10 May 2022
Today we’re going to talk about real estate.
Moving to Japan, as I did in 1988, both delighted me and surprised me.
Experiencing the new and different was an everyday occurrence during my ten years there.
Food I never dreamed of eating from the mundane, like a hot dog on the McDonald’s breakfast menu and Kentucky Fried Chicken on Christmas Eve, to the wild, like raw shrimp so fresh that a splash of soy sauce would send it literally leaping off the plate.
Cultural events like New Year’s Eve, standing on line in the cold before midnight, waiting for the temple bells to be rung 108 times (one for each failing that Buddhist teachings tell us prevent us from reaching nirvana) before we could enter the precincts for our prayers and blessings. Or like the Steel Cock Festival, held every April, to celebrate fertility, complete with floats of giant pink penises born aloft by drag queens and a long penis-shaped log you can ride for good luck.
One thing that caught me unawares was in the realm of real estate. Measurements like square feet and square meters were nowhere to be found.
Instead, the traditional unit of measurement was a tatami mat.
Tatami (畳) are mats made from weaving soft rush (藺草 igusa) with hemp. There are some slight variations in mat size across Japan, but the standard size is 0.9 meters by 1.8 meters (roughly three feet by six feet). Mats are about five centimeters (roughly two inches) in depth as well. Mats are also edged with narrow embroidered runners, as shown in the photo below.
If you ever have the chance to be in a room with newly made tatami mats, it is a wonderful thing. When sunlight warms the mats, they give off the most comforting aroma. It instantly relaxed me.
Among the places I lived, six-mats was the standard size for a room. That’s about one hundred square feet. And the room is small if you use it as we would here in America.
There are lucky and unlucky layouts for tatami as well.
The lucky layouts are those in the top row, the 祝義敷き.
The unlucky layouts are those in the lower row, where good fortune flows right out of the room.
Traditionally, tatami rooms are meant to be multi-functional. What serves as a living room in the day, with cushions arranged around a low tea table or, better yet, a kotatsu in winter. (Kotatsu are tea tables with a heating unit under them and a quilted ruffle that you tuck your legs under. Watching television from a kotatsu, a pot of green tea and a tray of mikan oranges on the tabletop, is a heavenly experience.)
Come evening and the tea table is pushed to the side. From the closet come the futon (the shikibuton is the one you lie on top of and the kakebuton is the one you sleep under), together with the sheets and pillows.
In my Tōkyō apartment, I had two six-mat rooms off of a combination kitchen and dining area (with a wooden floor, but if I had to guess it was between twelve and eighteen mats in size). One of the rooms was the bedroom, where Hiro and I crammed a double bed and a wardrobe against the wall. The other room was a combination office and living room, with the TV and audio equipment along one wall, my desk in one corner, and my electronic piano in the other.
Of the many things I miss about Japan, the comfort of a tatami mat is high on my list.
Hiro and I discovering that the air conditioner worked on the day I moved into my Tōkyō apartment.
