Japan

Your much-adored Manifesto7 was kind enough to host the PDF file for my Japan blog. For those of you who are interested in the Authoritative Edition -- the entire blog with extra photos and cleaned up writing within a single, easy-to-read file -- it's available for download.

Get it here!

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

These are the last two days of the blog. Thanks to everyone who enjoyed it!

Day 15

I don't care what Newton said about matter being neither created nor destroyed: something as fragile as a vase existing in tangible form for 12,000 years is awe-inspiring. As I wandered through the Tokyo National Museum, my jaw was either dropping or about to drop. Ceramics, porcelains, paintings, journals, calligraphy, sculptures, 1,500-year-old katanas with silver inlays—the museum was a dazzling display of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean cultures. The exhibit on the evolution of medicine was especially fascinating, too. Even 100 years ago, treatment of injuries and diseases was downright cringe-worthy. I spent three hours wandering the massive structure, carefully checking the guide pamphlet to make sure I did not miss anything. Photography was prohibited throughout the museum.


Taken from the main entrance of the museum.

After leaving, I went on a stroll through the Imperial Palace. The grounds were large and well-kept, with plenty of wide open spaces and interesting landscaping. The dreary weather matched my melancholy mood; I knew I was leaving for home the next day. I had done well, I told myself. I had no problem with the way I had spent my time, but it had all gone by so quickly. I just needed more time—and a few thousand extra dollars. Then I'd really be able to do something with this trip. Everything I had seen and done didn't seen insignificant, just inadequate. It was an odd feeling, a sort of remorse without regret.






This picture always depresses me.



With my backpack weighing me down, I went looking for a hotel in the Ueno area. Ueno Station had the most convenient methods of reaching Narita International Airport, and as much as I wanted to miss my plane, I did not want to miss my plane. Lonely Planet recommended numerous hotels in the area, and they appeared to be reasonable in cost. When I arrived at my first choice, however, they had no vacancies. "No problem," I thought, striding off towards the next hotel... which was also full. The third hotel was full, as well. And the fourth. In total, I visited eight hotels over the course of a three hour walk until I found a dump of an establishment that could house me. When I walked into my room, I knew I should never have left the expensive hotel in Shibuya. The room was old and poorly-maintained, with a rusty shower head and threadbare comforter. The lone window opened up against the side of another building, with a metal radiator jutting out from the far wall. There was no air conditioning. Soaked in sweat from my trek through the humidity, I peeled my backpack from my body and climbed into the shower. I wanted to get out of this room, back to the city, and make my last night in Tokyo a pleasant one.

Day 16

It was raining on the morning of my last day in Japan, giving me further incentive to indulge my inner Hemingway. The rain was a metaphor for... for... well, maybe it wasn't a metaphor. Maybe it was a symbol. The rain was a literary device of some sort, damn it! It had to be. There was something significant about the way I strode out into the rain that morning. I did not open my umbrella, preferring to let the precipitation drizzle down my forehead, like an informal baptism performed on a dying man. Ha! I knew I could work in a literary device!

Anyway, my plan had been to visit the Ueno Zoo, but the night prior, over dinner, Kevin and Joe had told me that "they put all the animals away if there's even the slightest bit of rain." So the zoo was not an option. I started wandering aimlessly through the streets until I saw a large archway, something that often signals the entrance to a shopping arcade. But this was so much better. Instead of the usual assortment of clothing and electronic and dollar stores, this was an open-air food market.

Despite the rain, the streets were packed with shoppers. Fresh seafood, meats, fruits, and vegetables were everywhere—pickled, smoked and dried goods, too. Vendors were shouting out to the market, advertising their products against the chatter of the crowd. It was a harmonious cacophony, music to my ears.


The market.

San Luis Obispo, my current hometown, only has one Asian market, but it is more of a Chinese, Korean, and Thai market. In the months prior to my departure, I had been searching for instant dashi, the staple of Japanese cuisine. Dashi is a broth made by boiling dried bonito flakes and kombu, a type of kelp. Instant dashi is more like bouillon, but still well-regarded. If I couldn't find instant dashi mix here, where could I find it?

I found a likely-looking shop but was turned away by the owner; I think he thought I was hungry for soup, not realizing that I wanted to buy an ingredient. The next shop was staffed by a young woman who spoke English and reeked of fish. I must have spoken to her for ten full minutes as she tried, ever so patiently, to figure out what I wanted. At first, she pointed me to the bonito flakes. "No, no," I said. "Instant, um, powder. Dashi powder."

Next, she directed me to the liquid version of instant dashi. I would have bought it, but I was going to get on a plane in just a few hours; I couldn't bring any liquids with me. "Powder," I repeated, not knowing what other word I could use. Finally, the young woman's eyes lit up. She directed me to a box with a fish on it.

"For dashi?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," she said. "Fast! Make bonito broth."

I was elated. Yes, the box was $22, but such a massive amount of instant dashi had to be good for at least a few gallons of broth. And now I knew exactly what to look for when shopping online. I wandered the streets for another hour before returning to my hotel to get my backpack. The front desk clerk, I knew, spoke excellent English, so I approached her to confirm that I'd purchased the correct product. "Excuse me, I was hoping you could help me with something," I said.

Her face grew momentarily serious. "Yes, sir, how may I assist you?"

I moved my box of instant dashi onto the counter, and she started laughing. "This is instant dashi?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," she said with a smirk on her face. "For... professional taste."

It was my turn to laugh. "Is this as good as dashi made with bonito and kombu?"

The clerk beamed. She seemed so excited that I knew something, anything, about Japanese cuisine. "Close, close," she said, "but very easy. This is no trouble." She showed me the ratio of water to powder on the side of the box.

"How do I make the broth spicy?" I asked.

"Spicy... spicy... oh, spicy!" exclaimed the clerk. "Togarashi, yes, togarashi." I was pretty sure I knew what she was talking about; every noodle house had a spicy red seasoning kept next to the soy sauce and chopsticks. I thanked her profusely and ran off to find some togarashi and some lunch. I found both within an hour.

