That day.        
Kyoto 4.45 AM alarm. Taxi to bus ordered for 5. 0 AM. All packed ready waiting at residence. 5.00 no Taxi! Taxi rolls into street/lane. Relief, here he (always he taxi drivers in Japan) comes down the lane straight past me in my darkness. Taxi stops. Relief, he has just gone a little past the assigned place. Not quite, An attractive woman gets out. What kind of assignation had they thought I had ordered? She pays the cab and he drives off. She has some English and is concerned about my no cab situation. ‘I will stay with you’ and explains she is drunk and the fumes confirm her self description.
    ‘I will order a taxi for you’. She is a very attractive woman, an assured 
woman.The taxi arrives.’Bus station for Osaka bus to Itami air terminal, please arigato’.
Slipping through the early impersonal darkness like a silent eel in cloudy waters the driver drops me at Bay H2. 
    A sort of bus official woman in a long red puffer jacket divines I am not at the correct bay.
Her arms describe u-turns indicating that I need to be at the correct bay near the vending machine which sells tickets for Osaka. Yep! Itami air terminal (not the more usual Kansai terminal) Osaka has two terminals, and a population the size of Australia) so to the flight  to Haneda Domestic Tokyo. You might think an early 6.10 am buss would have multiple choice of seats. Not so. It was cockers.  
    The plane was also full as the bus. I was next to a couple with a gorgeous sleepy 5 month child. The flight to Tokyo took about an hour.
     As there was no reliability with the shuttle bus I took a taxi to the hotel looking eastwards  across the Tama River. They will not permit check in before 3.00 PM so; ‘Thinks: If I cannot check in for six hours why not visit one of the only two things I want to see in Tokyo?’
    Since I studied the Catholic Cathedral in the 1960s designed by Kenzo Tange (1913-2005) an international, a genius inspired by Le Corbusier. The building replaced the original bombed structure.





It took 18 months to complete with assistance from the also bombed citizens of Cologne in Germany.
    I had always wanted to experience this place. It is in the mode of the Metabolist Movement, a style of post war reconstruction. It would be a hefty
taxi fare. It was a long way from my hotel and friends suggested that learning to use public transport in Tokyo would be impossible in one day.
 But I thought that this was a once in a lifetime experience; it will be OK.
    Days before I left Sydney my Visa card was hacked. ANZ cancelled the card. When I discussed this with them they said they would post me a new plastic card in 10 to 15 days. They would not hear of my offer to pay express postage of my card. ‘No worries, Sir we can fix you up with a tap Samsung wallet virtual card.’ I had separately set up an Australia Post travel Mastercard with a plastic card. 
I knew there was credit. So I thought I should just get on with it. The chance of a lifetime. We drove for a long time. Finally, there it was. Awe inspiring and monumental in scale.
    Paying the fare. There was no tap facility in the taxi. The Mastercard was declined even though I had used both cards that morning. I think because I had tried a few times to put in my pin. The taxi driver was more than perplexed. I imagine his story to his grandchildren would begin at this point. The taxi man told me somehow that he was in big trouble. I acknowledged and endorsed this. ‘Did I have a friend in Tokyo who might be able to help?’ No. ‘Let’s go to an ATM and take out the money for the fare’. ‘Sure.’ He Googled a local ATM and we drove there. The machine refused the card. He: ‘I will call the police. Wait here do not move!’ The Irish would say the police were like bananas; they came in bunches. So one police car with raised red flashing lights, 2 cops, one on a bike and one from who knows where. English-Japanese a major problem largely managed on GoogleTranslate. 
    They canvassed the same areas and options as the driver’s questions: 'Do you have cash?’ ‘Yes but not enough’ ‘Other cards?’ ‘Tap ?’ ‘No use with this taxi’. ‘Friend in Tokyo?’ ‘Had I tried calling my bank?’ ‘Called Mastercard?’ ‘No my Japanese sim card would not permit international calls.’ Police are not fools and often great, pragmatic problem solvers. ‘Why did you come here to visit this part of Tokyo?’
‘To visit the Cathedral; admired by Japanese people and by the the world.’ Google Translate working overtime. ‘O.K. let’s go back to the Cathedral.’ They seemed to be thinking that such a monument to Christianity might be able to supply emergency help for a needy person to pay a needy driver.    The constabulary procession did a U turn with the help of a cop directing traffic with a glowing red baton. On arrival they searched for an official of the Cathedral. It was now late Saturday and mass being celebrated by what looked like a cardinal, was in full swing. Later the congregation went on a procession to a Marian shrine in the Cathedral grounds. If they were concerned by the alternative heavy police procession they did not show it.
