Two Months in the Life...

I do not even know where to begin or what to highlight, because there has been so much and it has generated quite a whirlwind of emotions and expectations. I guess the best place to start would be, as always, at the beginning. I was born on… O.K., O.K., not that far back, only about two months, when I received my first visitor from “home.” Up until that point, excluding the brief period I was with my parents and brother in late December, I obviously and voluntarily had placed a 5,000 territorial barrier between myself and everything that had become close and dear to me over the past twenty years. Living a new life, so-called only because there were many new, as yet unlived experiences in it, I quickly came to realize that, as any person with half a brain should be able to tell you, at the root level, it does not really matter where you live. We carry our problems, our joys, and our sensitivities across any ocean and any distance, for they cannot forsake us even if we choose to radically change up the scenery. Of course, coming to Japan, I knew that but was in some state of half-denial, half-fantasy, eager for not only new experience, but an influx of motivation to get “stuff” into gear. As someone named Leary once said, I yearned for a state of chaotic, confused vulnerability in order to inform myself and coming to Japan was just the ticket. That train of thought is neither here nor there, but it does get me to an important point. Apart from that “stuff,” which is so personal and deeply rooted in every individual (and rarely prone to external influence), what it is that makes our lives meaningful? Well, I would like to argue that it is in large part the people that we choose to spend our time with, who we let share our variety of experiences, joys, and fears. Not that I’ll argue that here, but just state and assume it as fact and say that back in July I separated myself from that and was for quite some time distracted by the multitude of things in this country. But eventually, I settled down, became used to the newness, rediscovered many of my demons and at that point, I began to sorely miss the comfort and support of old friends. Luckily, this was right around the middle of February, and as I said before, before the month’s end, I would receive my first visitor.

Maria was here a whole week before we met, which, in my eyes, was very brave, but being the adventurous person that she is, she managed quite well on her own. We had agreed to meet in Takayama, a sleepy little mountain town about 2 hours’ drive from me. After paying half of my annual salary in tolls and tracking a nice elderly lady at 27 km/hr down a never ending, highly loopy mountain road, I came to the train station, where Maria’s train was due to arrive. Not to overplay the drama, but I was slightly apprehensive, mostly because of the symbolic nature of this event, the bridging of the gap between new world and old. She came and for a while, I felt somewhat ill at ease, not really knowing what to say or do. At the time, as well as with hindsight, I have to attribute this brief uneasiness to the reunion with something from the past that I had not come into such direct contact with for a while. It quickly faded, we ate some ramen, reminisced, explored the little town that is really only worth going to during its two annual festivals (and that isn’t just my opinion, but that of the 300,000 or so people that come to each.) That day I had two of the 4,204 subsequent coffee breaks that have become the defining symbol of my way of travel. Some may share this view and some may not, but I have really shied away from the “ok, here’s a break down of our day and we will spend exactly 37 minutes here, before spending 18 minutes on transportation to here, where we will spend between 12 and 27 minutes, depending on interest gauged at the time” philosophy of travel and really just picked one or two places per day that I really want to see, really given myself time to explore them, and, to fill the gaps, really done a lot of relaxing, which happens to revolve around coffee and cigarettes. Anyway, slight tangent. That evening we had lovely yaki-niku (where they bring you raw meat and you grill it in front of you, a la Korean BBQ style) and the next day, after visiting a museum of the portable shrines that are used at those two annual festivals, we drove back to good, sweet, old Houdatsushimizu and engaged in that grand countryside entertainment ritual – DVD watching (Wedding Crashers and Showgirls, back to back, oh yeah.) Next day, (Monday, but a day off for me) we took the train down to KZ and utilized the better part of the day sightseeing via a quaint and lovely bus designed precisely for that purpose. I actually got to see much of Kanazawa that I hadn’t seen before, like the Geisha quarters (apparently real live Geisha still, to this day, live and work in Kanazawa, which I didn’t know and had assumed they were only in Kyoto, and maybe in Tokyo.) Additionally, as I didn’t know, Kanazawa is very famous for its gold leaf, which is a very, very (we’re talking .000001 of a millimeter) thin piece of gold that is obviously extremely fragile. It is used for a variety of things, among which are food additive (we ate some gold) and paint substitute (those familiar with Kinkakuji, the Golden Pavilion in Kyoto, should know that it is coated in gold leaf from Kanazawa). Finally and naturally, as any conscientious visitor to Kanazawa should, we paid homage to one of the three best gardens in Japan, Kenrokuen, and although it was cold enough to shrink a penguin, it was still beautiful. That night, we dined with some of my local friends in the izakaya, a traditional Japanese small restaurant, catering particularly to local residents (i.e. not designed for tourists or travelers, but as a second kitchen, of sorts.) The following three days, I had work, which was difficult because I wasn’t altogether of the working mindset, and Maria went skiing and lounged about. On Thursday evening, after a little elevation, I set off on the overnight bus for Tokyo, where Maria, who had left Houdatsushimizu on Thursday morning, would meet me the next day.

Imagine putting a rather decent sized and tired rhinoceros into a cage designed to house, at most, a very large dog, completely shutting out all the lights, and then shaking the hell out of him for eight hours, while expecting him to perform circus tricks all day the following day. Yeah, as you can imagine, I was pretty tired the next day but there is nothing like the sight of Shinjuku at 6:00 AM to wake you up. That is actually a very curious time because it is when the crowd mixes, with the zombie like, wasted creatures stumbling back home after a night of drinking and the equally zombie like, yet slightly better dressed creatures on their way to work bump into each other on the way into and out of trains. Add to that scene a sleepless rhinoceros, 47 million gigawatts of dormant electricity, and love hotel city, and you start to imagine what Shinjuku is like, except that 6:00 is probably the quietest time. As anyone who has been there will tell you, the area becomes a veritable zoo as the day grows and, by the time it is dark enough for the neon to come to life, it is transformed to perhaps the liveliest, busiest, insanest place on the face of the planet. But that’s for later. In the meanwhile, I had me a couple of coffees and an Egg McMuffin with cheese, read Mr. Heinlen (my first exposure to the science fiction genre (minus J.R.R. Tolkien), which I have to recommend to all), and patiently waited for Maria at the South Entrance of Shinjuku Station (number 35 of 79 exits) located smuggly between 2 of the 4 department stores (a la Marshall Fields, yet twice as big) that make up just a small part of this, the busiest train station on earth. Amazingly enough, she found me, we dropped off the luggage at the hotel, and strolled, if you will, around the west side of Shinjuku, which, in the last thirty years has become home to Tokyo’s skyscrapers, as well as many of its luxury high rise hotels. We climbed to the top of (well, took the elevator really, as my building climbing skills are a bit unpolished, as of yet) the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building (which, in a week’s time would subsequently take on many different shapes and sizes as well as adding moniker of “Sanitation” to its name), hoping to catch a panoramic glimpse of the city, as well as of the ever-hidden yet definitely there Mt. Fuji san. It was cloaked in clouds, as usual, but the rest of the view proved worthwhile and additionally, I delighted myself by purchasing a couple miniature plastic models of ramen and vending machine inventory. Don’t ask me why. Next stop was an advice solicitation adventure at the Tokyo office of LEK Consulting Group, Maria’s multinational employer. It proved somewhat anticlimactic because the office was just a room, the staff a bunch of young foreigners, and the advice quite limited and ineffectual. But it was in Shibuya, so we did get a chance to walk around for a bit, catch a bite and figure out what to do for the rest of the day, which in the end turned out to be not much at all. We made it out to the Roppongi and after being endlessly solicited by big black men to try out their spaghetti and women, eating at some pricey yet slightly sleazy yaki (grilled) tori (chicken) (oh, on a stick) place, stumbling about with a weak desire to go clubbing but no real purpose, returned to the land of Shinjuku, where we employed the “let’s never use the same exit twice strategy” successfully and got lost yet again. Needless to say, that was a tiring day for the rhino.

