Fishing for memories at the Tsukiji Fish Market

Because everyone hates having to pack everything up and move (okay maybe it’s just me)… 

Here’s how the closing and relocating of Tokyo’s Tsukiji Fish Market sent us fishing for memories and taught us that change just takes some getting used to.

A few years ago it was only a rumor. Then there were the protests. Finally, this week, a slew of news articles proving it was all very true and imminent.

The legendary Tsukiji Fish Market location in the Chuo Ward of Tokyo closed its doors on October 6, 2018 and many called it “the end of an era.” It opened in 1935 as a replacement for the market that was destroyed during an earthquake in 1923 and is now, after 83 years, packing up its old-fashioned handwritten and painted shop signs and moving to a new location in Toyosu.

The market, frequented by millions each year, was seen by many as the epicenter of seafood and was considered the largest fish market in the world. In addition to handling an incomparable volume of fish every day, it also sold fruits, vegetables, housewares, and was home to hundreds of shops and restaurants.

The market came to life each morning, well before sunrise, as it prepared for its famed tuna auctions. As some tourists have experienced, even lining up at 3:00 A.M. for a peek at the tuna frenzy, may not secure you a spot on the auction floor.

After a late-night of sight seeing and a bit of jet lag, I overslept and didn’t make it in time for the auction, but I did get there in time to catch the quiet after the storm and before the lunchtime rush.

There were still quite a few mini forklifts and trucks zipping around with fishy cargo. Wholesalers sped about with clipboards and organized their stalls, while tourists (like me) carefully navigated bloody puddles, fish bones, and guts as we curiously wandered around the massive market. 

The move to the Toyosu location is seen as controversial. Many recognize the market’s current deteriorating infrastructure, unsanitary conditions, and its overall declining state, but they remain hesitant about the move.

There is skepticism over the new location’s past as a gas plant and some fear there may be lingering contamination on the grounds. They worry that they are moving too far from current customers and see the move as a threat to business.

I heard that the market which preceded Tsukiji Fish Market was in place for three centuries before it  disappeared from the landscape as a result of an act of nature. Perhaps Tsukiji Fish Market hoped for the same longevity. Perhaps this market believed only nature could take it down.

The more I think about it…maybe that’s what really what happened here. Maybe nature works a bit faster these days. Maybe consumerism, technology, and this fast-changing world banded together and disguised as nature. The market will be razed in order to make way for a parking lot and other accommodations ahead of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics.

A temporary event…bringing about permanent change. While most of us are careful to rush into permanent decisions in temporary situations, we see it happen all the time in circumstances where options like preservation and restoration are often left unexplored. 

I read that many of the fishmongers are heartsick over the move, citing nostalgia as the main reason for opposition. Those who have have worked and patronized the market for decades fear that everything will change.

An Instagram friend recently posted a photo of a childhood family home and fretted over its demolition. The image, although I had never personally visited the home before, suddenly struck me as familiar – because the story was familiar. It was about nostalgia and our ability to cope with change. It’s about our desire to want to hang on to memories – especially the good ones.

There is something comforting about an old familiar structure that still stands even after its occupants are long gone – particularly if the occupants were family, friends, or even if it was our own childhood home or any place we’d frequent where significant memories were formed. As long as the structure is there, the memories and nostalgic feelings remain tangible. But once it’s gone – and especially if you have to witness it’s destruction – this physical separation can be emotionally heartbreaking. 

Recently I interviewed Ernest Rossi, of E. Rossi & Co. in New York City’s Little Italy section. He is a third generation shop owner of an Italian gift shop that was forced to move following excessive rent hikes. Prior to the move, his father and grandfather operated the shop at its previous address for over 70 years. Imagine what it must have been like to pack up everything in that old shop space. To see the empty shelves and to no longer hear the music, as he described it. What it must have felt like to look back and close the door on so many years of memories. 

Within the past week or so, I watched videos of the iconic neon signs outside of the Parisian Florist in Hollywood, California being taken down. The shop, in business since 1924, is a local gem also owned and operated by a third generation family. It is most recognized as the shop that Joe DiMaggio used to send roses to Marilyn Monroe’s gravesite for 20 years. Customers, neon lovers, Hollywood historians, and nostalgics all watched as the signs were carefully removed and hoisted down onto a truck that would take them to their new home at the Museum of Neon Art in Glendale, California where they will be preserved. The shop is also closing and relocating. The shop owner’s thoughts on the matter were documented on social media:

“It’s down (referring to the signs). So sad but life changes, we grow and we learn.”

As they recalled the sights, sounds, and smells of the market, many of the Tsukiji Fish Market workers spoke of nostalgia and described the feeling as one of being “torn away” from their beloved place. It seemed many could not fathom witnessing the market’s demolition. 

As we grapple with change and physical separation from places – and for some maybe even people and things – that we hold dear, we turn our attention to poet Judith Minty who sends us off with this from her collection of poems entitled Letters to My Daughters…

“I give you this to take with you: 

Nothing remains as it was. If you know this, you can begin again, with pure joy in the uprooting.”

As for the Tsukiji Fish Market, its new location will take some getting used to. There will be growing pains and the rules will be different, but the allure of the market, it’s history, and the people that are making the trek over to the new space – they are all still the same. And maybe stowed away somewhere in those boxes and in the hearts of those who remain hopeful for the old way of things, is nostalgia. And in time, we will come to feel it once again – even under all of its fancy modern LED lighting.