Taisuke Murakami, our Host at Nagoya
"Why let them bother you? If they stand in your way you will not get a bath as long as you are in Japan. If the women don't object I am sure I don't," and, saying this, I went down stairs to the bath-room, where I performed my toilet with half a dozen men and women, in true Japanese style.
Yokohama is the seaport of Tokyo and possesses little of interest except the novelty of being the first Japanese city in which the traveller lands. We spent a day in Kamakura, a sea-side resort about twenty miles away, where we saw the Daibutsu, a bronze statue of the Great Buddha.
Tokyo is but a few hours' ride from Yokohama. We arrived at the busy Shimbashi station and in a few moments were lodged in our second Japanese hotel. It was in this hotel that I upset all the social regulations by using soap in the bath-tub. As the same tub of water is often used by all the guests in the hotel, it is considered a great breach of etiquette to climb into the bath and soap one's body in a civilised manner. This soaping process is supposed to be carried on before getting into the tub and the body is to be thoroughly rinsed off by means of dippers or basins before entering the bath for a final soak. I was not aware of these minute details of Japanese bath procedure and went at this cleansing operation in the Saturday night fashion customary in rural America. The result was that all the succeeding bathers had to wash in soap-suddy water. I was completely ostracised.
We were fortunate to visit Japan during the season of the year when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Ueno Park, probably the most popular resort in Tokyo, was a forest of these trees, laden with millions of sweet-scented flowers. Thousands of people gathered each afternoon in this public park to rest and enjoy the beauty of the blossoms for which Japan is famous.
It was in this park that I decided to give up smoking. I had paused on one of the walks and was rolling a cigarette with some "Bull Durham" I had smuggled in the country, when a Japanese policeman came up to me and, with a few words which I did not understand, unceremoniously took the "makings" from me. I stood half stunned with surprise. I soon realised that I had exposed my tobacco to confiscation, disregarding a warning given me by a Japanese passenger on our steamer across the Pacific. I had previously tried the cigarettes sold in the native shops but couldn't become accustomed to them. Relieved of my American supply I decided to give up smoking altogether—for a time. Tobacco is a government monopoly in Japan and there is a prohibitive duty on all foreign importations of it.
One evening we visited the Yoshiwara, described in the guide books as the most famous tenderloin section in the world. It is a considerable distance from the business portion of the city and consists of about one hundred houses. There are nearly two thousand women in the district and during the evening they sit behind iron barred windows, similar to an American dry goods display window. Seated in a row, in front of several elaborately decorated screens, eight or more tastily dressed women of each establishment spend their time smoking or painting their faces, while the curious crowds flock by and look them over. What struck me more forcibly than anything else was the character of the sightseers. I saw a middle-aged man with his eighteen-year-old daughter leisurely spending an hour in this section. Two mothers with infants on their backs were interestedly going the rounds and a young married couple was a pair that came to my notice. Thousands of people flowed to and fro on the narrow streets and for a moment I thought the whole of Tokyo had congregated in this place for the evening. I was told that the Yoshiwara was at one time operated by the municipal government of Tokyo but that now, due to the influence of the British and American Salvation Army representatives, it is carried on independently but is closely watched and regulated by city officials.