Since spring arrived my life in Japan has felt pretty amazing. It has helped reset my spirit, cracking open the clouds and bringing sunshine and warmth to my soul, along with many new friends and adventures. Since April I’ve felt liberated. Yet already the season has ended and summer is here. But I am still enjoying each day, with the caveat that sweating through my shirt is a part of the deal. Here’s a random list of things the past few months have shown me.
 
Safety first.
Highway tunnels in Japan can be really long, have an emergency lane and escape routes clearly marked and illuminated. I don’t know where they lead, but they appear to go deep into the mountain, maybe to an underground city full of ramen houses and maid cafes.
 
Bow before entering.
The Shinkansen is pretty awesome and operates with accuracy that’d intimidate a Swiss clock. But it’s really freakin’ expensive. A trip from Tokyo to Osaka, for example, is twice as much as the same flight on ANA. The service, as is standard in Japan, is top notch as well. White-gloved attendants bow as they enter and exit each car. Also, the highway bus service is almost just as accurate, arriving at rest stops and destinations at precisely the specified times. On the other hand, in Pennsylvania I’ve witnessed an Amtrak employee yelling at and threatening a passenger over a seat. Let’s not mention its recent safety record or inability to depart or arrive on time.
 
Please read the etiquette manual located in the seatback.
Train tracks in Japan, unlike in Philadelphia or countless other shitholes, are not littered with trash and in fact appear so immaculate and perfect it’s like you’re in a model railroad or diorama. Except for having to navigate the occasional vomit as you’re boarding the metro late at night. Which happened to me twice.

No credit card required.
Love hotels can be really posh and fancy or really shady. They’ve got TVs in the shower room and everything from lotions to hair straighteners to select shampoos can be rented or borrowed. And they have really big televisions. In others, so I’ve been told, you can pull your car into a space, a garage door closes, and the door to your room is right there. The door will open again after you’ve paid. Cleaning staff are also not supposed to look directly at you, and some counters have a window to pay but the staff will never see your face. Now don't you jump to conclusions.
 
One, two, three, four.
There’s a punk scene in Japan. I recently discovered this as I auditioned for a band (I got the gig) in Tokyo that was looking to replace its drummer who moved home to Ireland. The people look the part, although they are infrequently rowdy or obnoxious. Promoters and booking agents are similar to the ones back home. They expect the bands to do the promoting, paying, and playing while they sit back to collect money and not pay out at the end of the night.
 
It doesn’t look so big from here.
I booked a hike of Mt. Fuji, which I haven’t done yet. The other week on my way to Nagoya our bus passed by it. My depth perception must be wildly inaccurate or the size of Fujisan just throws everything out of whack. As the highway circled around this iconic formation, I couldn’t help but think I was looking at a cardboard cutout. The sky, the mountain, the land around it all seemed surreal and flat, as if the image had been painted instead of really existing. It seemed both enormous and conquerable at the same time. I felt as though, had the bus pulled over for a photo op, I could have jogged up to it for a quick selfie. In reality it’s pretty big, and its nearly perfectly symmetrical arch isn’t for high heels and pretty boys. And I don’t often take selfies.
 
Just sing, sing a song.
Forget baseball. Karaoke feels like Japan’s national pastime. There are probably more karaoke bars in Japan than there are churches in the bible belt of the US of "my god is smarter than your god" A. I have myself gone to karaoke half a dozen times or more, mostly with friends but also on two separate dates. Most recently I was in Nagoya and, having lost at darts to a cheerful and unassuming 34-year-old, I apparently wanted to prolong the beating and opted for karaoke from our list of possible follow-up activities (alternatively I could’ve – should’ve – chosen bowling or billiards). So we went to a karaoke bar for two hours. I was told my voice is small (quiet) and I need practice. I was also told I lost. Apparently we were competing there as well.
 
Nagoya seems like a nice city and I had considered it as I was job searching recently. I have now visited twice, and while I don’t know my way around at all, I get the impression it is a pretty chill place with some size but not the craziness of Tokyo. My karaoke friend and I visited Inuyama Castle, a little ways from Nagoya but a beautiful national treasure (one of only five castles with that designation, another being Matsumoto which I visited back in February) that has been well-preserved over the centuries despite Japan’s history of war and natural disasters.
 
Throw your hands in the air, gently.
I recently went to a concert in Takasaki, which is a little over an hour away from me. The band I went to see was The Pillows, a Japanese rock trio that sounds a bit like the Pixies. They even have a song called Kim Deal. The doors opened at 5:15pm and the show was scheduled to start at six (it did) which I think is awesome. Rock 'n' rollers that aren't on rock 'n' roll time. I arrived in Takasaki early and had lunch then wandered the streets for a while. I got to the venue 15 minutes before the show’s start time, and there was no line to wait in. That’s because everybody had already gone inside and found their places in the room. In addition to the cost of the ticket I was required to purchase a drink at the door for 500 yen. I was given a drink ticket to get a drink I didn’t want at a drink bar I couldn’t find. Them’s the rules.
 
I would guesstimate the room’s capacity to be around 500 or so. It wasn’t a really big room but it was pretty crowded. While we waited for the show to begin every audience member took a place on the floor, forming neat rows with a fair amount of personal space considering we were at a rock ‘n’ roll show. When the lights went down and the band took the stage everyone applauded and cheered. The band started and heads began to bop. Soon almost everyone had an arm in the air, pumping along to the rhythm. Now, I’m used to tight fists punching the air with enough conviction and aggression to break down a door or knock out a hipster with access to mama’s credit card. But there were no fists. Just a bunch loose hands that kind of flopped around at the wrist – some with an index finger extended to declare “number one!” or “I have an idea!” and some with all five fingers extended as if to throw magic fairy dust around the room. This was clearly not my hometown.
 
When a band member would step away from his stage marker and move toward the crowd, they would cheer and applaud. They weren’t jumping off the stage or necessarily taking a solo or anything, just stepping closer to the crowd. This excited them to no end. When the singer would shout in the mic, “Hey!” between verses, everyone responded in kind with a “Heeeeeeeeeeeyyy!” as if it was rehearsed. The band was tight, the sound was great, and oddly I saw nobody being thrown out by security, walking out with a bloody nose, stage diving, punching someone or getting punched by someone. Was I really at a rock concert? I could no longer tell. The sounds emitted from the stage would suggest I was, yet the audience’s behavior would suggest I was really at a craft fair.
 
Near the end of the show I stepped into the lobby to cool off as the room was crazy hot from all the hand flopping. I was able to freely walk around with no intimidating meathead bouncers eyeing me down. I could actually leave the venue and walk back in without hassle. There was nothing indicating that reentry was prohibited, which I found interesting since anybody could have easily walked in off the street and not been questioned. I have a pair of tickets to see this band again near the end of July, so I’ll compare the experience to this one.
 
In the timeless words of Garrison Keillor: be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

If you're just joining me, click here to read the first part of this post.

In the late afternoon I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City. The bus had pulled to the side of a busy street several blocks from the bus station. My Couchsurfing host, a Vietnamese girl who I met in Japan, instructed me to take a bus to her district and walk a few blocks to her house. I realized I had no Vietnamese currency so I had to find an ATM. I searched around and found several, but each one I tried neglected to let me withdraw any funds. Eventually I found one that did, and found the bus I had to take after a lot of walking around and asking bus terminal personnel.
 
The bus attendant was kind enough to tell me at which stop to get off. I didn’t have much luck following my host’s directions and eventually had to contact her once I found a place to get WiFi. I sipped on a Vietnamese coffee while I waited (I’m not a coffee drinker, and it’s recommended that I don’t actually drink the stuff, but I wanted to be a patron to the nice people working there.
 
Tuyet, my host, picked me up on her scooter. In Vietnam there are just as many scooters as there are people. Being in the midst of dozens of them, all crammed together fender to fender on every street and traffic light, is quite an experience. There were times when my foot or knee or shoulder was bumped or grazed by a passing rider. Handlebars just miss catching an elbow or a hand by mere centimeters.
 
Then consider that this is the main mode of transportation for many people. I witnessed families of four riding on a single motorbike, sometimes infants being held under a mother’s arm like a football as the father weaved in and out of other motorbikes, cars, trucks, bicycles, and even food carts. Yes, bicycles and food carts are fair game for four-lane thoroughfares. Just imagine you are entering a roundabout in your Toyota along with scores of other commuters, and there crossing in the middle is an elderly woman pushing a cart full of sports drinks and sandwiches. I also saw a passenger pulling a wheelbarrow behind him; a family of three with a bicycle laid across a mother’s lap; children standing on rider’s lap, holding onto the handlebars with nary an arm holding them secure; girls dressed for the prince’s ball riding side saddle; and plenty of them with no lights even in the middle of the night, sometimes driving against the flow of traffic. Everybody gets out of the way, and nobody makes a fuss. Remarkable.
 
My first night in Vietnam, Tuyet showed me around District 1 of HCMC, where most of the attractions are found. People were out in force and peacefully enjoying the buzz of the city, the lights of surrounding buildings, and a few street performers and vendors.
 
I was given the upstairs room of my host’s house. Her mother was delighted to have me preparing dinner for us and even making a special Vietnamese dessert for my visit.
 
Day Eleven.
 
Tuyet had the day off and so we spent the day wandering around the city to see some famous attractions: the Post Office, Notre Dame Basilica, the Opera House, Reunification Palace, and so forth. We visited the War Remnants Museum, which details the horrors of the Vietnam War, or as it’s called there: the American War of Aggression Against Vietnam. The collection of photos, artillery, and exhibits showing the aftermath of Agent Orange are sobering, and I felt unsettled as we left.
 
We went to a charming little café that Tuyet had been wanting to visit. It was tucked away on a narrow side street. While we were there I popped into a tour agency and booked a tour for the next morning to Cao Dai temple and the Cu Chi tunnels.

Day Twelve.
 
Tuyet gave me a ride to the agency where I waited to be picked up for the day’s tour. I was early so the receptionist and I chatted until the tour guide, accompanied by two other guests, came by. Together we walked to the bus station and were directed onto certain buses. This one for the single-day tour, that one for the three-day tour, etc.
 
Bus tours like to break for a rest stop, which is really a disguise for a tourist trap. About thirty minutes into our ride – much too soon for a potty break on a three-hour bus ride – we pulled over to a place to use the restroom and were encouraged to check out the adjacent shop full of wares handmade by local artisans. Our break time would be 25 minutes. I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t take me that long to use a bathroom. But it could take that long to shop around an overpriced, well-lit market with a nearly 1:1 ratio of salespeople and tourists.
 
