Island Time

A three part saga

1)

I was luckily given a week of vacation from the shoe factory. My first idea was to go visit a friend (also a shoemaker) in Sapporo in order to spend some time in cooler, drier weather. After it was clear that this plan was not going to materialize, I had to rethink my possibilities. All of Japan was at my fingertips, the shinkansen(bullet train) was calling for me and my wallet…

I found my next best option in the form of a tiny chain of island of the coast of the Izu peninsula. I figured, if I can’t get any cooler weather, I might as well go for some sand and sun and palm trees. I decided to trade pines for palms. The beach was calling me.

I made the journey down to Tokyo, in order to leave from the nearest, cheapest major port. I have a friend in Akabane who most generously let me stay at his house until the time came (I must give due credit: the island trip was his idea so we went together in addition to another friend). We stayed one night at his house.

The next day we booked our tickets over the phone and made our departure time for 11 pm. The islands all offer free campgrounds, so we decided it would be nice to get some real outdoor experience and camp. We had no gear, so we went off to the nearest sports shop in search of our home for the next two days. We stumbled upon a Sport’s Authority near to the station and ventured in. Upon walking in, we were first taken by a small shelter of sorts with a good price. It was no tent by any means; it was a sun shade for a day at the beach. We got to talking and decided it might be nice to have the moon and sea breeze on us while we sleep. It had a plastic floor and would keep our backs dry as we slept. The structure seemed sturdy, and it was about 1/3 of the price of a proper tent with walls and zipper doors and such. We had a winner.

Next, we needed beds. I found a pile of 999 yen sleeping bags. Easy choice. I didn’t need any cold weather protection, so I figured it would work just fine as a mosquito barrier. One flashlight, and we were done with gear hunting. We were only staying 2-3 days, so we didn’t need a stove or any thing else.

We headed off to Shibuya to play in the hustle and bustle of tourist Tokyo and went shopping for a while. We walked around the endless shopping of Tokyu Hands and looked at a few more camping gear stores. Everything was insanely expensive, of course. We decided we could tough it out, the great outdoors was what we wanted, and we wanted to full experience.

We headed down to the port area, about 20 minutes from Shibuya, and picked up our tickets. We noticed there seem to be substantially more people than normal walking around in Yukata, the traditional summer dress of Japan. There were thousands actually, brightly colored, with the melodic percussion of clacking wooden sandals on the concrete. Eventually, we found out there was a Tokyo bay cruise that gave a discount to anyone in traditional clothing. There were even a few foreigners in Yukatas, it looked like fun. Next time, I thought; the islands were no place for anything but boardshorts.

We ate dinner at an udon restaurant, where I had noodles with duck meatballs. It was delicious and hot. After, we were off for the port to board our ship with the anxious anticipation of the unknown.

Once aboard the boat, we noticed that there seemed to be a standard procedure for enjoying the ride. Most people went down to their assigned seat, dropped off their bags and headed quickly back up on the deck. The deck was full of people who spread out big plastic tarps and used the provided blankets to make a little beds and areas to play cards and socialize. I was dumbfounded. It seemed like the entire population of the boat wanted nothing to do with their seat, they all had staked their claim on some part of the deck and slept or drank beer as the Tokyo bay lights rolled by in the distance. I instantly wished that I had known about this option. This was not the first time on vacation that I would feel this way.

After drinking a few beers, socializing with the other foreigners, and enjoying the view of Tokyo float by, I decided to retire to my seat and get some shut eye. The cabin area was mostly empty, except for one person snoring so loudly that the roar of the engine seemed peaceful in comparison. After tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, I decided to try my hand at sleeping on the deck. I took my sleeping bag out and went out into the hallway, instead of in the wind on the upper deck. There were a few dozen others sleeping in the hallway so I figured, why not give it a shot. I laid out my bag, crawled inside and slept like a baby for about 4 hours, occasionally woken up by some teenagers laughing or a door slamming. The gentle rocking of the boat was quite enjoyable, and I felt somewhat refreshed when I woke up at about 5 am.

The boat had arrived at an island called Oshima, the largest and, from what we read, most touristy of all the islands. Our island, Niijima, was still an hour and a half away. I went up on deck to take some pictures. My camera lens, and glasses, instantly fogged with the moisture of the morning air. I felt like I was swimming through the morning fog it was so dense and heavy. The sunny was rising, casting the sky a dreary and cloudy grey. The air smelled thick like salt, diesel exhaust and spilled beer. There was no body else on the deck anymore, except a young boy who ran off when he saw me. I felt strangely like a pirate arriving on some distant island full of savages.

Our boat docked, unloaded its people and shipping containers and was roaring back to sea within 20 minutes. All around me were tiny, strangely shaped islands, too small for inhabitation. Some were nothing but large rocks with a few trees and grasses sprouting from the top. The water was an indescribable swirl of green and blue with the white foam from the wake of the boat looking like some type of sea water cappuccino. I wanted to dive in right there.

