Behind The Silver Door

I have had a run in with the police before. In Atami, for those of you who read my blog often know this already, I was sleeping near the train station ready to hike the next day when I was awoken by the local establishment. It was a pleasant experience actually, and the second time wasn`t much different. I was feeling a tiny bit exposed today, when I left home. My shirt had a gun on it, and it was tight. My skin exposed liberally. I wanted to check my e-mail, at the offices of the company I rent my dorm from. I would later try and explain to the police officer that it was like getting a carton of milk from the corner store and forgetting your drivers license. No dice. I got through the pass-stile at Shinjuku station to get to the offices when at the corner of my eye I saw the cop lift his right arm and flag me down, like a hitchhiker needing a ride. He politely asked me whether I spoke any Japanese. My language studies so far have been good to me, and in Atami I had been able to channel some of the godlen Japanese language gods to move my mouth for me explaining why I had been sleeping on a bench near the train station, but in a more lucid and awake position I decided to tell the cop that I spoke no Japanese.

He asked for my identification. I wasn`t panicky, or afraid. I knew what the situation was evolving into. I had heard a few weeks before that many foreigners were being asked for identification, and were questioned if they turned their pockets empty. Some were arrested, obviously for illegal reasons because here, here it is very very black and white. I have not had a negative experiece...yet...in dealing with the powers that be. Whether the customs people, or twice now with the police. You have everything in order, you will be fine. If you do not...you`re fucked. Because I was not able to supply any identification for the officer, he told me that I should always carry my passport with me. This I knew, but feigned ignorance. He and his newly arrived partner, after some comments about tattoo`s, led me to the tiny silver room in the Shinjuku police box.

I was asked to sit down, and to empty all my pockets. I was asked whether I had a knife (I laughed out loud like he was a fucking crazy person) asked whether I had a gun (the cop and I both laughed at that because I had a gun on my shirt - I bought a cool looking shirt before going to South Korea that had a large gun and it said `woman` on the top and `man` on the bottom, underneath the gun. Behind the shirt it said `to live or die tour 1969` - an odd shirt I thought cool) I was asked to take out my wallets, empty my pockets etc. After I had explained to them who to call one cop went through my wallet with a fine tooth comb, and the other conducted the proper business of verifying what I was saying as truth. The room was cold, metal, and I was happy that they left the door open for me so that I could watch the front office. If the door closed I wondered whether I was in deep trouble. It looked like those rooms you see in cop movies or shows (anyone see Streets of San Fancisco?) I never felt threatened or interrogated. I understood exactly why they were doing this. While I wasn`t happy with the fact that the original officer stopped me because of HOW I looked, I saw the point.

Having had to deal with the police twice already I don`t want to deal with them a third time. I do have to apply to stay in the country for two more weeks in November so I don`t want to cock that up. After all, it is a gorgeous day today, and I am going over to the Ginza to take photos of the rivers tonight. Live and learn as they say.