Content that I could now emulate Japanese soup broth at home, I was ready to leave. It felt good to know that I was bringing a little bit of Japan home with me; I hadn't purchased any other souvenirs during the trip. The dashi felt important. It was a vacation in a box, a little way to relive my experiences over the past couple weeks from the comfort of home. I boarded the train to Narita International Airport and watched out the window as the Tokyo skyline faded into the distance.


Lunch.


The very last photo on my camera. It's not even a good picture, but there's something about it that I really like.

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post days 15 and 16 tomorrow. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.

Kevin and Joe's apartment was tiny. In square feet, the entire place was about the same size as my bedroom. Across from the bathroom, a small kitchenette was crammed into the entryway. One of the two burners on the minuscule stove top was covered by an aluminum pie pan with a book on top of it. "Is this one broken or something?" I asked.

"Oh, no, we trapped a really big roach under there. We're waiting for him to die," said Kevin.

The main living space featured two Japanese futons separated by such a small gap that Kevin and Joe could have held hands while they slept. A couple TV trays with laptops on them and an assortment of empty drink bottles littering the floor rounded out the apartment. I could see why the duo had been reluctant to have me stay with them; there was barely enough room for one person, let alone two. Nevertheless, we watched a movie in the early hours of the morning and, without having slept, headed off to the Tsukiji fish market at 5:00 AM.

I have one piece of advice for visitors to the Tsukiji fish market: pack light. Because I did not intend on returning to Kevin and Joe's apartment after our visit to the market, I brought my swollen backpack with me. The lazy drizzle of rain from the night prior had persisted into the morning. I was left trying to juggle an umbrella and my backpack as we navigated the crowded, narrow pathways of the enormous market. Everywhere were fishmongers riding recklessly around the market on small carts and pallet jacks, screaming at each other to make way. Men in knee-high rubber boots were were feeding whole fish through band saws and using four-foot-long knives to portion sides of tuna. I wouldn't say we were unwelcome as much as I would say that we were really, really unwelcome. The purveyors and customers alike were there to conduct business, not indulge the whims of a trio of sleep-deprived tourists. We wandered the market for an hour or so before locating a nearby sushi restaurant and setting in for breakfast.




This picture perfectly sums up our reception at the market. Look at that man's expression.







Thankfully, Kevin and Joe were adventurous eaters. To me, a really great meal is one in which I get to sample a bite of everything on the table, regardless of whether or not I ordered it. Yes, I'm one of those people. We must have ordered at least ten different varieties of sushi, along with something I just had to try: horse sashimi. It wasn't bad, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't have preferred a nice beef carpaccio. The horse had a slight gamy flavor, and it was so lean that it was less tender than I had anticipated. Still, it was an integral part of a fantastic meal.

After breakfast, Kevin, Joe, and I separated. They went home to sleep, and I went to an internet cafe to, well, sleep. $15 bought me eight hours of time in a snug cubicle, along with all-I-could-drink hot and cold beverages. I grabbed a barley tea and took a few t-shirts out of my backpack to use as a pillow.

When I awoke, my first thought was, "Where the hell am I?" It took me a few moments to get my bearings in the dark of the cafe. I chugged a few more drinks, checked my email, and went looking for a hotel in Shibuya, one of the swankier neighborhoods of Tokyo. During the day, Shibuya seemed remarkably human. Yes, fashionable young couples were casually strolling, ice cream in hand, browsing the many boutiques, but daylight subdued the neon and gave the place a certain homeyness. I found a lovely hotel just a short walk from the busy streets and... slept for another four hours.



When I awoke this time, however, I was ready to go. The endless refrain I had heard from travelers and travel guides alike was that the night life in Roppongi, another neighborhood of Tokyo, was not to be missed. I showered, put on the one and only collared shirt I had packed, and gave myself a spritz of cologne. Roppongi, I thought, nodding my head slightly from the excitement of it all as I scrutinized my appearance in the hotel mirror. Tonight was going to be awesome.

I strolled to the metro station took a moment to glance at the map on the wall; I was pretty comfortable with the metro at this point. I noted that I needed to take the Hanzomon Line two stops and transfer to the Oedo Line at Aoyama-itchome. Just then, a goddess appeared at my side, clad in a vibrant pink scoop-neck and a matching miniskirt that left nothing to the imagination. On her feet were knee-high black boots with five-inch heels. Straight black bangs framed her lovely visage, with the rest of her hair reaching halfway down her back. She leaned in so that her face was only six inches from mine and asked, "Where are you going?"

I swallowed and tried to keep from soiling myself. I wanted nothing more than to say, "Wherever you're going. I... I love you." Instead, I stammered, "Uh, Roppongi."

"HEY," she screamed at a metro security officer who was standing 50 feet away. The poor man looked almost as shocked as I was. My beautiful companion shouted a few more things at him, and the man went jogging towards a small office. He exited the office a few moments later and, still jogging, presented us with a metro map similar to the one on the wall. The security officer then bowed to the two of us and returned to his post. I was speechless. Who was this girl? More importantly, would she marry me?

The girl scrutinized the map for a few seconds and said, "Easiest is take Hanzomon Line to Aoyama-itchome. Then Oedo to Roppongi. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," I nodded fervently. "Thank you so much."

"Hai," she said, moving towards the exit with slow, deliberate steps befitting the height of her heels. I watched her go, overcome for a few moments by the tragedy of it all. Then I remembered where I was going: Roppongi. Things were only going to improve. The possibilities were limitless.

When I arrived at Roppongi, things did not improve. The possibilities were limitless, I supposed, but only if I wanted to sleep with a hooker. Not ten steps into the neighborhood, I was accosted by muscular African man after muscular African man promising me "tits and booze, man, no joke" if I would only come into a particular establishment. Rather than acknowledging the men and possibly having to defend my sexuality, I played the mute, walking purposely forward and giving no indication that I had heard them. One man followed me for 100 yards, constantly trying to elicit a response from me. He complimented me, told jokes, and promised me that he would look out for me tonight. "My friends would love to meet you," he said. I stayed silent.

