Really? Charlottesville?

Macrobiotic Restaurant Owner:“Where did you learn Japanese?”

Me:“Virginia”

Macrobiotic Restaurant Owner (hereinafter MBO):“Oh, your Japanese is very good!”

[Aside:this comment is basically filler. A Japanese person will tell you this if you know 2 words, for example, "Konnichi-wa" and "Toyota".That is one of the reasons why the first scene between Uma Thurman and Sonny Chiba in “Kill Bill” is so great.]

MBO:"Wait, did you say Virginia? I’ve been looking for someone from Virginia. You see, I have this dream of learning to make soy cheese. One time my friend brought me some soy cheese from San Fransisco, and I tried it, and I kept the box for my favorite one. It says that it comes from a place called Charlottesville. Do you know this place?"

[Let me stop here again:it was hard enough for ME to find HIM.His restaurant is off the beaten path to say the least, northwest of Harajuku.I basically had an address:Jingumae 2-18-5. That's it. Nothing else. I had to simply find it using the address. So here’s a quick lesson in reading Japanese addresses.Jinguemae is short for Meijijingumae, which translates roughly as “in front of the Meiji…um…jingu.”2 is the ward #, so you just find the 2nd Jingumae ward.Use your map.Not the one in Lonely Planet/Frommer’s/anywhere.You have to buy the one map I found that lists Tokyo by wards.OK, now that you’ve found ward #2, find the 18th block.Don’t worry, they are easy to find.The 18th is across from the 30th.Found it? Good.Now find the 5th building.These wards are each as much as 500 years old, so the numbering might not be exact. Don't bother asking for help. No one can help you, because the truth is that no one understands the system. That's why most buildings don't even POST THEIR DAMN ADDRESS ON THE BUILDING.]

One of the Edo-Tokyo Museum's dioramas of old an old Edo Ward, in this case, Ryogoku.

Ryogoku was later burned to the ground by a guy who couldn't find his friend's apartment because the address system was too damn confusing.

Me:"Wait, I’m FROM Charlottesville."

MBO:"Really? Oh, maybe you could help me. Here is the address of the company. It is called 'Sunergia'. I would like them to send me some samples and help me learn to make soy cheese for Japan.I would like to travel there and stay and learn to make soy cheese."

[Again, I need to point out that I’m just outside Hara-freakin’-juku.This is the teenage girl/I-swear-they-are-not-gay-but-they-sure-look-it-guy capital of the world.This place is famous the world over for being the fashion capital of Japan, and at various times, the world.It is also not a place for 2 government lawyers from Charlottesville, Virginia to find dinner.But back when I thought my brother would be joining us, I found a few vegetarian places and stored the addresses.“Why not find one?”I thought.]

Me: " Well, here’s my name, email address, and phone number. I will find the company for you and we will see if they will teach you to make soy cheese. And then you can come to Charlottesville."

So there you go – if any of you reading this know someone who can make soy cheese, or knows Sunergia, Inc. in C’ville, let me know, and I will let my man Mr. Yamada know we have a plan. If you want to put him up at your house, he's a damn good chef. Otherwise, he may have to wait another 20 years for someone dumb enough or lost enough to go looking for his shop who is also from Charlottesville, Virginia.

Sasuke

Look, I have the utmost respect for Japanese culture. I know that's usually a prelude to someone saying something horrible. Usually, it's an anesthetic for some hideously offensive comment. "I have the utmost respect for the Muslim religion. But it is the work of the devil and intends only evil." "I have the utmost respect for Bob in accounting. But he is a goat-molesting simpleton who couldn't wash his hair if he were meeting the Queen of England."

But really, I do respect Japan. It's just that I'm on vacation and for all the temples and museums, I have to see some ninjas or this trip really isn't going to be worth it. I paid a lot of money to get here, and while I'm not expecting the final scene from "You Only Live Twice" a little fanservice would be appreciated.

So yesterday we hit the Sasuke challenge at Muscle Park, a venue created by the same guy who created G4's "Ninja Warrior," which actually is a real show in Japan on TBS. And people know about it - the line was quite long, although I had the good fortune to be in line with a guy from Oregon (he was in WAY better shape than I am).

If you haven't seen it before, then go watch it. You'll understand in about 5 minutes. If you don't have cable (Sonia) then a brief explanation. A series of increasingly difficult physical challenges are set up in a series designed to break the strongest of men. Olympic athletes regularly fail. In fact, normally almost everyone fails. And then they apologize to everyone for their failure. It's so Japanese.