The Cao Dai temple is beautiful, but the religion itself remains a bit confusing to me. It’s a relatively new religion; a conglomeration of various religions and theology, with several important characters from those religions expanding their influence into this one. Our stop here was very brief, and we only had time to catch the opening portion of the worship service, which was too bad, as it seemed like a beautiful event.
 
By the time we reached the Cu Chi tunnels the day’s heat had hit its peak. The insects were angry and out for blood, while the fluids of my body had decided on a hasty relocation to my clothing, without even checking on the quality of the schools or neighborhood crime rates.
 
Our group was about 15 strong. I was the only American. The guide’s English was pretty poor, particularly for a tour guide. Two older Brazilian women who I befriended on the ride would at times ask me what the guide had said, and I often struggled to give them a clear answer. The tour itself took us on a walk around the forest where soldiers had set up a network of underground tunnels and rooms and had lived in for extended periods of time. We were able to go through a section of tunnel and at a certain point had the option of exiting or continuing on a few hundred more meters. I opted to exit; the heat was unbearable and my back and knees weren’t up for crouching down and shuffling along in the dark. In fact only a handful of the group opted to stay underground. There was an opportunity to purchase munitions and fire them off at the shooting range, a national training center of some sort. None of the members of our group partook in that. I instead spent the free time eating an ice cream cone (okay, two ice cream cones) and chatting with the Brazilians and an Argentinian. I wanted to bring up how sweet it was that the two nationalities would be so friendly and social with each other, but I didn’t want to stir up anything just in case. I also wanted to make a sign offering free hugs and stand by the shooting range, but I couldn’t find a Sharpie®.
 
When the tour ended the bus took us back to HCMC and made its last stop on a street. Not the street where we started. Not any familiar street that was at any point part of the tour or previously agreed upon or pointed out as something to remember, but just a street. We were told to exit. I said to the tour guide, “This isn’t where we started. We met at the tour agency.” He said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s just around the corner. Up that way,” and sort of kind of a little bit waved in some direction that was generally more or less not so specific or clear. So we all got off. I tried to dial in my radar and usually sharp sense of direction, but I found myself wandering streets I did not recognize. Taxi drivers must smell disorientation, as I was practically accosted by them at every corner and every few seconds. “Taxi? Taxi? You need taxi?” I had to pass the same people several times as I walked back and forth on a main street. I started shouting back to them, “Get in my way one more time. Step in my path once more. Go ahead. No, I don’t need your fucking taxi. What I need are directions to the fucking place where I’m supposed to be. What I need is for you asshole vultures to deliver what you say you’re going to deliver rather than trying to rip me off and squeeze every cent you can out of me. Fuck you. Go ahead, stand in my way one more fucking time.” Of course, as I asked several people to point me in the direction of the agency, nobody offered a clear answer. They either ignored me when they realized I wasn’t going to be their patron, or they’d counter with, “You need taxi?” I had had it. My iPod®, which I would use for communication when I could get Wifi, was dead. I couldn’t find a coffee shop or any place where I could get both an electrical outlet and Internet. My host was waiting at the agency to pick me up after she got out of work. I had no way to contact her. Just then I realized I had the business card of the place, and I dug through my bag to find it. I’d resign to taking one of the vulture taxis.
 
I have no qualms about taking a taxi or anything. I’m not above it. I’m not some super being world traveler looking to earn bragging rights about my resilience and savvy. It comes down to a simple matter of principle. I have an issue with people winning by fucking over other people. It’s what makes me angry, and it’s why I’ll never be a salesperson, CEO, or 2016 GOP presidential candidate.
 
When I read the card, crouched down on the ground, contents of my bag disheveled and spewing out of the lid, I looked up. A few meters ahead was the tour agency. Just like that. Tuyet was waiting for me and sighed relief when she saw me. We got cleaned up at home then went out for dinner, then called it a night.

Day Thirteen.
 
We had breakfast together before I caught a bus to the airport to catch a flight to Danang, from where I would take a bus or taxi (spoiler: it was a taxi) to Hoi An, a quaint little town known for its tailors, well-preserved French architecture, and quiet beaches. During the flight, a woman from Vietnam who lives in D.C. engaged me in conversation, asking why I wasn’t visiting Danang and instead going straight to Hoi An. She also got sick from some turbulence and had to use one of those little paper bags. I have never seen anyone use one of those, so it was a very unique flight.
 
When we landed, she told me to come with her to see Danang, so I obliged. Her ex-sister-in-law and the parents of the father of her three children who could also be called her ex-husband were waiting to greet her. We all got in a little red car, and she directed them to a bustling little part of town. She said to be in touch in an hour and we’d meet up, and I was dropped off. So I contacted her around that time and she provided directions of where to go, which happened to be a nail salon. She was getting a manicure and pedicure when I arrive and she instructed me to sit down, and then I was given a manicure. After that we walked to the river, then hired a taxi to just drive us around the city. At one point we stopped to drink coconuts on the beach and the driver just waited without any care. I had to move on to Danang, so I hired the driver to take me there. It’s about an hour away, and he was more than happy to have the business. When I arrived at my hostel I was told they had mistakenly overbooked, and that I would be given a room at a hotel owned by the same person. I was driven over to it and went to check in. Even though I still had a shared room, it was a hell of an upgrade. A friend of mine once told me how three-star hotels in Vietnam are really four-star hotels, and this was pretty true. It had style. It had a bitchin’ restaurant. It had a fancy pool surrounded by little rocks where the water ran through. It had fluffy towels. And I was about twenty or thirty years younger than practically everyone else there. And you know how old people like comfort and luxury.

Day Fourteen.
 
I rented a bicycle in the morning and rode to the old town and walked around to take some pictures and get a vibe for the area. I decided this was a place where I needed something more. A motorbike. So I rented one. That’s the way to get around. I handed over six dollars for a day’s rental and was given a helmet and the key. No questions asked. I rode to a tailor I had read good reviews about and had also received a recommendation for it. Kimmy Tailor. I decided to have a suit made. I have a black one and a grey one, but a nice blue one would complete my suit needs. I worked with Van, a tiny Vietnamese woman who was super friendly, jovial, and not pushy in the least. We selected some fabrics and discussed styles suitable for my frame. She took my measurements and told me to come back that evening after 5pm for my first fitting. Yes, only six hours after my measurements.
 
I decided to visit My Son Sanctuary, a World Heritage site about 35 kilometers from Hoi An. Van gave me directions and off I rode on my overpowered rental scooter. I arrived within the hour and wandered around the ruins. A Japanese tour group followed a guide around the grounds, and I had wished then that I had a guide to get a better understanding and appreciation for all of the sites. I started talking to a girl in the Japanese tour group. She looked bored out of her mind and she was clearly the youngest of the whole group (28, to be exact). She spoke English really well and we decided to break off and check out some of the other ruins for a few minutes. She said she was with her parents on this trip and was getting bored with being dragged around to tour after tour with slow people. We commiserated on that topic, then the group moved on. I noticed the sky getting grey so I quickened my pace and started back. Two girls — and I’ll just say, two really beautiful, I-will-be-the-father-of-as-many-children-as-you-want-and-I’ll-figure-out-the-rest-later girls — were walking back to the shuttle that would take us to the parking lot at the entrance gate. Their English was flawless. They were Asian. We started talking about the pending weather and I asked where they were from. China and Japan. Met in high school in the U.S. Lives in Shanghai. Lives in Tokyo. They too had come by scooter. We got on the shuttle along with a few Germans, a pleasant break from all the French tourists. And down came the rain. When the shuttle got to the entrance we all raced to a covered concession area and sat down to wait. This was not a typical, “I don’t want to get my shoes wet” rain. This was “do you think they’ll find us when we’re washed away by the black wall of hell water pouring from the sky like a dam broke?” kind of rain. It was the heaviest, fiercest, most unforgiving rain I had ever been in. The wind howled. Big things that should not fall over fell over. The rain blew in sideways and we could not stay dry. We shared cookies and conversation over the next hour, hoping that this devilish monsoon nightmare would soon be over.
 
As any good salesperson would see, an opportunity presented itself. Put away were the snacks, and out came a box full of ponchos. I was biting. Hell yes I’ll take a poncho, and two extra for the funny German dudes. The rain started to die down but had not completely stopped, and we decided if anything now would be our chance.
 
The two girls were on one scooter and asked me to lead the way. I said I’d do my best but no guarantees. It was quickly getting dark, and while the rain had finally stopped it was getting harder to see landmarks. We pulled over a few times to reset and make sure we were doing okay. Sato, the Japanese girl, pulled out her mobile device and checked GPS for our co-ordinance. We were getting there, but not quite. It started to rain again, and as we edged our way onto a three-lane freeway to contend with tractor-trailers and other motorbikes, visibility dropped and uneasiness shattered the mercury. We were sort of lost at this point. None of us recognized any of our surroundings, as it all just looked like the same black everywhere. Sato decided as passenger she would just keep out her GPS and navigate in real time. The girls would lead now. And damn they looked badass. As I began to follow I realized I might have been riding too slowly; they were fast and nimble on that motorbike. We somehow got onto a bumpy, narrow, empty path and for twenty minutes or so we raced along in the general direction of town. Part of me thought it was fun, and part of me thought, “this is where they’ll find my body, and the news report will state he was last seen with two bombshell Asian girls. I guess it’s an okay way to go.” Eventually we popped out into town, and my tailor shop was just ahead. The girls had to catch a bus and I had a fitting to which I was already two hours late, so we said our farewells in traffic.
 
When I walked up to the door at Kimmy’s, Van raced over to me. “I was so worried about you, but when I saw the motorbike with the raincoat, I felt relief.” That was so sweet, I thought. I had my fitting. Almost perfect. I would have to return the next morning for another and then again in the afternoon. I asked Van for a spa recommendation and she gave me a name and directions to a place nearby. I went in for a massage, enjoying the respite from the noisy streets and the free tea. Afterward I asked them for a decent place to eat. Conveniently they recommended the place directly across the street. And while I knew everyone was suggesting places where they had pals, each place got high marks in my mental review website. The food was good, the massage was relaxing, my suit was looking awesome. It was time for bed.

Day Fifteen.
 
I had an early breakfast at the hotel and went for my morning fitting. It was perfect. I was told to come after twelve to have a final fitting and pick up my suit and shirt (I also had a shirt made).  I killed some time around town and took delivery of my blue three-piece and dropped it off at the hotel.
 
I rode to Marble Mountains, another 30-kilometer ride. The sun was beating down and I was smart to wear a long sleeve shirt and sunscreen. The road there is flat and fairly straight, but the traffic is heavy enough that it’s wise to stay alert. And there are areas where sand drifts onto the road, and anyone who’s ridden before should know that you don’t want to hit sand at 50mph.
 