When the man finally gave up on me, I spotted another group of ten African men on the road ahead. I had to avoid them. I crossed to the other side of the street and darted into the nearest restaurant, which happened to be Wolfgang Puck's Cafe. "Whatever," I thought. I was hungry, anyway, and there was no way I was going to brave the streets of Roppongi sober. After a pizza and a couple enormous beers, I ventured out onto the street made a beeline for the nearest bar, a dirty little establishment called Gas Panic.

Gas Panic was just about the most depressing place I'd ever seen. The lighting had a reddish hue, which indicated a certain level of danger despite the impassive crowd. Single girls were nursing drinks at the bar and glancing around from time to time to see if there was anyone worth approaching. Some unsavory guys and a few 40-year-old members of the American armed forces rounded out the mix of patrons. A sign on the wall said, "YOU MUST BE DRINKING TO STAY INSIDE GAS PANIC." I paid $7 for a tiny glass of bad beer and parked at a table.

Even the cute French waitress, whom I conversed with in her native tongue, could not make up for the horrible atmosphere and clientele. I left after only a couple beers and resolved, this time, to check out bars before ordering any drinks. But every bar I glanced into was the same, dreary setting. Maybe I had come on an off night, but I hated Roppongi. The place was hell on earth. I glanced at the time; if I hurried, I could make the last train back to Shibuya.

While waiting at a crosswalk just a block from the metro station, a rake-thin woman in a black dress approached me. "Why leaving so soon?" she asked.

"The last train is about to leave," I replied, gesturing towards the station.

"Ah, so soon, so soon!" she said. "Come with me for special Japanese massage, yes?"

"No, no. Sorry," I said. Was this crosswalk ever going to change?

"Special massage, just for you. Come on, baby. Let's just try," she said, placing her hands on my shoulders and gently going to work.

Now, I like to think of myself as a relatively thoughtful, logical human being, but I am also a man, damn it. After two weeks of hauling around a heavy backpack, her hands felt exquisite against my shoulders. I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in her capable hands, to give myself over to something that felt so incredibly right. My eyelids drooped for just a second. Then I remembered how many men she must have jerked off in her career as a Roppongi quasi-prostitute. "No, no, no," I said, moving forward. The crosswalk had finally changed.

When I arrived back at my hotel, I needed another drink. The hotel bar was nearly empty, but they had Guiness on tap. I settled into a comfortable chair and watched the bartender, using nothing but an icepick and a towel, reduce solid, foot-long cubes of ice down to drink-sized pieces. The music sounded familiar. A moment later, I realized that the bar was playing nothing but highly-stylized versions of the songs from The Legend of Zelda. "Only in Japan," I thought, finishing my Guiness and ordering another.

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next three days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.

When I awoke the next morning, my first impulse was to panic. I had slept until nearly noon, and I was supposed to meet PanoRaMa in Tokyo in just a few hours. I sprinted to the bathroom, reeking of sake, and tried to brush the cheap booze and dehydrated morning breath from my teeth. I showered, hurled dirty clothes and books into my backpack, and trudged towards the train station. Having no cell phone, I couldn't just call Kevin and tell him I was going to be a few minutes late. I needed to get my ass on the road.

Thanks to the Nozomi Super Express (nozomi, ironically enough, means "hope" or "wish" in Japanese), I arrived in Tokyo with fifteen minutes to spare. I raced out of the train station, hopped in a taxi, and asked the driver to take me to the statue of Hachikō at Shibuya Station. Hachikō was a dog who, at the end of every work day, greeted his master at Shibuya Station. His master, a professor, commuted to campus. One day, the professor suffered a fatal stroke and never returned home from work. Hachikō returned to Shibuya Station to wait for his master every evening for ten years. This degree of loyalty was not lost on the Japanese, who erected a statue in Hachikō's honor shortly before his death.


Just outside the station in Tokyo.

25 minutes later, having traveled a distance of 4.7 miles at an average speed of 11 miles per hour, I arrived at Shibuya Station. The ride was more enjoyable than it sounds. Although we spent the majority of our time together at a full stop, the taxi driver knew a bit of English and pointed out various landmarks to me. "Emperor," he said, pointing to the palace with pride. "Emperor." I nodded fervently, wanting to appear appreciative. The ride became less enjoyable when I had to pay the driver $50 for his services. I made a mental note to stick to the subway in the future.

Kevin, being of Taiwanese descent, had instructed me to "look for [his] friend, Joe, the black guy." And indeed, I would have had a hard time picking Kevin out of the sea of Japanese. Joe, with his bright yellow shirt, was easier to spot. "How have you been getting around without knowing any Japanese?" Joe asked.

"It hasn't been a big deal," I said. "I just smile and try to look helpless."

"Yeah," Kevin said, "it must be a little easier for you, because you're white. People speak Japanese to me and then look at me like I'm retarded when I can't say anything back. No one expects anything out of you."

"Exactly!" I laughed.


Wow.

Tokyo is entertainment. Neon lights, pachinko parlors, arcades, shopping, bars, restaurants -- as long as you have money in your pocket, there is no excuse for being bored. The city has a phenomenal energy, a palpable pulse that stems from 12 million people sharing 800 square miles of earth. After a brief stop at an arcade, Kevin told me that we were going to Sunshine City. "Is that an open-air mall or something?" I asked.

"No, it's completely indoors. I'd never thought about that, actually," he laughed.

"So there's no view of the sky... in Sunshine City. What is it, anyway?"


Nice.


Kevin won one of those hideous things and carried it around for the rest of the night.


Victory!

Sunshine City was a massive structure containing 60 floors of entertainment and office space. Without Kevin and Joe to guide me, I would have almost certainly gotten lost. We wandered down escalators and through sliding doors until I was so disoriented that, even using gravity as a reference point, I could hardly have pointed up. Kevin told me there were rumors about some vendors spending their entire lives within the structure, never once leaving. Even though he was probably joking, I believed him.

