This last weekend, in my pursuit to make it to as many different areas of Tokyo as possible (I've given up on thinking I can get to all of them - it's too big) I went to Meguro, a quiet, up-scale suburb in central Tokyo and home to two oases of nature that are unfortunately rare in this city.
The first garden was formerly the home of Prince Asaka. I'm sure you all remember who he was, so I'll skip the biography, but in short, after his death the park became "public," the $1 entry fee notwithstanding. There's also a French Art Deco house of his on the grounds which serves as a museum of sorts, but my goal for the day was to spend as much time surrounded by green as possible.
The garden was split into three sections, and indeed had a very European feel. On the main lawn of the garden, a young man and woman sat on a blanket and ate snacks from a wicker basket, a father chased after his ecstatic children, and others simply sat with well-worn books, enjoying the soft early autumn sunlight.
Wandering into the western section of the garden, another lawn opened up, dotted with tables and chairs and home to about a dozen amateur artists, mostly senior citizens, calmly painting the garden around them. I walked around, sneaking looks behind their backs as they meticulously added laborious strokes here and there, languidly gazing at the scene they were attempting to recreate. Every once in a while an older woman would walk by, gravel crunching under her feet, to offer a handful of snacks to the painters. It was bucolic to say the least - despite the distant rattle of trucks passing on the street, the main background music consisted of the airy songs of birds.
Moving on, I came to the Japanese garden, complete with a small bridge arched over the murky coi pond like the spine of a threatened cat, a tea house hidden in the bushes, and an enigmatic woman staring into the schisms opened up in one's existence that are only visible in such tranquility. I took a slow-paced walk around the pond, looking for my own such windows. A dragonfly flew over my head, causing me to jump. I hope nobody saw; such was the mood.
Teien Gardens
Luckily for me, right next door is the (say it with me now) Shizenkyoikuen (National Science Museum's Institute for Nature Study). The (let's just call it the) park is a large expanse of land held over from the days before Tokyo was an urban jungle. Upon entering, you get one of 300 ribbons to pin on your shirt, as only that amount are allowed in at one time. Not that space is at a premium - it took me a good hour to saunter around all the paths. Accompanying almost every tree was a little sign stating the species name; signs also stated that one shouldn't pick up the little acorns on the ground, for they are for the animals who also live there. Men with very large cameras walked around with a purpose, and old friends slowly made their way, sharing long held-back stories. It was that kind of place.
Despite the presence of untold amounts of spiders (I hate spiders), I was able to relax in this environment. I took a seat on a bench and watched ripples of water form and disappear in front of an old wooden bridge. Behind me I could hear the grind of gravel under the wheels of a stroller. A butterfly flew in front of my eyes. Again, the sense of tranquility heightened my sense of place, though my surroundings in this place were the opposite of the well-manicured Japanese garden.
I walked across the bridge and around a small pathway with flowers on either side, making sure my feet landed on the withered stepping stones. I saw an enormous spider and nearly fell over. Leaving the grounds back into manic Tokyo, I thought about silence.
Shizenkyoikuen
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