But it did merit a nice and lazy 12:00 PM wake up time. We were staying on the seventh floor of the Nishi Shinjuku Hotel, a business hotel but on the quasi-expensive side. The room size didn’t justify the cost but I’m guessing the view did – the block in front of our window was taken up by none other than a large, heavily populated cemetery. From the ground, the fence around it made it appear like a construction sight, but from the seventh floor it was definitely a splattering of death in the midst of such incredible life. The midday sun shone brightly and we made our way to the Tsukiji Fish Market, which is most famous for its pre-dawn frozen tuna auction which we had only missed by a narrow margin of seven hours. But, as the saying goes, the closer to the source, the better the fish (it’s a saying now, cause I’ve said it!). We walked around the stalls and smelled the freshness of the seafood and after numerous occasions of near accidental manslaughter at the hands of lunatic kerosene cart operators, we settled to a beautiful lunch of just about the best sushi I have ever tasted, not to mention my first exposure to the world of raw horse sashimi. After such a delightful dining experience, there was precious little to do except to head out to the Imperial Palace, home of the Emperor, who sixty five years prior, was God, and sixty years ago became merely human, but is still a widely respected and important figure in Japan. Good grief, you should see the Palace, you really should. Because, we didn’t see it at all. Turns out, it’s open to the Public only twice a year and that particular day just didn’t hit the mark. We saw a heavily guarded bridge across the moat that leads to the entrance gate, and also a side of one of the palace buildings, entirely undifferentiated from many other Japanese traditional structures. Woo-hoo. Ok, ok, at least we’ll go to the East Palace Garden, a famed expanse of green in the middle of an otherwise concrete and neon urban density. But alas, that was not meant to be either, as the place shut down precisely four minutes before our punctual selves showed up at the gate. Nothing more to do but to sit on the curb, smoke one or two, and head back toward Shinjuku, to prepare for a night out in the city’s trendiest nightlife neighborhood, Shibuya. And what a night out it was (if you haven’t yet caught on to the obvious yet somewhat unjustifiable sarcasm permeating these last few words, well, read on.) After gazing at the well-groomed yet still somehow incongruent types that populate this area at night and taking in some cheap beer and ramen, we both decided that we were too tired to cough up a lousy 3500 Yen cover charge for the nightclub and would rather play some pool instead, which we did in the largest pool hall I have ever seen, with a whopping fifty tables or so, at least. Two vodka tonics and a cab ride later, we were back in Shinjuku, traversing our way through Kabukicho, love hotel and strip club central, fascinated by the ways in which Tokyoites, and Japanese in general, entertain themselves at night. Yet another club-hope-filled night ending in failure.

Ahh, Sunday. If you ever get to Tokyo and it happens to be Sunday, drop everything and head out to Harajuku, either on the JR Yamamote line, or via numerous subway lines through Shibuya (which means walking through the lovely Yoyogi park, full of musicians and markets and performers of all kinds, more later.) On the bridge between the entrances to Yoyogi park and the Meiji Shrine, you will find an extremely interesting and eye-catching collection of Japanese youth who have taken it upon themselves to express their counter-culture through fashion choices that are best described as a hybrid of 19^th century European aristocracy and late 20^th century hard-core goth. What they’re doing there is hard to say, but to the untrained eye, it looks like simple hanging out, reuniting with friends, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon just like you or I would do. They are happy to pose for pictures or to simply look at the throngs of mostly foreign tourists with trigger-happy camera fingers. We saw, took in what we could, and strolled down the Omotesando, a broad avenue full of shopping and restaurants, whose sidewalks were filled absolutely to the brim with people. Since it is down sloping away from the station, we could see very far ahead of us and to my disbelief the crowd did not thin and there could have easily been something like 50,000 people within the space allowed by my weak vision. Feeling the overload of people, we ducked into a pedestrian only shopping lane but that only added to my frustration, as this lane possessed not only the same concentration of people but much less space in which to house them. It was alright though, because I bought myself a pair of imitation Aviators at a boutique and blent (blended is so passé) right in. It was an amazing experience overall, and even in the city of Tokyo, which is normally teeming with more people than bacteria in a Petri dish, it was remarkable to see such crowds. We barely made it to our train that took us to Ginza and the Kabukiza Theater, for a brief 90 minute glimpse of that grand, old Japanese traditional cultural pastime, kabuki. Up near the roof, but for a cheap ticket price and an English speaking ear piece, we watched a scene of tragedy unfold far beneath us. It really reminded me of opera, but without the music. It was drawn out, but the acting seemed superb and I have to applaud some of the actors for playing their feminine roles so well. The costumes and make up were quite something as well, but, unfortunately due to the lack of comprehension, the whole thing got a bit tedious fairly quickly (and not just to me, judging from the unbelievable number of sleeping people all around me…..quick tangent, have I already mentioned that the Japanese can sleep under any, and I mean ANY, conditions?) and sitting through to the end witnessed a bit of a battle between me and that sweet, amorous human condition known as sleep. After kabuki, we ate dinner at the Ginza Lion Beer Hall. Yes, a beer hall in Tokyo. It even looked German on the inside but the food wasn’t very good at all unfortunately. Anyway, a few of those and it was back to Shinjuku, back to the hotel, goodbyes, and back on the highway to hell. I believe Maria left Japan very satisfied with her experience, returning to the United States with good memories. As for me, it was back to the country for a few days before it would start all over again.

