ou learn to love what you see everyday. I'd passed this little old fisherman hangout in my town a million times. Tucked away between gray concrete apartment buildings and the Urayasu bridge over the Kyo- Edogawa River. There is was. This tiny wooden bar. In the evenings the red paper lantern casted its fiery glow over the sidewalk and off the columns of the bridge. Sad melodic melodies of old anka songs oozed out the cracks and windows of the Nawanoren drinking spot. In the mornings cases of empty Kirin bottles cluttered the sidewalk. Stray cats rummaged though the garbage looking for tasty fish treats. Day after day I passed this tiny escape from the modern city that sprung up around it. A moment in time of a day when the townspeople on the edge of Tokyo would venture out into Tokyo bay in search of the days catch.

This morning something wasn't quite right, "odd," I thought to myself. I pulled on my brakes and hopped off my mountain bike. Jaw dropped, eyes opened. I stood there unable to say anything, Piece by piece I watched an old lady and her daughter take the little bar apart with their hands. Simple tools, pulled and plied the wood apart. The older plump woman turned to me and smiled as she and I exchanged glances and "Konichiwa." The ebb and flow of the world I had known had capsized.

Now instead of seeing the same little bar each day as I pass, I saw less and less of the Nawanoren bar. Beam by beam, tile by tile it was fading from my sight and from memory. My lens shed a tear.

Where will the old fisherman go to have drinks and sing anka songs till the wee hours? Where will I find a piece of my old town that hasn't become concrete fortress of apartments? My heart aches as the old slowly sinks under the weight of the new. Who will remember the Nawanoren bar ?

Jacob Schere
May 2007

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