Anyway, it was awesome. I did horribly, of course. The "dreaded 'salmon ladder'" really is as horribly difficult as it appears. I watched one guy all day tackle it and survive. But no one was able to make it through the course. I chose to retreat to the "workout challenge" which was a set of timed situps, pushups, and pullups. Heck, that's a morning at SeatTeamPT - that I can handle.

But Odaiba, as I had been warned, it otherwise a horrible cesspool of sanitzed consumer hell. I realize Japan is a consumer culture, and that Japanese people love things to be clean, but there is a way in which these things are combined in Odaiba that is disgusting. It is basically just a giant Palisades Mall. We escaped as soon as we could.

This is where I am reminded why I like traveling with A. "Where do you want to go?" "Akihabara." Awesome. Off to the land of electronics and maid cafes. Annie took all the maid cafe pictures (no, we didn't go inside one) so I'll hold off on discussing them until later, except to say that I have completely changed my mind about what they are all about. Maid cafes are for women, not men, and they are about play, not...well, you know.

Akasaka is home to expensive clothing shops, and is just west of Minato-Ku and the center of government for the island nation of Japan. But hidden beyond the Akasaka-Mitsuke subway stop is, well, a ninja restaurant. I made a reservation here not knowing exactly what to expect, even more so because I did not, in fact, make the reservation. One advantage of having a concierge at a hotel is that they can turn your 2nd year Japanese ("I like ninjas. I want to eat with ninjas. Thursday. At night.") into actual Japanese ("Please excuse my interruption. I would humbly like to request that you establish a reservation for two of my honored guests at your establishment. Please excuse me. Is 8 pm not available? Oh, thank you very much. Please excuse me. Then I will tell my guests that the reservation is 8 pm on Thursday. Please excuse me. Thank you very much.)

A expected something on the order of a pirate-themed restaurant in Orlando, and I guess I figured maybe 2 steps above that. What we got was a cross between whatever the best restaurant you've ever been to in your life was, and a cave run by ninjas.

First step was finding the place, which would have been nearly impossible if Japan did not place maps of anywhere you are every 30 feet - wait - 30 meters? (Damn metric system). Second step was introducing ourselves to the woman who was clearly the maitre d' (a podium and a microphone-headset are a dead giveaway - bad disguise). Third step was convincing them that we spoke enough Japanese to get treated like Japanese guests. Since my Japanese is still terrible, I used my tried-and-true trick of making a couple of stupid jokes that only a middle-aged dad would make. No one learns these jokes in their "Lonely Planet" book because they are otherwise useless, and also, not funny.

I really wish I could have videotaped what happened next, because basically the wall opened up and some ninja girl jumped out, kneeled on the ground in a ninja-crouch and blathered on something about being in training and honored guests and follow her. Oh, and the entire night everyone called A "Hime-sama" (Princess). Lead through elaborate darkened hallways, past a trap door (I'm not kidding) we reached our own private room where we were presented with a menu in Japanese (for me) and a menu in English (for A.)Now, I'm in Japan to speak Japanese and chew bubblegum, and I'm all out of bubblegum. But one look at this menu and I started to cry. This was not Japanese like in some Azumanga Daioh cartoon ("oh, I forgot my homework." "Baka!" "You are mean!"). Each dish had a unique "ninja" name, either playing on words or colorfully describing the dish in some elaborate code. ("Sinister Lobster concealed within Shimmering Tofu of Camembert"). And there were dozens of these dishes.

Look, describing the rest of the night is almost impossible. So I'll give you 3 quick sentences to convey what happened next. Ninja magic show. Food to match the best New York restaurants. Best meal ever.

I love Japan.

Kamakura

The Japanese word for “wheelchair-accessible” is “Ganbatte!”.In fact, forget wheelchair-accessible.I’m fairly certain that the places I visited yesterday would not have been accessible to me save for 6 months of daily SealTeamPT training.And I was gasping for air near the top of these stairs.“Oh, those stairs?They don’t look so bad, Jay.”Yeah, I know.Those are the stairs that lead to the other stairs, which then lead to the stairs that take you to the third set of stairs.

When you are tired, you get to a little water station.

This water will serve as a temptation to give up and return while you do the next set of stairs.