Actually, coming back to Shio was somewhat depressive, because I was suddenly switching from weekends away with old friends to job mode, half of which was recuperating from the weekend before and the other half preparing for the next one, which really made working productively difficult. (Please allow me yet another quick bitch here – as if this job and productivity could ever be in the same sentence – thank you.) Anyway, the week dragged, but finally it came to be Saturday morning and I took off for Komatsu Airport, giving myself a tuna sandwich and approximately 90 minutes to make my flight. Naturally enough, I didn’t think about that sneaky early Saturday morning traffic jam, which gave me exactly forty-five minutes before my flight to cover a distance of 28 kilometers, park the car, check in, and get on board. It was not to be the last such scramble for the next few days but it did provide for a nice 150 km/hr rally with this other dude trying to make the same flight. Finally, I got there and experienced the easiest check in of all time. Without a single pause, I scanned the ticket, got a boarding pass, went through security, got to the gate and boarded the plane within ten minutes. The flight was a pleasant 50 minutes long. After disembarking, I knew that I was at Haneda Airport at 9:00 AM, and Walter and Sonya would not be arriving until 4:00 PM at Narita Airport, thus giving me about seven hours, at least two to three of which would have to be spent on transportation. So, I decided to venture out to Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electronics Town, an amazing wonder of the latest and greatest in gadgetry and other electronelia. At first, it was mind-boggling, almost overwhelming – streets upon alleys upon avenues of big and small electronics shops, eight stories of concrete and neon housing all sorts of computer parts imaginable, book stall upon book stall of manga, computer games, DVD’s, the Yodobashi marvel – eight football fields piled on top of each other, each containing an extensive array of everything you can ever imagine requiring a plug and electricity, including 28 types of hair dryers and 18 different electronic scales, endless stretches of bins, boxes, sleeves, lids, containers, packages, some new, some old, microcameras to fit inside of cigarette packs, assembly parts for concert speakers and amplifiers, the dolls, oh my god, the dolls, entire stores devoted to assembly, dress up, maintenance of these small plastic wonders that come in all shapes and sizes, the action figures, probably every single one ever produced, and finally, the pornographilia, literally tons of it, in the form of DVDs, video games, computer games, books, but most prolifically, the comic books, everywhere, being scoured and digested by anonymous looking men in dark suits, all with backpacks and glasses, spending hours upon hours staring at what, to me, was incomprehensible beyond the pictures, of course. I spent a good four hours there, and near the end, I was hungry, befuddled, and my head hurt from the simultaneous events of overload of stimuli and an inability to process it fully. I really wanted to buy something, anything, but near the end, I literally felt that my brain would just melt and leak out the nearest orifice if I dilly dallied there any longer and I had to hot foot it back to the JR station. The hunger was not to be simply abated by a back alley coffee and a cigarette, so I settled for another uniquely Japanese experience, the station ramen stall. Rather, a countertop at a right angle, with three stools on one side and ten on another, enough to fit thirteen Japanese (or, for easier comprehension, about five and a half Marchenkos). In a narrow station passageway crowded with such stalls, I chose this one solely because it was the only stool without a body on it. Miraculously, I squeezed in between one of the aforementioned backpacker types and a lovely young lady typing away madly on her cellie. My elbows were literally in their bowls, so I sandwiched myself in the best way for greatest threeway comfort. The turnover at these things is amazing. They order, the two-man, two-woman assembly line whips up their dish in a matter of seconds, its plopped down with a glass of water and a wet wipe, and the noodles are profusely, rather loudly yet scrumptiously sucked up, the bits of fish or meat eaten, and the remaining soup drank with a loud “sssssshhhhhhhrrrrrrppppppp.” Nothing to do but to blend right in. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I enjoy the liberty allowed here of such loud slurping. For the Westerner it’s obviously a sign of slobbery but also of a certain relaxed, careless state of mind, and I indulge in it fully when I can. After a delicious 4min35sec meal, I got on the trains, figuring I would surprise the Rosenbergs at the airport, but also thinking I would save a bit on the insane fares by taking the slower trains. A good hour and a half later, I was looking at my watch, at Narita station (the town, not the airport), getting a bit nervous, as the plan was to meet in Shinjuku, not at the airport with no way of getting in touch, calling my brother in the vain hopes that the flight was a bit delayed, generally getting jumpy about the course of events that day. Finally, the much awaited train came, I got on, ran my way toward the arrival gate, just in the nick of time, to see a very classily dressed Walter (adidas, flannel, t-shirt, and beard all stylishly matching) and a visibly tired yet happy Sonya emerging from customs, bearing both the smiles and large-backpacks of weary travelers preparing for a long trek. I hid, both myself and my extreme elation at seeing them, until they went straight for the bus ticket counter, which is where I made my presence known. The hugs and kisses were exchanged and I could once again become accustomed to them and they to me. Little immediate change was noticed, but it was good, really good, to be together like this again. We stood around, I smoked, we got on a bus for Shinjuku, which was in turn re-routed due to traffic, Walter and I got into one of our talks (mainly centering around my comments about his stylish apparel choices and his annoyance with my embarrassment) and Sonya rightfully chose to ignore the whole thing and listened to some music instead, the Beatles no doubt. We disembarked and went searching for the Sunlite, on the corners of neon and red light. For most of that walk, it was mostly me aching from the strain of two bags (one of which graciously provided by my mother with much needed supplies, even more graciously transported by Walter) and the two others gawking, their heads mostly up, their bodies mostly bumping into unfortunate Japanese who did not have enough time to jump out of the way. We found the hotel, and because I didn’t have lodging for the evening, they scouted the possibility of sneaking me into their room and while I was waiting, I ducked into a corner store and bought a welcome gift, Jameson’s style. We were all set, snuck in, Walter and I happily partaking in Irish hospitality, figuring out the rest of the evening. As usually happens when you spend enough time in Ireland, Walter and I became really happy (a pattern oft-repeated in the next couple of days) and we all dove into the bright Shinjuku lights, crawling among the crowds, searching out a place of more sustainable nourishment. We found it in a busy basement restaurant, where a lovely Japanese man kept ordering sake for us (much too fast for us to drink, so he kind-heartedly helped us out) and we munched on some yakitori. Shortly after even Sonya joined our little club, albeit a bit behind Walter and myself, the leaders of the anti-prohibitionist movement. We walke, er stumbled out, did some jumps and headed for the insanity of the video game parlor, to the basement floor housing the infamous Purikura (Print Club) machines, or in other words, halls of vanity for young Japanese girls to put on excessive makeup, giggle, take pictures, and later color the whole thing with pretty lines and drawings. We, naturally, did the same, and followed that up with some drums. After that, there was nothing left to do but to return home and not go to sleep, not talk about life, not play a game of some sort, but to pass out like there was no tomorrow. A good day.

Ahhh, natto. Every Japanese person’s paradise and a foreigner’s worse nightmare. Fermented soy beans and cheese, whipped together into a gooey frenzy of taste sensation. They say it’s what makes the Japanese live so long and apparently it is indeed very healthy. When you try it, if the slippery, nasal excrement-like consistency doesn’t get to you, then surely the foul, “did I just eat a lot of rotten eggs” aftertaste will. Of course, it’s a proud Japanese dish and if you visit Japan, you must try it, which is what Walter did the next morning and I was able to laugh about it for a good long time. After breakfast, we headed on to Shibuya, just to take in the sights, with no particular agenda at all. Walter, having recently acquired the obsession of “taking” movies of everything, was continuously spinning around, trying to capture that which is, alas, not confinable to a two by three camera screen – the living, breathing energy pulsating from Shibuya. We strolled the various avenues and alleys lining this, quite a hilly, neighborhood, before settling down to a long coffee session in a hip café attached to a department store and playing loungy trance music. We just watched the people on this beautiful but windy Sunday day and I can truly say, that at that time, I felt carefree, in the fullest meaning of the word. We talked and laughed and then were on our way to Harajuku, via Yoyogi Park. Some sort of big stadium on the right, directly in front, a tree lined pedestrian walkway, each side, at evenly spaced intervals, occupied by aspiring musicians. Two dudes with a guitar here, a chick singing and playing piano there, a boy band with matching white sweatsuits performing to crowd of giggling adolescent girls here, an attractive young lady singing in front of a crowd of men there, and so on for a good half a kilometer. Each group was just far enough spaced that you could listen to it with little interference from the other side. Personally, it was the first time I had seen such immaculate organization and efficient use of finite space to pack as much musical creativity as these people managed to do. After that, we came upon a large open air stage (where a band was setting up) and an open air market of sorts, with “merchants” having set up large blankets on the ground and covered them with all sorts of used clothing and seemingly useless trinkets that the strolling buyers were avidly gobbling up. We couldn’t really understand the attraction of anything up for sale, but the whole set up wasn’t really there for our benefit anyway. We proceeded past this into the beautiful park, filled with sunshine, children running around, all sorts of sports activities, naturally bicycles, and more performing street musicians, this time mostly centered around drum circles. We settled on a bench across from one such group and just watched them. They were performing solely for themselves, solely as a way to relax and enjoy their Sunday afternoon. When they finished, the beating of the drums did not stop, but simply moved elsewhere, further down, where in the distance another group was actively enjoying creating ancient tribal sounds in the middle of the park. When they stopped, the sound became yet more muffled but did not disappear, but simply migrated further, joined in time by birds chirping. It was a true feeling of holiday, of day off from stress and anxiety and needless worry. We walked on, met a man with a crystal ball, and tried to find a way into the Meiji Shrine, dedicated to the Meiji Emperor (who, in 1868, was restored to the chrysanthemum throne, after almost three hundred years of Tokugawa shogunate rule) and the most famous Shinto shrine in Japan. It was to be the Walsons’ first shrine experience and Walter especially was fascinated by that first arch, the first of literally hundreds that they would subsequently see in Japan. After the shrine, we headed toward Harajuku, where I had been exactly a week prior, and marveled at the girls, who where perpetually doing what they perpetually do. Back to the train, back to Shinjuku, to rest at the hotel, to more Jamesons, and finally out to eat. Walking around busy parts of Japanese urbanity in search of something to eat could be a trying experience. It is simultaneously all out in the open, but at the same time, hidden within a cavernous, unexplored, difficult to access space. The menus are out, illuminated by the neon. Some have pictures, but trying to decipher the kanji takes hours. And then, you’ve found a menu you like, the salival mechanism kicks in, but all you have is a large, plastic menu in front of you, sometimes a cabinet display of plasticinated food. Where do you go? Up those stairs? Down those? Around the corner perhaps? It gets trying until you just do it, don’t look back, and hope for the best. That’s exactly what we did. Follow the arrow, get on the elevator, enter the restaurant, follow the attractive Japanese lady, take off your shoes, weave your way in between squatting Japanese to your own little pillow on the hardwood floor. Open the menu, simplify things for yourself by ordering the multi-course set meal, enjoy your drinks and your food, laugh at Walter’s inability to eat almost anything, except that which most directly resembles chicken, celebrate one year of Walson communal life, drink, eat, be merry, deal with the aches of eating without chairs, stumble to the bathroom a couple of times, observe, interact, pay the huge bill, find the elevator, and re-enter the Shinjuku zoo, now at a time where 90% of its occupants cannot walk a straight line. Weaving, trying to avoid causing fatal injury, we find Shidax, the karaoke monolith that is part of any Japanese major city thoroughfare. Argue about fares, settle on drink options, get the key to the tiny cubicle on the seventh floor, arrive, settle in, begin to search for songs. That first night at karaoke was new for some, there were some disagreements, but in the end, everyone realized (for some it was more difficult that for others) that its not really about singing prowess or ability, but really an interesting and highly amusing way for friends to hang out and spend time together. After much Beatles and a little Metallica, we made our way back to the hotel, and after another beautiful day, quietly transitioned into the night.