    The coppers cased the joint for someone to engage with. They found a furtive stooped little man with a large bundle of cardboard trying to get into a lift. My sense was that the feds, on the presumption that as Christians were at the cathedral would help. The official they found was one of those diocesan functionaries who uncomfortably listened and the shook his head until it almost shook off his shoulders. The coppers, my assistants, took that as a ‘No!’
More Q&A on Google Translate. ‘Where was I staying?’ Kawasaki King Skyfront REI Hotel.    Brilliant idea! ‘If this taxi man drove you back to your hotel could you get money from the hotel?’ 
I said ‘Yes’ with some relief that the trip was in a taxi not a police car. I presumed I could get money transferred to the driver there. Silly me. I had made some in the moment assumptions; but it seemed a solution for all concerned. 
    The driver thoughtfully asked me if I wanted to go inside the cathedral since I had come here to see the place. I took an almost furtive glance amid signs ‘Please do to enter Cathedral during Mass.’ The entrance was policed by stern female gatekeepers whom I brushed past. I looked at the straggling congregation and what looked like a cardinal celebrating mass in the distance. All I could salvage from the situation of a decades old desire to experience St Mary’s.
I bid good bye to the cops and apologised for their trouble and set off in the taxi to the hotel.
    The long and somewhat tense non-sightseeing trip across Tokyo commenced. The driver parked at the hotel and shadowed me into the reception desk.
‘NO way’ there is no way I could pay the hotel and have them pay the taxi driver. 
Chapter the Second.
    All previous questions are canvassed. It is hard to recall all their hotel questions at this point. They were as courteous as they could manage but firm. Passport OK. Try to phone ANZ and or Mastercard Post Office Travel card. On a personal note I stood at the reception desk for hours. I wondered at my ability to stand there. I was permitted to go to the toilet and to stand without a chair. To describe my emotions as like the Wreck of the Hesperus would be like describing the former voyage as a pleasure cruise. My phone was running out of battery. Shame, horror, impotence, rage!
    A Nepali staff member came up with the idea of replacing my Japanese sim card and replace it with my original Australian sim card. A paper clip was produced; sim card replaced but no success with ANZ. I asked could go back to my Japanese sim card and could they please phone ANZ as recommended by their website. And all that was preventable had ANZ issued me a plastic card.
Crazy responses from the ANZ. ’Department closed for the week end’ etc. Then some official asked me some identifying questions; ones a Mittagong local branch ANZ person said they had never heard of. ‘Colour of first car? Mother’s maiden name? Most recent ANZ deposit amount and date? And more questions. The then  she said ‘You have to answer exactly 100%.  You have failed. We cannot help you’, and hung up.
    At this point it became clear that the police had been summoned by the hotel and taxi driver. They appeared to be superior to the last lot and I noticed the most senior had a bundle of black gloves on his belt. No guns nor batons like the Oz ones. 
    Seeking to sanitise the look around the reception desk, our group was moved to a back table near the Kimono rental desk. There was much more interrogating and note taking. Passport again, address, reason for being here, departure date and time? ‘Tomorrow’ Intending doing a runner?
    The Kimono renting women noticing my distress had delivered some
biscuits and a little, drink.  One of them, who had studied at Macquarie University, came forward and said she had discovered an Australian man who could possibly help. Was he from ANZ or Australia Office Mastercard? Or had another access to my accounts?    
    The man, fine, fit and about forty something thrust hand through the melee and shook my hand. ‘All OK, mate.’ I still shake thinking about that moment. I asked in despair if he was going when I thought he might have been able to help. ‘No mate we are off to dinner. Good luck’.
One of the Japanese Kimono women told me the Australian man has paid the taxi driver. His name? His job? Address? No information. Enormous tearful relief.
    But all was not over. The Nepali hotel official explained to me that my booking for the night was not paid for. Strictly I had no right to stay in the hotel another minute. Though a park bench would have been a refuge at this point. I had made the booking in Australia before I left with the intention of paying as I checked out. But at that point I had no access to credit. My tap Visa from ANZ and my Post Office Mastercard were frozen. Despite a call to Heritage Mastercard who said the funds were freed up; they were not.        
    So the Nepali angel came to me with a magic idea. ‘If I can email your wife in Australia with an invoice for your booking for one night, she could pay on line and you will be paid for tonight. Considering I could not access my funds myself that sounded wonderful.
It was now 10.00 pm from a day which had commenced before 5.00 am.

