SEARCHING FOR NEVERLAND

Reminiscent of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, the Yurikamome monorail slipped through Odaiba’s concrete jungle like a snake in grass. Gaining unlawful entry through the windows of corporate confidentiality, its reflection traversed vast expanses of glass facade, suspended between skyward reach and plummeting depths. The next stop was Pallette Town, virtualised by video game designer Satoshi Tajiri into demographically challenged “Pokemon” destination of choice, with population of eight and entrances totaling two. The reality differed little, with access electronically restricted and evidence of Tokyo’s 13 million, scarce. Children and grown-ups seemed to fall prey to the charms of the “Catbus” from the film “My Neighbour Totoro”, lying in wait at the mouth of the shopping mall, its Cheshire cat grin a beacon to Studio Ghibli fans young and old. Like a long lost friend, my daughter ran to embrace it, savouring the moment before losing herself amidst shelves laden with treasured memories - her smile wiping away all traces of self-consciousness, teenage angst and, a mother’s tears.

Like the arrival of an unwelcome guest, the departure of the Himiko water bus loomed, sinister and futuristic creation of Japanese animator Leiji Matsumoto. As we cruised up the Sumida River from Toyosu, the world famous Tsukiji Fish Market and Hamarikyu Gardens came, and then went, like film stars on a red carpet or a passing childhood phase.

Asakusa waited patiently, as it had for centuries, shunning smooth electronic transition in favour of overhead cable confusion, its sapling telegraph poles defiant against the cloud-piercing Tokyo Sky Tree - ever present, but greyed out by smoggy distance. A little shop selling brushes of every type beckoned my daughter into the forgotten territory of simple pleasures, whetting her appetite for the modest feast of fish shaped pastries to follow. As if to give thanks for fayre more familiar to our western pallet, we joined the pilgrimage to the sunset lit Senso-ji temple. Secret wishes whispered into tightly clenched hands were drowned out by the tinkling of coins tossed away like a thousand cares and, as we followed the meandering Sumida back down-river to our hotel, I prayed for the safety of our dreams, left behind in the hands of the gods.

Yanaka Cemetery was to be the dead calm before the electric storm of Akihabara. Ancient cherry blossom trees were gently roused by the faint sighing of the wind, echoing the dying breaths of generations long past. The sacred shrine of a Shogun dynasty was trespassed by a feral cat, nonchalantly washing itself amongst resplendent gravestones. Distant sounds were carried on the breeze; the hushed camaraderie of gardeners at work, the occasional tinkle of a bicycle bell.

Just two stops along the commuter crammed JR Yamanote line, the flat grey pallor of stone and sky was swiftly replaced by towering psychedelic neon, like stage sets swapped between the acts of a play. “Akihabara! Akihabara!” the train pleasantly announced before spewing us out into electronic consumerism hysteria. This was the supposed “Mecca” for fans of anime - the virtual parallel world which, like a favourite aunt, has proved victorious in repeated battles for my daughter’s fickle childhood affections. And yet, the only children here were the ubiquitous doe-eyed cartoon characters for which businessmen seemed to clamour. They paused only to feed - either themselves with noodles or slot machines with Yen. I didn’t want to look at my daughter’s face, for fear of a sad inevitability being confirmed - that with age comes knowledge, overshadowed by confusion and disillusion. And what goes is naïve acceptance – one of the last bastions of childhood innocence.

On a wet morning in Mitaka, we were rescued from rain-soaked disorientation by the little yellow Ghibli bus, which transported us to the museum where just for while, fantasy chased away harsh reality, and all that existed was a world of excitement and wonder. The chaos of towering concrete and neon was forgotten for a few snatched moments and, amidst aged wood and wrought iron, we took solace in the soft illumination of stained glass filtered daylight and little beaming faces. Treasured cartoons flickered silently, the only sounds the gentle purring of winding film spools and hushed wonder. Stepping back in time to the creation of films such as the Oscar winning “Spirited Away”, we crept through charmingly cramped artists’ studios, taking a fly on the wall glimpse through a fog of chaos and colour of the magical process that metamorphosed rough sketches into animated splendours, little pieces of which we were given to keep as mementos of our visit.

The little yellow bus was waiting, a gentle but sad reminder of our imminent departure. And as my daughter bid an affectionate farewell to the gentle giant that is the Robot Soldier from “Laputa Castle in the Sky”, I reassured her with a smile and a hug that she needn’t be in any rush at all to grow up and that happy childhood memories should always be clutched as tightly as the precious snippet of celluloid in her hand.