It is amazing how habitual we human creatures are. If we find something comfortable (and heck that’s not even necessary, even pure convenience or lack of discomfort will do) we stick to it . I’m sure there’s a saying of some sort about it, something along the lines of “if it’s good enough to do once, its best to do it every time.” Anyway, point being that once you possess a certain knowledge of something, it becomes somewhat hardened and ingrained and it becomes hard to evaluate it or to add on to it or drop it altogether. How does this fit here? Well, not really, except for the fact that the week prior I had been to the Tsukiji market and to Harajuku and enjoyed both immensely, and so it became part of my Tokyo program (meaning that which I would like to show to people who come to Tokyo and have decided for themselves that I should know more than them, especially about the whereabouts of the Tokyo Metropolitan Sanitation Department and its 300 or so buildings around the city.) If I was to come to Tokyo on my own, I may not visit these places again, but it’s definitely something I will keep bringing people to. After morning coffee and Walter’s light breakfast of four and a half donuts, we set directly off for the fish market for lunch. (In case you haven’t noticed yet, the major activity in my life is, drumroll, eating. Everything else is just gap filler between meals.) We went to the same place as the week before and had plenty of fish. Perhaps the Walsons were a bit sushied out by this point, but I still enjoyed myself. After fish, I had high hopes of seeing monkeys and gorillas and other live, breathing animals, so we headed up to Ueno, way in the north, in the hope of getting into the Ueno Zoo, the oldest and supposedly best in the country. The zoo complex itself is part of a huge park with many museums and varied attractions, and halfway down our stroll along what would soon be a beautiful sakura walk but at that point was still only trees recovering from winter, I realized that most national and public institutions are closed on Mondays. After accomplishing the feat of repeatedly kicking myself in the head for this, I resorted to the hope that I was potentially mistaken, but alas, we soon stood in front of the shut zoo gates, me slowly fluctuating between sullen sobs and bitter memories of having stood in the same spot some three months before, when the zoo was shut for the New Year’s Holidays. Damn it, damn it, damn it. All I wanted was to stare at some gorillas for a little while, that’s all, that’s not too much is it? It wasn’t meant to be. Nothing better to kill the pain, however, than a coffee break and a rolled up crepe (which was for the most part delicious, except I mistakenly chose a crepe filled with whipped cream, bananas and what I had assumed to be white chocolate but which really turned out to be something like cheddar cheese.) After stuffing the aforementioned, we went back to Shinjuku and blew about $15 on video arcades and those damned pictures, all in about 10 minutes and somberly headed back to the hotel, but only after yet another cup of coffee. At the hotel, I quickly taught the Walsons a great card game (Shithead) and took off thinking I had plenty of time to make my flight. And so began another great adventure.

Enter the Japanese rush hour commute. Between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 AM, and then again between 4:30 and 7:00 PM, being at busy commuter stations in central Tokyo is a bit of a nightmare, even for such a rhino-like self as me. As you may know, Tokyo itself is huge, and its densely packed urban center is surrounded by rings and rings of suburbs, but these are not like Buffalo Grove or Wilmette, with potential stretches of green and blue, but rather paler imitations of the center, with a similar population density but much less neon. The Tokyo suburbs gradually blend in with the suburbs of its neighbor, Yokohama, which in itself is also a huge city. Therefore, the vast stretches of nothingness that divide major cities in places like the Midwest are simply not present here and the resulting population of these two metropolises (which together form Smazo’s favorite word, a megalopolis) is over 10% of the entire population of the United States, or 33,000,000 people. So all these folks gotta live somewhere and obviously Japan, being a water-locked island chock full of mountains and uninhabitable terrain, does not have a lot of living space to spare. If you’ve driven through Tokyo, you’ve seen the density. Every block, every square meter, is filled to the brim with concrete, which in turn is subdivided into the tiniest living quarters to fit as many people as possible into the smallest area. And obviously, the closer to the center (both of entertainment and business), the more sparse and expensive the real estate. And so, for the hundreds of thousands of young salary men, already married but not yet established enough, the only logical conclusion if they want to continue working for the big companies is to live far out in the suburbs and make the daily commute to and from work, which often can be as much as two hours each way (a little math here - if your commute is four hours, your work day itself is eight, and the near-mandatory after work getting sloshed party at the company bar is anywhere from two to four, that leaves from eight to ten hours for sleep, free, and family time….and of course an occasional Sunday with that…) But anyway, luckily all these people don’t drive to work because then Tokyo would be a virtual metal standstill, and even luckier yet, Tokyo is criss-crossed with all sorts of rail-ways (literally miles upon miles, the subway underground and the JR lines above ground), so millions of people utilize public transport. Shinjuku station alone handles 2 million people a day. Naturally, as anywhere else, Tokyo has its rush hour when most people are either headed to or are leaving work, and equally as naturally, this idea was nowhere near the active center of my brain as I was relaxing at the hotel, thinking, “well, of course I have time to teach them Shithead, for its such a wonderful game.” And so, with no further ado, here goes. My flight departs Haneda at 8:00, sharp. It’s 6:02 and I’m walking out the front door of the Shinjuku Sunlite, two bags, one significantly heavier than the other, in tow. Weaving through the human traffic, I make it to the station and board the JR Yamanote line headed for Shinagawa station, right around 6:24. Seventeen minutes later, we arrive at Shinagawa and I get my first delectable glimpse that something may be wrong. Those wishing to leave the train at this station are having extreme difficulty because the platform has been transformed into a giant can of sardines, and once a can is filled to capacity, it is sealed, stamped, and sold, and vagrant sardines who swim up too late have no choice but to turn back. Anyway, I pushed forward, using my size as an advantage, thinking that this mosh pit was simply due to the fact that there was only one escalator up to the station proper. Mistake number two of the night. So, slowly, yet surely, I make my way up that escalator and see that the entire station, meaning every square inch of its floor has a foot in it. Nobody is touching anybody and everything is in fluid motion, but to get from point A to point B requires such precise choreography, which my bumbling self doesn’t have the training for, that I probably severely injure hundreds of poor ducking Japanese as I make my way through them. I have parted ways with JR and now I need to buy tickets for the Keikyu line, which is a private railroad that will take me right to the terminal at Haneda. There are the ticket machines, and the platform is plainly visible. Time, 6:48. I’m in the clear….NOT. I see the queue for the ticket machines, of which there are only two, and it stretches way, way back, around a couple of columns. Well, nothing left to do but to go and wait; can’t buy tickets at the train because I need to get through turnstyles first. As I begin to wait in line, the place begins really filling up. More and more trains keep arriving at other platforms, and more and more announcements are being made that trains on this platform are running late. The queue moves, slowly, yet surely. Having forgotten my glasses, I keep straining to see the information board, which would tell me which exact train would take me to Haneda. Finally, they make the announcement. 7:01 PM is the train, and it is 6:54. Nothing more I can do but hope that time is on my side. At 6:59 the announcement is made that all trains are running ten minutes behind schedule, which gives me some breathing room. Five, four, three, two more people before I get to the ticket machines, and boom, suddenly, with no warning and without a single care, both machines beep loudly and break down – no more tickets will be issued from those automated marvels. Its 7:06. I’m looking around, being at least a head taller than most, and on the verge of hopeless laughter when I notice something interesting. Nobody seems to be using the turnstiles anyway, they are simply not working. There are two huge crowds on both sides, and like an hourglass, they slowly filter from one to the other. I take the plunge and get into the crowd going in. Trains are arriving. People get off and have to squeeze through a crowd that is breathing and raging collectively. The most interesting part is in the turnstiles, which are constantly occupied by people going in, who sometimes have to make way for those headed out. When I reach the turnstile, with my rather large frame and large bags, there is absolutely no way another person could get by, but no where else to go, people pushing from behind and ahead, I have to jump my ass onto the turnstile and slide down it and end up in the pit on the other side. It is 7:12. My train has arrived and left and I cannot see when the next train will be. We are standing waiting. If you’ve ever been to the Aragon for a big rock show, think about what it’s like afterwards, when that sweaty scary crowd is all trying to squeeze itself down that stairwell – yeah, sort of like that. Everytime a train arrives, people scramble out of it and begin fighting through the crowd. As soon as they’re out of the way, the crowd surges, and the people right by the doors don’t just walk it, but rather ride the surf. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t stay. Watching this from above, I find it incomprehensible. The door opens, and people with absolutely mad faces sprint in to occupy every available inch of the train car. As it fills to capacity, the look changes from madness to fear. The train car changes from a laundry basket of all sorts of dirty clothing (all rolled up and all over the place) to a neatly folded closet, meaning the space with utilized with maximum efficiency. Every set of train car doors comes with its own attendant, wearing a uniform and white gloves, whose main job is to control the flow of people in and out, which he can’t really do until the very end. When it seems like there’s absolutely no room, this person literally pushes more passengers onto the train and hold them there, to make sure they don’t spill out while the doors are closing. The train shakes and rattles and rolls off, and I’m reminded of pirate movies where there’s a huge net hanging in the air and bodies are sticking out of every which way. Everytime a train pulls in, the crowd surges forward a few feet, but at this rate, I will get to the edge of the platform a very, very long time after I need to be there. It is 7:18 and I hear that the 7:14 train will be arriving at 7:24. Ok, ok, I think, everything is all aright, I’m going to be ok. Push, push, two trains away, one train away. Ok, the next train is mine, but I’m still about five or six rows away from it, unlikely to get on. Then a new problem arises – all the trains are different, with different stops and different destinations, but almost all of them have been equally packed in with people. The Haneda train arrives and there’s no usual surge. Sure people are getting on, but no where near the same amount. I move forward a foot, and the dude in the white gloves is looking around, about to give the go ahead. At this, I have to make my move or I miss my train. One bag in front and one in back, I surge forth, and duck into the car just as the doors are about to close. It is all out of my hands now. 7:24 we leave Shinagawa, and my flight will leave ground at 8:00. Chug chug chug goes the train and we slowly weave our way out of central Tokyo. Tick tock tick tock goes the clock and we slowly approach takeoff, without one of the passengers. Finally, Haneda station. Time is exactly 7:45. I’m at a sprint through the airport; I run up to the lovely lady operating the electronic machines and hand her my ticket. She looks at it, than at me, than at it, then at me again, this time with that “hey sonny, you’re so missing your flight” expression, but in a nice Japanese way, runs to a phone, makes a frantic call, tells me to run after her. We’re now both sprinting down the terminal. She takes me through some doors that apparently allow me to bypass security altogether and now my way is clear toward the boarding gate, which is 18. I look and I’m at ten. Never have I sprinted so hard, and I’m now joined by three other people. We’re mad dashing, my heart about to explode; slide the ticket, run to the plane, get on, find the seat and collapse. Time, 7:56. The instructions are read, the seat belts are buckled, and plan begins its rolls towards the runway at precisely 8:00, with the announcement that one registered passenger has not made the flight. By the time my heart finally comes down, we’re about to make the landing in Ishikawa. Amazed by how lucky I was (had I not made the flight, I probably wouldn’t have made my school’s graduation the next day), I peacefully drive home, unpack my stuff, count all of my marbles, and drift off to sleep. Moral of the story? Avoid rush hour at any cost…