I went back below, bought a coffee and hot cup of soup from the vending machine and went upstairs to eat and enjoy the view. I could see dozens of islands float by, wondering which one was ours for enjoying. They all looked so inviting. As I slurped my noodles, the intercom announced we would be arriving in 20 minutes. My body was exhausted from the ride, but my mind was so excited I couldn’t be bothered with fatigue. We had a whole island to explore. I gathered my bags, found my friends and we were, thankfully, off the boat. It was 7:45 am. We were ready.

Conbini

The Japanese love convenience. This is a fact. Somewhere between the space age atm’s that will let you apply for a mortgage, the seventeen level shopping centers with ramen restaurants on each floor, the proliferation of the sushi-go-round, and a postal service that make a mockery of America’s, I started to notice it. This country is very convenient, but in a lot of ways, it makes no difference to me. I can’t read or speak Japanese, so often times things that could be convenient become very inconvenient.

The atm is a good example. I left my English cheat sheet at home one day, but I was out about town and needed cash. What am I to do? Ride my mama-chari all the way home? I think not, I walked straight over to that ATM and single handedly, single fingeredly, brought the entire bank to screeching halt. I had applied for loan, invested in rice futures, bought some credit default swaps and requested in $20,000 (dollars not yen), all without having even entered my pin yet. The lights in the bank dimmed, the staff was rioting, and the Japanese yen fell by a few points and sunk deeper into its global depression. In the end, I got my 20,000 yen I needed for the next two weeks, but it was a struggle. All because of the complex, yet extremely convenient (should you need it) atm.

Another system this brings to mind is the insanely complex system of train tickets. There are so many options, taking into consideration if you want a seat, if you want to stand, if you have luggage, if you have nothing, if you have children, a pet, or both, if you want to ride inside the train, or if you want to ride outside the train….I could go on. Finding your station and destination is not difficult using the massive maps that occupy the walls of the station. Often times they have English also. The problem arrives when you have to buy the ticket, from (surprise!) a machine that looks exactly like an atm. Usually these machines will even have an English feature, but as to what any of the English means…good luck. Do you want the super express, the super express limited, the express limited, the limited express, the express, or the ultra super express limited ticket? How something can be super and express, but still be limited is beyond me. Do you want a reserved or non reserved ticket? All of these options reflect in the price accordingly, so, if you know what you want or need, you can possibly save some money. I know I want to ride the train, and I know I want a seat, so usually I end up buying the most expensive ticket I can find. Often times a find myself on some strange car like the women’s only car that is serving pink champagne and has beds and allows dogs up to 300 pounds. Or I tighten my belt and buy the cheapest ticket which is on the smoking car with no seats and no air conditioning. For a 20 minute ride it makes no difference to me, for a 4 hour journey it makes a huge difference.

Occasionally, a convenience will come along that transcends the language barrier. Something that is so beautifully designed, it speaks to all, illiterate foreigners, and illiterate Japanese alike. I am talking about the convenience store, or in Japanese borrowing the “con-bini”. Every street has a conbini, and inside each conbini, you know exactly what you will find. Regardless of the name or brand, the products are virtually the same. The most popular in my town are, of course, the ubiquitous 7-Eleven, sunKus (circle K’s bastard child), family mart, and a few others.

They are not hard to find. Regardless of what time of day, there are no less than 1000 fluorescent lights on at all times, even in the middle of the day these things outshine the sun. They attract the needy like flies to sugar water. In many ways, these stores are a mirror image of their American brothers. You can get food, beverages, household items, cosmetics and magazines. But, comparing the two is like comparing the buffet at the Bellagio and the buffet at Golden Corral.

Still skeptical? I will explain: all convenience stores have food right? A typical meal from the American will be a hotdog, a bag of chips, a fountain drink and a donut. Not a bad meal, and, not to say I haven’t this on many a road trip. At the conbini you can get a fresh ham sandwich with the crust cut off, a nigiri ball of rice stuffed with sushi and coated with sesame seeds, a carton of pure grapefruit juice and a donut, of course. The difference is quality. The sandwiches are excellent, some have turkey, ham, curry, bbq chicken, egg salad, and other filings that I cannot describe. All with the crust cut off. Not that I like that sort of thing, it just shows the above and beyond attitude of the conbini. The nigiri sushi is amazing, no less that 25 varieties of rice balls, packed with fish or veggies or shrimp or eel. Usually for less the 150 yen. These are my go to item. We haven’t even touched the bento aisle yet. Boxes and boxes of fresh lunch meals, packages with care, usually including rice, meat and veggies, which you can eat cold or hot. All fresh, all seasonally accurate. I have never tasted a bento I didn’t like. I could go for hours about the food.

As far as drinks, the conbini has done away the “fountain” machine and instead amassed a variety of beverages that is astounding. I didn’t even know there were so many edible/potable liquids on this planet. Not only do they have juice, soda, tea, coffee, booze, energy drinks and other elixirs, but each type will come in no less than 4 sizes. One thing that still amazes me about Japan is the popularity of canned, cold coffee. It is sacrilegious, in my opinion. Not to mention, there are least 40 different varieties of this canned coffee, and they all taste EXACTLY the same. Sugary milk with a touch of coffee flavor and some type of concentrated caffeine. A typical conbini will have an entire floor to ceiling reach in refrigerator devoted to canned coffee. They also have cold, canned, English tea with milk, which is being English, quite delightful. Sugary milk with a touch of Ceylon is exactly what I expect from English tea.