Chapter the Third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and they had already dropped snacks to me. She spoke English and had been born in England. She had been a compassionate translator with the hotel and police.
She said she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 that night. She noted my credit was frozen. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said she would be offended if I did not accept the money. She said she had a. Job. She insisted I go to the onsen (hot bath) upstairs and try to relax. 

Concluding remarks.
This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. I have been anxious and have not driven a car since. A building I had studied and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 1960s, which I have always wanted to experience, had to be abandoned because ANZ could not deliver me my money. Likewise a visit to the Japanese National Museum of Folk Art which I had studied and wanted to see. 
    
        I had always wanted to experience the place. The product of the Metabolist Movement, a style of post war reconstruction. There was a question I did not answer was about the taxi fare. But I thought that this was a once in a lifetime, it will be OK. It was a long way from my hotel and friends suggested that learning to use public transport in Tokyo would be impossible in one day.
And though I had been having troubles with my ‘virtual’ Visa debit Tap card (no actual plastic card only a virtual card and my Australia Post travel Mastercard) 0n  a Samsung Wallet I knew there was credit. So I thought I should just get on with it. Insufficient care? In hindsight 
you bet. In the moment go for it! The chance of a lifetime. We drove for a long time. Finally, there it was. Awe inspiring and monumental in scale.
    Paying the fare. There was no tap facility in thee taxi. The Mastercard was declined even though I had used both cards that morning. The taxi driver was more than perplexed. I imagine his story to his grandchildren began at this point. The taxi man told me somehow that he was in big trouble. I acknowledged and endorsed this. ‘Did I have a friend in Tokyo who might be able to help?’ No. Let’s go to an ATM and take out the money for the fare. Sure. He Googled a local ATM and we drove there. The machine refused the card. He: ‘I will call the police. Wait here do not move!’ A better option than calling a mate with a baseball bat. I realised that as the Irish would the police were like bananas; they come in bunches. So one police car with raised red flashing lights, 2 cops, one on a bike and one from who knows where. English-Japanese a major problem largely managed on GoogleTranslate. 
    They canvassed the sam e questions as the driver’s questions: do you have cash? Other cards? Tap? Friend in Tokyo? Had I tried calling my bank? Called Mastercard? For their much vaunted services. No my Japanese sim card would not permit international calls. Police are not fools and often pragmatic problem solvers. ‘Why did you come here to visit this part of Tokyo?’
‘To visit the Cathedral; admired by Japanese people and the world.’ Google Translate working overtime. ‘O.K. let’s go back to the Cathedral.’ They seemed to be thinking that such a monument to Christianity might be able to supply emergency for a needy person to pay a needy driver. How I would have got back the forty minute drive to my hotel was not considered. 
    The constabulary procession did a turn with the help of a traffic cop with a baton. They searched for an official of the Cathedral. Mind you it was now late Saturday and mass celebrated by what looked like a cardinal, was in full swing. Later the congregation went on a procession to a Marian shrine in the Cathedral grounds. If they were concerned by the heavy police procession they did not show it.
    The coppers cased the joint for someone to engage with. They found a little Manyel kind of man with a large bundle of cardboard trying to get into a lift. My sense was that the feds, on the presumption that as Christians would help the two distraught police accompanied pilgrims. The official was one of those diocesan functionaries who uncomfortably listened and the shook his head until it almost shook off his shoulders. The coppers, my assistants, took that as a ‘No!’
More Q&A on Google Translate. ‘Where was I staying?’ Kawasaki King Skyfront REI Hotel Coordinates N 035° 32.450° 32.450° E 129° 45.188°
    Brilliant idea! ‘If this man drove you back to your hotel could you get money from the hotel?’ I said ‘Yes’ with some relief that the trip was in a taxi not a police car. I said yes. I presumed I could get money transferred to the driver there. Silly me. I had made some in the moment assumptions; but it seemed a solution for all concerned. 
    The driver thoughtfully asked me if I wanted to go inside since I had come here to see the place. I took an almost furtive glance amid signs ‘Please do to enter Cathedral during Mass.’ The entrance was policed by stern female gatekeepers whom I brushed past. I looked at the straggling congregation and what looked like a cardinal celebrating mass in the distance.
I bid good bye to the cops and apologised for their trouble and set off in the taxi to the hotel.
    The long and somewhat tense non-sightseeing trip across Tokyo commenced. The driver parked at the hotel and shadows me into the reception desk.
‘NO way’ there is no way I could pay the hotel and have them pay the taxi driver. 
Chapter the Second.
    All previous questions are canvassed. It is hard to recall all their hotel questions at this point. They were as courteous as they could manage but firm. Passport OK. Try to phone ANZ and or Mastercard Post Office Travel card. On a personal note I stood at the desk for hours. I wondered at my ability to stand there. I was permitted to go to the toilet and to stand without a chair. To describe my emotions as like the Wreck of the Hesperus would be like describing the former voyage as a pleasure cruise. My phone was running out of battery. 
    A Nepali staff member came up. With the idea of replacing my Japanese sim card and replace it with my original Australian sim card. A paper clip was produced; sim card replaced but no success with ANZ. I asked could go back to my Japanese sim card and could they please phone ZNZ as recommended by their website. Crazy responses to the ANZ questions. ‘Department closed for the week end’ etc. Then some official asked me some identifying questions; ones a local branch ANZ person they had never heard of. ‘Colour of first car? Mother’s maiden name? Most recent ANZ deposit amount and date? And more. The then said ‘You have to answer exactly 100% you have failed. We cannot help you’, and hung up.
    At this point it became clear that the police had been summoned by the hotel and taxi driver. They appeared to be superior to the last lot and I noticed the most senior had a bundle of black gloves on his belt. No guns nor batons like the Oz ones. Seeking to sanitise the look around the reception desk, our group was moved to a back table near the Kimono rental desk. There was much more interrogating and note taking. Passport again, address, reason for being here, departure date and time? ‘Tomorrow’ Doing a runner? 

    

Chapter the third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and had already dropped snacks.  She spoke English as she had been born in England some time ago. She and her companion had been compassionate translators. 
She said I had been watching me and said I should go to the onsen (hot bath bath) and relax. She said also that she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 pm for Sydney. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said  she would be offended if I did not take the money. She said she had a job. I got her email address. I collapsed into the onsen.

Concluding notes.
    This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. 
A building I had studies and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 60s which I have always wanted to experience had to be abandoned because I could not get my money out of ANZ. 




Chapter the third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and had already dropped snacks.  She spoke English as she had been born in England some time ago. She and her companion had been compassionate translators. 
She said I had been watching me and said I should go to the onsen (hot bath bath) and relax. She said also that she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 pm for Sydney. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said  she would be offended if I did not take the money. She said she had a job. I got her email address. I collapsed into the onsen.