The following day was sotsugyo shiki (or graduation ceremony) when the third graders graduated. It was quite the grand affair, with highly ritualized speeches and activities, singing, presentations, and the diploma reception. I think to do it any justice this could take up a whole entry in and of it itself. But just to say briefly, compared with my own JHS graduation ceremony, it was like two different worlds. (Subsequently I would go to three such ceremonies and all of them, although somewhat different in details, had the same general structure). Anyway, that night (as happens on any night following some sort of big school event) the teachers had an enkai (drinking party) and the traditional “let’s all get butt-naked” right before-hand and take a dip in the communal bath together. The food was good, but I was exhausted, so I chose to forego the after dinner karaoke. Instead, I went home to bed and the next few days went by in a haze and before I knew it, it was Thursday and I was driving down to Kanazawa in the midst of a downpour to meet Katya, Walter, and Sonya for a nice dinner and night out. I picked up Katya, we parked the vehicle, and met Walter and Sonya on Katamachi, the busiest street in the city. We went to Dotour coffee, not only to get our fill of caffeine, but also to allow Sonya’s shoes to dry off a bit, as they, along with the rest of her and her husband, had gotten absolutely drenched from the day’s walking. Additionally, what a fabulous opportunity it was to absolutely massacre the wonderful Russian language and for Katya to have a great number of private funny moments. Afterward, we went to the near by Watami restaurant and had ourselves a terrific dinner consisting of deliciously prepared small dishes. Then, I committed incorrigible sin and drove after having consumed a beer, but I got us all up north safely to a nice comfy sleep. (Ok, I’ve lost it, I no longer have the ability to describe day-by-day trivial affairs in a way meaningful to me, so I’m going to shift a bit and try a new approach to cover the remainder of this minor novella here).

Having returned rejuvenated from the morning’s graduation ceremony, where each of the graduating elementary school sixth graders gave short, stuttering speeches in front of all the faculty, other students, teachers, and various local dignitaries, I arrived to an empty domicile and shortly discovered, via cell phone, that my guests had gotten themselves lost and were patiently (spelled with an im at the beginning) waiting for me by an unnamed bridge over an unnamed river. We headed for the train, unwittingly relying yet again on the marvel of technology, which deceived us, leading us to believe that the train which would shortly carry us to Kanazawa, would be at its designated spot five minutes after it actually left it – a situation which warranted a few rounds of the aforementioned shit head right there on the station bench. A short while later, our respective rear ends had visited a number of train seats, we had reduced our overall number by one and we were standing in front of the marvel that is Kyoto station, glancing at the towering phallic monolith known as Kyoto Tower, excited and triumphant, having arrived slightly refreshed. The number two city bus, fifteen minutes, but where is the 7-11? It must be this way and the empirical minds that we are, operating solely based on trial and error, we almost made it back to the station before turning around and discovering that the 7-11 loomed just half a block the other way from the bus stop. Unpack, relax, pop the lid on that newly discovered elixir of life, this time in the form of Black Label, and get down to the business of utilizing the precious moments that we spend in the company of those most important to us with maximum efficiency. Which is apparently what we did, because very shortly those moments had consumed themselves a half bottle and we were ready for that infamous Kyoto landmark, an absolute must for all Russian émigrés living in the U.S. but visiting Japan, the 100 Yen Sushi. Knowing me and my voracious insatiable appetite, coupled with the fact that I would visit this place three times within the span of two weeks, I must have had me at least eight to nine pounds of raw fish and add to that the fifteen or so that Walter consumed in an hour, we certainly gave the place good business, in addition to permanently re-adjusting our digestive tracts in favor of scaly things. And of course no Kyoto 100 Yen Sushi night is complete without the requisite visit to Karaoke, so we did indeed rip up a vocal cord or two, up in room number 409. That night, like the many following, as well as preceeding, sleep was met with open arms, in a hazy, smoky rendez vous that filled the mind with thoughts of nudity and shrubbery and the heart with nothing but joy. We were all set for re-union.