My visit to the mountains was enjoyable but was cut short by the agony I felt from what I would later find out to be food poisoning. Yes, they got me. Damn it. After I took care of business and felt well enough to move on, I rode back to Hoi An. Going the other direction was a little more difficult. The wind was blowing pretty hard and sending sand all throughout the air. Having no eye protection, I shielded my face with my left hand while I steered and throttled with my right. I came out unscathed, gathered my bags from the hotel, and got a shuttle to Danang airport for a flight back to HCMC.
 
I stood in a queue of people at check-in that could fill a soccer stadium. Two French guys kept working their way closer to the front, rudely snaking past the patient and courteous people as if they were entitled to it (and cynical me is certain they felt entitled to it). They stood by me. One of them got past me at the check-in counter. Jerk. You’re on my list now. At the gate I saw the French boys again. Great. We all waited in another line to board a shuttle that would take us to the plane, and the Frenchmen were up to their same dirty, we-don’t-wanna-work-for-it tricks. Everyone squeezed onto the shuttle and exited to board the plane. I walked to the staircase near the front of the plane (mine was seat 12H) while others walked to the rear one. The Frenchmen flanked me and some other passengers and again tried to hop to the front of the line. The attendant looked at their tickets and sent them to the back staircase. Go, Frenchmen. And don’t dare sit near me with your designer handbag you worked not-so-hard to buy.
 
Tuyet picked me up and took me to my hostel. She had some plain porridge for me to eat, as I wasn’t doing so well. We chatted for a bit but I was fading fast. I had a shower in the dark because I couldn’t find the bathroom light. Dried and dressed, I fell asleep pretty hard.
 
Day Sixteen.
 
I had to wake up at the most absurd hour ever. Apparently it’s called 3am, and it really exists according to Wikipedia. I thought the whole concept of it was stupid, but nonetheless my flight was leaving at the equally stupid so-called 6am. I got back to Japan by the afternoon and didn’t even bother with trains. I got the airport shuttle to Sano and a taxi to where I left my bicycle and I rode home. I unloaded and collapsed on my bed, happy to be back to beautiful, friendly Japan.

I recently returned from a two-week trip to Southeast Asia, covering part of Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. A lot happened during this little tour, and I’ll attempt to recap the events as best I can. I’m going to break it up into segments, as my tendency to ramble on will likely exhaust you and me both.
 
First, let me say that I enjoy traveling alone. I find it frustrating, if not difficult, to deal with people who can’t keep up or aren’t willing to be flexible or understanding. As I neared the end of this trip, a new friend from Japan who I met in Cambodia asked me, “Do you like to travel alone?” I thought about my trip up to that point and realized I could not have successfully done it had I been with someone else. Of course I know I have friends and people who I think would manage just fine, and likely even be good support, but other experiences have left me reluctant to take along another person on such an adventure. In fact I was rarely alone on this vacation; I met many cool people and we often improvised a plan and had a blast. I talked with many Japanese people as well (my trip coincided with Japan’s Golden Week, and everybody is traveling at this time) and have plans to meet up with some of them now that we’re back home.
 
Part One: Airports, delays, and unexpected heat
 
Day One.
 
My flight was scheduled for early Saturday morning, and since I’d have to be at the airport at a time that exists in fairy tales, I thought it would be best to stay close by. I booked a bed at a nearby hostel so I’d have a seven-minute train ride to the airport, thus maximizing my sleep-in time. On my way to the hostel I met up with my friend Maria, who is Japanese but whose father is a fan of The Sound of Music. We had dinner and puttered around the city for a few hours, and then I hopped a late train to the station nearest the hostel. It was dark by then so I didn’t feel like bothering with walking to the place. I hailed a taxi and was there in a matter of two minutes.
 
At check in, I announced my name as Japanese as I could. “Mah-sha-ruu Fee-shah desu.” The receptionist laughed to himself and said, “What’s your name?” I responded. He showed me to my room, occupied by two other young males. One of them decided to get up and turn on the lights. It sounded as if he had punched the wall to turn them on, and everything he did after that sounded the same way. He moved his backpack. Crash. He went through some papers. Snap crackle pop. Then he fussed about on his phone for an hour, talking to himself the whole time. I don’t know what he was saying, but at any given time he sounded confused, perplexed, concerned, surprised, curious, amused, and frustrated.
 
In the morning I made my uneventful way to Narita and boarded a giant metal winged fuselage that would take me 35,000 feet in the air and magically glide across the sky to Vietnam. My first destination was not Vietnam, but I had a connecting flight from there. And let me tell you. Ho Chi Minh City’s airport sucks. It’s the worst airport I think I’ve ever been in, followed closely by JFK and Philly International. But this isn’t an airport review, so those places can suck it while I indulge you with the fine details of my adventures.
 
Upon arrival we were escorted off the plane onto the tarmac and sent over to a toaster-shaped, bus-like, diesel smelling transport where we were packed in like Vienna sausages and driven to the building. After going through customs, I sat in the heat of the airport (there seemed to be no AC, and the temperature upon arrival was a scorching 39 degrees centigrade, which translates to “really f***ing hot” degrees) and made futile attempts to stay connected to its equally lousy Wi-Fi, all while listening to the soundtrack of the overhead announcements of flight delays and gate changes. These came at such a furious rate it was difficult to register what was what. My gate changed. And the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. We finally boarded and made it to Bangkok without a fuss.
 
Bangkok was just as hot, if not hotter. I found my way to a train that would take me – according to an attendant working at the airport – to where I needed to go to get to my hostel. As I soon discovered, this would not be the case. Exiting the train, I carved my way through the thick air and mobs of people and made it to the street, where the air smelled of exhaust fumes and old carpet. I attempted to hail a taxi, and after a half dozen passed me by (they would pick up other people – locals it seemed - but not me) one finally stopped. I showed him the address. He shook his head and drove off. Repeat 3x. No luck. I went back up to the train station platform and inquired how to get to my hostel. I was to board a different train and make a transfer, and from there would be able to get to my hostel.
 
I was told it would cost 40 baht for the taxi fare from the station to the hostel. A driver stopped and offered to take me. “How much?” I asked. With a devious, obvious, and child-like grin, the driver replied, “two hundred baht.” “Forget it,” I said. He countered, “one hundred baht.” I told him it should only be 40 baht. He said 80. I said 60. Then he he agreed, and laughed victoriously and slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “SIXTY baht! Yea-heah!” he exclaimed. As we drove along, he looked back at me once and shook his head with an air of disbelief, and grinning from ear to ear he said again, “SIXTY baht! Haha! Yes!” Oh, I was just so tickled that he didn’t feel the need to hide his delight over screwing me around for an extra 57 cents.
 
I was staying at Speakeasy Homestay, which is run by an American guy and his Thai wife, both super down-to-earth and friendly people. When I arrived they were eager to take me out to eat and show me a nearby market. Food in Thailand is remarkably inexpensive. A full meal with a drink cost me 80 baht, or approximately $2.25, or exactly 20 baht more than I’d pay for an asshole taxi driver in a city where everyone’s looking to make a buck.
 
The hostel is also somewhat of a cat rescue house. There were seven or eight of them I think, and maybe more. Part of the cost of accommodations is used to support these furry friends: shots, food, neutering, etc. These details are clearly outlined online, and I was happy to support their cause with my stay.

Day Two.
 
Bangkok is a pretty big city. A river runs through the middle of it and it’s a main thoroughfare for locals and tourists. Water taxis cross at designated piers every few minutes and cost a mere three baht one way. With no real grasp on the city layout I didn’t feel bad about hopping on and seeing where it would take me.
 
I spent most of the day sightseeing and visiting some temples and other landmarks. I hired a tuk-tuk to take me to the Grand Palace, a very grand place indeed. One thing to always keep in mind in Thailand, as well as Cambodia and Vietnam, is to assume nobody is telling the truth and everyone is just looking to rip you off. It sounds cynical but I found it to be pretty accurate. My tuk-tuk driver raced around the Bangkok streets and had I not had confidence in him, I would have been scared to death. But this is their environment, and they know how it works.
 
He dropped me off at an entrance to the Grand Palace. I was pretty amazed at how empty it was, assuming it would be swarming with tourists. A few local people were going through the gates where two guards stood watch. Immediately upon approaching the gate a man with a smirk on his face approached me, shaking his head. “You can’t go in right now,” he said. He also pointed to my shorts and said they were not allowed (I actually was aware of this – long pants are required and shoulders must be covered, but the palace offers rentals for this reason). He then offered to take me on a tuk-tuk ride to various sites around the city for an unbelievably low price. He said after a certain time I’d be allowed to enter the palace, but for right now only locals were allowed in.
 
I was skeptical. Assessing my environment, I noticed at the far end of the wall several tourists walking around the corner. A lot more than were at this particular gate. I said no thanks, and walked toward the foot traffic, with the man calling after me with offers and reasons why I was wasting my time walking that way.
 
When I rounded the corner, it all made sense. The first tuk-tuk driver didn’t take me to the main (real) entrance. And since everyone is looking out for themselves and their friends, he was simply dropping me off to where his buddy was ready to try to scam more money out of me. The side entrance was indeed reserved for local worshipers, but it was a separate part of the palace entirely.
 
I bought a cheap pair of pants (which are really comfy and have elephants on them) by a man making a mint near the entrance of the palace by selling proper palace attire to mobs of tourists. I thought, “This guy knows how to have a business.” Sure, maybe he was exploiting the situation, but his prices were unbeatable and he was offering goods that filled a need for many, without scamming anyone. I appreciated that. I still have the pants, and they only cost me about four dollars.
 
After walking around the palace and having my photo taken by some Chinese tourists (this happened to me multiple times a day when I visited China last year, and I immediately knew these folks were Chinese when they asked for my photo this time; it’s a thing I guess) I moved on to Wat Pho, another popular tourist destination and for good reason. It’s impressive. There I hired a personal tour guide at another bargain price I couldn’t pass up. He was professional, well informed, and very friendly and patient. On the grounds of there is the Wat Pho School of Massage, a renown training facility for Thai massage. I paid a nominal fee for a one-hour service, which I don’t regret. It was an amazing massage. Being as it is a famous place there were lots of people there queuing for their turn to get their bodies bent and muscles manipulated.
 
After this I hopped on a water taxi that went downstream. I had no destination in mind so I just got off at a pier that looked interesting. The rest of the day I spent mostly on foot, wandering the streets and soaking up the vibe of the city. I met a pint-sized Thai girl named Gail (clearly an adopted name) and we hung out for the afternoon.
 
