Survival Weekend (Part One)

Remember when we were kids and we'd call simple stuff by cool names? A piece of sharpened wood could easily be a "monster-thwarter," and water mixed with sugar was "power juice." We'd make crazy plans to do something impossibly exotic, and we made the plans simply because making them was almost just as much fun as the thought of actually doing it. Once, my friend Philip and I made a boat from wooden planks that we were going to take to Hawaii. We drew a map, and painted the bottom of the boat the same color as the ocean to camouflage us from lurking sharks. We constructed elaborate weapons, drew maps, and packed our clothes and sandwiches in water-proof bags. I even said goodbye to my parents. They smiled and said good-bye, too. That night I slept in my bed, already having innocently forgotten about our trip. I woke up the next day and Philip and I started working on our next plan, whatever it was. Maybe we tried to make a movie, or a special potion with supernatural health benefits.

As kids, we could entertain ourselves for days with projects and plans, most of which never saw fruition, or if they did, were considered lackluster by the adult mind. But not in our minds. In a kid's mind, success is never measured in terms of outcomes--it is measured by the girth of the idea. Big ideas always succeed, small ideas suck and are left behind, and if it comes off without a hitch, that is just an added bonus. Somewhere along the line, this idealism got swallowed up in the need for results, and the plans became less creative, were soon replaced by girls and T.V., and then I turned 13 and was too cool for school. Now, I'm 25 and no longer want to be cool, assuming I ever have been. No, I want ideas and girth. I want maps, plans, ropes that suspend contraptions, forts, journeys, trapdoors, hidden compartments, and weird inventions.

I live near the biggest city in the world, Tokyo, and for a long time my friends and I have had a theory that it could be used as a giant playground, given the right circumstances and idea. Survival Weeekend provided me with the right time and place to recreate that feeling of kid-like possibility and renew my faith in ideas. Schemes about Survival Weekend began nearly two years before the actual event, so as my friends and I were taking the last train into Tokyo on Friday night, I couldn't help but feel tightness in my gut, the same kind I used to get when trying to go to sleep on Christmas Eve.

The point of Survival Weekend was simple: a group of us were to take the last train into Tokyo, arriving around midnight. We would then walk the circumference of the Yamanote Train line, forgoing sleep, beds, changes of clothes, and embracing any obstacles along the way. The Yamanote is a circular line that encompasses the inner-Tokyo area and boasts all of Japan's largest stations. There are roughly 30 stops, and the circle clocks in at around 50 kilometers distance. It's nothing short of a hoof, and there is no direct street or trail to follow. The most common response I received after telling someone about Survival Weekend was "Why?" Why not?

Here goes: it was raining when we left.

We started at a metropolitan station called Ikeburkuro, and I was wearing a full-body black polyester leotard that was good to walk in because a.) it dried quickly and b.) it was funny and weird. Sarah was dressed like a pirate and Cory wore a lame cowboy hat. He line-danced at the station before we left—very lame. George drew a brown mustache on his face making him look like he took a giant swig from a mug of hot cocoa or ate butt, and he then passed around a tube of fake blood to the group to apply wherever appropriate. He wore a soccer uniform the next day. Alex was the official photographer of the trip, and his fake blood design was the most realistic because it looked like he got his ass kicked. Dai, the lone Japanese member to complete the entire trek, was our navigator and he ended up winning the fart contest. As a result, we, the group, must pay his next month's gas bill. Don looks like Keanu Reeves and wore a blueberry colored rain outfit, and was perhaps the most determined member of the group. When he was voted president he made a rule that we could speak only in the form of questions for the duration of his term. Mizuho joined us late the next day because she had to work. She wore a green hat, and looked like an edamame bean. These were the key players, and we had a pink afro that was worn by whoever was acting like a grumpy dumpling, or simply put: a wiener. In this fashion, we began The Walk around 1 a.m. and did not make it to the first station until an hour later. We were still ironing out the basics of urban orienteering. It was still raining and I do not quite remember who was wearing the pink afro because I was trying to push Cory in a puddle, and continued to do so for the rest of the night. Don was quiet but cheerful, and Alex was taking great pictures that we have been looking and laughing at all week. Dai continued to guide us like an Arctic explore, and Sarah faithfully recorded farts and their respective point values (based on tonality, stench, and nastiness) and who wore the afro at which times. I was voted president but had a lousy and unproductive term. We walked up a big hill and bought beers and snacks at a convenient store at the top. We took a picture in which some random dude dashed at the last minute. Another foreigner walked past us, and said something rude but I don't remember because I was trying to push Cory in a bush. Don was livid and would have fought him had he turned around. For the record: we had Don's back. It kept raining, and we kept walking. There were farts and afros and presidents and rain and pictures and giggling and THEN...we arrived at Ueno Station at 5:30 a.m. and fell asleep on the cold, damp, linoleum station floor. I only brought one pair of socks (and they were soaking wet) so I borrowed some clean ones from Sara. A station guard woke us up around 7 the next morning. He was grinning as he said OHAYO GOZAIMASU in a soft voice.