Appointed time and place, stealthily watching the escalator, under the weight of 100% conviction that out of the 3.7 million people floating around, those that are being waited for will emerge from one particular spot. No such thing, illusion shatters, and I am on my way to manually search. I find one half of the elusive foursome, barreling along in their respective half sweaters and light blue (a little too light for me to be comfortable in) sweat pants. Greetings, chatterings, boy it was good to see them. But they were not complete, still lacking major elements, the Grinpetovas, if you will (remember when it all started with Bennifer, and has now become of a part of all our lives – Walsons, etc.) Anyway, apparently a mix up and miscommunication earlier in the day caused some delays and discomfort, but within a matter of hours, we were all re-united, happily, enjoying a nice Japanese lunch and watching Elina, of the half-sweater, be utterly disgusted with hers. On to the Ryokan Hinomoto, soon to become the favorite lodging spot for Russian Ex-Soviet Americans, via a mistaken bus number and a brief walk along Kyoto streets sans umbrellas. Unloading, followed by sightseeing at the Kyomizudera Temple, up in the eastern mountains, with absolutely beautiful main gates, pagodas, and general temple utilities. Drinking of the holy water, blessing the newlyengageds, and stumbling, half drenched, by way of Gion, back to the Hinomoto, to ready for yet another spectacular night of sushi and karaoke. A six tatami room, six large (relative to the Japanese, some larger than others) foreigners, some cans of alcoholic juice, a can or two of Japanese beer and a bottle of Suntory’s finest, and a deck of cards couldn’t have made for a better two hour preparation. As we would find out the following morning, the obnoxiousness on some of our parts started then, perhaps with the ``Walter, give us a beat ------boooom, chi, ba boom boom chi,`` perhaps with the oral sex charades, or perhaps with simple inappropriate verbal utterances, but in any case, we were soon out on the street, merrily trudging along toward Sushi Heaven, some wearing their umbrellas tops on their heads, holding the skeleton, others endlessly harassing helpless Japanese passerbyers, yet others snapping pictures of air molecules, and yet still others simply enjoying a fine stroll on a fine Kyoto evening. Apparently we were so large, they did not have tables long enough, so the group had to be briefly split up, but, not to worry, Walter had himself at least three deserts at each table. Ms. Halfsweater was threatening to go to Wendy’s, because sushi is apparently devil spawn, but reluctantly ended up sticking to the group. A short stumble across the alley and we dejavued back to the karaoke place (alas Room 409 was not big enough) ordered ourselves up some Kuri-a Peechi and two hours of sado-masochism. I believe the ladies got to sing maybe one song (Britney, no less) before I led the way into an endless medley of cock, ingeniously devising a scheme to make karaoke immensely funner. Who will ever forget the stunning, gorgeous, absolutely genius rendition of Metallica’s Enter Sandman. (For the layman, just juxtapose all nouns with cock and it works wonders). The ladies, who apparently were a few liters behind us, angrily expressed their disapproval, threatened to leave, were ignored, and promptly did so, leaving the men to kill off the two hours in highly comfortable (read, removal of pants) style. By golly, we must have had 9 Kuri-a Peechis each…and boy were we good, especially concerning Walter, Suntory, and myself… Off to bed we marched, calling it a conservatively early night.

In the morning, everyone seemed light and refreshed, happy to be together, looking forward to the upcoming day. Myself, and speaking for the rest of the males, we had had a really good time the night before, but we soon came to realize that it was not the case for all of us. In no uncertain terms, we were told that we had behaved like buffoons, which we quickly acknowledged, and that we had disrespected those around us. After a heated conversation and debate that followed, we apologized for the latter and came to agreement that under the inebriated circumstances the former was excusable and certainly the cause for a very good time for many of us. With that out of the way, we stored away our luggage and headed off to the seventh floor of a department store, via some fun on an escalator, where we found just about the only international ATM in Kyoto and withdrew much needed funds. (The day before we had tried literally about 10 of ‘em, with no luck). Next, the feeding dilemma – how do we go about filling the stomachs of seven foreigners (again, I point out that one of those stomachs was extremely resistant to Japanese food)? No better way than the famed Mos Burger, among the more delicious McDonald’s wannabee Japanese fast food establishments. We were certainly replenished with our small yet perfectly sized burgers and our colas in glass glasses and our perfectly pre-arranged coffees. On to the buses and a short Armani wearing stint later, we were enjoying the sights and sounds of the Golden Pavilion (kinkakuji), where it suddenly and quite unexpectedly started snowing, but later, almost as instantaneously cleared up and was sunny, making for some excellent shots, among which the best ones were of the newlyengageds, as well as of some karate kicking practice. This temple, coated with a thin layer of gold leaf (manufactured in Kanazawa) sits at the edge of a quintessential Japanese pond, and once you walk past it, you climb a small hill, which grants you a marvelous overview of the whole place. Needless to say, I believe it was tremendously enjoyed by all. On the bus back, we naturally went in the wrong direction and were dropped off at the bus terminal, being told to wait a bit and get on the same bus again, having to pay again. Typical Japan, but we avoided it by taking the subway instead, headed for our next destination, the Ninoji Castle (or, as it quickly became known in our circle, Walter’s Ninja Castle). More beautiful ponds and gardens, and although we couldn’t get into the castle itself, we did take some great pictures, including a group one on the steps. The sakura (cherry) trees were just barely coming into bloom, but the crowds were already out, gazing, snapping shots, and we spied a group of lovely young ladies in kimono and masqueraded them into the background of our own quickly changing pictures. I seem to remember a similar routine back in the Europe trip of 2002, where there were many pictures of a blurred Rob in the front right and some lovely legs in the back. (12:00 o’clock; reset; etc.) Now it was time to begin the grand journey to the ryokan, the famed traditional Japanese inn. It was an atrociously long walk, but with a pause for walson’s last minute souvenir shopping, where they bought up 89% of the stall’s merchandise and stood around while the nice, kind, yet a bit slow 95 year-old saleslady proceeded to meticulously and precisely wrap every individual gift. Having briefly marveled as the unbelievably good looking women employed in Japanese convenience stores, we finally found our ryokan, told some of our members to wait at a coffee shop across the way, while some of the men (one of whom had injured his foot but still braved the journey) took a cab back to the previous night’s lodging to pick up our luggage. Finally, at around 6:00PM, we were all set to begin that experience.

The ryokan. After check-in, various explanations, and a few minutes of breathing, I was set to begin the explanation of bath usage. Of course, it would all turn out to be self-explanatory, but I must say that it was quite amusing to paint this grand picture and put a little fear into those about to be fully naked with each other for the first time. After all, people, here in Japan, it is absolutely customary to strip down and take baths with those close to you, usually of the same gender. And so, here we were, the closest of friends in all the world and the idea of being sans clothing within visible (oh yeah, really visible) proximity was so absurd, so unthinkable that it caused some to convulse in giggles on the floor, others to suck in stomachs, still others to full out face the challenge with the shaking willies, if you will. Saying hello to the lovely Japanese ladies (about 37 of them) that were housed across the way as we headed toward the elevator, expectations were high. I don’t know what they were for the women, but naturally enough, the men all had the same thought on their tiny brains, primarily “well, of course I’m the biggest, and besides, that’s not even important, it’s how you use it that counts.” Downstairs, Wally was the first to expose his willy and we all soon followed. The bath turned out to be much smaller than expected and there were no Japanese people in sight, so we owned the place. The usual routine – shower, wash all parts, rinse off, soak for a while, get out, shower, soak for a while again. Can’t remember now what we talked about, but I know that the glory of the aforementioned thought process is all mine… After the bath, which is perfect before a meal, we headed down to the feeding chamber, where all seven settings were immaculately prepared, four and three, the men segregated and across from the women. Two elderly Japanese ladies kept sliding in and around the room on their knees, bringing various dishes; meanwhile we kanpai’ed and got to eating and I do believe I was pretty much the only one to finish all the food, the rest ranging from almost everything by Walter and, you guessed it, almost nothing by Elina. It took a good two hours, by which time the bath and the food and the long day had taken their toll on the ladies (so they headed off for bed) and the boys had themselves a grand old poker game, in which clothes were continuously shed by some, chips continuously raked in by others. It was a rather fun game, and it being my first, I did surprisingly ok. Around 12:30 or so, there was a beer run to the konbini and we continued strong until about 3:00, at which point I believe Paulie started singing something in Arabic, Walter entertained himself by waxing his belly, Rob stared at the ceiling with an open mouth, and I was contentedly finishing up every remaining scrap of food in the room. It was definitely time for bed.