She hailed a cab for me in the evening and I headed off toward my hostel. In Thailand you have to insist that the driver use the meter, or you have to negotiate the price before you get in. Otherwise they just try to rip you off. I got a taxi driver who may have been new to the city or new to automobiles in general, but either way I don’t think she had a clue as to what she was doing. She was clearly lost, and phoned into dispatch (I think) several times to get some details. Creeping along in the minivan taxi, she leaned forward over the steering wheel and looked skyward, searching for clues that would lead us to my hostel. Eventually we arrived, and I made my way in the dark to my room, fighting with the door latch while trying to dissuade a cat from getting into the room. I later found out this cat always tries to do this. He sits at the door and makes all kinds of noise. Nobody knows why he wants in the room so badly, but the hosts only allow the cats in common areas.

Day Three.
 
I spent the morning relaxing at the hostel and chatting with my hosts and Eleanor, a girl from Scotland who was also staying at the hostel. She and I went out to find breakfast and explore the neighborhood. We returned and I packed up my things to move on to my next destination, Chiang Mai. My little Thai friend agreed to come along for the ride, and we booked a night train to the north. The temperature hovered around 98 degrees, and inside the station it was worse. Giant fans blew hot air around the room, and mobs of people sat in pools of sweat as they waited for their trains.
 
Sitting on the train, I looked across to the facing seat and saw a few bugs trailing along the crack between the cushion and armrest. Cockroaches, I was sure. The man across from me was Brazilian and we got to chatting for a while. I noticed some more bugs marching above him on the top bunk. Definitely cockroaches. At one point he tapped my shoulder and pointed toward his window. A lizard. He shooed it away and it scurried on, but not before dropping its tail in the aisle. So we looked at that for a while. The staff called lights out and everybody retired to their bunks.
 
Day Four.
 
The ride wasn’t as smooth as I had hoped, and I didn’t get the best sleep. In the morning we arrived in Chiang Mai and I was able to check in to my hotel early, which I appreciated as I just wanted to relax for a while.
 
The heat was worse in Chiang Mai. I spent the morning walking around the city and visiting some temples. I came across a tiny vegetarian restaurant and decided to have lunch there, which was a good choice. There may have been seating for all but twelve people, and the kitchen was just a tiny little cooking area in the front of the restaurant facing the street.
 
In the evening I went with Gail to North Gate Jazz Co-op, a music venue very popular with foreigners it seemed. Tuesday nights are open mic nights where various musicians get up and jam together. I was eager to play drums as I hadn’t touched a drum kit in months. I was also a little nervous about it; could I still play? Would I be able to hang with the other musicians? So eager was I that I bought a pair of my preferred drumsticks (7A) earlier in the day. We were some of the first people to arrive. I wrote my name and instrument on the sign-up sheet at the bar and sipped on a Coca-Cola® while we waited for the event to begin.
 
The evening opened with a jazz trio – bass, drums, and a seemingly bossy trumpet player – and then moved on to the sign-up sheet. The emcee was a guy from Chicago who could beat box like nobody’s business. He entertained the crowd as the first act prepared. Two kids. A boy on guitar, maybe eleven or twelve, and a younger boy on drums, so small you could barely see his head over the drum kit. And they were pretty good. The boy on drums was a little loose but had some chops and fancy fills that made me a little green, but the boy on guitar was a prodigy. There was a bassist and keyboardist who backed them. The crowd – now flooding into and across the street – was loving it. Smartphones were out in full force. I knew my name was next on that list. And then this thing happened. The boys started their next number. A cover.
 
Purple Rain.
 
And the crowd lost it. I was ready to split. How the hell am I suppose to follow that!? Two little musical wizards paying tribute to the recently fallen legend PRINCE to a crowd full of excited foreigners and music lovers. Purple f***ing Rain!
 
In the end it was okay. I got up, played with some other guys, didn’t screw up too terribly, and even got some nice praise from people in the crowd afterwards. I didn’t hang around too much longer though, as the heat of the day had made me exhausted and I just wanted to retire to my hotel.

Day Five.
 
The morning and afternoon were spent at an elephant sanctuary about an hour from the city. We rode in the back of a covered pick-up truck, bouncing along curvy roads where lines dividing the lanes don’t really matter to the drivers. Elephants are a big attraction in Thailand, but unfortunately they are often exploited. At this sanctuary, elephants are treated well. They are not ridden as that is not good for them. I won’t get into the details of it, but the process of “breaking” an elephant involves taking it from its mother at a young age and essentially abusing it to break its spirit. Here, there is none of that. We learned about the elephants from the staff and were given lots of time with them. First we fed them, then we changed into our swimsuits and walked down to a muddy watering hole to bathe them. This involves picking up handfuls of sandy mud from the pool and rubbing it on the elephants. It cools them down and they love it. After this we took them to the river and rinsed them off. They seem to love this too.
 
These creatures are big, but so docile and relaxed. They are happy and friendly, inviting you to rub behind their ears or hand them a banana or ten. When we finished there we all went to a little waterfall and had a swim before cleaning up and having lunch together.
 
In the evening I got a night bus back to Bangkok, where I would connect to make my way to Cambodia the next morning.

Part Two: Scams, scams, everywhere are scams
 
Day Six.
 
The night bus was a lousy idea. In theory it was a good idea: I’d save on a night’s accommodations while simultaneously being transported twelve hours closer to my destination. But this is the developing world, and they make their own rules for everything. I purchased a VIP seat on a VIP bus, which is supposed to mean a comfy space in a posh transport with awesome service. But in reality it equated to an okay seat near a bathroom (it was a double-decker bus and the “VIP” seats were down below along with the toilet which was used by everyone) that smelled just like every bathroom on a bus smells, A/C that didn’t work, and a driver that drove the bus like he stole it. I was on edge the whole time, as he tossed the bus from side to side and floored it from every traffic light and stop, passing other buses, trucks, cars – everything. I was truly concerned and became furious as the night went on. But here, there’s nobody with whom to voice your complaints. They don’t care. You’re money in their pockets, and that comes first. Service is an afterthought, and never guaranteed.
 
We arrived at the bus terminal before 5am. As the passengers tried to exit, scores of people pushed toward the door, each trying to sell their taxi services. They swarmed the bus like zombie extras in a B-movie. We forced our way passed them and went to where the legitimate taxis were. I was driven to the train station and got the 5:55am train to Aranyaprathet. This was a third-class train only, which means there are only plain seats and no luxuries (that wouldn’t be guaranteed anyway) but it appeared cleaner than the night bus I had taken a few days earlier.
 
Windows were open and fans mounted overhead helped take the edge off the otherwise scorching day. A gentle breeze blew through the windows as the train rolled along at the pace of bird watchers on a Sunday morning. When the train stopped at each station locals would come up to the windows to sell passengers snacks and drinks.
 
Behind me was a young American man. I know he was American by his accent and the fact I heard him say where he was from. He was chatting up a young French girl, and she seemed impressed by the tales of his adventures and all of his twenty-something wisdom he’s learned on the road. I wasn’t as impressed, and grew tired of hearing him ramble on. Three months in Vietnam. Been here two times before. As some badge of honor, missed X number of flights during the past year. Saw this. Did that. *yawn* (this is my face that says I give a fuck)
 
He bragged about his camera. It originally cost several grand, but he got it used for much less. It’s traveled to over twenty countries with him. To the French girl, “Here, I just put it on the ‘P’ setting. I can’t remember what it means, but that’s what I use.” (editor’s note: that means “Program” and it’s for being lazy) Now I was done with Mr. Vagabond and wishing I had earplugs. You seriously spent a year in dozens of countries with this device and you don’t even know how the hell it works? Please give me your Instagram account, I want to be a fan.
 
The man in the seat next to me was from Boston. James, 55 years old, divorced, works from his tablet, spent the last four years in South America, now moving on to Asia. I only know this because I asked, not because he spewed those facts onto my lap like Boy Wonder and His Magical Mystery Jerkoff Tour. In any case, we made friends because we had both heard of the border scams and figured if we teamed up we’d also get a better deal on a taxi or tuk-tuk.
 
Five and a half hours later we arrived at the final station. Again, mobs of taxi drivers were chomping at the bit to get us into their rides. We hired a tuk-tuk and split the fare. He dropped us off where he was supposed to take us (another common scam is drivers will take you to fake, authentic-looking service stations or to different hotels than your own, in an attempt to help a friend make a buck; everyone gets a kickback) and we went through the customs to exit Thailand. Next we just had to get across to Cambodia. There is a stretch of no-man’s land where more vendors, scammers, and other unsavory creatures lurk and prey. I had already secured my visa online, so it was only a matter of getting some stamps for me and I was through to the Cambodian side. James followed shortly thereafter and told me the guard had shaken him down for a few extra dollars. They sometimes claim there is a processing fee (which there isn’t) and demand the money. You can refuse, but they make you sit and wait for a long time before sending you through. He didn’t want to deal with the hassle so he paid the bogus fee and got through pretty quickly.
 
Okay, hold onto your seats. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.
 
There are warnings about scams and illegitimate taxi services thanks to the Internet and travelers who give their advice on the trail. Some schemes are so elaborate that people where official-looking uniforms to convince the unaware that they need to pay for such-and-such, lest they be arrested or detained, for example. There are even buildings which claim to be official visa checkpoints, but in fact are just more scams to squeeze more money from tourists. So as James and I looked for the REAL, free tourist bus that would take us to the bus station where we could then move on to Siem Reap, we were on guard as numerous vultures hounded us about taking a taxi or taking a certain bus. They seemed all too eager to have us wait at a particular bus stop for the tourist bus, so we decided to walk further on (a recommendation we had both heard about: walk until you’re through the taxi scum and then you’ll find the place you’ll need to be) and get out of the crowd. So we walked. And walked. The afternoon sun beat down on us mercilessly. My sunscreen was packed somewhere in my bag and I hadn’t the energy to dig it out. I wasn’t about to open my backpack on the roadside while dozens of Cambodian vultures stared on, gawking and smirking at the two white dudes walking along a freeway.
 
Several gold-colored Toyota Corollas pulled up to us to offer us a ride. “Where you go?” “To the bus station.” “You go Siem Reap? I take you there.” “No, we’re going to the bus station. Where is it? Can you take us there?” “You want to go Siem Reap?” “No, we want to go to the bus station!” That’s how this conversation goes over and over. Nobody will offer directions, they’ll only offer their services for a fee. And nobody would take us to the bus station. They knew we were going to Siem Reap, and they wanted the big bucks for that lift. We weren’t biting.
 
