Japan. Once. Driving in Japan
I love driving. When I was a teenager, the car symbolized freedom. It still does, so long as you can afford the fuel. However, I didn't have much of an urge to drive in Japan. You didn't need a car in Tokyo, and I discovered early that I could be more terrified doing thirty miles an hour on a narrow Tokyo street than doing a hundred and ten on the interstate. Still, I'd obtained an international driver's license before I left for Japan, and my roommates at the House of Three Gaijin wanted to use it before it expired in a year.
So, during New Year's vacation, we made plans for a drive to Fuji City. Our next door neighbors, who were going to their hometown for the holidays, offered us their parking space. Then we went to Shibuya and rented a white Mazda Cappella. The employee behind the desk eyed us suspiciously and kept waiting for our nonexistent chaperone to come in, but finally decided our paperwork was in order, and we went outside to inspect the car. The bumpers were frayed on all corners--the rubber looked almost fluffy--and there were a few dents we made sure he noted. Then the keys were in my hand and I found myself sitting on the wrong side of the car and wondering if I would remember to stay on the left side of the road.
The busy, multiple laned streets of Shibuya made for a trial by fire. I watched the signals warily and kept activating the windshield washers every time I wanted the turn signal. By the time we got to the suburban neighborhood at Futako Tamagawa-en, those roads narrowed to alleys surrounded by cinderblock walls. The first time I tried to turn, I discovered what had made the bumpers fluffy. There was no way to turn in such close quarters without scraping something.
I parked the Cappella in our borrowed space, and we went upstairs to pack for tomorrow's trip. However, the next morning, I went downstairs to find another neighbor taping signs on the windows of my car--I'd made the horrific error of parking in the wrong space. I realize this can be a real problem, when rent for parking space in Tokyo runs at premium rates. But seeing this idiot taping signs that said, "Parking fee: 500 yen" on the only car in an empty lot struck me as stupid, and his yelling didn't help. My roommates hustled me back upstairs and did the requisite grovelling before I demonstrated what he could do with his 500 yen.
Packed with lunches and cameras, we set off. I drove. Dee, the more adventurous of the two roommates, navigated in the shotgun seat (she later became my navigator when I started flying) and snapped photos of everything in sight. Vaunda, the other roomie, cringed in the back and wished she was home. Once on the freeway, I was torn between self-preservation and peer pressure. Dee was no help, shouting, "Make the bell ring again! Make the bell ring again!" At that time, Japanese cars had a warning bell that went off when you reached speeds over 100 kph--naughty driver going over the limit. I have yet to ride in a car where the warning bell wasn't going flat from overuse.
We paused at a rest stop that resembled the parking lot at Disney World, then found our exit. Highways turned to winding mountain roads that jokingly passed for two lanes. With a rock wall or ditch on one side and a sheer drop down the other, I became a white-knuckled driver. Dee snapped pictures and made faces at people in other cars, who were shocked to realize these three gaijin women were driving around unchaperoned. Vaunda curled in the back seat and wished she was home. At one point, we asked some bystanders on the side of the road for directions. I think we mostly got slack-jawed stares.
We stopped for lunch at a pretty little shrine with a tremendous view of Mount Fuji, then headed down out of the mountains. Coasting down from the hills, the speed warning bell dinging away, I was startled out of my wits by my first plastic cop. I'd heard of these things, but never expected to see one. You see the blue uniform and white helmet, and slam on the brakes. Sometime around the trip home, Dee discovered she'd had no film in her camera.
I had mixed feelings returning the car. Part of me was glad to be rid of it, but after the attendant carefully inspected the car for new dents and we finished the paperwork, it felt odd to slink back underground to the subways--demoted to our feet once again.
I've taken a couple of road trips with friends. Most have been spent fast asleep in the back seat--a custom I picked up riding the trains. One I remember the most was in an American Chevy Starcraft custom van, the kind with the carpet on the walls and the built-in TV/sound system. We drove to Hakone following a marathon... at the marathon's pace. A couple of times, I got out, used a convenient public restroom, and caught up with the van on foot. That kind of driving for driving's sake I can do without.
Japan Stories (c) Wendy Dinsmore 2004