Concluding notes.
    This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. I have been anxious and not driven a car since.
A building I had studies and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 60s which I have always wanted to experience had to be abandoned because I could not get my money out of ANZ. 
Michael D. Breen
Tuesday, 16 December 2025

     That day.        
Kyoto 4.45 AM alarm. Taxi to bus ordered for 5. 0 AM. All packed ready waiting at residence. 5.00 no Taxi! Taxi rolls into street/lane. Relief, here he (always he taxi drivers in Japan) comes down the lane straight past me in my darkness. Taxi stops. Relief, he has just gone a little past the assigned place. Not quite, An attractive woman gets out. What kind of assignation had they thought I had ordered? She pays the cab and he drives off. She has some English and is concerned about my no cab situation. ‘I will stay with you’ and explains she is drunk and the fumes confirm her self description.
    ‘I will order a taxi for you’. She is a very attractive woman, an assured 
woman.The taxi arrives.’Bus station for Osaka bus to Itami air terminal, please arigato’.
Slipping through the early impersonal darkness like a silent eel in cloudy waters the driver drops me at Bay H2. 
    A sort of bus official woman in a long red puffer jacket divines I am not at the correct bay.
Her arms describe u-turns indicating that I need to be at the correct bay near the vending machine which sells tickets for Osaka. Yep! Itami air terminal (not the more usual Kansai terminal) Osaka has two terminals, and a population the size of Australia) so to the flight  to Haneda Domestic Tokyo. You might think an early 6.10 am buss would have multiple choice of seats. Not so. It was cohckers.  
    The plane was also full as the bus. I was next to a couple with a gorgeous sleepy 5 month child. The flight to Tokyo took about an hour.
     As there was no reliability with the shuttle bus I took a taxi to the hotel looking eastwards  across the Tama River. They will not permit check in before 3.00 PM so; ‘Thinks: If I cannot check in for six hours why not visit one of the only two things I want to see in Tokyo?’

    Since I studied the Catholic Cathedral in the 1960s designed by Kenzo Tange (1913-2005) an international, a genius inspired by Le Corbusier. The building replaced the original bombed structure.
It took 18 months to complete with assistance from the also bombed citizens of Cologne in Germany.
    I had always wanted to experience this place. It is in the mode of the Metabolist Movement, a style of post war reconstruction. It would be a hefty
taxi fare. It was a long way from my hotel and friends suggested that learning to use public transport in Tokyo would be impossible in one day.
 But I thought that this was a once in a lifetime experience; it will be OK.
    Days before I left Sydney my Visa card was hacked. ANZ cancelled the card. When I discussed this with them they said they would post me a new plastic card in 10 to 15 days. They would not hear of my offer to pay express postage of my card. ‘No worries, Sir we can fix you up with a tap Samsung wallet virtual card.’ I had separately set up an Australia Post travel Mastercard with a plastic card. 
I knew there was credit. So I thought I should just get on with it. The chance of a lifetime. We drove for a long time. Finally, there it was. Awe inspiring and monumental in scale.
    Paying the fare. There was no tap facility in the taxi. The Mastercard was declined even though I had used both cards that morning. I think because I had tried a few times to put in my pin. The taxi driver was more than perplexed. I imagine his story to his grandchildren would begin at this point. The taxi man told me somehow that he was in big trouble. I acknowledged and endorsed this. ‘Did I have a friend in Tokyo who might be able to help?’ No. ‘Let’s go to an ATM and take out the money for the fare’. ‘Sure.’ He Googled a local ATM and we drove there. The machine refused the card. He: ‘I will call the police. Wait here do not move!’ The Irish would say the police were like bananas; they came in bunches. So one police car with raised red flashing lights, 2 cops, one on a bike and one from who knows where. English-Japanese a major problem largely managed on GoogleTranslate. 
    They canvassed the same areas and options as the driver’s questions: 'Do you have cash?’ ‘Yes but not enough’ ‘Other cards?’ ‘Tap ?’ ‘No use with this taxi’. ‘Friend in Tokyo?’ ‘Had I tried calling my bank?’ ‘Called Mastercard?’ ‘No my Japanese sim card would not permit international calls.’ Police are not fools and often great, pragmatic problem solvers. ‘Why did you come here to visit this part of Tokyo?’
‘To visit the Cathedral; admired by Japanese people and by the the world.’ Google Translate working overtime. ‘O.K. let’s go back to the Cathedral.’ They seemed to be thinking that such a monument to Christianity might be able to supply emergency help for a needy person to pay a needy driver.    The constabulary procession did a U turn with the help of a cop directing traffic with a glowing red baton. On arrival they searched for an official of the Cathedral. It was now late Saturday and mass being celebrated by what looked like a cardinal, was in full swing. Later the congregation went on a procession to a Marian shrine in the Cathedral grounds. If they were concerned by the alternative heavy police procession they did not show it.
    The coppers cased the joint for someone to engage with. They found a furtive stooped little man with a large bundle of cardboard trying to get into a lift. My sense was that the feds, on the presumption that as Christians were at the cathedral would help. The official they found was one of those diocesan functionaries who uncomfortably listened and the shook his head until it almost shook off his shoulders. The coppers, my assistants, took that as a ‘No!’
More Q&A on Google Translate. ‘Where was I staying?’ Kawasaki King Skyfront REI Hotel.    Brilliant idea! ‘If this taxi man drove you back to your hotel could you get money from the hotel?’ 
I said ‘Yes’ with some relief that the trip was in a taxi not a police car. I presumed I could get money transferred to the driver there. Silly me. I had made some in the moment assumptions; but it seemed a solution for all concerned. 
    The driver thoughtfully asked me if I wanted to go inside the cathedral since I had come here to see the place. I took an almost furtive glance amid signs ‘Please do to enter Cathedral during Mass.’ The entrance was policed by stern female gatekeepers whom I brushed past. I looked at the straggling congregation and what looked like a cardinal celebrating mass in the distance. All I could salvage from the situation of a decades old desire to experience St Mary’s.
I bid good bye to the cops and apologised for their trouble and set off in the taxi to the hotel.
    The long and somewhat tense non-sightseeing trip across Tokyo commenced. The driver parked at the hotel and shadowed me into the reception desk.
‘NO way’ there is no way I could pay the hotel and have them pay the taxi driver. 
Chapter the Second.
    All previous questions are canvassed. It is hard to recall all their hotel questions at this point. They were as courteous as they could manage but firm. Passport OK. Try to phone ANZ and or Mastercard Post Office Travel card. On a personal note I stood at the reception desk for hours. I wondered at my ability to stand there. I was permitted to go to the toilet and to stand without a chair. To describe my emotions as like the Wreck of the Hesperus would be like describing the former voyage as a pleasure cruise. My phone was running out of battery. Shame, horror, impotence, rage!
    A Nepali staff member came up with the idea of replacing my Japanese sim card and replace it with my original Australian sim card. A paper clip was produced; sim card replaced but no success with ANZ. I asked could go back to my Japanese sim card and could they please phone ANZ as recommended by their website. And all that was preventable had ANZ issued me a plastic card.
Crazy responses from the ANZ. ’Department closed for the week end’ etc. Then some official asked me some identifying questions; ones a Mittagong local branch ANZ person said they had never heard of. ‘Colour of first car? Mother’s maiden name? Most recent ANZ deposit amount and date? And more questions. The then  she said ‘You have to answer exactly 100%.  You have failed. We cannot help you’, and hung up.
    At this point it became clear that the police had been summoned by the hotel and taxi driver. They appeared to be superior to the last lot and I noticed the most senior had a bundle of black gloves on his belt. No guns nor batons like the Oz ones. 
    Seeking to sanitise the look around the reception desk, our group was moved to a back table near the Kimono rental desk. There was much more interrogating and note taking. Passport again, address, reason for being here, departure date and time? ‘Tomorrow’ Intending doing a runner?
    The Kimono renting women noticing my distress had delivered some
biscuits and a little, drink.  One of them, who had studied at Macquarie University, came forward and said she had discovered an Australian man who could possibly help. Was he from ANZ or Australia Office Mastercard? Or had another access to my accounts?    
    The man, fine, fit and about forty something thrust hand through the melee and shook my hand. ‘All OK, mate.’ I still shake thinking about that moment. I asked in despair if he was going when I thought he might have been able to help. ‘No mate we are off to dinner. Good luck’.

