Climbing, cramming, head banging

By Caroline O'Doherty, Yokohama

"YOU WHAT? You spent the night in a coffin? What are you - Dracula’s sister?"

The Japanese capsule hotel has an image problem that would be hard to overcome even if Jennifer Lopez invited a camera crew to shoot Big Brother with her inside.

It is incomprehensible to most westerners how anyone could sleep tight in a room six feet by four and a half by three and a bit. Sure you’d never see daylight again. With over 8 million people crammed into their capital city, however, the citizens of Tokyo can’t afford to be claustrophobes and to them, the capsule hotel meets the dual considerations of space and cost perfectly. At 2,900 yen per night or about €27, it is as cheap as a hostel yet unlike most European hostels, it isn’t over-run by unwashed backpackers.

Businessmen, professional women, country dwellers, visiting relatives and young people out to party in the city all use the capsule as does the occasional tourist - much to the amusement of the previous four categories.

There is only one way for a westerner to visit a capsule hotel without looking conspicuous but that involves having lived a previous life as a Japanese travelling salesman with a poor expense account. Without the assistance of reincarnation, the only way to master the art of miniature living is to learn by doing.

The first lesson starts in the hotel lobby which doesn’t exist apart from a two by four patch of floor inside the door where you must take off your shoes.

I bent down to pull off my runners but the door swung open suddenly and I was knocked back into the forbidden zone. A British youth in a soccer shirt appeared from the dark of the night and immediately pointed at my feet. "Shoes," he said helpfully. Reincarnated little upstart.

Women were kept nine floors up in several rooms off a corridor which also served as storage space for bundles of towels and stock for the vending machines. Having two keys was a hopeful sign. At least if we were all locked in, we presumably didn’t have to be Houdini to get out.

But the smaller key was for another locker, four feet high and five inches wide boasting a single rail and hanger - adequate for storing a single item of clothing as long as it wasn’t a petticoated ball gown.

The second key was to the door of a narrow room containing 16 capsules, eight either side arranged in rows of four, one on top of the other. Half appeared occupied apart from one on the ground floor that had an overflowing backpack, an odd sock and a couple of beer cans on the floor

outside.

The capsules were like flat-roofed plastic dog kennels with an opening you have to crawl through, if situated on the ground, or climb into, if on top.

Anyone with experience of bunk beds would be perfectly well prepared for the exercise if only the little steps hanging down the front were made for feet larger than size three and the opening into the capsule could take more than one limb at a time.

As it was, the entry was far from gracious and in the dark, the invisible little television monitor that hangs from the ceiling got a well deserved thump from a large western head for its troubles. There

was just enough light to make out a control panel on the side of the capsule but not enough to work out where the light switch was. Enough poking around found a switch that activated the telly and provided enough illumination to discover the instruction leaflet provided no illumination whatsoever.

More rummaging around uncovered a neatly folded yukata, a towel and a plastic wrapped toothbrush. There was also a blind at the entrance which could be pulled down and secured from inside. No locks and keys. It began to look promising. At six feet long, the capsule offered a few

inches of toe stretching space, just enough head room to sit up without concussion and sufficient elbow room to turn over. One would not, however, be inviting Niall Quinn to tea.

Sleep was difficult, not least because of a thumping headache causing by another run-in with the television during a visit to the toilets which were communal, meaning you could emerge from a cubicle and find a row of gentlemen busy at the urinals in front of you.

Morning came too early with the thundering noise of Tokyo rush-hour traffic.

A quick exit seemed like a good idea. The elevator was a welcome site. I made an attempt at visiting vending machine alley but decided to leave it to the row of partially dressed men studying its contents.

Maybe it was just the half-light but some looked to have fangs.