Day 3: Meguro River, Tokyo
*That surge in your loins when you first see the blossoms in bloom.
I’m a terrible tourist.
My approach to any major attraction is that of a judgmental hipster.
I assume that anything which appeals to such a broad public is inherently worthless, and that the sheer number of visitors will ruin the experience for everyone.
This morning, pre-coffee, I was tempted to let Zoë go see the famous cherry blossoms by herself. After a good record shop, I could catch up on anything I missed through her no-doubt-stunning photos.
But I’m glad I went down to the Meguro River to see what all the fuss was about.
The blossoms were undeniably beautiful. Just a few days past peak bloom, they were everywhere — strewn across the street, floating down the river, resting on the end of a passing dog’s nose. Plenty still hung in the trees, just waiting to be marvelled at and captured in the cloud.
Sure, they’re just plants, but Japanese enthusiasm is infectious. People were rushing about, clutching glasses of bubbly rosé, stumbling over themselves to find the perfect selfie spot, grinning from ear to ear.
The cherry blossoms may be the perfect tourist attraction. They’re richly symbolic, but can be appreciated on a purely shallow level. They’re natural, free and require no maintenance. And they are impervious to corporate sponsorship, save for the street vendors cheerfully hawking their döner kebabs (seriously) and long potatoes (don’t ask).
These tiny pink flowers are family-friendly, innocuous and appeal to everyone, except perhaps those hay fever sufferers who forgot their face masks. Best of all, they are temporal, accessible only to lucky visitors who happen to be in the right place at the right time.
When I think of the cherry blossoms in those exclusive terms, the hipster in me approves.