A man on a scooter pulled up. “Where you go?” Oh, here we go again. Hey buddy, how do you intend to take to the bus station two full-grown men with backpacks on your dinky little scooter? “I take one at a time. Seven kilometers.” No, we weren’t having it. A car would pull up. “Where you go?” Sometimes they’d offer a price for a lift to the station, but the guy on the scooter would edge up and say something to the driver. The driver would suddenly change his mind and refuse to take us. It was clear this guy was telling them not to take us. I told him to go away and leave us alone. He kept scooting along the roadside as we walked. “Hey friend, I take you. Very far.”
 
Eventually a car pulled up with a man and woman and they offered to take us to Siem Reap. It should be noted that none of these people were legitimate, registered taxi drivers. Just people with cars heading from the border. We negotiated with them for a bit. At first they only wanted to take us to Siem Reap. Why would it matter, if they would be passing the bus station, to take us there and make a few bucks along the way? No, they all wanted to make a killing and go the two hours to Siem Reap.
 
Our price negotiated, we got in the car and proceeded down the road. After several minutes we pulled into a parking lot to an abandoned-looking building. “Bus station,” the woman said. “This isn’t the bus station,” I replied. It may have at one time been a bus station, but it had long ago gone to ghost town. “There should be lots of buses and taxis here. This is not the right place.” The two began to explain that this is the bus station, but there was another bus station they’d be happy to take us to for no charge. “Only thirty kilometers more. If you not happy, we take you there, no charge.” Really? No charge? We fought tooth and nail to get this lift, and you’re really going to take us three times the distance to another bus station? And what happens when we get there? Will it also be abandoned? At that point, you might as well take us to Siem Reap as you had wanted, and milk us for a lot more money. Forget it.
 
Just then a van headed toward the border pulled in to the lot. The driver got out and went to use a bathroom or something. “Hey, maybe this guy will take us to back to the border.” I approached the van. A young couple from Ireland was waiting inside and I asked the two where they were headed. They were going to the border, as I thought. We could just ride with them and get a proper lift to where we were supposed to go.
 
But our taxi couple spoke to the driver, and he refused take us. Really? Why? You’ve got a big van that’s nearly empty, and an opportunity to make some extra cash for doing nothing else but what you were already doing. Something’s up. These people are scoundrels. James and I argued with the drivers and the van driver got into his van and peeled off. The taxi couple again offered to give us a ride. I told them they were motherfuckers just like everyone else, and to go fuck themselves. I said to James I was walking; I’d hitch a ride back to the border. He joined me.
 
It was only a few minutes when a car pulled over. A man rolled down his window. A little girl holding a stuffed animal puppy sat in the passenger seat. “Can you take us to the border?” He nodded yes. “How much?” James asked. He shook his head and waved his hand. He wasn’t going to charge us. Really? I had to wonder. We got in and rode along quietly in the air-conditioned cabin. The driver took us to just outside the border as we requested. I offered him a few hundred Thai baht (they use several currencies there) and he reluctantly accepted. As we got out, we watched him turn around and head back the way he came. He drove us further than he was going out of the kindness of his Cambodian heart. James and I were perplexed but humbled.
 
We walked along a few hundred meters to the bus stop, all the while being ogled at and called after by locals lazily sitting at the roadside. “This must be what it feels like to be a woman,” I said. I felt like shit.
 
The guy on the scooter reappeared out of nowhere and slowly rode over to us. “You stay the fuck away from us!” I shouted. I warned him that if he came near me within arm’s reach I’d pull him off his bike and we’d throw down. He backed off.
 
As we approached the bus stop I spotted the white van with the two Irish travelers. We actually beat them to the border. Go figure. At the bus stop, one of the first men who told us to wait there said, “Why are you back? You didn’t wait for the bus. I told you here is the bus stop!” Soon, the bus pulled up. Jame and I boarded. We were the only two passengers. The bus drove the distance of about two city blocks and made a left turn. We could see the station from the turn. We missed it the first time. It was right here, and we didn’t see it in the midst of all the harassment and fending off taxis. Now, hours later, we were right where we set out to be. Now we just needed to reserve seats on a bus or a share taxi and we’d be on our way.
 
We opted to split a taxi as we would be able to leave straight away, and the next bus didn’t leave for another hour and would take an extra hour in transit. Since we had already lost so much time, the few extra dollars for a taxi was hardly a concern.
 
But things are never that easy.
 
The ride toward Siem Reap was rather uneventful, save for two stops the driver made with little explanation. The first stop was at a pharmacy where he reappeared with a baggy crumpled up in his hand and placed it in the door card. James and I chatted along the way, and he produced his tablet so that we could follow along via GPS to make sure we were going the right way.
 
About four miles from town the taxi driver pulled onto a side street. “Why are we going here?” James asked the driver. “Tuk-tuk,” he said. “What tuk-tuk? We didn’t hire a tuk-tuk!” “You take tuk-tuk here.” He got out of the taxi and approached some men that were all lounging around at their tuk-tuks and spoke with them. Two men walked up to us. “Brother, we take you to Siem Reap.” We were furious. “We hired this guy to take us there! Why are we here?” I got in the driver’s face and demanded to know what was going on. He ignored me, not saying a word and walked past me. He got in his taxi and drove off, as I pounded on the door.
 
“Brother,” the tuk-tuk driver said, “no problem. We take you there.” What. The. Hell. He said he’d take us there for free, as long as we agreed to hire him the next day to take us around the temples. Otherwise, it would be 150 baht. Un-fucking-believable. A younger man offered to take us. At this point we were exhausted. The day had been nothing but a series of scams, assholes, vultures, and tricks. Fine. Take us there. The driver said my hostel was very far, not in the city center, but he knew of better ones. I refused his offer. Just take me to my damn hostel, you fucking mutt.
 
James was dropped off at his hostel. I was taken to mine. I got out and paid the driver. “You can hire me tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t think so. Because so far you haven’t given me any reason to trust you, and frankly I don’t fucking like you, or any of your people so far,” I said.
 
I walked over to my hostel. It was indeed out of the city center, but not so far. It was quiet, and the entrance had an open air design with a lounge area and hammocks under a small canopy. A young man at the reception approached me. He offered me water and showed me to my room. He told me about the hostel and generously offered to show me around or explain anything to me. I could pay at check out. For now I should relax. It’s been a hot day, and he was sure I was tired and needed to rest. He put on some jazz in the lounge. A few small children played nearby. Two dogs curiously sniffed around. A gecko scurried along the wall. I sat down and ordered dinner, which was prepared by the owner’s wife. This was, after all, their home. They wanted me to enjoy this place, and insisted I let them know if I needed anything.
 
Welcome to Cambodia.

Part Three: I came for the experience.
 
Day Seven.
 
I needed to secure my visa for Vietnam, so first thing in the morning the hostel’s tuk-tuk driver took me to a travel agency to make that happen. It was an easy process, and they promised my visa would be available the next day at 11am. Back at the hostel I rented a bicycle and set off for Angkor Wat, only several kilometers from downtown. It wasn’t a straight shot there, and I took a moment to orient myself to make sure I was going the right way. I saw a Caucasian girl on a bicycle talking to two locals and handing them some bills. I approached her and asked where she was headed. To Angkor Wat, of course. And after riding around for a while and getting lost, she now knew where to go. We agreed to team up and hang out. Jessica, California. The ride was easy and relaxing despite the oppressive heat of the late morning.
 
Angkor Wat was amazing. The sheer size of it is mind blowing, and to consider its age and the limited technologies available at the time makes it all the more impressive. The details in the stonework are exceptional as well. Anything constructed today is bullshit compared to the detail and craftsmanship of yore. It is certainly worth a visit, and at least a Google Image search. If you don’t find it impressive, you might be hopeless (more on this later).
 
After exploring the temple grounds we found our way to some open-air stalls and had lunch. Several children tried to sell us their wares. They all had the same stuff: postcards, magnets, fans, keychains. “Where you from?” one little boy asked. “America,” we replied. “America. Obama, fifty states, Washington, D.C. 300 million people.” The kid knew his stuff. A little girl came up with a basket full of her trinkets. “Where you from?” she asked. “America.” “Obama, fifty states, Washington, D.C….” Trained like guard dogs. Nice.
 
In the temple sat a young monk, a boy maybe ten years old or so. He had a basket of bracelets and a donation box. I asked to take his picture and gave a donation. He took a red bracelet from his basket and placed it around my wrist and said something. It could have been a prayer, or maybe it was a curse.* I thanked him and moved on.
 
Jessica invited me to the circus and that night my tuk-tuk driver gave me a lift there. It was more of an acrobatics show designed around a storyline about a woman’s life. The show began with her on stage as an old woman, and she becomes youthful again during the first number. It takes us through school, adolescence, romance, and eventually she becomes old again. It was a touching story, if not a bit confusing at times. In the end the message was about making the best out of life, and not fearing the end. It seemed appropriate to me given who and where these people were and where I was myself.
 
My driver offered to take Jessica back to her hotel before returning to our place. He wasn’t exactly sure where it was, and neither was Jessica. An hour later she was finally to her hotel and the driver and I were making our way back to Bambu Stay. Sleep came easily.

Day Eight.

I spent the morning shopping around Old Town. Every place seems to have the same stuff (aka junk) but it’s a matter of haggling to get the best deal. I bought some souvenirs for friends and coworkers but tried to limit my purchases, as I knew I’d have to carry all this stuff back with me.
 
A small Indian-looking woman passed by and we had a friendly nod and hello exchange. As we stood at the street corner waiting to cross the mayhem of traffic I asked if she wanted to walk around. London, Indian-born. We strolled around town together before settling down for lunch. After lunch we went to Angkor National Museum, which has a rather high entrance fee but an impressive collection nonetheless. A highlight for me was the Room of 1000 Buddhas. More shopping in the evening, some street food vendors, and a fish foot spa topped off the evening (don't try this at home; I heard it's actually been banned in some countries. I paid for a half hour but only stayed in for maybe ten minutes, just for the experience). We parted ways and I made my way back to my hostel to relax for the rest of the night.
 
Day Nine.
 
I stumbled out of bed and outside to the lounge to order breakfast. There was a new arrival. Sandra, Mexico. With no plan for the day, she and I decided to go shopping for a while before heading out to the Landmine Museum.
 
We hired a tuk-tuk driver to take us there. The ride was long, and at the pace the tuk-tuks move it took quite a while to get there. But we both enjoyed the ride and the scenery, which offered views of parts of the temple ruins as well as the natural landscape of the countryside. Locals went about their days with a pace absent of urgency. Some people lounged by the roadside in hammocks.
 
The museum itself is rather small, but an informative and somber look at a side of Cambodian history that should be known. The museum houses thousands of deactivated mines, all of which have been removed by the founder, Aki Ra, a former child soldier. On site is also an orphanage/school of sorts for victims of landmines. This is not open to the public, as it is explained it is the children’s home and not a photo op. I wholeheartedly respect that.
 