The other type of drinkable liquid which we all know and love is alcohol. These stores cater to all drinkers. There are 5 oz cans of asahi and there are 33.8 oz cans. There are cans with sake and grapefruit juice. There are elixirs that I would never put near my face no matter how drunk I needed to be. There are juice boxes with pure sake. (I would love to see juice boxes with firewater in America, there would be public outrage. Liquor in a juice box! But, think of the children!). There are bottles of 20 year old scotch, jack daniels, champagne and Beefeater gin. There are gallon “milk” cartons filled with sake. A bum’s delight. All with out any type of security measures. In America, I could see a group of high school kids running in and stealing enough liquor to be drunk for a year. What you cannot buy is a 12 pack, or a 24 pack of anything. That is distinctly un-conbini in nature. The conbini caters only to the single serving.

The “single serving” is the essence of the conbini. You could stock you entire bathroom with tiny toiletries. You could eat three square meals a day, make three trips, and never spend more that 5 minutes in the conbini total. Think walk-in vending machine. Depending on your mission in life, the conbini could outfit you with whatever you need. Need a porno, a pack of cigarettes, a juice box of fire water and a box cutter? You got it. Need a razor, a box of hair dye, a package of fire crackers and a Red Bull? No problem. How about a canned coffee, a calling card, dog food, and access to a copy machine? Done.

There are even some 7 eleven’s with have taken on the prestigious name: “7&i Holdings”. These particular locations offer all the services of a major bank, a FedEx/Kinko’s, a bookie’s, and a fortune teller. You can invest in stock at a convenience store. I kid you not. Not to mention a juice box of sake and sandwich. It’s a beautiful thing I tell you.

The Japanese love convenience and I think the conbini is a manifestation of this in all sense of the word. Once inside, the choices are indeed complex and endless, but regardless of language, race or religion you will walk out a happy camper. You could go camping with supplies from a conbini come to think of it….

To be fair, I must now list the things that I miss about the American convenience store. Number one, far and away, is nachos and the glorious nacho cheese fountain and all you can stack jalapeños. I miss hot coffee from a real coffee machine. I miss being able to buy 5-10 people beer with only one item on my receipt. I miss grape Gatorade and 16 ounce Red Bull. I miss the sweaty hotdogs rolling peacefully back and forth. I miss ranch flavored sun flower seeds. I miss scratcher lotto tickets….oh how I miss the joy of scratchers…..

PS: to all my loyal fans (all 3 of you) please click on my ads so that I can afford to buy a new camera! As you can see, my pictures are sometimes quite bad. My camera is not adjusting to the humidity. If it cannot take a sharp picture in the football-stadium-esque lights of the conbini, it is time to retire her. Thank you for you support and patronage!!! Next week is o-bon vacation so I will have loads more stories for you coming soon. Peace!

Shinobu-san

Yesterday, my friend Cecilia came to visit me in Fukushima. Cecilia, my friend from Italy I ran into by chance in Harajuku, came from Tokyo on a weekend vacation to escape the busy streets and smog of Shibuya. A little rest and relaxation in Fukushima was just the ticket. We both wanted to get some fresh air and see something beautiful; a mountain climb was perfect to escape the endless vortex that is shopping in Japan. When she arrived, I asked “what do you want to do?” She shrugged, then thought and exclaimed “no shopping!” I couldn’t agree more.

We decided to climb Shinobu-san, the big mountain (read: hill) behind my house. (In Japanese, mountains are called –san. It basically means Mr. Shinobu. Very cute.) He looked quite peaceful sitting there covered in a layer of green fuzz, perfectly inviting. I only knew two things about this mountain: there are many ways to the top, and it houses the largest straw sandal in all of Japan. Wow! I couldn’t wait to see this massive shoe. Maybe it would actually fit my foot as oppose to every sandal and shoe I’ve seen in stores so far. I would have to steal it, wait for them to build a new one and then climb Mr. Shinobu again to have a pair. That was okay with me.

We started our climb the most natural way possible. We faced the mountain and began to walk. I had no idea where a trail was. We passed my favorite restaurant, CoCoichi on the way toward base camp and I made a promise that I would treat myself to a big plate of spicy curry if I made it to the top. We saw a little service road that branch off from the tunnel that runs under the mountain and began to walk up.

As if on cue, the clouds parted, the sun shone brighter than ever and the temperature and humidity increased by about 10 degrees. I was sweating, but not too bad. We were on a road and the breeze would occasionally cool my drenched shirt. We zigged and zagged up the switchback and came to a place where the road split 3 ways. We chose one and headed off. No luck, we came to an electrical box for a phone pole. We turned back, route 2, here we come. It looked promising but, eventually we came to a house with a locked gate. We turned back, this time route 3.