After dumplings, ice cream, and some time spent acquiring stuffed animals on the abundant UFO catchers, we decided to brave the Sunshine City haunted house. As lame as the experience sounds, it was hilarious. Before we entered, a Japanese man in formal attire gave us a very long, involved speech about how we were, apparently, supposed to solve the mystery of the haunted house. We did not understand a word of it. He gestured, referenced a laminated instruction sheet, took our pulses, and finally handed us two objects that we would need in order to uncover clues. One of the objects was a wooden charm that was supposed to keep us from harm while we were inside. I recently spoke with Kevin in an effort to figure out what the other object was.

Andy: What did they give us at the haunted house?
Andy: A ghoul head or something that lit up when you put it on those circles?
Kevin: LOL
Kevin: it was like a cat
Kevin: or something
Kevin: wasnt it an owl?
Kevin: i thought u wrote it down
Andy: I don't remember. I had that useless-ass piece of wood.
Kevin: LOL

Whatever it was, the other object had practical value. Throughout the haunted house, there were small, dimly-lit circles. Placing the object on top of those circles would activate a film, a sound clip, or worst of all, a change in lighting. It was our job to put aside our fear—assumedly by holding aloft our wooden charm—and make note of whatever Japanese characters appeared on the wall, through a looking glass, or the like. At the end of the haunted house, we were asked to solve a riddle using the clues we had gathered. Not having any idea what these clues meant, or even what the riddle was, we blindly stabbed at the answers to multiple-choice questions until the proprietor took pity on us and showed us the solution. He then took our pulses again, printing off tiny receipts for us. "Your heart... very strong," he said, handing me a receipt that had my initial and current heart rates on it, along with an A grade, indicating that my heart rate had risen very little during the harrowing experience.

"D?" Joe cried, incredulous.

It would be impossible to describe all of our activities that day—and not because of any deficiencies in my notes or memory. Tokyo defies description. It possesses a degree of sensory overlord unlike anything I have ever experienced. Animated neon lights, jostling from the omnipresent crowds, the endless mixture of big city sounds set to whatever music a particular establishment is blaring, the scent of exhaust and good food—I could write a novel in which I did nothing but describe the setting as a character walked through the city. If I spoke Japanese, I could probably extend it to a trilogy. All I can say that is Kevin, Joe, and I eventually ended up seated in the corner of a small yakitori restaurant.

Our waitress, a bizarre young woman named Mami, was the type who, in ancient times, would have taken a club to the head of a man she fancied and claimed him for her own. She was confident, pushy, and attractive. She wasn't cold or distant, though, just authoritative. We were going to order food and drinks, damn it, and we were going to enjoy ourselves. Mami was the law hereabouts.

Because he spoke some Japanese, Kevin and I let Joe take care of the ordering. Mami nodded curtly with each successive item. Then she turned to the kitchen and screamed our order. This was not a yell or a shout. This was the shrill cry of a harpy, the piercing wail of a banshee, and the sweet song of a siren wrapped up into one. She reached octaves I didn't believe humans were capable of. Kevin blinked a few times and meekly managed, "Sorry, and a Coke, please."

"KOKE!" Mami screamed at the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Mami returned with our drinks. I had ordered a beer and a large sake. Mami placed a beautiful, lacquered wooden box in front of me and a shot glass inside of it. Then she poured the sake into the shot glass, letting it overflow until both shot glass and box were filled to the absolute brim. "Why do they do it that way?" Kevin asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Isn't it something like 'May your cup runneth over'?"

"Oh," said the guys in unison, nodding.

"I mean, I have no idea if that's true, but it sounds good, huh?"

Confused over how to proceed after finishing the glass of sake, I looked to Mami for assistance. I oriented the box so that I could drink from one of the corners. Mami nodded for me to proceed. I raised the box to my lips and took a small sip, setting it gently down. I looked back at Mami, who was wearing a look of total disgust. She made a "bottoms up" motion with her hands and said, "Japanese-style."

Some people will call it immaturity, but I had to drink that sake. There was no other course of action. I was not going to be emasculated in front of Mami over a few shots of rice wine. Japanese-style? I'd show her Japanese-style. I drained the box in a slow, deliberate fashion, to let her know that it was neither the taste nor the alcohol content preventing me from doing so in the first place. When I looked back at Mami, however, she was practically in tears from laughing so hard. "Japanese-style!" she cried, motioning that the Japanese take their sake in small sips. Doubled over, she pointed and laughed even harder.

Mami, still laughing hysterically, walked away. I shook my head. "I need another beer."


At the restaurant.

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next four days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.

I woke up the next morning with a hangover that could have killed a bull moose. Sunlight was streaming directly onto my face through the tiny window above my bunk. I groaned and looked over at Sam, whose right leg was draped over the edge of the bed frame in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. I took two aspirin, left the box in plain sight for Sam's benefit, and got ready to face the day.

In a lot of ways, Kyoto reminded me of Florence, Italy. Both cities are spectacular tourist traps, jam-packed with all manner of cultural significance. Tourists are aware of this fact, but the cities themselves seem to be, too. Both cities have an indescribable, smug, disdainful feel to them. Everywhere I looked, throngs of tourists were parading through shrines and silently appreciating nearby objets d'art. Intersections featured arrows to prominent locations. Tour buses roamed with impunity along the narrow streets. When a crosswalk indicated it was safe to proceed, I felt the urge to moo as I surged forward with the rest of the herd. "Does anyone just live here?" I wondered.


Kyoto.


Kyoto.

If I had entered every shrine I passed during my seven-hour romp through Kyoto, I would have easily spent $200 on admission tickets alone. Instead, I limited myself to the more interesting attractions. The first shrine I visited, Sanjūsangen-dō, featured a massive Buddha flanked by row after row of guardian statues. "Good lord," I boggled silently, "there must be 1,000 of them." A plaque revealed that the real number was 1,001. I smiled as I circled around the people praying before the giant Buddha and made my way into the attached gift shop. To me, nothing undercut the message of Buddhism in quite so fitting a manner as selling bracelets and fortune scrolls to tourists for $20 and $1 apiece, respectively.