Back at my hostel I prepared for another night bus, this time to Phnom Penh. I ordered dinner while Sandra retired for the night. She was exhausted, and the heat nearly did me in as well. A new guest was also having dinner. Resa, Japan. After dinner we sat in the lounge and talked. The owners’ three-year-old daughter approached us and leaned against my arm in my chair. I lifted her onto my lap and procured my notepad and pen. The three of us doodled on the pages and I traced the little girl’s hands. This thrilled her so we repeated it a few times. The receptionist sat in a swinging chair near us and talked with us, then told the little girl it was time for bed. With nary a fuss she hopped off my lap and marched to the house.
 
My tuk-tuk driver drove me to the bus station and I boarded the Giant Ibis night bus. The bus is fitted only with beds: a row of single beds, top and bottom on the right, and a row of double beds, top and bottom on the left. I was on the right side. When booking, the seating chart shows two places next to each other on the left side, but in reality it’s just a wider bed. You reserve one side, and a total stranger might reserve the other. Yeah, really.

Day Ten.
 
I arrived in Phnom Penh early in the morning. The Giant Ibis night bus wasn’t too terrible, even though my bed was a little small for me (this is Asia, after all). I had to wait a few hours for my connecting bus that would take me to Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam. Since it was only about 5am nothing was open, not even the bus office. So I sat outside on a bench with some other passengers and some lurking taxi drivers. “No, I don’t need your taxi. I’m waiting at a bus station. Does that register anything in your scheming little brain?”
 
I got into a conversation with the girl who was sitting next to me, and who was also next to me on the bus the previous night. Casey, California, half Japanese, on the road for a year. She had a ukulele strapped to her bag, and said her friend got it for her as a gift for something to learn during her travels. She was staying in Phnom Penh only a few minutes away but stayed to chat. When my bus arrived we parted ways, but not before sharing some potato chips. Barbecue, I think.
 
I had a seat on the right side in the front. It was the first numbered seat, VIP as far as I’m concerned. I booked early so I had my choice at that time. The seats were pretty tight but there was a bit of legroom to my surprise.
 
Then the guy who would be my seat neighbor sat down.
 
He was an older guy, 70 to be exact. Canadian. I know because he told me so. He began the ride on this bus by arguing with the bus staff about his seat. He had requested, and was told, that he had the front seat. But why was there a pair of seats in front of him? To be clear, we indeed had the first seats. The two in front of us were not numbered; they were reserved for staff. But this wasn’t satisfactory. Over the next six hours, I’d find out that nothing would be satisfactory to this man.
 
Within minutes of the bus pulling away, it pulled over so it could let off two passengers who did not have proper Vietnam visas, and also so the Canadian could fish his cash and passport out of his bag in the undercarriage luggage compartment. Two things here. First, the bus would be making a border crossing, and thus it is essential to have all necessary documents in hand. Why the hell would you not be carrying your most valuable document on your person at all times? Second, why didn’t the bus check for passports and visas before boarding, saving us other passengers from the headache of ill-prepared morons? Well, it took a bit of time before the Canadian got back on. When he did, he limped over to the seat and plopped down with a force that nearly jettisoned me out of my own seat. He had a fresh bandage on his knee. Apparently he fell while he was out there. This began the hours-long stage of “woe is me”  babbling. Why did he decide to take this trip? He should just go home. There’s no point now. He’s an idiot (I think he actually used the term “sad sac” in his monologue). He’s not cut out for this. Blah blah blah. Well yeah dude, with that attitude, you should just crawl into a hole and…
 
Most of my seat was then taken over by his massive Canadian arm and ass. He needed to stretch out his leg. I positioned myself so my back was essentially against the window and not the seatback, just to give myself some breathing room. His invasion into my personal space grew as the hours passed. He even apologized a few times for bumping me, but didn’t correct the action. Finally, the heat getting to me and my discomfort turning to pain in my shoulder and back, I said, “Look, you need to give me some room and not touch me. I’m crammed here.” Problem solved? Not really. His arm hairs seemed to grow tenfold, and now, along with the occasional flopping of his arm on my side and lap, his fur began a nearly constant dance of grazing my forearm.
 
Whenever the bus would make a pit stop it was a whole other process. He had to get his bag. It barely fit on the seat. Passengers had to get by. When that happened he announced how he was just in the way and was so sorry and shouldn’t even be in Vietnam anymore. Tirelessly ranting about his inadequacies. Tiresome, indeed. Bless the heart of the Northern Irish guy across from us that took the lion’s share of deflecting and countering with positivity the Canadian’s woeful lines. “Ah, it’s not that bad. We all have bad days, right?” Because I gave up on that quest an hour into the trip. Even though I put my headphones on (a steal at five dollars from a night market vendor) to indicate I’m off duty it did not register with the Canadian and he still talked to me. “Hey Marshall, what did you think of Angkor Wat? I don’t know, it just didn’t DO anything for me. It’s just a big stone place. I don’t know, maybe I’m just not supposed to be here.” Jesus, please send this bus careening into the ditch of this broken, dusty road.

Stay tuned for the next installment. I've been sick for a few days, and not sure when I'll get to this. Keep me in your thoughts.

Happy birthday, Mom! I love you!

If the title didn't give it away, this weekend I went with my friend/neighbor/coworker to Narita for its annual drum festival. The festival spans the entire weekend, but we only went on Sunday since the day before I was meeting up with some friends in Shibuya, Tokyo. That place, by the way, is a f***ing madhouse. If you decide to visit Tokyo and want to give yourself a headache and sensory overload and see as many foreigners as you could ever care to see, that's the place to go.

The train ride to Narita is pretty long, taking three hours from Sano. That includes transit time and wait time, although we were pretty efficient with our transfers. The day's events included various concerts and performances all around the festival area as well as an afternoon street parade featuring taiko bands from all over Japan. I suppose you can use your favorite search engine to find out lots more about it, and I don't want to type too much more because I have to upload a ton of pictures. That's what the people want anyway. Shut up and show us the story.

Below are a handful of my shots from Sunday. These were taken with my new Sony A6000 camera, since the lens to my other camera broke a while ago. I'm still figuring out its capabilities, but I'm pretty satisfied with the shots I got. Enjoy.

​Japan’s school calendar is different from the U.S. The year ends and begins in late March and early April. There is about a week and a half holiday during this time. As for me, I had to go to work at City Hall, where the Board of Education is located along with other municipal offices and service agencies.
 
The time can drag along as I am required to be there on certain school holidays, yet often have very little to do. This time around I did have some projects to work on, so that helped to pass the days. We’re also working in a brand-new building with great city views and swanky automatic window shades and hallways that light up when you enter them, so that adds to the intrinsic value of having permission to be behind the desks where citizens come to get questions answered.
 
I also took advantage of having an hour-long lunch. In the schools where I work by the time lunch is served and we’re working our chopsticks like elongated pinchers on a skinny crustacean, there’s only like 15 minutes to clear off my bento box. So lunchtime at the Board of Education is nice. I often walked to Shiroyama Park, sitting near the cherry trees and watching passersby as I slowly enjoyed my meal.
 
On my last day there before returning to school, a man from another section of the Education department approached me and my coworker, asking if we’d like to go for a walk. We agreed, and I was happy to have a local with whom to practice a few Japanese phrases. I don’t often get the nerve for that, so it was nice. I also made friends with a new employee in that same department, a quiet and sweet girl who walks like she wouldn’t give a damn if a pack of flaming wolves were chasing her. That’s just my take on it anyway.
 
On my first day back at school I was greeted to a rearranged staff room. Someone kindly pointed me to my desk, which isn’t too far from its old location. The teachers have shuffled around quite a bit; those who stayed now teach other grades, and the holes left by teachers that were sent to other schools have been seamlessly filled by teachers who came from other schools. Some of my favorite coworkers have gone, but a good number of them remain. And the new folks seem cool enough that I think we’ll get on just fine.
 
But not much has changed as far as the day-to-day darkness I feel. There are moments when I look around and, if I catch them, see teachers filing out of the staff room on their way to some ceremony or meeting, some of which I’m supposed to attend, and some of which I do attend if someone actually informs me that I’m supposed to attend. I ate lunch in solitude at my desk, as nobody informed me that the teachers would be eating together in another room in the building. The only way I had known it was lunchtime was from my clockwork hunger, which gets steadily more furious as the minutes of the morning pass along.
 
The rain has been hard and steady for the past few days, which makes my transit across the city less than ideal. My rain suit has a handsome gash in the crotch, and its overall waterproofing abilities are now in question. The hood does a fine job of keeping my hair dry while simultaneously feeding drops of water across my brow and onto my face. The same goes for the sleeves and pant cuffs; it’s as if I’m an organic house and my suit is my rain gutters, and my hands and feet are the lawn accepting all that channeled water.
 
Well, this has gotten a lot longer than I anticipated. ’Til next time.

Recently the back tire of my bicycle went flat. They both slowly lose air over time, but this time it would no longer hold any air. My friend recommended a bike shop near her apartment – there seem to be countless bicycle service and sales shops here – so I pushed my two-wheeled machine and met her there for repair.
 
The shop is on a corner, and when I arrived there was nobody around but several bicycles had been lined up along the guardrail outside. The sliding doors to a space no bigger than a large bathroom were open, and only a desk and a shelf of tools occupied the space. Who would leave everything open like that? I wondered. But then again, this is Japan, and the honesty of the people in this place is unparalleled.
 
Within a few minutes a tiny truck pulled up and a small man hopped out and walked our way. He must have been in his late sixties, and he marched with steady determination and a clear destination even though the limitations of age were apparent. His shoulders were wide and square as if he had been carved out of a block of wood. He acknowledged our presence without saying a word or looking us in the eye.
 
He walked up to my bike and again without a word, grabbed it and began looking it over. He showed me how the back tire had been worn down to threads, and our brief exchange gave him the go-ahead to replace and repair whatever was necessary. Without missing a beat he flipped the bike over and dragged out an old wooden toolbox, which looked to show about as much wear as its owner. My friend left and the repairman offered me a seat next to his desk
 
Within moments there were pieces of bicycle metal, screws, nuts and bolts in a neat pile at his feet. He had done this a thousand times before, I was sure. Soon he had everything back together and I presented his payment. A slight bow and obligatory “hai, arigatou” followed, and the man went on with his day. And I rode away.

It’s a leap year, which means I have an extra day of either being an overachiever or slacking off unapologetically.
 