One of the Japanese Kimono women told me the Australian man has paid the taxi driver. His name? His job? Address? No information. Enormous tearful relief.
    But all was not over. The Nepali hotel official explained to me that my booking for the night was not paid for. Strictly I had no right to stay in the hotel another minute. Though a park bench would have been a refuge at this point. I had made the booking in Australia before I left with the intention of paying as I checked out. But at that point I had no access to credit. My tap Visa from ANZ and my Post Office Mastercard were frozen. Despite a call to Heritage Mastercard who said the funds were freed up; they were not.        
    So the Nepali angel came to me with a magic idea. ‘If I can email your wife in Australia with an invoice for your booking for one night, she could pay on line and you will be paid for tonight. Considering I could not access my funds myself that sounded wonderful.
It was now 10.00 pm from a day which had commenced before 5.00 am.

Chapter the Third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and they had already dropped snacks to me. She spoke English and had been born in England. She had been a compassionate translator with the hotel and police.
She said she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 that night. She noted my credit was frozen. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said she would be offended if I did not accept the money. She said she had a. Job. She insisted I go to the onsen (hot bath) upstairs and try to relax. 

Concluding remarks.
This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. I have been anxious and have not driven a car since. A building I had studied and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 1960s, which I have always wanted to experience, had to be abandoned because ANZ could not deliver me my money. Likewise a visit to the Japanese National Museum of Folk Art which I had studied and wanted to see. 
    
        I had always wanted to experience the place. The product of the Metabolist Movement, a style of post war reconstruction. There was a question I did not answer was about the taxi fare. But I thought that this was a once in a lifetime, it will be OK. It was a long way from my hotel and friends suggested that learning to use public transport in Tokyo would be impossible in one day.
And though I had been having troubles with my ‘virtual’ Visa debit Tap card (no actual plastic card only a virtual card and my Australia Post travel Mastercard) 0n  a Samsung Wallet I knew there was credit. So I thought I should just get on with it. Insufficient care? In hindsight 
you bet. In the moment go for it! The chance of a lifetime. We drove for a long time. Finally, there it was. Awe inspiring and monumental in scale.
    Paying the fare. There was no tap facility in thee taxi. The Mastercard was declined even though I had used both cards that morning. The taxi driver was more than perplexed. I imagine his story to his grandchildren began at this point. The taxi man told me somehow that he was in big trouble. I acknowledged and endorsed this. ‘Did I have a friend in Tokyo who might be able to help?’ No. Let’s go to an ATM and take out the money for the fare. Sure. He Googled a local ATM and we drove there. The machine refused the card. He: ‘I will call the police. Wait here do not move!’ A better option than calling a mate with a baseball bat. I realised that as the Irish would the police were like bananas; they come in bunches. So one police car with raised red flashing lights, 2 cops, one on a bike and one from who knows where. English-Japanese a major problem largely managed on GoogleTranslate. 
    They canvassed the sam e questions as the driver’s questions: do you have cash? Other cards? Tap? Friend in Tokyo? Had I tried calling my bank? Called Mastercard? For their much vaunted services. No my Japanese sim card would not permit international calls. Police are not fools and often pragmatic problem solvers. ‘Why did you come here to visit this part of Tokyo?’
‘To visit the Cathedral; admired by Japanese people and the world.’ Google Translate working overtime. ‘O.K. let’s go back to the Cathedral.’ They seemed to be thinking that such a monument to Christianity might be able to supply emergency for a needy person to pay a needy driver. How I would have got back the forty minute drive to my hotel was not considered. 
    The constabulary procession did a turn with the help of a traffic cop with a baton. They searched for an official of the Cathedral. Mind you it was now late Saturday and mass celebrated by what looked like a cardinal, was in full swing. Later the congregation went on a procession to a Marian shrine in the Cathedral grounds. If they were concerned by the heavy police procession they did not show it.
    The coppers cased the joint for someone to engage with. They found a little Manyel kind of man with a large bundle of cardboard trying to get into a lift. My sense was that the feds, on the presumption that as Christians would help the two distraught police accompanied pilgrims. The official was one of those diocesan functionaries who uncomfortably listened and the shook his head until it almost shook off his shoulders. The coppers, my assistants, took that as a ‘No!’
More Q&A on Google Translate. ‘Where was I staying?’ Kawasaki King Skyfront REI Hotel Coordinates N 035° 32.450° 32.450° E 129° 45.188°  