The next morning, I had to say goodbye to some peeps. It was emotional, but, at least from my stand point, the fact that I had seen them, combined with the notion that the previous six months or so in which I had not seen them had absolutely, almost unnoticeably, flown by, made the entire endeavor much easier to handle. After we saw them off, we checked out, and now, in a much reduced contingent of three, set out for Osaka, with two definitive goals in mind. After a short subway ride and a little assistance from a kind Japanese man, who virtually walked us to the place, we came upon an eight story building. It has to be among the smallest such buildings I have ever seen, because it literally has eight restaurants, on each of its floors, and nothing else. And the restaurants themselves aren’t at all that big. But none of that mattered, cause on the seventh floor of said building was Mexico and I had been waiting to get to Mexico and celebrate the fact with a Corona for a very long time. I ordered me a full plate and some beer and we enjoyed this fabulous lunch and even Elina had a few bites here and there. In between chewing and digesting, we looked around the walls, which were covered from top to bottom with all sorts of grafitti and writing from all over the world, some of it in Japanese, but most of it in other languages, including many “sdes’ bila katya” in Russian. Stomachs full and imaginations fueled, we exited Mexico and headed back into the heart of Japan, via a long walk along Osaka’s main street. A few turns and major crosswalks later, we arrived at the Osaka Prefectural Gymnasium, where another uniquely Japanese visual feast was about to entertain our eyes. Even from the large entry hall, you could tell it was something special. They came out, majestically, yet also lumbering, in their yukattas. Some were small, but most were taller than me, and certainly bigger. The image of such large human beings, clad in bathrobes and flip flops seems outright ridiculous, but I guess it is nowhere near as incomprehensible as the uniforms in which they perform. Elina warmed her way up to a young Estonian gentleman, about 21 years old, but well over two meters tall and some where around the 300 pound mark. He was nice, posed for pictures. Meanwhile, I found out about tickets and it turned out the cheapest seats for the day were long sold out and we had to settle for $50 a pop for this mighty spectacle. We were led by an unenthusiastic lady to our seats (probably because that is what she’s been doing all day) and turned out we had a pretty good view. Now, I won’t get into all the details of the Grand Sumo Tournament and how it works, but I will suffice it to say that each match is allowed four minutes and the wrestlers use it all up, except that the actual wrestling only takes about 20 to 30 seconds, if not less. The rest of the time is taken up by ritualistic intimidation, coming into and out of the ring, all sorts of awkward moves and slaps (remember these men are wearing naught but a tightly woven piece of fabric that manages to cover only the essential privates, exposing the rest of the wrestler just like the day he was born). The matches start early, with all the lesser ranked going first, so by the time 5:00 o’clock rolls around, the big shots are wrestling. Each tournament lasts around 15 days and they only wrestle once a day. The crowd is essential here, for the wrestlers can really work it, get it all going, yelling, screaming. It’s amazing what an otherwise timid and quiet country will do around a sumo ring. We saw many of the big names, except only two stand out now – Kotooshu, the big Bulgarian dude, who up until recently was taking the sumo world by storm, but at this particular tournament had a knee injury of sorts and was getting tossed about, and Asashoryu, the Mongolian, who is the current Yokozuna. The former lost, but the latter kicked some major Sumo ass. I can probably go on for a long time about this, but since most of you fell asleep around seven pages ago I will permit myself the liberty of moving on. After sumo ended, we made our way back to the train station and caught the Thunderbird for Kanazawa, then the JR Nanao line for Houdatsushimizu, and then the Toyota Sprinter for Casa Romano. And thereby ended another day.

Waking up at leisure the next day, we decided to drive down to Kanazawa, but, as the car started profusely leaking gasoline all over the pavement, prudently changed our traveling options to the train. The second group of the bunch to meet Katya, we met up at the Mr. Donut and headed out to Kenrokuen for a nice stroll for a good 45 minutes, as that is all we had before it closed. (I kid you not about the leisurely wake up time). It took a little time for all of us to get used to each other, ahem, but eventually, I think the four of us had a good time. The garden was not yet at its prettiest, but it did make for excellent scenery. After wards, we trekked across town to beyond the train station for an out of the way, but supposedly delicious yakiniku place but were confronted with a 30 minute wait, which made us settle for fine train station cuisine, where once again, Elina didn’t eat and Paulie had the pleasure of eating food that was moving when it was placed on the table, due to the sprinkled fish flake shavings that shrivel up upon contact with hot food). Again we said goodbye to Katya and headed back up north, where we concluded the visit with yet another poker game late into the night. The next morning, bright and early, I dropped my visitors at the train (and they would subsequently take another train, and another, and another, and then a 13 hour flight) and headed to work, trying to absorb the impact of the last month, the whirlwind of having so many close people come and see me. The week went by slowly, uneventfully. That Friday, Katya and I went to play table tennis with my coach, and both of them tore me a new one, and on Saturday, we drove up to Nanao (a city about 30 minutes north of me) to hang out with some Japanese friends. The weekend went by and the next few days, and before I knew it, I was again on a train, this time with Katya, and headed for Kyoto, where at 11:00 AM, on Wednesday, March 29^th, 2006, on the second floor of Kyoto Station, I met with the Shafrans, Fusman, and Ralph. Déjà vu is real people. We took the bus to the Ryokan Hinomoto, dropped off the luggage, and went to a temple. Unfortunately, I forgot its name, but it was at the foot of the mountain and parts of it were built into the mountain, with absolutely gorgeous scenery to boot. I remember seeing a prayer service for the monks (an elaborate procedure, mainly consisting of the routine of chanting something, standing up, kneeling back down, forehead to the floor, chanting, standing up). I watched them for about ten minutes and they kept at it. It was awe-inspiring and Katya later told me they were actually praying for the safety and well-being of the visitors to the temple, which made it even more touching. After the temple, we took the long walk home, passing through Gion, where, with about a hundred other gawkers, we waited for the Geisha to come out. They did, we ran after them like paparazzi, and they ran away, like Britney Spears and her baby would do. Finally, the Shafrans went back to the Hinomoto and we went to our own hotel and met up shortly for, drum roll please, the 100Yen sushi (hey, once you know a good place, you stick to it, eh…) After yet another stuffing, we went across the way for, an even bigger and stronger drum roll please, karaoke!!!!!! Booya baby. It was a good time. I felt kind of bad for Katya, who really couldn’t sing with us and nobody could really sing the Japanese songs she knew, but I think the night is summed up best by the fact that we sang the Scorpions’ Wind of Change TWICE. Oh yeah, that rocks. Take me back to the magic of the moment on a glory night. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thoroughly wiped out and exhausted, we said our goodbyes after karaoke, let the Shafrans, Fusman, and Ralph be on their way, and headed back to our hotel to prepare for our own little get away, Hiroshima.