Recently I went with my coworkers on a weekend retreat in the mountains of Gifu Prefecture. I arrived at our junior high school at half past seven, and by 7:45am we were in a charter bus and on the road. Our bus driver did not say much of anything before, during, or after the drive. But the young woman accompanying him would be our guide, entertainer, and attendant for the duration of the trip, offering us games, refreshments, area facts, and a constant smile all weekend long.
 
Within 15 minutes of our departure we were offered various alcoholic beverages, of which many of the staff accepted, myself not included of course. I sat alone in row seven. Most of the people around me were paired up with someone. I spent the next several hours sitting by myself while my coworkers carried on and played group games I did not understand nor was invited to join.
 
As we climbed the hills and mountains towards our destination, the scene turned from dull and overcast to foggy, rainy and snowy. I attempted to nap at times, as there was little else to do and my head was hurting from wearing a pair of glasses with an old prescription.
 
We stopped for lunch at a restaurant and gift shop that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere; by now we were well into the hills and the roads had narrowed to pinpoint widths, even as other buses and trucks and cars passed in the opposite direction. The restaurant was on the second floor of the building and had one wall affixed with tall windows, creating a nice view of the mountains while letting in loads of light. The meal was a familiar nabe style with ten or so little dishes. While the food was good, I felt a little ill afterward.
 
Hours into the trip we stopped to sightsee, taking a cable car to a higher point on the mountain. We were intending to take yet another cable car – a double decker one – up even further, but were told the winds were too strong to safely transport us up to the top. So we settled for a small wildlife museum and more gift shopping.
 
I should note that in Japanese culture it is customary to purchase gifts called omiyage (oh-mee-ah-geh) for friends, family and coworkers back home. This seems to apply even if you travel only a few hours from home, or take any amount of time off for any number of reasons. My coworkers purchased gifts at nearly every rest stop and shop we came across. As for me, I spent all of $10 on someone else.
 
We arrived at our hotel by 5pm and were given number tags for our shoes and slippers for our feet. I had no idea what was going on as troops of teachers marched to different floors to take residence in various rooms, so I just walked with everyone until the school’s head of education said that we were sharing a room together along with the head teacher. Cool, so I’d be with important folks. In truth they probably didn’t know what else to do with me, and the shortest straw was drawn and that was that.
 
An older woman escorted us into a room with tatami floors and invited us to sit at a low table situated in the middle of the room. We were served hot tea and she began to explain all the perks and rules of the ryokan. The main draw for this place was its onsen – baths with hot spring water coming directly from the mountain. The reason for staying there was precisely this. The one thing I couldn’t do was join in. Why? Because I have tattoos. Japan has a long-standing aversion (discrimination, perhaps?) to tattoos as they had been associated with its underworld mobsters. And since I clearly look the part of a Japanese thug, there is little chance I can step into a public onsen anywhere in Japan. There are of course a few exceptions, but this was not one of them. So my two roommates decided to head to the onsen while I just...sat around. I wrote some postcards and eventually fell asleep on the floor, using a chair cushion as a pillow. When I woke up I found my two roommates had returned, and were also napping by the table.
 
At 6pm the staff met for dinner at another part of the building. Most of them were dressed in the hotel-provided yukata, since most of them went to the onsen. I was in my street clothes, since there was no onsen for tattooed me to enjoy. I was quickly asked to change into my yukata since there would be picture taking at some point. I obliged. A few others were asked the same, so I didn’t feel too bad about it.
 
Dinner was preceded by some speeches and a slideshow presentation about our principal, who will be retiring at the end of this school year. Dinner itself was pretty stellar – another nabe meal consisting of 15 or so courses that tingled and teased my tongue and palate in various ways. While everyone else sat where they chose, I had an assigned place since my vegetarian meal was arranged ahead of time. It was certainly very thoughtful of them, and I appreciated it. One dish in particular really wowed me. It was a plate of vegetables grilled to a divine black and topped with a flavorful, savory matcha tea sauce. I would have asked for the recipe had I known how to do it.
 
The thing about these group meals is that people don’t stay sitting at their places, but instead they get up and greet others. This usually begins with the visitor brandishing a bottle of alcohol (or tea in my case) and topping off the host’s glass, whether or not it is full. The host is to first take a sip of his glass, hold it out to be topped off, and take another sip before placing it back down. It is an interesting and kind cultural tidbit, however I really wanted to eat and did not enjoy being interrupted every few bites in order to have another obligatory sip of tea. Granted I enjoyed the visits, but my belly is only so big.
 
After dinner the troops dispersed. Many went to their rooms, while others went to drink more. I was abandoned in my room and decided to walk around the hotel a little. Situated between two connected buildings was a pond of koi – there must have been about 50 or so – featuring water cascading from the mountains. The buildings and connecting hallway had windows all around it so you could see the fish no matter where you were inside that part of the structure. I made my way to a lounge area, which I found quite peaceful. One of the teachers, who arranged the trip, wandered in and sat across from me. We chatted for nearly an hour, discussing the koi, the school, our families, hobbies. While the communication was a bit difficult at times, it was a nice way to end the evening. It was the first time that day that anyone spent any length of time talking with me.
 
When I returned to my room one of the teachers was laying half on his futon and half on the floor, almost as if he was shot to death and collapsed right there, in no planned way. I got ready for bed and fell asleep on my thin futon.
 
The next morning we had to be up early in order to get breakfast which was being served from 7am to 8am. After that we would check out and be on the bus by 8:30am. 8:30am didn’t happen as there was some picture taking and dillydallying and confusion and whatever. But 8:45 did happen, and off we went down the same twisty, narrow roads that led us to our mountain destination. Our main stop of the day was in Nagano to visit Matsumoto Castle. We had free time to wander around and get lunch on our own, and of course shop for gifts for those people left behind six hours away.
 
Many of us opted to take a self-guided tour of the castle, which consists of six floors but appears to only have five. This hidden floor, called a dark floor, has no windows and is designed to give the castle an appearance of having only five floors. It’s also much shorter than the normal room height, so one must crouch to navigate around in it. This floor was used by samurai to rest and to store food and weapons. The staircases on each floor are not connected and appear random. They are remarkably steep and were designed this way intentionally to make it more difficult for intruders to make their way up into the castle. Also, the king’s chamber was way up top, with very tall, steep, and narrow staircases leading to it. This again was to make it difficult to access in the event of an attack. Now that’s thinking ahead.
 
The castle also housed a gun museum consisting of a collection of arms and munitions that looked fancy, old, and too damn bulky and heavy to bother to carry around if you ask me.
 
During and after the tour one of the teachers and I hung out. I think in a way he had taken me along with him to keep me from getting lost or something, since my ability to communicate in Japan is presumably nonexistent. (Some teachers later said, when they hadn’t seen me during the afternoon, that they were worried that I might be lost and not make it back to the bus) We walked along the streets of the town, making our way to Frog Street, an old, narrow street with lots of vendors and cute little shops. And frog stuff everywhere.
 
I made it back to the bus well before we departed, taking my lonely seat and relaxing for the rest of the ride back to Sano. When we arrived outside of the school, everyone grabbed their luggage and dispersed with zero fanfare. And the day was over, and Monday came again.

Hello friends, and sorry for the delay.
 
Recently one of my pals here in Sano took a job in Tokyo. He’s an electrical engineer from Manchester and has been here around four years. It only makes sense that he would go to Tokyo, a city that offers a whole lot more of everything, in every way, at any time of the day. But I’ll miss having him around. He had a small going-away gathering. He took us to an Indian place he likes and then we went to his favorite little pub called Mahler’s Parlor, which is an appropriately named place for a British guy to favor, since it sounds so cute when he says it. Maaah-lah’s Paaah-lah. The space was exceptionally tiny, and even with the eight or so people there it was fairly crowded. But the vibe of the place was awesome, and I wish I had known about it sooner. Upon entering there was a makeshift cinderblock step that led to a raised floor that appeared to have been retrofitted in the space. The seating at the bar was low, and the bartenders stood behind it at the level of the original floor, making them eye-level with my knees when I was standing.
 
It was a Wednesday night and Mahler’s was hosting a Famicom (Japanese Nintendo) night. The selection of games was remarkable, and we had a blast challenging each other to Tetris and Pac-Man. I got a little frustrated with the two-player Tetris. I don’t remember it being so mean when my opponent got points. The pub also hosts music nights, yet I can’t imagine how crowded it must be on those nights. I am eager to attend one, but the only downside to this – and to most places like this – is the allowance of smoking inside the venue. I’m not a fan, and typically avoid such places. Even back home I would turn down gig offers if they were held at a venue that allowed smoking.
 
I also recently found out that another fellow employee and friend will be moving to Tokyo, as he too got a job there. What’s with this mass exodus? I get it though; Tokyo is pretty rad.
 
And then I found out that another friend’s girlfriend is with child, and they will soon be getting married. Why all this big news? Sheesh.
 
I am neither pregnant nor getting married, but I DID make an awesome batch of noodle soup the other week. So yeah, we’ve all got big things to report here in Japan.
 
On Valentine’s Day, Elizabeth and I ventured to a fancy little vegan restaurant tucked away in the middle of absolutely nowhere. And that’s hardly an exaggeration. We discovered the place online through a little bit of high-tech Google research. The restaurant boasted a daily vegan set meal, a dog café, and a dog park. Its location was near Utsunomiya, Tochigi prefecture’s largest city. I thought, “why not check it out for a little adventure?”
 
We left Sano around 9:30 in the morning, catching a train to Utsunomiya. With the transfers and wait times between trains, we arrived almost two hours later. We waited around the station for the number 62 bus, which would then take us somewhere near the restaurant. According to the website.
 
The bus arrived on schedule and we boarded. We were the only two foreigners on the bus. In fact, we were the only passengers on the bus. The driver still made all his announcements on the loudspeaker, assuming we could understand I guess. The ride was to take around 50 minutes, but we weren’t sure which stop to get off. We only knew the approximate arrival time and bus fare of that particular stop. About 20 or so minutes into the ride I approached the driver to ask about the stop, showing him a screen shot on Beth’s smart phone. (neither of us have a data plan) He pulled over and parked the bus, and had a good look at the map. He then got on the phone with someone – his boss or dispatch office, maybe – and proceeded to have a conversation lasting close to ten minutes. He came back on and explained something in Japanese, and I explained in Japanese that I don’t know Japanese, and he let out a very Japanese “EEEEEEHHHH!!!” and said in Japanese to the Japanese speaker on the other line, “he doesn’t speak Japanese!” This went on for a little while longer, but through gestures and a few words and pointing, we agreed he’d let us out when necessary. Whenever that was.
 