The gift shop.


Near Sanjūsangen-dō.


Near Sanjūsangen-dō.

I made my way to the Kyoto National Museum, an enormous complex of art, crafts, and archaeological finds. The museum was spectacular—I don't mean to imply otherwise—but it was like a crypt, nothing but dim lighting and silence. Masses of tourists crept through the halls with their hands at their sides, not pointing nor speaking. It wasn't hard to envision the group, zombie-like, chanting "braaains" at irregular intervals. I did my best to blend in, hoping to avoid being eaten as an afternoon snack by the walking dead.

Having no idea where to proceed after I exited the museum, I followed the general flow of tourists up a long, winding, uphill stretch of narrow road, the sides of which were laden with restaurants and open-air shops selling all manner of trinkets. The crowd was reminiscent of passing time at my high school. There was an equilibrium rate of speed to which everyone who entered the amoeba of humanity had to conform. Those who stopped to photograph the fearsome chaos were scorned for impeding the progress of others, whereas those who tried to hurry cut a disruptive swath through the middle of the group. Had I been able to take the walk at a leisurely pace, I'm sure I would have enjoyed the ascent up to Kiyomizu-dera


Dear lord.


Dear. Lord.

Located at the top of "Teapot Lane," Kiyomizu-dera is an important Buddhist temple and one of Kyoto's most famous landmarks. I did not know any of this at the time. All I knew was that I had to separate myself from this oppressive crowd. I snapped a few photos and ducked down a side street, wandering for 30 minutes before seeing another person. And that's when I saw her.

Shuffling down the street to the light, equine clip-clop of her wooden sandals, the geisha was refinement personified. She wore an elegant kimono, flowers in her hair, and a knowing smile. Her heavy, traditional makeup concealed any flaws that might have adorned her face. Keeping her head bowed, she glanced through her eyelashes at the swarm of onlookers. People were draping their arms around the poor girl and jamming cameras in her face. Still, I thought, one picture can't hurt. I turned on my camera. The screen briefly read "LOW BATTERY" and went dark.

"No, no, no, NO," I thought. This was not happening. It couldn't be happening. My one geisha sighting was not going to be spoiled by a lithium-ion battery, of all things. I shook the camera in my hand like a vicious dog trying to snap the neck of its prey. Maybe I thought I could somehow transfer kinetic energy into the rechargeable battery. Whatever my rationale, I turned on my camera again. This time, I snapped a photo the moment the lens cap opened. The screen displayed the image for only a second and again went dark. But I had my geisha photo. I breathed a sigh of relief and watched the geisha for a few more moments. Her pace, already downright glacial, had slowed to nearly a stop. The scene reminded me of a crowd of small children poking a jellyfish with a stick. I shook my head. There was nothing I could or should do. Moments like this were the reason people visited Japan. But this wasn't the Japan I knew, the Japan I had experienced.


The geisha.


I managed to take two more photos before my camera truly died.


I managed to take two more photos before my camera truly died.

When I arrived back at my hostel several hours later, the other foreigners and I began the evening's festivities with a spirited penis-measuring competition. "I walked for, I don't know, maybe seven hours," I said, sipping a large glass of water, "all around Higashiyama, beautiful area."

"That's it, mate?" Sam asked. "I was wearing these big ol' boots, and I still wandered about for nine hours. I'm trying to conserve money, though, so I didn't go into any of the shrines or anything."

The Swedish engineer scoffed. "I got somewhat lost, so I walked for ten and a half hours, south of the station and through Higashiyama."

The Frenchman pursed his lips and said, "Yes, I too walked for many hours. I enjoy walking."

"Well I don't know about you blokes," Sam said, "but I need a drink." I chugged my glass of water and went to refill it; I knew the direction the night was headed. If I couldn't avoid it, at least I could be prepared.


From left to right, a Canadian guy living in Kyoto, his girlfriend, the Swedish engineer, me, the Frenchman, and Sam.

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next five days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.


Taken on my way to the garden.

Ritsurin Koen, the garden at Takamatsu, was spectacular. Had it not been for the heat and my desire to make it to Kyoto, I could have spent the entire day there. Every view from every location felt as if it had been painstakingly considered and sculpted. Interconnected ponds dotted the landscaping, with well-groomed trees and trickling waterfalls adding to the tranquility of the garden. There was a balance about the place, not a single ostentatious feature. The trees and bridges, water and fish all existed in quiet harmony.

Well, maybe not the fish. Eager for a handout, these fish wrestled for position whenever a human being approached the water. Fat and happy, they appeared to subsist entirely off of the goodwill of tourists.


The entrance.


The garden.


The garden.


About a tree.


The tree.


Typically feline.


About a bridge.


The bridge.


Fish!


Fish!


The garden.


The garden.


I couldn't resist snapping this photo.


The garden.


The garden.


Probably my favorite photo from the entire trip.

After the garden, I made my way to the train station and hopped on a train to Kyoto.

I won't lie: my first impression of Kyoto was, "This is it?" From the way Lonely Planet presented the city, Kyoto was some sublime Japanese paradise, all traditional architecture and geisha. Instead, Kyoto, at first glance, was strikingly similar to Osaka and Hiroshima. As I walked to my hostel, however, I noticed that there did seem to be an abundance of small shrines littering the roads. The architecture, too, was less modern. There was something different about Kyoto.

My hostel was a positive start, anyway. With immaculate rooms, broadband internet access, real computers, and an enormous, sunny lounge at my disposal, I spent most of the afternoon catching up on my email and chatting with Sam, a 22-year-old plumber from England. Having saved up a sizable lump of quid, Sam was hoping to travel the world for a full year, taking in Japan, China, Australia, and New Zealand in that span of time. His wild hair and outrageous beard obscured his thoughtful demeanor; we were able to gloss over the usual questions of occupation and homes and get straight to an interesting subject: our thoughts on the Japanese.


