My brain is full. As far as 12-hour flights go, the one that takes you from Chicago, over Syberia, and into Tokyo ain’t half bad. Sure, I slept a whole lot, but it still takes a toll on you. My traveling companion, a nice Japanese man whose name I never learned, contented himself by watching Bedtime Stories. Twice. I read a bit and mostly stared at the insides of my eyes. I even slept through one of our 2.5 meals, which was too bad, since my first one inexplicably included a shrimp and vegetable sashimi. Kinda wonder what I missed after that. Maybe I’ll figure it out on the way out.
From the airport, it was a beeline to change $ into ¥ and then get my train ticket back to the hotel. Say what you will about mass transit in the states, but Japan certainly seems to have its shit together. It’s quiet, comfortable, and, hell, there are even snack trays making the rounds from car to car. None of it looked enticing, but, still, it’s available, isn’t it? Better than the stray oranges or bananas I remember being peddled in New York City early on the way to work. In Chicago, you’re lucky if you get a car that isn’t saturated with pee-pee smell.
Though there might be love hotels and other sleaziness near my hotel, it still seems classy all the way. Hell, they even have drying stations for your umbrellas before entering the building—dry it off and then insert them into a contraption to have your umbrella wrapped in plastic. Handy!
I’m writing this entry in my hotel-provided pajamas and slippers, thoughtfully provided on and next to my bed respectively. It might not be an enormous room, but it’s still all about the creature comforts.
Why else would the toilets have both a “shower” and “bidet” settings? Well, I’ll tell you why: Because it feels fantastic and soothing. Stop being such a prude—you know your American ass deserves a shower. Before slumping out in a zombie-like state to find dinner with my co-worker Kyle (who hipped me to his deal on plane tickets and also couldn’t resist their allure) and his wife Sally, I flipped around a bit on the TV to see if it was half as insane as I’d expect it to be. There was a show about a family just sitting around and eating dinner. It seemed weird, but not bizarre.
Anyway, it was up the street in the rain, past the Ooze Charm Café (emblazoned by a red pig, naturally) to a restaurant whose name I can’t tell you. But its chef greeted my camera with a peace sign and a big smile, shown above.
We quickly wracked up $54 on a meal consisting of beer, edamame, dumplings, and some sort of calzone-looking thing. It was filled with rice and eggs. I think. Loads of American radio hits from decades played in the background, which only distracted my weary brain more.
Then after a stop at the karaoke bar-adjadcent convenience store across the street (which has tea-flavored Kit Kats), it was back to the hotel room, where more bizarre images taunted me and my pajamas. A cartoon handgun in someone’s shoulder shooting explosions? The gun turns into a piece of steak, and a demon emerges from the meat to throw sparks at the brain, which turn into question marks? Yup, I’m in Japan.