We came over a little bluff and lo and behold, a massive 4 story building about an eighth of a mile long, about 20 stairs leading down to a soccer field and an immaculate Olympic size swimming pool. The pool looked incredibly inviting. I wanted to jump in right there, but I stayed strong. The strange thing, though, was no matter how clean and inviting the pool looked, the building was a ghost town. We walked all around it, front to back and found nothing, no one. By the looks of the place, I guessed it as a school. There was one car parked out front, a nice Subaru, but it was covered in dust. My Apache tracking skills told me that the car hadn’t been used for quite some time. We were alone. The pool looked more tempting…but just as I was about to jump in, we found a tree covered trail up the mountain.

Up we went. When I say up, I mean like hands on the ground in front of you. This was steep. The trail was miniscule, and the ground squishy with thousands of years of dead leaves that never decay totally. Once we were deep in the forest, I became acutely aware of how impossible it would be to try to trek through without a trail. If we lost the trail, we would knee deep in moss, leaves, decaying tree matter and all sorts of spiders and bugs. The forest was anything but quiet. All around us, bugs and cicadas sounded off, strange sounding birds called and the trees rustled in the wind. I was sure I was going to see a monkey or a puma, or both. This was the closest I have ever come to being in a rainforest.

With that being said, I could not imagine walking through this pass in anything but board shorts. To imagine someone walking this path with a kimono and sandals on, or any type of traditional Japanese clothing was tear inducing. The heat was unbearable. Under the trees, the air was about 15 degrees hotter than the air out on the road. There was no breeze; the air was thick and hazy. I could feel the atmosphere as I walked through it. I was dying. The air was suffocating me, and all the while I was climbing up and up, slipping occasionally.

Every 2 minutes, we would come to a fork in the path. Me and Cecilia would look at each other, shrug and point to the one that looked like it headed more to the top. At first, I tried to make a mental image of the surrounding area as we turned and turned, but after about the 10^th or 11^th fork, I decided it a waste of time.

One of the most annoying things was all the spider webs. Every 10 feet I would walk through a spider web, usually about at face level. Cecilia learned quickly to let me lead and clear a spider free path, but she faced the wrath of mosquitoes that didn’t threaten me. I have a natural mosquito repellent: copious amounts of body hair act as mosquito barbed wire.

Up and up we climbed. I’ve never been more sweaty. I had sweat dripping off my chin, dripping of my elbows, dripping off my knees into my shoes. It was crazy. We finally came to a more level part of the trail; we caught our breath and continued on. We came to a sharp turn in the path and around the corner, waiting for us, was a parking lot and set of bathrooms. There were a few people that looked at us, very surprised, like we had just appeared out of the trees. I guess we had. I took a bath in the restroom sink and made sure to splash cool water over my entire body. The water from the tap was perfect, cold and delicious. I drank about a gallon, and soaked my hair. We reconvened the hiking party outside the bathroom and headed out on the next portion of the trail, this time a marked path. The climb was much the same as before, except instead of walking on tree matter, we had terra firma beneath our feet. The path was much wider. We had found our way.

Although the path had improved, the heat and grade of the trail was as bad as ever. I noticed the vegetation was changing, more conifer trees and evergreens. Something told me we were almost there. I started to notice more signs of people using the area, the occasional small shrine or statue, a candle, trash. We came to a big clearing with a map on a post. The map showed the lookout point about 80 meters ahead. We set off.

After about a minute, we came to the clearing, there was a little place to sit and enjoy the view also. It was incredible. Almost a 360 view of all of Fukushima, the river, the train lines and the surrounding mountains. The air was hazy and thick, the mountains all around the city seem to rise and fall into the haze endlessly.

After we had taken in the view and recuperated, we headed back down to the parking lot. We looked at each other, and with out saying anything, unanimously decided to take the road back down. Although the road was paved, the downhill really killed my calves. My legs began to shake and wobble. I started to hear someone playing the saxophone off in the distance. I listened for a while, then asked Cecilia if she heard the same sound. Yes, she said. I wasn’t crazy or dehydrated, there was someone playing sax nearby. We followed our ears and soon came to a picnic area with a guy rocking out on the saxophone. The sound reverberated off the trees and amplified as it bounced around through the trunks. It sounded beautiful, and I hate the saxophone. We listened for a while and then walked on. The man finally noticed us and looked up startled. I gave a short round of applause and he blushed. We continued down the mountain.

We came to a graveyard. We were on a road above a steep downhill that was entirely covered in grave shrines. Of course, we left the road and headed down the decrepit old stone staircase. The graveyard was peaceful and sunny. It was absolutely silent too. I took a lot of pictures, but felt kind of bad. I think they were just shrines, and not actually graves. Most of the dead are cremated in Japan. The family will then buy a small plot of land for the family and they will come pay the respects with flowers and incense, and other offerings. A lot of the graves had beer mugs. Some were covered in leaves and weeds dusty with neglect. Others were immaculately groomed. It was very interesting to see the variations. I was startled by a black cat laying in an alley, watching us. Black cat in a graveyard….it was time to leave.