My hostel.


Sam.

"I love the women here, but they all dress like prostitutes, don't they?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I think the way they dress is pretty classy."

"Christ, I need to go to California, I guess," he laughed.

Sam and I ended up wandering the streets for a couple hours before dinner, talking on a vast array of subjects and sipping on beers as we wandered. A pretty Japanese girl waved to us from a bus. We lightly tapped our beers together in a silent cheers. Over dinner, Sam and I began to discuss food.

"French food is the best, mate, nothing better," Sam said. "But this French bloke named, um, Pascal—yeah, that's his name—is shagging me mum, so I'm a bit down on the French at the moment." I nearly spewed Asahi onto my plate when he finished this sentence.

"So your folks are divorced?" I asked.

"Yeah, they are. My dad, the wanker, gave me this set of watercolors before I left for my trip, you know? Told me to take the time to do some painting as I traveled, said it would do me good."

"Are you an artist? Do you paint? Did you ever paint?"

"No, that's just the bloody thing! I couldn't paint a wall! But it's... you know, it's a really nice set of watercolors. So this one night, wicked pissed, I sat down and just started painting, and I woke up with all these horrible, crumpled little things scattered around me bed. I put them in my journal, though. There's no way I'll remember that stuff otherwise."

"Watercolors, huh? I'll have to give it a shot," I laughed.

"Yeah, mate, you can buy little watercolor sets, the fucking things, for just a couple hundred yen."
I continued to laugh at the mental image of Sam, wasted off of cheap sake, sitting down to paint before passing out amidst his absurd creations. It was the kind of event I wished I could watch in a time-lapse video; everything's funnier, or at least less tragic, in accelerated form.

After dinner, Sam and I stopped at a convenience store to purchase a few more beers. I was standing in line when Sam emerged from an aisle holding it.

"No, no, no," I said.

"Bang for buck, mate," Sam grinned. "Split between us, it's barely four dollars apiece."

It was a two-liter red carton of sake, proudly advertising itself as containing 20% alcohol. I knew purchasing the carton was a bad idea—I had only budgeted one full day to see Kyoto—but there was some allure in getting to mingle with the international crowd back at the hostel. My mind began to spin fantastical yarns. Sam and I would be the combined life of the party. I envisioned us doling out shots from our magical red carton, laughing and pointing as we turned the hostel's lounge from a place of quiet typing into one of uproarious good cheer. The other guests just needed something to bring them together, something to bring us all together. Sam and I would be... we'd be heroes, really.

OK, so things didn't quite work out as I'd envisioned. After trying, and failing, to entice a couple wholesome Korean girls to join us for a drink or seven, Sam and I ended up playing cards with a Frenchman and two Australians. The Australians won the first few hands, which prompted Sam to comment on their luck.

"Well, we are Aussies," one said, "so we might be cheating."

"No cheating!" Sam bellowed, by this point quite drunk. "My country made you, but I will destroy you!"

A few hours and an uncountable number of shots later, I staggered up to bed, capable of little more than drunken babbling. I managed to exercise enough judgment to reach for my water bottle... which was bone dry. The bathrooms, no more than 20 feet away, seemed an insurmountable trek. I knew that the next morning would be unpleasant no matter how much water I drank. I climbed under the covers, resigned to my fate.

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next six days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.

I had an ambitious itinerary planned for the next day. I was going to take a train to Kotohira, plow through the lengthy hike to the top Mount Zōzu, visit the Shintō shrines scattered along the mountain path, feast on Shikoku's famous udon, take another train to Takematsu, find a hotel, wander the famed gardens of Ritsurin Koen, and sample the local nightlife. It was a lot to cram into a single day, but I'd arisen early. By this point in my trip, I was maybe a little too comfortable with the Japanese rail system. Trains ran so frequently! Surely I wouldn't have any problem making my way between destinations.

Three hours later, I found myself occupying one of only three seats in the tiniest train station I had ever seen. To call this place a station would have been overstating its very existence. It was a stop, a speed bump—a pigeon-sized blip amongst C-130s on the radar system that is the vast Japanese rail network. Long grass ran as far as the eye could see in one direction, terminating at some undeveloped hills in the other. I couldn't see any buildings. Three schoolchildren stared at me with looks of total bewilderment on their young faces. What was I even doing here?

I didn't have an answer to that question. Somehow, I had boarded the wrong train during my changeover in Tadotsu, riding it south nearly to Mino before realizing my mistake. I had then disembarked at a random station in order to turn around. When I had boarded the wrong train a week prior in Osaka, I had disembarked, walked ten feet, and been on a train back to my previous destination in 30 seconds flat; the flow of trains had been continuous. On Shikoku, however, things moved... a little... more... slowly. No trains were bound for Tadotsu for over an hour. The schoolchildren continued to glance in my direction from time to time. Even Tommy Lee Jones, his face present on a nearby vending machine, seemed confused by my present circumstance.


Oh Tommy.

When I set foot in Kotohira nearly two hours later, I was a man on a mission. This goddam train and goddam inconvenience was not going to ruin my goddam day, not a goddam chance. I stashed my backpack in a coin locker and set off at a brisk pace towards the shrine.

Near the base of the mountain, however, I noticed two young men busily producing udon noodles behind a large pane of glass. A glance inside the restaurant revealed dozens of people happily slurping away. I was sold. The hike could wait. Lonely Planet had recommended I purchase a particular variety of udon noodles while in Shikoku, so I took a stab at the pronunciation.

"No soup noodles," said the waitress. "Noodles. No soup. OK?"

"Hai," I nodded.

"Use soy sauce. Please wait eight minutes," she said, scurrying off towards the kitchen. I noted the time on a nearby clock. I already loved this place. The interior was an eclectic mix of well-worm wood furnishings. Though the tables and chairs appeared to be from the same maker, none were identical. The outside doors were flung wide open, inviting in the mild breeze. Exactly eight minutes later, my udon arrived.