The bus pulled over but when we paid the fare, I noticed it was about 100 yen less than what our online research suggested it would be. Nonetheless we got off the bus and had a look around. A few houses, some buildings in the distance, dry fields waiting for the next planting season. A shrine here and there. We began walking. We walked for twenty minutes or so before admitting that we had very little chance of finding the restaurant in this manner. I dialed the number of the restaurant and took a deep breath. A woman answered the phone and said something friendly in Japanese. I responded in kind with a Japanese, “I’m lost.” She asked if this was Marshall Fischer. I said it was. I asked if she spoke English and she asked me to wait. A man, or a person with a manly voice at least, got on the phone. We couldn’t pinpoint exactly where we were, so he offered to have us picked up at the nearby Seven Eleven. Nearby, as in I remember seeing it as the bus passed by shortly before letting us off. We now had to walk in the direction whence we came and hope to be identified by someone there.
 
We arrived at the venerable convenience store chain and were greeted by a cute woman in a cute hat cutely running towards us and waving. We hopped in the car and proceeded up the road to the restaurant. The car ride lasted about eight or nine minutes, which by my made-up calculations means we would have been walking for days before we had any chance of finding the place.
 
The parking lot was full, and inside there was a class in session on chocolate making. There are regular events and workshops held in the restaurant’s space, and since it was Valentine’s Day it made sense to have a class on chocolate. A little note about Japanese Valentine traditions: men do not typically do or get anything for women, but women get chocolates for men. They also will give them to friends and other members of their family. I explained the Western practices to some of my junior high students and they seemed floored by the concept.
 
We were promptly seated at a table near the end of the dining area. The restaurant had a very open floor plan yet was cozy and inviting. Part of the space was dedicated to handicrafts and artisan goods – natural soaps, jewelry, hair accessories, socks, cookware – while another section was reserved for foodstuffs available for purchase, including pastas, sauces, marinades, and oils. The long walls of the building had tall, almost floor-to-ceiling windows, which coupled with a few skylights allowed for ample natural light.
 
We both opted for a set lunch with a bread option versus rice. Our meals arrived on large wooden platters that could have been cutting boards. Each item had its place on the platter followed by a place in my belly. The food was delicious, as I have come to expect from these specialty places. The only thing I didn’t eat was the small grilled onion half that adorned the center of my platter. Onions and I don’t get along so well, but I wasn’t about to complain to anyone about it.
 
The dessert was a sort of fruit salad in a smooth, creamy blueberry sauce. There were pieces of yuzu, which I have long ago decided I don’t care for that much as they are very tart and lack the sweetness I appreciate in my citrus fruits. The rest of the dessert was decent, although I wouldn’t have ordered it off a menu to be honest. Beth enjoyed it I think.
 
Our hostess came to us and explained that the owner would give us a ride to a nearby train station when we were finished. After eating we perused the shop and picked up a few items from the food section. We were asked to wait for just a few more minutes, which was beyond okay with us. The owner, who was also the hands behind our meals, pulled up his car and we got in. He said, “Let’s go!” Beth responded, “Oh, do you speak English?” He laughed and said he didn’t. We rode to the train station, having a nice if not limited English/Japanese conversation on the way there. How long have you had the restaurant? How old are you? Any kids? How long have you been in Japan?
 
We arrived at the station with about seven minutes to spare before the train would arrive. Our generous chef/driver refused an offer of money for his hospitality; Japan is very much a no-tipping culture, and it can even be seen as rude or an insult to one’s profession or service. We stood on the platform and after a few minutes our new friend ran down the stairs, handing me the bag of goods I purchased at the restaurant and left in his car by mistake. I felt so embarrassed. We had to have been such an inconvenience to all of them, yet they went above and beyond to accommodate and treat us unbelievably well. I will ask you now, reader, to think of a time when you received such service in the United States. I sadly doubt you have. Yet this continues to be the status quo in Japan. Instead, we have the 2016 presidential election campaign.

​Here's my platter:

Here are some pictures of my view every Friday on my bicycle ride home from my elementary school.

Hello friends. Happy New Year! You are probably asking yourself, “Self, I wonder what Mars has been up to lately?” I will do my best to answer that. I predict this will be a little dull, but as always there are pretty pictures to check out.
 
Christmas was spent with some friends and coworkers. My friend/coworker/pseudo boss mentor lady from New Zealand and her Japanese husband hosted a lovely dinner at their place. It was a low-key event with nice conversation and more food than we could handle. This was the second Christmas Day in a row that I did not spend with family. Last year I went to my former boss’s house for dinner, since my family wasn’t having any gathering. I think my mother may have been working that day.
 
Beth got me a chiropractic appointment for Christmas, and amusingly enough I got her a massage at a local spa. Our friend LeeAnne, ever the superwoman that she is, gave us fun and thoughtful gifts and also earlier in the month made chocolate candies individually wrapped - and an advent calendar for us.
 
We spent a few days in Tokyo for the New Year, which was fun. The city continues to amaze me in its size and offerings of everything. You want a bunny café? Tokyo. Cat café? No problem. Robot restaurant? Got ‘em. Owl café? You betcha.

One of this trip’s highlights was the Tokyo Sky Tree, a 600-plus-meter broadcasting tower with two observation decks: one at 350 meters and the other at 450 meters. The amount of pedestrian traffic is incredible; 10,000 tickets are sold daily. Being foreigners, we were allowed to access the Fast Track ticketing counter, meaning we didn’t have to wait in the long lines with everyone else. My inclination was to go there after dark, when we could see the city lit up in all its glory. My inclination was spot on. It’s difficult to realize just how massive the city really is until you can view it from a quarter mile above the ground. Tokyo is a sprawling, gigantic place. Including all of its surrounding wards and regions, Tokyo has almost 40 million residents. You read that right. 40 million. Big place.
 
The elevator from the fourth floor rockets its passengers to the first observation deck in a matter of a few moments. A screen indicates how fast that metal box is jettisoning into the sky, and numbers showing each floor change so quickly it’s dizzying. But lots of things make me dizzy.

​On the second deck there was a special Star Wars exhibit, there until sometime in February. It wasn’t as impressive as I had hoped, but seemed more like a way to promote exclusive merchandise – some of which was available for purchase at the gift shop. Listen closely: it’s the sound of me not batting an eye in surprise.

​Christmas, while certainly celebrated and present, is not that big of a deal in Japan. The New Year, however, is the most important holiday in the entire country. We stayed around Asakusa, a neighborhood with which I’m now well acquainted. Sensoji, a very famous shrine which I mentioned in an earlier post, is located there, and on New Year’s Eve thousands upon thousands of visitors lined up to pray for the next year. Normally a scene like this would have me quite on edge. Lots of people can mean lots of trouble. Rowdiness, aggression, violence, what have you. It’s what I would expect from such an event in the United States. But here, there was none of that. People were orderly when queueing for the temple. Nobody shoved anyone. They smiled, took pictures, waited patiently, apologized if they got in the way. Everyone seemed genuinely happy, and nobody was anything less than friendly. This is one of the things about Japan I will miss the most. I am preparing for reverse culture shock upon my return. I am not looking forward to the subpar customer service, the lack of enthusiasm and service from restaurant servers who still expect a tip, the aggressive drivers, shoppers, cyclists, dog walkers. Japan has none of that, by my observation.
 
Oh yeah, we also went on a rickshaw ride.
 
On New Year’s Day we went shopping. Or rather we went to where there were places that normally sell things but were closed because the New Year is really important and everything shuts down. The streets that were bustling a day before were now eerily quiet, save for a few hopeful tourists. So instead we walked around and didn’t shop. First we attempted to go to Ochanomizu, an area known for its dozens of music shops. All closed. Then we trekked to Ginza, a neighborhood of Tokyo, which has lots of shops and restaurants and people dressed as their dogs. Everything was closed except for a tax-free shop. It was really busy, probably because everyone had nowhere else to go to look for the incredible deals that are rumored to surface after the New Year. Oh well, a penny saved, eh?
 
Before departing Tokyo we went to get our bags from the hotel and ended up spending some time there to try our hand at calligraphy. One of the employees got us set up with paper and brushes. She was a cute and cheery woman dressed in a kimono for the occasion, and she praised our craftsmanship (but I think she would have praised anything we came up with; our work wasn’t that great).

​A few weeks ago a Japanese friend and members of the city’s cultural exchange organization hosted a cooking class for a Beth, Melissa and me. There are several community kitchens in the area, which leads me to wonder if few people have ovens. I can’t believe I’m the only one lacking the ability to bake.
 
There were two menus for the day, and the dishes that were prepared were traditional Japanese foods usually eaten for the New Year (we were just a little ahead of schedule, no biggie). While the locals did most of the preparation, we did get to get our hands dirty and learned how to prepare some of the food. There is a certain radish that is sliced in such a way that it resembles a mum. Carrots and other root vegetables are cut in beautiful little flower shapes. Taste is paramount, but presentation is just as important.
 
I also attended a performance by a local orchestra and choir. A coworker sings in the choir and she gave me two tickets. I went with my friend Natascha, who lives in the apartment below along with her husband and adorable one-year-old daughter. Having recently obtained my international driving permit, I drove their car. Only once did I accidently reach for the wipers when I meant to go for the turn signal. Driving on the other side of the road in the opposite seat isn’t really that difficult but after doing something one way for nearly twenty years, it’s easy to form habits. You ever move into a new place and reach for the bathroom light but have to keep reminding yourself it’s on the other side of the wall? Same thing really. Only you’re in a moving vehicle with other cars and people all around you.
 
I also went to see the new Star Wars film on opening day. A group of friends met for dinner at my favorite place, Hamazushi. It’s got the conveyor belt sushi and it’s unbelievably cheap. At most you’ll pay \150 – about $1.20 – for any roll. Most are only about 80 cents. The same meal here that costs me the equivalent of $8.00 would cost me about $30 in the States (again, plus tip).
Our friend Ben, who’s from Manchester, bought the tickets in advance. In Japan, you are assigned a seat at the cinema. You are also offered a lap blanket, and provided a storage locker for your belongings while you are in the theater. We opted for the 4Dx experience. A 4D movie is a 3D movie with the addition of added effects. When there’s an explosion on screen, your seat pulses and vibrates and additional lights flash in the theater. When you’re in the cockpit of an X-Wing Fighter or the f*** yeah Millenium Falcon, the seat sways, leans, turns, and so on. When the characters are standing in the rain, you get rained on (note that there is an option to turn off your assigned chair’s water, but you still get overspray). And when it snows, something weird happens and it looks like there’s snow falling at the front of the theater, which was really trippy. As far as the film, it was awesome, and if you haven’t seen it I don’t want to spoil anymore. From this post you already know there’s gonna be inclement weather and starships and battle action. I wouldn’t want to reveal anything else.