    Brilliant idea! ‘If this man drove you back to your hotel could you get money from the hotel?’ I said ‘Yes’ with some relief that the trip was in a taxi not a police car. I said yes. I presumed I could get money transferred to the driver there. Silly me. I had made some in the moment assumptions; but it seemed a solution for all concerned. 
    The driver thoughtfully asked me if I wanted to go inside since I had come here to see the place. I took an almost furtive glance amid signs ‘Please do to enter Cathedral during Mass.’ The entrance was policed by stern female gatekeepers whom I brushed past. I looked at the straggling congregation and what looked like a cardinal celebrating mass in the distance.
I bid good bye to the cops and apologised for their trouble and set off in the taxi to the hotel.
    The long and somewhat tense non-sightseeing trip across Tokyo commenced. The driver parked at the hotel and shadows me into the reception desk.
‘NO way’ there is no way I could pay the hotel and have them pay the taxi driver. 
Chapter the Second.
    All previous questions are canvassed. It is hard to recall all their hotel questions at this point. They were as courteous as they could manage but firm. Passport OK. Try to phone ANZ and or Mastercard Post Office Travel card. On a personal note I stood at the desk for hours. I wondered at my ability to stand there. I was permitted to go to the toilet and to stand without a chair. To describe my emotions as like the Wreck of the Hesperus would be like describing the former voyage as a pleasure cruise. My phone was running out of battery. 
    A Nepali staff member came up. With the idea of replacing my Japanese sim card and replace it with my original Australian sim card. A paper clip was produced; sim card replaced but no success with ANZ. I asked could go back to my Japanese sim card and could they please phone ZNZ as recommended by their website. Crazy responses to the ANZ questions. ‘Department closed for the week end’ etc. Then some official asked me some identifying questions; ones a local branch ANZ person they had never heard of. ‘Colour of first car? Mother’s maiden name? Most recent ANZ deposit amount and date? And more. The then said ‘You have to answer exactly 100% you have failed. We cannot help you’, and hung up.
    At this point it became clear that the police had been summoned by the hotel and taxi driver. They appeared to be superior to the last lot and I noticed the most senior had a bundle of black gloves on his belt. No guns nor batons like the Oz ones. Seeking to sanitise the look around the reception desk, our group was moved to a back table near the Kimono rental desk. There was much more interrogating and note taking. Passport again, address, reason for being here, departure date and time? ‘Tomorrow’ Doing a runner? 

    

Chapter the third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and had already dropped snacks.  She spoke English as she had been born in England some time ago. She and her companion had been compassionate translators. 
She said I had been watching me and said I should go to the onsen (hot bath bath) and relax. She said also that she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 pm for Sydney. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said  she would be offended if I did not take the money. She said she had a job. I got her email address. I collapsed into the onsen.

 

Concluding notes.
    This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. 
A building I had studies and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 60s which I have always wanted to experience had to be abandoned because I could not get my money out of ANZ. 

Chapter the third.
    One of the women from the Kimono rental service had been watching my plight with the others for a long time and had already dropped snacks.  She spoke English as she had been born in England some time ago. She and her companion had been compassionate translators. 
She said I had been watching me and said I should go to the onsen (hot bath bath) and relax. She said also that she was concerned that I get something to eat the following day before I got on the plane at 10.00 pm for Sydney. She gave me a bundle of 5000 yen. I refused. She insisted and said  she would be offended if I did not take the money. She said she had a job. I got her email address. I collapsed into the onsen.