I think Kenchoji actually means "stairs" in Japanese. (actually, the real word for stairs is "kaidan" which sounds alot like "kwaidan" which is a word for "ghost story" and I think I was about to become another one of those.) In any event, if you are not yet dissuaded, about 20 of these Tengu statues will look at you like you are nuts while you ascend the next set of stairs. There, some old man will pass you because you are taking too long.Then, after more stairs, you will get to the top and realize that you just climbed an entire mountain looking over Kamakura.And think, “I bet there wasa sign that warned this trip was long, but I was too busy making up Kansai-ben jokes when we learned those Kanji in class.”

Shinjuku is one of the twenty-odd wards of Tokyo, sort of like a neighborhood in NYC (the Village, Soho, ESPN sports-zone, etc.).It has more residents than most cities in Virginia, over 300,000, and to me seems packed with foreigners for some reason.It’s also almost 400 years old, not that you could tell from all the neon and Ella Fitzgerald blasting from the towering department stores.

It’s also a great place to get your Bulgari sunglasses, or fried octopus, or soak your feet in a pool of fish at a spa, or pay a woman 1000 yen to talk to you for a ½ hour, or buy a straw hat, which is apparently the fashion this week because 1/3 of all the young women and 1/5 of the men are wearing the freakin’ things.

With that in mind, I had planned this trip to include a trip to Kamakura, which is a city thought to be about 1000 years old and was the 4th largest city in the world – in 1200 A.D.We had done the temple visiting to death in Kyoto, but I thought it would be a break from giant cat mascots and flashing neon bananas. Kamakura is about 31 miles from Tokyo and, of course, has train stops all along the way at various sights, so it couldn’t (seem) easier.

It was easy – to get to, that is.But once we got to the temples, I knew we needed to split up inside each complex.If A has a special reserve of energy for shopping, I have a special reserve of energy for temple-viewing.I can be so tired that I can’t move, so hot that my shirt is 80% water, and be unable to finish a complete sentence, but I am going to go up that hill and see what’s up there.Hell, in 5 days I’m going to be back in my office listening to some defense attorney whine about how some criminal deserves a 2nd/3rd/4th/20th chance.

Why?Because you never know the treasures that you will find halfway across the world in a tiny corner of a forgotten part of a nearly forgotten building.We didn’t do the “forgotten-temple” tour that I did in Dazaifu last year; that would have killed A and probably me too.But even an Engakuji, there were tiny moments of beauty.

I’ve been doing martial arts on and off (mostly off) for almost 20 years.

I’ve liked some of our workout spaces more than others.But seriously, Japan takes an unfair advantage.I found a group of Kyudo (archery) practitioners who study in an actual Zen Buddhist temple, founded in 1282.I could have spent the rest of my trip just watching them.

But then again, we still needed to go to the beach. Fortunately, it's only a 15 minute walk from the Giant Buddha statue.

The enormous feet of Japan

“There are a lot of Miss Havisham-like characters in this town.”

A made this comment the first day, and I realized had never really noticed it before. Maybe I thought it was some elaborate form of cosplay, or maybe I was too busy trying to remember that cars come from the other side of the road and that I needed to just follow the “Don’t Walk” signs, instead of Jaywalking (I know, I’m always “Jay-walking” ha ha had I’ve only heard that since I was 5).

But these women display this sort of odd distaste for contact with the world that recurs throughout Japanese customs. Wearing different slippers to the bathroom, never wearing your shoes into the changing room at the clothing shop, even keeping your dog in a stroller to protect it from walking on the ground. You can just put your money in a little tray at any store if you want to avoid directly transferring money to the shop clerk. And forget the wrapping on food and utensils. Even a banana comes individually wrapped.

Truthfully, I don’t get it. A thinks it's some sort of sun-avoidance strategy, because pale skin is deemed desirable. But seriously, it’s 100 degrees outside and everyone’s dying. Ok, I get the umbrella – it’s just a big hat. But gloves and black arm sleeves? I’m not sure what they are protecting themselves from. In the last 2 months 60,000 people have been treated for heatstroke in Tokyo and 65 have died. But maybe it’s just me. My real fear is that it, like every other Japanese phenomenon, will travel the same path as everything else I’ve noticed about Japanese habits. My observations tend to follow the same pattern: Step One: That thing is crazy. Step Two: Ok, maybe I understand it now. Step Three: Where the hell is my damn ___? I can’t go out without it!.

It happened with the carrying a handkerchief. I thought I would never do such a foolish thing. Then I started carrying one, and when I forgot it yesterday I found about 8 different occasions when I wished I had one.