We finally made it off the mountain, with a serious sense of accomplishment. We had battled our way up to the top of Mr. Shinobu. Through the forest, through the elements, to the summit and back down through the graveyard. We had met him and made friends. I was entitled, rightfully to my steamy hot plate of CoCoichi curry and, I decided, a much deserved beer. There was just one thing we missed…the giant straw sandal! Where was it? I figured, if it was that big, I would’ve came across it. Well, as I always say when I miss something, it just gives me an excuse to return soon.

Akira and Sendai

I was standing out at my usual wifi hotspot, at about 11:30 on Tuesday night, soaking wet, in a suit, avoiding the glances of passersby. I just wanted to check my email and head home. Suddenly, this guy says “hey!” I look up and reply with a friendly hello.

The man is dressed in the usual white button down shirt and black apron of a waiter. I ask him what he is doing.

“I’m just out walking around” he replies, “There is nobody eating in restaurants tonight, its too hot and rainy”.

I agree.

“Your new in town, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m the new guy around here” I reply.

He laughs at this statement, and we get to chatting about Fukushima, his hometown.

“I’m Uri” I say

“I’m Akira, it’s an easy name to remember for foreigners” he says.

“Nice to meet you Akira Kurasawa” I reply

He laughs and explains away all relations to the famous movie director.

We talk about the usual questions that I think every Japanese person asks every foreigner. Why did you come to Japan? What is the most surprising thing you seen since you’ve been here? How on earth did you end up in Fukushima? I’ve been asked these questions so many times, I have almost scripted answers. His English is surprisingly excellent. We run through the routine. I reply with my usual questionnaire. What is the best thing to do in Fukushima? What is you favorite restaurant? Where can I get a bike?

My bicycle questions usually is answered with an ‘I don’t know’ and a shrug of sorts. Akira thinks for a moment and his eyes light up.

“I know of a huge bike shop, they have everything!” he says.

My first lead. “Where is it?” I pry.

“Well it’s pretty far from here”

“How far?”

“Thirty minutes by car” he says.

Shot down…I debate riding my mama chari bike this far, it doesn’t strike me as enjoyable.

“But, I could drive you” he adds.

I look up, maybe like a kid on Christmas, and thank him profusely.

“I will pay you for gas and buy you some lunch, thank you!” I say.

We make a plan to meet on Sunday in front of the train station.

At this point my pragmatist side starts to kick in. We have been talking for quite a while. “Um, Akira, isn’t your boss going to be mad that you have been out walking around for nearly an hour?”

“Good point” he says, “I will see you Sunday.” After exchanging emails and phone numbers, we shake hands, bow, and part ways.

I am very excited, but at the same time my pragmatist side is still working hard. Why does this guy want to help me out? Is he going to mug me? Is he going to drive me to his dungeon and cut me up to pieces? I figure I will never have any friends with that approach and decide that I must meet him and find out.

Sunday arrives, sunny and hot, and I ride to the station. I hope in his little four wheel drive Mitsubishi, and we’re off. We get to chatting and make the journey to this bike shop. I thank him at least 300 times along the way (which was way too far to ride, by the way).

When we arrive, I am slightly let down by the fleet of mama chari bikes they have out front. Once we get inside though my spirits are rejuvenated. They have all sorts of bikes, road bikes, mountain bikes, kid’s bikes, used and new. The place doesn’t have air conditioning though, so it’s about 115 degrees inside the tent like structure. I start to notice that all the bikes a very small. Akira starts to chat up the shopkeeper, and he points at me. The owner looks me up and down and starts to chuckle.

“He wants to know how tall you are” Akira says.

“Six fee two inches” I exclaim. They look at me like I’m speaking Hebrew. I whip out my IPod for the conversion program.

“187 centimeters” I say.

Akira translates and the shopkeeper laughs.

Must be the heat getting to me. I should know better than to use my native sense of measurement. The shopkeeper pulls out a catalog, and I think to myself that I will be leaving empty handed today. My dreams of having a beautiful old steel road bike, the kind Japan was famous for in the 70’s and 80’s, the kind they have up on the walls in the shop collecting dust, the kind I could ride 50 miles from Fukushima on, my dreams crumble.

Shopkeeper looks at the catalog, punches some numbers into a calculator and shows me the result. 78,900 yen. That is over $800. Seriously? Did this guy think I would give me that much money based on a picture in a catalog? I can’t buy a bike without riding it. Sorry, I shake my head. He shrugs his shoulders. I point at the vintage 3Rensho hanging up on the wall and grunt. I know for sure I could get over $1500 for it on eBay. He stares at me coldly and shakes his head. A regular Mexican standoff. The heat is starting to make me crazy and I head for the door, slightly crushed.

Its okay, I tell myself. No money out of my pocket. Me and Akira go get a sandwich. I buy, and thank him for his efforts. He tries to think of another bike shop we can go to.

“Don’t stress about” I tell him. “Let’s head back to Fukushima, and we can catch a movie or something, get out of the heat”.

He looks up at me, “want to go to Sendai?”

I’m dumbfounded; the pragmatist is already hard at work. “What about gas and the time and…” all these concerns come tumbling out of my mouth.

“Don’t worry about it” he says. I continue to gloat and moan thinking that I am inconveniencing him.

He interrupts me “why do you go to work everyday?” he asks.

