My adopted town in Japan isn’t anything special by Japanese standards. It has a shrine north of town, the usual pachinko parlors, ramen shops, yakitori restaurants and bakeries. The town continues to grow around the train station, like so many other towns in Japan. Hundreds of years ago each town was anchored by the shrines and temples still liberally scattered throughout the landscape of Japan. With modernization came the dependence on high speed efficient transportation, and with that towns moved away from the shrines.
One of the things I like most about the growing town of Okubo is that there is an old side, and it isn’t too hard to find. North of the station and a little to the west is a part of town that would be easy to miss. Between a lonely liquor shop and a lively bar that doesn’t open until 8 pm there is a gap, and once you walk through the gap you enter a quiet forgotten world.
What I am talking about is called the shatta-gai, a shutter street. In the best of times these streets were lined with shops that sold everything – clothes, fruit, meat, TVs, haircuts, everything. In a time before big supermarkets and online shopping, this was the center of town. In big towns the shutter street is as wide as a regular street, but here in smaller Okubo it is the width of a sidewalk. People would walk down the street doing their shopping and greeting each other, exchanging stories and gossip. The store owners would stand near the entrance and call out to passersby with the unique qualities of their goods, and try to bring in more business.
In some cities these streets are still lively and active, and they are called shoten-gai, shopping streets. But with time and technology and volume purchasing and deep discounts it became harder for the shoten-gai, and starting in small towns the shops began to shutter one by one. Like everywhere else in Japan change came gradually, and at first they cut back their opening hours until it wasn’t worth their time to stay open at all. They drew down the clanking shutters for the last time and went on to do something else with their lives. And shop at the local supermarket.
I discovered the shatta-gai in Okubo by accident, after drinking at a local place I was curious to find the tiny gap and feeling a little like the kids going through the wardrobe to Narnia I walked through and found a dusty, silent alley lined with shuttered shops. It smelled like a bin of clothes from a garage sale, and there was a lone fluorescent overhead light illuminating the center. There were plenty of shadows and dark corners remaining, however. Above each shop was a sign that advertised the name of the shop, but these lights were off permanently. With names like “Angel”, “Eloise”, and “Fish Shop Yamamoto” you had to imagine the places behind the dingy shutters. After a short way the shatta-gai turns to the right, and the night I went I found that one shop was open. It was a fruit stand, and of all the things to sell in the lowest of low traffic areas, fruit seemed like the worst possible choice. I walked by and an old man was reading a newspaper with the radio playing a talk show in the background. He was leaning comfortably in a folding chair, and he didn’t look up from the paper or recognize my presence in any way. The only way I could tell he was alive was that he was maintaining a vertical position.
The fruit seemed fresh enough. He had watermelons, big grapefruits, cantaloupes, and packets of strawberries. In the back on display were some containers of apples designed to be given as gifts, and the prices were extremely expensive. I imagine that just one of those sales could keep him open the rest of the week, and maybe that was the point. The guy never looked at me and I moved on with my curiosity satisfied. I think he knew I wasn’t a buyer, and I guess after sitting in that shop for most of his life he can tell pretty quickly who is a buyer and who isn’t.
At the end of the shatta-gai I walked out into the regular street, which was surprisingly close to my barber shop. Above the shatta-gai there is sign advertising a fish market, with the symbol of a red snapper inverted – a symbol of celebration and good luck in Japan. The sign is hand painted, weathered and faded, but perfectly symbolizes what is inside on the street. Nobody is going to have any false hopes after seeing the weather-beaten sign almost falling off the hinges.
Older people in Japan often lament the progress of time, just like old people do everywhere. Japan changes and evolves much slower than my home country of America, so there are many opportunities for an amateur sociologist like me to see what life was like years ago.
