The first time I visited Akihabara, the ground moved beneath my feet.

As I strolled down Chuo-dori that evening, the strongest earthquake to rattle Tokyo in over a decade struck, centered a mere fifteen miles away, far beneath Tokyo Bay. Damage was light, but dozens were injured. Train service ground to a halt. Fire crews rushed to rescue people trapped in elevators. For a moment in time, Tokyo was a broken city. And I didn’t feel a damn thing.

Akihabara. It overwhelms the senses.

I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn’t the “Big One”. After all, “crushed by a towering stack of used eroge,” would be a sad way to leave this world - I’m not hardcore enough, see - but I couldn’t help but be a little dissapointed by my complete lack of awareness. My first earthquake, and I missed it. How could I have missed it? And how the hell was I going to get home?

Of course, there are far worse fates in the world than to be an anime fan trapped in Akihabara. And, thus, the first of my many adventures in the Electric Town commenced…

What was once the center for the electronics trade in Tokyo, Akihabara has evolved to become the center of otaku culture in Japan in recent years. Some argue that the evolution continues, as new development in the vicinity of Akihabara Station attracts shoppers and residents with more “mainstream” hobbies and interests. The maid cafes sill outnumber the fashion boutiques, but for how long? It depends on who you ask.

However, back when I was tramping around the place, those new developments were merely piles of steel and scafolding. Change was in the air, but for the time being, Akihabara belonged to the otaku. For a foriegner, Tokyo can be a city of conflicts. It’s a city of silent train cars and downward gazes, people coming and going in complete anonymity. Yet, for a foreigner, there is no anonymity. The color of your skin, the color of your hair, the color of your eyes… there’s no hiding them. Towering over the crowds everywhere you go, you begin to feel out of place. On display. As if you don’t belong.

Except, that is, in Akihabara.

Since I lived on the Sobu Line, I passed through Akihabara often. Practically all of my trips into the heart of Tokyo took me through Akihabara Station. Even if I took the rapid train into Tokyo Station, I’d often pass through neighboring Ochanomizu Station on the Chuo Line, heading to locations deeper within the city. A stop in Akihabara eventually became a regular feature of any trip in and out of Tokyo, and I soon developed a familiarity with the place on par with my own neighborhood in the eastern suburbs.

Of course, regular visits translated into significant damage to my bank account. Let’s face it: anime goods can be difficult to come by in the United States. Yes, you can purchase DVDs with ease and find a large selection of mainstream manga at most chain bookstores, but character goods, figures, collector’s items, doujinshi and other trinkets are nearly impossible to find outside of a convention or comic book store setting. Akihabara, however, was otaku nirvana. Anything and everything, available for purchase. New and used. Common and rare. What treasure awaits at the bottom of the staircase?

I’m not much of a consumerist, to be honest. In fact, I can be a bit of a miser. However, every visit to Akihabara left me intoxicated. My inhibitions dulled, I parted with my hard-earned yen with reckless abandon. 23,000 yen for a DVD boxset? Why not? 5,000 yen worth of pencil boards? Might as well. 1,000 yen in gasaphon capsules? If I want that figure of Sakura in her summer uniform…

Akihabara is dangerous.

I was in good company, though. Sit down and observe the crowds in Akihabara, and you notice something: all the bags. Shopping bags, backpacks, messenger bags and suitcases. Containers for stuff. Otaku are drawn to Akihabara not necessarily for the atmosphere or the events, but for the stuff. They buy the stuff and take it home. Then, when they get tired of it or find themselves in need of money to buy more stuff, they return to sell it. Someone else buys the stuff, and the cycle repeats.

It’s kind of depressing, really. Is an otaku’s passion mesaured by the amount of stuff he or she posesses? Does that question even enter the minds of the hordes of backpack-laden geeks crawling along Chuo-dori? Probably. But in Akihabara, there’s little time to waste on such questions. After all, there’s shopping to be done.

I don’t know when I’ll visit Akihabara again. Next time I’m in Tokyo, I’m sure. When that’ll be, I can’t say. Could be next month. Could be next year. But I’m sure that, even if I ponder the aforementioned question on the train as the scenery flashes by, all will be forgotten the minute I step off on to the platform and see that yellow “Exit for Akihabara Electric Town” sign. The only thing I’ll be thinking then is, “How much can I cram in my suitcase?”

Such is the Akihabara life.