“Uh…” I have no idea what to say “to make money?”

“What is the point of living if you work all the time and never spend any of that money?” He says. “Why do work if we don’t occasionally enjoy?”

Again, I’m dumbfounded to respond. “Let’s go” I finally say.

We hop in the car, drive to the gas station, fuel up, get some water and head out.

“How long is the drive?” I question once we are on the road.

“About an hour” he says, “but time flies when you have good music”. As he says this, he reaches behind his seat and pulls out a shoe box of cd’s.

“Pick one” he says.

I look through the selection….they are all Michael Jackson. At least 20 cd’s. One Craig David album. This guy is clearly obsessed. I begin to imagine the dungeon and being cut up to little pieces again. I push the thoughts from my mind, pop in ‘Thriller’ and sit back and relax.

Akira explains to me that after MJ’s death he began to listen to his music and has since become a regular super-fan. He says these are only the cd’s he travels with, he’s got more at home, and countless DVD’s. After about 40 seconds I find myself singing along and we are making good time.

We get to the toll box right before Sendai. 1800 yen. $20 to drive on this stretch of road. Wow.

We pull into Sendai and immediately get stuck in traffic. After about 20 minutes we find some insanely cheap pay parking spot, lock the car, and head out on foot.

“I had a girlfriend that lived here for a year, so I used to come visit a lot” Akira explains. “I went to university here for a year too, so I know all the good spots”. We walk toward the main station.

Sendai is a major city, 3-4 million people, beautiful tree lined sidewalks and talk sky scrapers. I notice lots of young people, a nice change from the retirement home feel of Fukushima. There is an awesome jazz band playing near the station and we stop to take in the sounds for a while, basking in the sun. I look out over the raised shopping area above the busy street below. City of the future I think to myself. I’m starting to notice there is one way to describe most big Japanese cities: Endless shopping.

We walk around, check out shoe stores, watch boutiques, a pet shop, art and architecture firms, the Apple store. A noisy parade approaches us. It’s a bunch of people in a traditional summer outfit, which looks like a gi, with no pants and cotton shoes. It actually strikes me as perfect. I would love to not have pants on right now I think to myself. They are chanting and rhythmically carrying this big box type thing. It looks like a moving shrine. There a little girls doing some kind of dance with these multicolored fans, all the while singing the most high pitched insanely loud song I’ve ever heard. Like a millions tiny violins, with drums and the chanting from the pant-less box carriers. It is a feast for the ears and eyes. A regular Japanese marching band.

“Are they religious?” I ask Akira.

He laughs “No, they’re just having a good time. Japan isn’t a religious place”.

I think about that for a while.

As the sun starts to set, we walk by a noisy restaurant with a line.

“That’s the best, most famous gyoza in Japan” Akira says nonchalantly.

“I have to try it, gyoza are my favorite” I exclaim. We wait in line, finally make it inside, and sit down at the bar. The kitchen is open for us to view and the guy hand making the gyoza is right in front of me. He is about 300 lbs, and he is sweating like crazy. His little paper hat is soaked through. His neck is wretched downward to ensure his gyoza come out perfect. Every time he moves to get more filing for the dumplings, sweat comes flying off in beads and lands everywhere. I notice the rest of the cooks have the same situation going on. Lots of sweat flying all over all the food. That is there secret I think to myself, trying not to judge. They are the best gyoza in Japan because they are made with sumo sweat.

Our plate arrives, Akira shows me how to concoct a nice spicy and sour sauce for them and we dig in. Best gyoza I’ve ever had. By far.

We head back to Akira’s car and I see a bike locked to pole. It is perfect. Single speed, tall frame, bright colors. I point at it and groan audibly. I had such an awesome day I forgot what the purpose of the initial excursion was. I no longer care. Somewhere in Japan, there is a bike waiting for me to find it. Until then all I need to remember that little bit of Japanese philosophy I was treated to earlier that day.

“What is the point of working your whole life if you don’t spend a little money here and there? Why, then are we living?”

I’ll find my bike, until then, don’t worry and enjoy the ride. Thanks Akira.

My Mama-Chari

When I was taken to my apartment, I was told there would be a bicycle waiting for me. Needless to say, I was delighted. I was also told that it needed some work. No problem, I thought, when it comes to bikes, I’ve seen it all. I guess I forgot that I was in Japan…

I was shown the bicycle parking area at the bottom of the apartment complex. It was more like a pile of bicycle shaped garbage, next to 4 or 5 bikes that people actually used. Mine, of course, was not one of the 4-5. I thanked them gratefully and went back up to my apartment.

After 2-3 days of walking to work and getting rained on (in a suit, I might add) every single night, I thought it might be a good idea to get working on the bike pile. I woke up early one day and went downstairs to untangle the mess. The first thing I noticed was that all the bikes were locked…great, I thought, they were nice enough to give me a locked bike without a key. Locking a bike is a much different affair in Japan, as compared to the States. In America, when I locked my bike, I had at least a u-lock to secure the back wheel and the frame to a solid implement, and a cable to secure the front wheel. In Japan, you can simply attach a mechanism to the frame that interferes with the wheel turning. You don’t even have to lock it to a pole. Honestly, you could probably put a twig in the wheel, or turn the bike upside down, or put some trash on it, and it will not get stolen. Finding a suitable pole would be nearly impossible as well. There are millions of bikes sitting around everywhere, if someone were to steal a bike, the chances alone that it would be YOUR bike are slim.