As most people should hopefully know, this city on the southern end of Japan’s main island, Honshu, was the sight of the first ever atomic explosion. This is not the place for these kinds of details (hopefully I’ll be able to write something specifically pertaining to this aspect), but I chose to go to this city in order to firstly remember but secondly to contribute at least something, at least in my own heart, to the peace movement that this city has become renowned for. As the shinkansen arrived, the clouds dissipated and the sky became permeated with light rays and bird songs. We ate a fine lunch at the McDonald’s, reveling in the joy of sitting in one of the last remaining smoking areas of this wonderful Illinois establishment. Hopping into a cab, we reached our hotel and secured our room, which, from the seventh story, overlooked the river and Peace Memorial Park. Although we had some specific plans, there was no particular hurry and most of that day’s remaining hours were devoted to leisure. Strolling about, we hit up a toy store. I recommend anyone above the age of 18 (which is presumably the last allowable time one should be in a toy store for oneself) but without any kids, to pay a visit to a toy store and buy something or a lot of somethings. It is an incredible feeling, I tell you. You remember childhood and the freedoms and fantasies that entailed. You revert back, however briefly, and it just feels good. We continued our walking and eventually ended up at a steak restaurant with my friend Nate, who, along with his woman Shu, Pete, and Andy, had all also ended up in Hiroshima in order to do a bit of traveling and also celebrate Nate’s birthday. FINALLY, I had me some lovely steak and even though it was a far cry from Ruth’s Chris Filet Mignon, it was still delectable. Follow up any good steak with tequila shots and half price liquor at the local reggae/hip hop club and you’re sure to find yourself a good time. We found just that and sometime in the wee hours skipped and hopped into the Family Mart and from there back home. The next morning was devoted to Peace Memorial Park and all the gut-wrenching that went with it. It is truly terrifying to contemplate the power and atrocity that happened there and I had a hard time of it, much like four years ago, just outside of Munich, Germany, where we visited another spot of mankind’s most evil acts. The rest of the day seemed empty, pointless, meandering. We walked to and fro, but nothing held any sort of vibrancy that usually animates a big city. We simply ended up at the hotel and rested for a little while, before commencing the search for this one kebob place in the middle of the entertainment district, which was populated by more hostesses than I have seen yet, all of them dressed to the nines, standing outside, soliciting drunken businessmen clients, stumbling about wearing identical suits with identical lives. We found it and had some succulent Mediterannean cuisine before heading over to New York New York for some more drinks with Nate and co. The night ended, as many have before and many will since, in a night club, where, after a brief rejuvenation thanks to the wonders of wormwood and sugar, Katya and I had a big talk about the future and I could fully attribute my raw honesty to an incessant consumption of liquor. By the next morning, the effects, I think, had worn off for both of us and we could both face reality once again. Hiroshima is one of the few places in Japan with genuine tram lines, so, after stopping at a bookstore for some much needed and sorely missed English language acquisitions, we headed out in a streetcar toward Hiroshima Port, the point of embarkation for our day trip to Miyajima Island. Back in the day, this was a holy island just off the coast. It consisted of a major Shinto shrine (Itsukushima Jinja) and other minor ones, as well as Buddhist temples. Regular people were not allowed to go to the island, as it was reserved for monks and higher ranking Buddhist and Shinto officials. But over time, it has become a Japanese person’s travel paradise, filled with Temples, ryokans, and about 800 or so free-roaming deer, who, like in Nara, are considered descendants of the gods and are widely revered, in spite of their greedy habits. After a short ferry ride, we toured the Shrine, whose very famous (read, this is probably the most photographed thing in Japan) Tori Gate stands about 300 feet out, so when the morning tide comes in, the gate is surrounded by water. (In fact, the entire complex is built on wooden pillars and simply appears to float). It is apparently very beautiful, but unfortunately we weren’t there at the right time and instead of water had to settle for moss, and the endless groups of Japanese determinedly digging for something in the sand (I believe it was for fresh oysters). Afterwards, we saw the pagoda, which absolutely must be seen, right? It’s a pagoda after all… Finally, after feeding the deer a bit of plastic and cigarettes, which were ravenously devoured, we headed for some okonomiayaki (a pancake like concoction of noodles, mayonnaise, lettuce, veggies, and meats) which Hiroshima is famous for and hurried back to the main land, so as to make our 8:00 dinner reservations. Oh, the irony, but we justified the former as an appetizer for the latter, which turned out to be on the 25^th story of a hotel in a highly posh French restaurant with food priced accordingly. It was one of those nine course thingies and, I must admit, was very eloquently done. By the time it was over, I couldn’t be asked to do much more than get out of there. On the next day, before our departure, we dropped by the toy store for the third time and I finally made purchases to my heart’s content, including a 1,000 piece puzzle of the Miyajima Shrine during full tide. On the way back to the hotel, we randomly chanced upon yet another toy store, which turned out to be about twice the size of the previous and contained all the items I had just dished out the money for, but at a significantly reduced price. Yeah, so I cried a bit, but the kid in me quickly reminded me that it wasn’t the price but the actual ownership of toys that mattered and we happily floated from there to the hotel to the shinkansen to the countryside and to the bed. Thus concluded my visit to Hiroshima, which I found to be a very lively and happening city, despite its past. Not too big, without the hustle of Tokyo, without the ancient feeling of Kyoto, and definitely without the isolation one may often feel living in the middle of nowhere. Definitely worth visiting during any extensive traveling in Japan.

The next week was a bit of a sad one, as it was to be my last with Katya. We saw each other every day, which was a lot more than any time prior to the Hiroshima trip. Those last moments were dear and special but somewhat darkened by the oncoming reality of our impending and most likely permanent separation. On Friday, I had the day off work and had to drive Katya to the port from which she would sail for home, on the mighty cruise ship Rus, headed for Vladivostok. Boy, was that an appalling experience. A monstrosity of a piece of iron, the ship, while pretending to have all the amenities of your typical Caribbean package, was in reality old, rusty, manned by Russian sailors, complete with all the stereotypes that go with that. Told before hand that we would recognize the road to the ship by the multitude of men in sweatsuits riding around on bicycles, sure enough, there they were, but without the welcoming scent of nostalgia that I was expecting to have. No such thing. True enough these were not representative of the Russian people that I associate myself with, but it nevertheless did directly confirm for me the appropriateness of having left that country a long time ago. After a sad and long goodbye, she was off, in the big ship that took her away from me, out of my life, back to a place, which, even with all its familiarity, is so foreign and dark. I stood and I looked and then, there was nothing left to do but leave. Without thoughts, trying to show little emotion, I drove back, just in time to join my teachers at a party celebrating the beginning of a new school year. Thus began about a week of straight drinking, some of it out of desire, some out of obligation, but most in a haze of readjustment and rehabilitation to a life without that special somebody. After that party, we went to Rope, a local karaoke bar, where the mama san and the papa san have taken a liking to foreigners and charge them a lot less than Japanese for all-you-can-drink. Saturday, dinner with some drinks; Sunday, poker with some drinks; Monday, izakaya with some drinks; Tuesday, kompa (which is a uniquely Japanese dating gathering, where a guy and a girl both invite a bunch of their single friends and they all go out together) with some drinking (yeah, fast, I know, but can you say distraction); Wednesday and Thursday, more start of year parties, with the Town Hall folks and folks from another school I just started working at; Friday, at my house, a nomikai (drinking party), where some peeps from the Town Hall, led by their boss, came over, bringing absolutely everything (I just provided the seats), hung out, ate, drank, washed everything, and left the house as spotless as they had found it; Saturday, out in Kanazawa, with drinks, where we discovered an actual night club, not the tiny bars that have previously taken up the moniker. Sunday was a bit of a relaxing and herbalizing day, and by Monday, I think my afflictions had left me. That Tuesday, I went down to Kanazawa again, this time to meet with Marina, Anton, and Leites, with whom we had some coffee and conversation at Mr. Donut and then made our way to a restaurant with some of my friends for a lovely dinner. The next day, the three of them came to my school and helped me and the other senseis teach two English lessons. I think they went over superbly and the kids were surprisingly attentive and enthusiastic, obviously suppressing the usual lackluster “please shoot me right now” approach to studying English. After school that day, my guests treated me to a lovely homecooked dinner of Russian stew and my commitment to a “dry” week quickly evaporated, as such a thing as a “Russian dinner with no alcohol” does not exist on this, the planet Earth. Deep into the night, we conversed, even about very deep esoteric questions and arrived at the conclusion that we’re either all satisfied or just simply lazy. The next morning, much like I had done three weeks before with the Birmans, I drove them to the train and they too left Japan, under a deeply satisfied impression. Thus ended my chain of visitors and thus I could once again re-enter the stream.

And so, there we are. I am extremely grateful to everyone that came here. I want to thank all of you. Of course, it is a fine line between coming here to see Japan and coming here to visit me, but regardless, two extraordinarily excellent things came out of it: the first was that I got to see my dearest friends and companions again after a very long time apart and the second, arguably more important, was that these people got to taste that which I have been living for the last nine months, to experience, however briefly, the country of Japan, its people, traditions, sights, and sounds. Like I said in the very beginning, the excitement of my initial months here had faded and I was beginning to miss crucial elements from home. In addition, there were so many things that I wanted to communicate, whether they be emotions or experiences, to close ones back home but could not do because they were simply inexpressible in written form or over the phone. But not any more. The people that came to Japan now have a much better sense of what I am going through and I think that anything I try to relate from now on will resonate with them to a much greater degree. That kind of connection and the ability to bond in such a way is essential to maturing human relationships. As I search for ways to conclude this little slice of life, I am at a loss for words. Let this be not any definitive summary but merely two months in the flowing stream of time. Today, I will go to sleep and tomorrow I will wake up and so will all of you. Those that were here, thank you so much. Those that were not, thank you too for being you. It is almost May. The weather is beautiful. Tool is touring. And I’m having sushi for dinner. What more can you ask for in life? I’m out.