A has beaten the Japanese. Sure, they have clothes she can buy everywhere, and I lost her in Shimotka for hours after I was certain we were both dead tired. I, for one, could barely hold onto my “We are SMAP!” commemorative sports drink. And she looked vacant as a 40-year old filing clerk listening to Enya. But when we reached Shimo-Kitazawa (“Shimotka” for short; everything is shortened in Japanese. Even Brad Pitt’s name – “Brappo”), suddenly she found some secret reserve of energy every woman stores for shopping. 2 hours later we met up again. I was in the same place she had left me. She had 9 new pieces of clothing.

But back to my point. We started the day in Ueno to find shoes. Running shoes, to be exact. A has small feet, I know, but this is Japan for cryin’ out loud. So they had to have shoes in her size, right?

WRONG.

The shop clerks actually didn’t believe me when I told them how big her feet were. They were sure that my Japanese was bad; which it is, of course, but I had made sure to at least get her size right. 21.5 centimeters. Nothing. No shoes for her. Not at any of the incredibly hard to find specialty running stores we had traveled across the world to a country where everyone is tiny to find. Not a thing.

Well, it is the first place I’ve ever seen A drink two beers. It helped that the beers were tiny too.

Rafter Ninjas

If I am getting better at being in Japan, why is it that I keep making the same mistakes? Somehow I again found myself bowing profusely and repeating “moshiwakearimasen” to a subway attendant. Apparently the custom I just invented of getting into the station at Ginza, guiding your wife to Roppongi, and then taking the train back yourself and getting out the same place you got in does not exist in Japan. This action instead demonstrates some nefarious purpose, at least to confuse the machine that reads my Suica prepaid card. And in Japan, you do not confuse the robots.

I know it’s only Tuesday, but I seriously freaking out that we are not going to be able to do everything by Saturday night. The fact that we already have blisters and our bodies are aching from walking is not the issue. Part of it is that we get tired by 10 pm and Japan does not. Tsutaya, the Japanese version of Barnes & Noble, is open until 2 am. No wonder we can’t compete…

I think we have a myth about Japan that Japanese people do not express themselves as openly as Americans do. Except in direct conversation, I have seen quite the opposite. We started yesterday at Akasaka near an ancient temple, where we found a tiny restaurant built in the old style. It was started by a guy who played the Shamisen, which is sort of an ancient guitar. After he brought us the most delicious 12-item bento boxes I have ever been in the presence of, he sat down to play while we ate. Forget the music for a minute – the food was amazing. Sushi, cooked fish, tempura – everything was perfect. I have no idea what the raw things were – one thing was in a hermit-crab shell. Whatever it was, it was delicious. People ask me why I don’t eat sushi, and the truth is, I don’t like it – in America. Somehow it tastes different in Japan. Or maybe I’m just afraid to offend the guy playing the Shamisen. It is entirely possible there are ninjas in the rafters waiting with blow darts if I spit out the wrong thing.

And, by the way, the whole thing cost less than a trip to Saint Maartens on the UVa corner.

When the day starts with something so exquisite, it only makes sense that we went to a club to see a Beatles tribute band. If there is something more fun than watching 4 Japanese men perform “A Day in the Life” like they were on stage at the Albert Hall I haven’t found it yet. But then again, it’s only Tuesday and I have a piece of paper next to me that says “7/29 Mr. [Lastname] [Firstname] Ninja Restaurant Akasaka”

Pantomime Elvis

People often ask us why we are going back to Japan after I just went last summer and we both went in November. I think it’s because it’s basically a giant Disneyland and we have yet to go on all the rides. But when you can go to Denny’s and get Korean-stle nan myung, spaghetti, gyoza, and French onion soup all at the same time, the question itself seems rather stupid. The menu provides a wide selection of hamburgers, udon, hotpot and okonomiyaki selections, at reasonable prices. They should make one of these in America…

We fell asleep last night to a show on the History channel about the History of Odysseus. A person who did not, in fact, exist. A history based upon a book that is actually fiction. Did anyone else notice that the History channel has slowly started telling completely fictional stories?

Of course, I’m in Japan, the land where the real and the pantomime are barely separated. I’m not reporting anything new to everyone who knows Shibuya and Harajuku, but I guess I thought the dancing Elvis impersonators had to be a myth. There is no way that people would dress up in leather pants and dance in the 98 degree heat while wearing 15 lbs of hair product….oh…wait….