So, how did I find my bike? When I moved into my apartment, there was some type of metal device hanging on the door with a battered keychain attached to it. I didn’t know what it was, but made a mental note that it was important, and that I would need it in the future. I decided it was worth a shot and took it down stairs. Like a good male, I went around trying to jam this key of sorts into every key hole I could find. Finally, it went into a slot and clicked. The lock retracted with a rusty hesitation only years of rain and neglect could provide. Eureka! I had my bike. It even had one tire with air in it! The rear tire needed air, but I was all over it. I brought my awesome and portable bike pump from home…that’s right, I packed a bike pump in my checked luggage. I was prepared for this situation, or so I thought. One look at the valve on the tube and my pump was reduced to baton with a hose. It was some crazy fitting I had never seen before (this happens a lot in this country: something so familiar yet insanely foreign at the same time). Luckily, there was a pump in the pile too. But of course, it didn’t work. I dragged the bike to a suitable area and inspected it. It seemed sound. The brakes worked, it had a generator light, fenders, a basket and all the other requirements to deem it a mama-chari.

Japanese lesson for the day: a mama-chari is a bike designed for a house wife to use. It usually has all the aforementioned components, and sometimes a child seat or two. Yes, I have seen bikes with 2 child seats on them here. A mama-chari also must weigh at least 50 pounds, have a low top tube to accommodate a dress, and a massive, yet still uncomfortable seat. It’s a bike designed to take the kids to school, get some groceries and stay somewhat dry on, all while only going about 10 miles per hour. Perfect for a mama.

I decided that I need some help. I took my mama-chari to the local dealership, pointed at the flat tire and grunted. The man working there was about 130 years old, and asked me about 500 questions, all of which I answered with a resounding “hai” or yes. He eventually started to work on the bike. He removed the tire and inspected the tube. It had already been patched about 15 times, no surprise there. He found the whole, which was on a patch, and placed another patch over it. I asked him his name. He looked surprised and said “Hori”. I thanked with a very low bow, and 1000 yen. $10 to patch a bike tube, highway robbery. I would’ve given him 2000 yen, because after that, I hopped on the seat and rode off into the sunrise with the biggest smile I have had so far on this trip. If you are reading this, Hori-san, thank you very much. My bike is a “Best Cycle Freak fashion cycle”. At least that is what the top tube stickers reads. I don’t think I could’ve named it better myself.

shinjuku harajuku shibuya ginza roppongi

Brian and I set off for the train station at about 11:30 one Saturday morning. We were going to be ultra tourists: see all the sights, smell the smells, take all the pictures, get lost, eat out, buy a souvenir, and hopefully make it back for the midnight train. It took us about 30 minutes in the Omiya station to figure out how to get to Tokyo proper, and which ticket to buy, and which side of the platform to stand on (we couldn’t remember if the trains drove on the left too…they do). We decided to head to Shinjuku, it was an easy transfer, which we found out later was unnecessary, and it was the cheapest ticket. We waited in the heat, climbed aboard and were whisked away.

My first “really packed train” experience; it was not to be the first of the day either. The nice thing about the train being so full is that you do not have to hold on to the little handles, you just lean on the person next to you, and they, through many others, lean on the wall. Nobody falls over, its impossible. The not so nice thing is the smell, and the claustrophobia, and the panic attack, and the person next to you sneezing, and the old lady ramming her massive purse into your genitals, and the little kid staring at you the entire way…actually the kids are unbearably cute. The smell was by far the worst thing. Not because it smells like human, but because they pump in some type of cleaning agent that makes the train smell like a bucket of frogs ready for dissection.

I never thought the air of a city of 28 million would smell so good, but after the train, the smog and humidy of Tokyo smelled like 28 million roses. And it was hot. About 85 degrees and 40 percent humidity. Me and Brian set off to see what Shinjuku had to offer. We followed a sign that said “skyscraper district”. It was quite boring. We walked through a few alleys, found a map and headed for a Buddhist shrine.

The entrance to the shrine was bordered by a massive Tori, and even bigger trees. The Tori is the gateway looking thing that all shrines have at the entrance. Very beautiful, very humbling. We walked down a long, wide path and enjoyed the peace and quiet. It is very easy to forget you are in the biggest city in the world. The humidity was about twice as high as outside the shrine, but the temperature dropped by about 10 degrees.

We toured the actual temple, tried out the hand washing ceremony and left. The exit to the shrine dropped us right on the border of Harajuku. We stocked up on water and headed back into the noise. Harajuku was fun for about 5 minutes. Between getting hastled by street vendors, yelled at through megaphones, gangs of girls with pink and blue hair, other tourists and usual stink that accompanies touristy places(aka urine), we decide to walk straight through and not look back. We took our first right and headed toward Shibuya.