Served chilled with scallions and dried bonito flakes, these noodles were heaven. I drizzled a bit of soy sauce on them, looked to the waitress to ensure that my actions were acceptable, and dug in. The noodles had a slightly chewy texture and a delicate flavor—absolutely perfect. It makes me a little sad to think that I will probably never have noodles of that quality again. Had I not been about to embark on a hike, I would have ordered seconds without hesitation.


The start of the hike.


Another shot.


Stairs.

As much as I would like to say I savored the atmospheric hike up to Kampira-san, the reality is that I plowed through that mountain. I blew past older couples, most of whom were in elegant attire and carrying long walking sticks. I overtook younger couples, too, who tended to favored casual clothing and carried huge, impractical digital cameras around their necks. I took the steep steps two at a time and stopped only to snap photos and mop the accumulation of sweat from my forehead. Near the summit, I passed a trio of young, fit Japanese men and two French guys who were smoking cigarettes on the side of the trail and complaining about the lack of water. I was on a mission.

Just a couple hundred meters from the top—I did not find out how close I was until later—a wasp began to buzz around my head. Trying to evade it, I ran smack into an enormous spider web and its two-inch-wide, vibrant green occupant. As I was shaking the web off of me, doing what I am sure was a very entertaining dance in the process, I noticed a six-inch-long, golden lizard near my feet.


Lizard!

At that point, I decided to turn around. I passed the Japanese trio and French duo during my descent. Both parties asked if I had reached the summit. I answered "hai" and "oui," respectively, but not because I felt the need to impress them with my speed. Rather, I didn't want to explain that I ran like a little girl at the sight of two insects and a salamander.


After the hike.

On the walk back to the train station, I heard a squeal of delight. I looked up. A young boy wearing only his underwear was regarding me from a second story balcony. The boy squealed again and hid behind a curtain, but his legs were still visible beneath it. I stopped for a moment. The boy slowly peeked his head out from behind the curtain. I waved to him. His face lit up with a huge grin, and he waved back fervently. I started walking again. I could hear the boy yelling into his house, "Papa! Papa!"

Dogo Onsen.


A bit of history.

In the film You Only Live Twice, James Bond is treated to what his Japanese contact calls “your first civilized bath.” A trio of scantily-clad females scrub and massage Bond's chest and back until, utterly relaxed, he retires to bed with his love interest du jour. My experience at Dogo Onsen was pretty much identical.

No, just kidding! Unlike Mr. Bond, I had to do all my own scrubbing, but there was something decidedly civilized about the whole experience. After purchasing a ticket of admission and reviewing the rules of etiquette, I handed my valuables to a pleasant woman who was attired in an elegant yukata. With a blinding smile, she handed me a yukata of my own, this one less elegant, and directed me down the hallway to three more women, all of whom were wearing identical smiles. They gestured for me to hurry down the corridor. The staff seemed accustomed to having foreign guests. I was a reality, not a novelty.

(A yukata, I should probably explain, is a traditional Japanese garment similar to the kimono, though less formal. They are frequently worn around onsen, traditional Japanese bathhouses whose water comes from natural hot springs.)

I wandered into the locker room and disrobed, doing my best to keep from staring out over the sea of naked Japanese men. Many of the men were conducting themselves as if they were out for a pleasant stroll. They were wandering from location to location in the locker room, sometimes stopping to regard their reflections or rub their hair with a towel, but they seemed to lack any sort of objective. They were wandering for the sake of wandering. Maybe they found the extra air flow agreeable. My objective was simple: avoid eye contact on my way to the bath.

I had purchased the premium bath, which meant that I had access to one of the more ornate tubs. It was still in the Japanese aesthetic, though, a minimalist presentation with a few bold lines of blue amongst the tranquil white. I scrubbed myself thoroughly under one of the shower heads and entered the bath.

It wasn't a life-changing, revelatory experience, but slipping into the water of the oldest, most famous onsen in Japan was certainly surreal. With 3,000 years of history and numerous mentions throughout Japanese literature, Dogo Onsen is, for lack of a better term, kind of a big deal. In a country so renowned for its work ethic, it was good to see the Japanese holding the art of relaxation in very high esteem. I folded my hand towel onto my head and submerged myself up to my chin.

A long while later, I emerged from the tub, dried off, and donned my yukata. My instructional pamphlet recommended that people not experienced in wearing a yukata wear undergarments underneath. To me, this indicated that the Japanese go naked under them. I snorted, left my boxers in my locker, and made my way up to the second floor.

One of the pleasant women from before directed me to a straw mat and arranged several plush cushions around me. The floor was open-air, and a gentle breeze wafted over my steamy skin. Another woman arrived with green tea and some rice crackers. I happily munched on these snacks and people watched. Husbands and wives in matching yukata and geta (wooden sandals) were strolling around the outside of the onsen, taking in the late afternoon. Teenagers were enjoying ice cream on the numerous benches. Though it was a tourist destination, Dogo Onsen didn't feel like it. It was clearly beloved by the Japanese—not as a sight to see, but as an idea to embrace. No one was there to see anything. They were there to take part in the simplest of joys, to let themselves go in the fantasy of being treated like a member of the ancient nobility.

After changing back into my street clothes, I made a beeline for the brewery across the street, a small establishment that specialized in dark beer. The typical Japanese lager is light and flavorful, with a dry finish, perfect for washing down yakitori and other pub snacks. I was excited to sample something a bit more complex.

In addition to quaffing three beers, I dined on duck meatballs with a delicious sauce, traditional yakitori, some skewered vegetables, a bowl of rice, and a salad that was far too light on dressing, even by my standards. Still, the meal left me satiated and drowsy, especially after my long day of walking. I wandered back to my hostel, intent on making the most of the next day.