Concluding notes.
    This has been traumatic. I will need therapy. I have been anxious and not driven a car since.
A building I had studies and followed since Kenzo Tange built it in the 60s which I have always wanted to experience had to be abandoned because I could not get my money out of ANZ. 
Michael D. Breen
Tuesday, 16 December 2025

 Christmas Shadow

    Christmas sucks! Yes, I know you are not supposed to say that, but I wish to make a case that for some of us it does. It does so, personally, socially, culturally, ethnically, psychologically, and every way except for the market that force, stronger than gravity which runs the whole show.
    My own reactions to 'The Festive Season' are so anti social that I cannot express them to many friends and relatives because they are part of the problem.
    Should I say I dislike or am quite uncomfortable with Christmas several reprisals follow. An early response can be to question my mental health.
    There is an imperative to conform. 'Of course, you are not serious?' 'How could you not like Christmas?' 'But you must admit...' And there follows an explanation you know is defensive and one where I am the problem. If you dislike what the majority likes you must be deficient, suspect even, because you see things so differently. You are treated as was the first person to dare to say that the earth circles the sun.
    Even though the vectors driving belief in the Season are illogical or bogus or outdated and such that many of the proponents only half believe what they are advocating, they seem to feel duty bound to persuade you to change your heretical ideas.
    I own this stance is deeply personal, offensive even, and in the opposite direction from the popular procession. Personal scars of trauma contribute to my position. Yes. When I was ten on Christmas Eve, I had been trying to catch a cicada as a tangible present for myself for Christmas. I fell out of a tree and landed upside down on a sharp stump. I was terrified when I saw the muscle or tissue or fat poking out of the wound as I limped home.
    I knew my parents felt obliged to do the Santa thing and that they did not have a lot of money to spend and worse, that they would choose age inappropriate presents for me. They would miss the mark but would have fulfilled the Christmas gift injunction.
    The pain in my thigh kept me awake that night. I heard my parents arguing about the quality and quantity of the Santa drop.
Mum was accusing Dad of being niggardly and because I held a similar view it was squirmingly painful to hear.
    Next morning the bundle of disposables at the end of the bed included an orange coloured ten shilling note. It concretised Mum's judgment of Dad; her victory and their scale of values and Dad's having to pay for his humiliation.
    That event was underpinned by the epistemological
 or identity problems of who Santa was and why the ruse should exist at all.
    Most parents seem to enact without question the validity of the culturally supported ruse. Santa is written to, visits an impossible number of houses, enters via a chimney, parks a sled with reindeer team in all insolence-eats and drinks festal offerings and moves on to the next house. No wonder we have an obesity problem in Santa countries. He does all this after arriving from some Nordic location via shopping mall photo ops.
    Folklorists dispute the emoluments of the season; the tree, the music, the snow, the revealed theology of the day and the national variations-which are of course Eurocentric.
    There is no common sense nor veracity in nostalgia. And nostalgia operates at much deeper levels than what is visible or logical. It is excellent preparation for believing 'false truths'.
    Familiarly Christmas is like putting on an old boot. The younger the wearer the better the fit. Then there is a divide between those who find reassurance in an aged pair of archaic slippers and the ache of misshapen feet bunions and all shoehorned into what once worked comfortably.
    Forget, for a moment, about those who echo the regressions to childhood or the joy of giving an appreciated present. Think instead of the others who quake at the annual reenactment , those who have neither the money, the desire or friends and relatives with whom to meet. Or those non neo-europeans who have their own feasts and rituals. For the bereaved there is the reminder of painful ongoing losses. For the lonely the pain of isolation and being radically different as well as resenting those who mindlessly glide through.
    
    Then there are those like me who try to conform, pull on the old boot without too many audible aches and groans. Those who try to do their best while knowing how thin is the veneer of conformity so as
to please someone else.
    There is an old story of two adolescent youngsters of noble Italian families who declared they wanted, beyond all else, to be married and live happily ever after. The story goes that the adults consulted a wise old bishop (Yes it was a long time ago). His grace advised handcuffing the ardent pair to each other and to a comfortable large bed for a few days. The elders followed the advice and the deflated youngsters saw more than the light.
    And the connection with Christmas? Psychologists, sociometrists and historians, with a capital H and anyone with a memory know a Christmas gathering is fraught. Just look at it:a group of sibling rivals, a squark of generations, an array of injured, hurt and damaged relationships, a mob of people who never see or visit one another throughout the year, with a stack of unfinished business the size of colonisation are supposed to sit, eat, drink together in some magic social balm swallowing any hypocrisy. Until on the way home when they can take the strips off the attendees confidentially.
    Our Irish mob was would never let a family relationship get in the way of a cutting remark.
    Many times I have heard from a combatant about physical fisticuff boil overs which followed the pudding or the game of backyard cricket liberally fuelled by the lubrications of the liquid spirit of the season. Which outbursts, though alarming carry an authenticity greater than the enforced saccharine social endearments and blistering kisses.
    Yeah, Nah it's really only the merchants who profit from Christmas. Even if they have to forego a bit of repriced hard to shift produce for the Boxing Day sales. They don't give a rat's whether it is a gift to a beloved or a tick the box token. A sort of have to because it is expected part of a transaction. Which this kind of stuff, come to think of it, is not a gift anymore than are taxes, or rates gifts we love to give.
    Usually days of national celebration accrue from a major proud victory or death or national achievement. Sometimes these events have a religious origin. Which is fine if you are religious, preferably of the same theological flavour as the event or are willing to adopt the dress, customs, tucker of that group.
    If you are not you can use the event like the Italian second hand car dealers in the Boston St Patrick's day parade who sit in open top convertibles decked in green and sporting oversized green rosettes.
    What is bothersome for the purists is when the annual recall celebration has lost almost any connection with the foundation it recalls. Celebrating by gift swapping of non essential items, spending energy on lights at Christmas seems to have lost a foundation in reality if it is based on a poor couple, unable to get accommodation other than an animal shelter where she brings forth her first son.
    The closest group to this family are starving refugees who would be mightily helped if even a proportion of the Western World Christmas expenditure were allotted to these deserving helpless people. 