On the way I ran into my friend Cecile, some of you might remember her as the Italian exchange student. Yes, that’s right, I bumped into a friend (that I haven’t seen in years), in the middle of Tokyo…I walked around the rest of the day trying to wake up from some type of zany dream. After some quick catching up and story trading, she joined our hike and we were off through Shibuya. Shibuya is trendy, pricey and pretty. Not much else to it other than a few interesting buildings. Very European. Off to Roppongi.

Roppongi was very similar, a little more dirty, a little less pricey but not much to do. It was only about 4pm so there was not much going on. We walked around an observatory and a manmade garden that looked like a mini golf course compared to the shrine. We left.

Ginza was the next stop. Let me just say that Ginza makes 5^th ave NYC look like downtown Tucson AZ. Over the top lavishness, Ferraris, jewelry stores, clothing stores, old guys with 20 year old girlfriends and big cigars, not a single piece of trash on the floor, manicured gardens line the sidewalk, and expensive restaurants. Very beautiful, but very inaccessible. We went to the Apple store and chatted with some English speaking employees and the manager, they were very nice and helpful. We left and found the nearest train station.

It was about 9pm and the people were starting to come out. We were on a packed train heading back to Shibuya to get some dinner and see Cecile back home. And more people were coming out…eventually it dawned on me that it was Saturday night and everyone in Tokyo was heading out for the evening. Instantly, it was incredibly crowded, every street crossing was at maximum capacity, every train packed, every station, every line full.

I almost had a panic attack.

So we went to Denny’s. As I soon found out, Denny’s in Japan is like some kind of exclusive fancy restaurant. I was shocked, Brian assured me that it would be good, and it was. There were nicely dressed people, café style seating, and black gold aka American drip coffee. Totally different from Denny’s at home. I had South African style curry dish, I kid you not, at Denny’s. It was good, not spectacular though.

We said goodbye to Cecile, got on the most packed train of the day and stood very still all the way back to Omiya. We both felt like we walked about 15 miles we went got back home. Enough big city for me for a loooong time. I can’t wait to get to up to Fukushima and see some trees and mountains, breathe some clean air. 16 hours left here.

Clover Bar

Me and Brian went out to meet up with a lady he was interested in. She said she worked at a bar called Clover, near the next train stop in Omiya. We looked at the map, realized it was actually quite close to our house, and hoofed it.
The walk was nice, we got lost for a bit, found our way and eventually stumbled upon the train station. The bar was tucked right around the corner; a big red hand painted sign in English read CLOVER. The door was ornate with stained glass, the door jam was covered in all kinds of beads and bits of indescribable colored stuff. Me and Brian looked at each other with the “I’m about to pull the door open on something, in a foreign country, and I will be surprised, but the people inside will undoubtedly be more surprised” type of face. I love when I have to make that face…something good is about to happen.
Peering inside we were of course greeted with the instant “irasshaimase!!” followed by the mumbling of conversation which I usually translate in my head as “how the hell did these white boys end up here?” This is Japan though, so of course that banter is much more polite. We saw smiles, so we entered.
The air was thick with incense and the sound of The Beatles, we were in 1968. The walls were covered with 60’s memorabilia, bits of shiny plastic and rhinestones and gems. It was like a distilled Hippy Gypsy store, plus Japan, of course (a common trend here believe it or not!!). The whole bar was a about 10 feet by 20 feet.
Brian mumbled some Japanese, I stood and smiled. We were given stools, more stares and things started to come together. I blathered my best “birru onegaishimas kudasai” (translation: beer please!) and we were in business, kind of. We found out that Brian’s friend had quit 10 minutes before we got there.
We were the only people there, except for a very nice bar maid type lady and her hippie styled coworker, which I will describe shortly. They were genuinely concerned for us, I think they thought we were lost and just trying to play off the fact that we landed in their strange bar in the armpit of Saitama, Tokyo some rainy summer night.
Me and Brian sat and chatted, and enjoyed The Beatles….it was nice to here some English. We were just starting to get bored when in walks a young guy with an oversized, funny looking suit case. He sets it on top of the only other table in the bar, pops it open, and eyeballs me and Brian. After rummaging around for a while, he pulls out a wad of rubber bands. At this point he starts grinning and chatting up me, Brian and the coworker who is dressed like a hippie comes out and sits across from the man with the suitcase. She points and says “ma-gi-cu” and starts laughing and clapping.


He is a magician. He amazed us for a quite a while, the whole time the hippie girl clapping and cheering, other patrons came, some stayed, some left and fun was had by all. Card tricks, magic rings, bending spoons, making things disappear, the standard fare. By this time I was starting to realize what the hippie girl was there for. As soon as the bar became quiet, or people weren’t laughing, she would run around and get everyone riled up. She was a hostess. It was very interesting, a first for me, and it worked. Me and Brian spent much longer in there than we originally thought we would, we were constantly occupied.
I had a stack of Tucson themed postcards in my pocket, so I pulled them out and gave them to the bar. I’m sure they will end up on the walls covered in dust for some other American to see and wonder over. Me and Brian stumbled home.
Thank you Clover Bar!