A former tour assistant has shared a charming and unexpectedly funny memory from Tina Turner’s 1979 visit to Tokyo — a day when heavy rain trapped her inside a small souvenir shop for nearly two hours, leading her to buy a collection of 17 unrelated trinkets simply to pass the time.
According to the assistant, the incident happened during a rare free afternoon between rehearsals. Turner, excited to explore the city, asked to visit a quiet shopping street known for traditional crafts and local goods. The weather forecast predicted only light showers, so she went with a small security escort and no umbrella. But minutes after stepping into a narrow souvenir shop, the sky opened with sudden force.
“It wasn’t rain,” the assistant said. “It was like someone dumped a bucket over the whole street. We couldn’t leave without getting completely soaked.”
Turner, instead of expressing frustration, looked around the tiny shop — crowded with shelves of figurines, miniature fans, paper charms, lacquered chopsticks, music boxes, and dozens of other items. With nothing else to do, she picked up the nearest trinket: a small ceramic lucky cat. She examined it briefly, smiled, and said, “Well, I guess I’ll start here.”
Over the next two hours, while the rain hammered loudly against the shop’s metal awning, Turner slowly wandered from shelf to shelf. She touched every item with curiosity, asking the shopkeeper short, polite questions through the assistant’s rushed translations. She tried paper fans, shook tiny bells, wound up music boxes, and laughed softly when one of them played an off-key melody.
“She treated the shop like a museum,” the assistant recalled. “Not rushed, not bored — genuinely interested.”
Each time Turner found something she liked, she added it to a growing pile on the counter. The first few items made sense: a beautifully folded paper crane, a silk bookmark, a pair of lacquer chopsticks. But as the minutes passed, the collection became more eclectic. She picked out a keychain shaped like a rice ball, a miniature lantern, a small wooden toy, and even a novelty pen that squeaked when pressed.
At one point, she held up a hand-painted spinning top and asked, “Do grown-ups still play with these?” The shopkeeper answered yes, and Turner added it to the pile with a grin.
The rain kept falling. Turner continued browsing.
Customers occasionally dashed inside for shelter, startled to find an international star examining shelves of tiny trinkets. Turner greeted them warmly, sometimes asking what they recommended. One elderly woman insisted she buy a small protective charm, which Turner accepted with both hands, bowing sincerely.
When the downpour finally eased, Turner approached the counter, glanced at the mountain of items, and laughed. “Seventeen,” the assistant said, counting them. “You bought seventeen little things.”
Turner shrugged playfully. “Well,” she said, “I had time.”
The shopkeeper wrapped each item carefully, bowing repeatedly in gratitude. Turner bowed back, thanking them for the shelter and the unexpected moment of calm.
Back at the hotel, she lined up the items on a table, looking amused and proud. According to the assistant, she kept several of them for years — not because they were valuable, but because they reminded her of a rainy Tokyo afternoon that turned into an unexpected adventure.
“It wasn’t the shopping,” the assistant said. “It was the stillness — a rare pause in a life that almost never paused.”