Stopping halfway up the lengthy climb to Matsuyama Castle to dab my forehead with a hand towel, I asked myself whether all this trouble was really worth it. There are so many other things I could be doing, I thought to myself. I could be soaking in the natural hot springs at Dogo Onsen, quaffing draft beer at the local brewery, or simply resting in the shade with a bottle of mugicha (barley tea). There was no need to hike up to the castle; the damn thing had hardly left my field of vision for the past two hours.


Matsuyama.


The chairlift.

By that point, however, it was a matter of pride. I had come this far, wandered this long. I was going to stand on the top floor of that castle, look out over the city, and declare myself triumphant over Lonely Planet, whose map of Matsuyama had led me several miles astray. I tried—unsuccessfully—to dismiss my negative thoughts. A refined woman with a pink umbrella passed me on the chairlift that ran the length of the hill. "Bitch," I muttered. I shook my head over my own idiocy, pressed my palms into my eyes, and tried again to remain upbeat. I had woken up grumpy after six hours of sleep on my hostel's granite-like mattress. The long walk was not improving my mood.

Thankfully, the castle was spectacular. I removed my shoes at the entryway and was about to struggle into a pair of tiny slippers when I saw the security guard disappear into his equally tiny office. He returned a moment later wearing a huge grin. He handed me a pair of burgundy slippers and, bowing, said, “Big, big!” I accepted his offering with both hands and returned his bows. The aged, polished wood of Japanese castle floors can be quite slick. Having slippers that were not four sizes too small was a true blessing; I would have had to commit seppuku out of sheer embarrassment had I lost my footing while descending one of the narrow staircases.


So close.


Yes, I put a haiku in the box.


”Big, big!”

I took a gondola down the hill and went searching for lunch in the nearby shopping arcade. There, I found an attractive establishment advertising a set lunch menu for $12. The food was ordinary—mediocre, even—but after the waitress dropped off my main course, I stared in awe at the table. Dessert had not yet arrived, and already there were two bowls, two glasses, five plates, and six small dishes in front of me. It was a bizarre spread of food, including spaghetti with meatballs, an egg roll, a bit of steamed cod with lemon, and miso soup.


Matsuyama.


Matsuyama.


Matsuyama.

When I had finished eating, the waitress returned and held the dessert menu in front of me. It was nothing but row after row of kanji. The waitress looked at me expectantly. I tried to remember how to say “please decide for me” and pointed at the waitress while I thought. Her eyes grew wide for a moment. Then she grinned. I realized I had just implied that I would like to have her for dessert. “No, no, no, sorry,” I said, laughing. The waitress began to laugh, as well. I regained my composure long enough to use my intended expression: o-ma-ka-se shi-mas. She nodded in understanding, still covering her mouth with her hand to conceal her silent snickers.

After lunch, I strolled around Matsuyama, taking in an unremarkable art museum and a small park in the process. Cooler weather and a full stomach had improved my mood, but I was stalling; visiting Dogo Onsen was my priority for the day, an activity steeped in tradition that involved soaking in a communal bath with a large assortment of buck naked Japanese men. I needed to be sure I knew what I was getting into. I took a seat on a bench and began reading Lonely Planet's lengthy section on onsen etiquette.

A short ferry ride from Hiroshima, Miyajima represents the idyllic image of Japan that so many tourists seek. And tourists do seek it. Plush, green hills and blue sea flank the main road, which runs between a Shinto shrine and a squat, heavily-wooded mountain. Miniature deer roam freely, sticking their noses into purses and prodding pockets in search of handouts.

I'm ashamed to confess that I have little to say about such a worthwhile afternoon. I wandered around the island, enjoying the ocean breeze and remembering there are good reasons that places become tourist destinations. I chuckled quietly as I watched middle-aged Japanese women scurry away from overcurious deer and stood in awe as teenagers respectfully cleansed their hands prior to entering a shrine.


The ferry to Miyajima.


One of the most iconic images of Japan, taken from afar.


Miyajima.


Miyajima.


Please pay special attention to your babies.


Miyajima.


WARNING.


They did not heed the warning.


I wear short shorts.


The deer were brazen!


Miyajima.


A rare photo of me, taken by a nice Spanish couple.


I cannot stop laughing about those pants.

“Hey, mate, you know what this building's called?” an Australian accent inquired to me. I turned and saw a thin teenager on a bicycle. He was wearing a camera around his neck and shorter shorts than I would be caught dead in.

“I think it's the Treasure House,” I said. The boy detected my accent.

“You're American?” he asked.

“Yes. Where are you from?”

“Melbourne.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding.

“That's in Australia,” the boy said.

“Yeah, I know.”

A few more Australian boys in similar attire rode up on bicycles of their own and began talking loudly amongst themselves. Not wanting to be associated with them or their exposed thighs, I wandered down the shopping corridor and found a pleasant little restaurant. I ordered the udon with oysters, which ended up being a bit overpowering. I like oysters—I really do—but they have such an potent flavor that I have no idea with what ingredients I could ever pair them. If I am ever forced to deal with oysters in the kitchen, I will probably serve them on the half shell with gold tequila and a squeeze of fresh lime juice. Nothing rinses down raw shellfish quite like hard alcohol.

After my late lunch, I purchased a hydrofoil ticket back to Hiroshima. While I waited for the boat to depart, I grabbed a seat on the shore and sipped on tea from one of the omnipresent vending machines. Two girls walked past me, and their faces lit up into enormous smiles. “Hello,” one of them said.

“Konichiwa,” I said carefully. The girls seemed put out by my response; they were hoping for English. I just smiled. I was enjoying looking out over the sea. I took a sip of tea and exhaled through my nose. This was vacation.


The hydrofoil.


Leaving Miyajima.

I boarded the hydrofoil and, after the short ride, hopped on a connecting ferry to Matsuyama, a city on the northwestern end of the island of Shikoku. During the ferry ride, I stopped to review my notes. Over nine days, I had accumulated 40 handwritten pages. I looked at my camera. I had already taken 800 photographs. It was only then that I truly realized what a daunting task writing this blog would be.


Half of those pages are double-sided.