They were actually pretty good, and despite their almost certain heat exhaustion danced their hearts out. Truthfully, I preferred the poodle-skirt dancers.

But that’s pantomime. Real Japan is inside the park, where Yoyogi is this amazing retreat for a land where most people live with 3 other people in an apartment the size of my college dorm room. The sort of place that would go for $300 a month in Charlottesville (or $2k per month in Manhattan). Yoyogi, which is a sprawling open space, is where you can finally go to have some space to do whatever you like, be that learning to walk a tightrope, playing cello backwards, or practicing your comedy routine.

These are the reasons I love Japan. For A, it’s really the shopping and the food. Of course, in this country, A is a size 2 – which means that there are many people smaller than her. She bought her first pair of Capri pants yesterday, at least the first that didn’t just look, well, like pants. I just get to wander and take in the daily lives of people who don't realize that "Jersey Shore" is a documentary.

Shibuya is amazing in almost every respect, and I could have spent all day walking through its warrens of tiny restaurants and amazing little shops. Not to mention the endless underground food courts in the department stores. But after walking for almost 12 hours in the 95 degree + heat, I started to feel chilly and my fingers felt oddly numb. After about an hour of that I decided it was a sign, so we hobbled back to the hotel and called it a night.

Made it

I've finally reached Shinjuku, the first place in Japan I ever wanted to visit 20 years ago when I first caught the bug. The hotel is beautiful, built only 2 years ago and already the winner of "best hotel of the year" in some travel-website competition. The staff is bilingual and advertises themselves as such, making the hotel ideal for Annie, but they could have put us in an engineering access tube for the elevator shaft and I'd love the place because they spoke to me entirely in Japanese. Of course now I have no idea where anything is.

One of the dangers of deciding it’s more fun to use the local language and not simply stay at the Hyatt in Orlando is that when you walk into your hotel room and the lights don’t turn on, you won’t know why.She probably explained it to me, or it was written on the various signs written in Japanese around the hotel. Either way, when we walked it we hit every switch we could find, only, no lights.

Fortunately, I had my flashlight on me. Once again, this is one of those moments when people often yell at me, asking "Are you crazy?? Why do you carry a flashlight/ducttape/a knife" everywhere???" Usually, this question is asked at a moment that tends to answer the question on its own, like Andrew asking while I am fixing his sunroof on the way to Virginia Beach, or, in this case, standing in a dark hotel room on the other side of the planet. In this case, it revealed that you have to stick your room key in this device for the lights and AC to come on. No leaving everything on all day while we wander around town, I guess....

Still, no mastery of Japanese or the plots to the first 3 seasons of MacGuyver has given me the insight to figure out what this is. The room has a kitchen, microwave, hairdryer, iron, TV, computer set-up, etc. etc. And this. What the heck is it? I have turned it over, shaken it, flipped the handles, and it doesn't do anything. It takes batteries, or it plugs into the wall, but it doesn't open. It has handles on the bottom too, and it can stand on its side. And the hotel thought it such an important amenity to include it at no charge. This is the first time I've stayed at a hotel in Japan, and I'm not trying to be ungrateful, but seriously - what the hell is this thing?

I have no illusions, however, about what this is. I'm just not sure I'm into using it.

Well, at least the place has a person I can talk to, unlike my apartment in Fukuoaka, or was built after the invention of electricity, unlike our place in Kyoto. And it comes with his and her kimonos.

Of course, despite the language differences, this place is incredibly user-friendly. We got to the express train to Shinjuku with no trouble at all after landing in Narita. The train announcements were in English, Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. The signs clearly marked everything and we could have made it with no language at all, since the pictures were completely clear. Much easier, say, then trying to get from Terminal 7 to Terminal 1 at JFK in Brooklyn.

I realize America isn't designed for foreigners, but shouldn't it at least be user friendly for someone who doesn't actually work at the airport? 3 people told us that the way from Terminal 7 to Terminal 1 was the train, but each decided not to share that the tracks were out of service and the train, in fact, wasn't running that day. After waiting for the train that wasn't coming, some TSA guy getting off his shift told us we had to take the train to Howard freakin' Beach, then get back on the airport train and ride back to the airport the other direction. We'd still be at Kennedy now if not for him. Not that it would have been all that bad - Terminal 1, the foreign carrier terminal, has some of the best Korean food we've had on vacation.