    Cultural appropriation of snow and decorated trees are now endorsed as seasonal necessities. It can be tricky. In a Japanese attempt to join in; Santa, in red and white, has been depicted nailed hands and feet to a cross. A sort of covering all bases messianic icon.

    
    Are there seasonal survival mechanisms for refugees of this seasonal behaviour? There are at least two. One, banish reason, common sense, social conscience, past hurt and offence and go along for the ride.
    Two, get out of town, to another culture if you can, or go walking in the bush,Yes, sing to yourself if you like and write.

Michael D. Breen

 Geometer Dreams   by Peter Byrne.


    In Geometer Dreams Peter Byrne showcases landmarks and trig points of a distinguished forty year career as a geometer. He eschews the title ‘surveyor’.
        ‘Surveyors, having so much difficulty in defining themselves,                 should not be surprised that their profession, its wide scope, its             importance, is not commonly understood’
    The author recognises that readers may be misled by their preconceptions of ‘surveyors’. Men with tripods on the pavement looking at other men with long white calibrated sticks. So Byrne uses the term Geometer whom he observes in the third person.    
    At the conclusion of the hundred vignettes the reader is so much the wiser even if a constraining definition remains elusive.
    Peter Byrne is ‘old school’ in spirit and appreciation. Though he is happy to embrace and master new technology as it arrives. Nonetheless he is happy to value rather than spurn the old such as a wheelbarrow or World War 1 heliograph, four cylinder Land Rover, The Curta Calculator or
Tellurometers
    Like the cabinetmakers who mastered hand tools and moved to electric tops or the artist who mastered sketching before oil painting the author’s career saw small and large changes which reduced the arduous field labours and improved accuracy. Devices in the right hands of course.
    The dreams move from cadet journeyman to master practitioner and businessman to standard bearer for the profession and for professionalism with the Institution of Surveyors, federally and The International Federation of Surveyors.
    Then a turn into mediation and dispute resolution where he surveyed and unearthed vectors and connections of people stuck in conflict and inaction.
    So what is the spirit the elan vital the underlying driving force linking the adventures, jobs, trips, challenges, appointments and leaps of this geometer?
    Leonardo, or was it Einstein, said that genius is mostly in observation. And our greatest preventer of observing or learning is what we know; what we believe to be the truth about the way things are.
    The Geometer is an ongoing lifelong learner. And you can feel his delight when he achieves a new learning.
    This requires courage, civil courage and ego management. Changing bearings and direction requires the bereavement of banning the familiar and embracing, often uncertainly at first, what was anathema. It is challenging. It is uncomfortable  and then liberating.
    The Geometer’s learning and explorations often were presented by peers, clients, and opponents. So from a swamp of confusion, progress in geometer dreaming moves to as absolute a precautionary accuracy as humans can produce. That is a map.
    The Swedes have a Museum of Failures, established as a source of learning. The Geometer often slows things down to learn rather than hurry up to avoid shame and keep ‘looking forward.’
    Without escaping the discomfort and anxiety the Geometer accepts a second opinion with a wry smile and a good grace. Not easy when dealing with anxious, bullying or greedy clients and organisations.
    The Geometer is smart and witty. His humour is like a Zen Koan which breaks through situations to reveal a new, an enlivening viewpoint. He only just evades the label ‘smart arse’ by being able to give grin and take.
    In Australian and international professional bodies the Geometer led conservative forces to change with the times meshing with other bodies in the landscape
    Meeting the characters in the stories and in the bibliographical notes the Geographer presents those with whom he shares his path. You see whom he valued, respected and befriended. They edified (built) one another.Their dates of birth and death show that not many are still going. This is an historical document.
    So what function might this almost quirky compendium perform? War stories register? Nostalgia? Celebrating less visible professionals of one man and his mates? Were I as an educator asked to prescribe essential reading for students of surveying and kindred vocations such as engineering, town planning, architecture etc I would set Geometer Dreams as a readable potent and humane handbook on professional practice of an essential service.

Michael D. Breen organisational psychologist consultant to AAM, the Institution of Surveyors and The Association of Consulting Surveyors and a State Surveyor General.
    
Geometer Dreams
First published in 2022 by
PETER BYRNE
Maylands 6051
Western Australia
byrne.peter@optusnet.com.au

Copyright  © Peter Byrne.
ISBN:978 064547 860 0

 Following World Health Organization webinar on Creating AgeFriendly Co0mmunities.Toolkit for assessing an AgeFriencly community

The Tuft of Flowers > ROBERT FROST

>
> I went to turn the grass once after one

> Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

> 
> The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
> Before I came to view the levelled scene.
> 
> I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
> I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
> 
> But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
> And I must be, as he had been,—alone,
> 
> ‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
> ‘Whether they work together or apart.’
> 
> But as I said it, swift there passed me by
> On noiseless wing a ‘wildered butterfly,
> 
> Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
> Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
> 
> And once I marked his flight go round and round,
> As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
> 
> And then he flew as far as eye could see,
> And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
> 
> I thought of questions that have no reply,
> And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
> 
> But he turned first, and led my eye to look
> At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
> 
> A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
> Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
> 
> I left my place to know them by their name,
> Finding them butterfly weed when I came.
> 
> The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
> By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
> 
> Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
> But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
> 
> The butterfly and I had lit upon,
> Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
> 
> That made me hear the wakening birds around,
> And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
> 
> And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
>
> So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
> 
> But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
> And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
> 
> And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
> With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
> 
> ‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
> ‘Whether they work together or apart.’

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