#turned my commute into a silent hill comic

[lesbiots]

[paintingmymoon]

The magic of trees and shrines, and a Moroccan man who bought us donuts

In February, last year, after posting clothes and textbooks from my hostel back to my hometown, I celebrated the completion of my final two Masters courses over a long weekend in Japan with Jess. Here is an account of our adventure:

Friday, 23:35PM: The taxi driver is exasperated because I’m fumbling over my hostel address in Korean. Unfortunately, skipping a red robot in his attempt to get rid of me lands him a hefty fine. Stuck halfway to my destination, and the taxi driver is still trying to convince the policeman that it’s the foreigner’s fault. See, I am SOMEWHAT competent in Korean. I ponder walking the rest of the way, and offer the taxi driver W10,000 to see what he thinks. He hurls his wallet and some profanities at me, so I trudge all the way up the hill to Jess.

Saturday, 5:50AM: Me, Jess and luggage are slumped on a dark pavement with the shuttle’s disappearing tail lights casting us all in a rosy glow. We’re too terrified to venture into Incheon Airport teeming with more people than should ever be awake at ANY hour, let alone this one.

Saturday, 7:10AM: Four failed self-check-in attempts later and all three of us (luggage weighs as much as a medium-sized human) are at the end of a queue winding itself around Section H of the domestic departure floor three times. No sign of the check-in counters from here, 30 minutes before check-in closes. Holiday contingency plan?

Saturday, 10AM: We’ve discovered the only Korean in Narita Airport and she’s serving us in a shiny little pharmacy. Got anything to subdue our still galloping hearts, on account of almost failing to arrive at this charming airport? Nah, just some toilet paper, actually. Can’t have our bums blasted with miniature hoses once we’ve finished our business, and nothing with which to dry them before pulling up our pants. We make our way to the bathrooms, armed and prepared, delighted to be able to thank the Korean in a language much more familiar to us than Japanese.

Saturday, 11:45AM: Eventually find the train station, only to discover we have the wrong tickets. Acquire correct ones, only to have Asakusa station gobble Jess’s ticket on arrival, barring our entrance to the suburb in which our hostel resides. Train station officials would rather we missed our flight.

Saturday, 16:10PM: Leave our closet of a hostel room (albeit with a delightful view of the Sumida River and a golden turd, better known as the Asahi Flame) in favour of Akihabara, home for those with an obsessive interest in everything anime and manga. Japan actually has a word for people like this/Jess: otaku. Get lost on the way to this cultural centre, obviously. But, fortunately, a cheerful old man, seemingly unfazed by his lack of teeth, points us towards the costumed coupon girls and giant, flashing billboards. He is unfazed, even, when we thank him in Korean. Oops.

Saturday, 19:50PM: Despite our dwindling energy, we decide we have to see Tokyo from the sky. One snaking queue and a 350-meter elevator ride later, Jess and I are gawking down at the capital of Japan from a fair way up the tallest structure in the country. Lights, lights, lights as far as the eye can see them.

Sunday, 7:30AM: Jess wakes with body aches and a fever. Not sure how I managed to avoid the chills – I was the idiot who went to bed damp in 5°C, on account of having dried myself with the communal bathroom’s shower mat. Note to self: ALWAYS pack a towel.

Sunday, 11:00AM: I’m breakfasted, Jess is drugged and we’ve successfully navigated the train system to Shinjuku. But this station is so enormous, our navigational triumphs grind to a halt. Attempts to locate the intercity bus terminal keep landing us back at the local bus stop, and since a ticket booth is far beyond this country (commuters load payments onto a card using a talking machine), there is no one to ask for directions. A sign for JR lifts our spirits: the express bus company we discovered online! (About the only thing we bothered to discover online) But, alas, all buses are chock-a-block. A quivering, weak mess of a Jess cowers in a corner of Burger King while I follow her Maps App to the next nearest JR.

Sunday, 13:30PM: My legs are wobbly, and Jess is passed out on her food tray, but, get this: I have our overnight bus tickets to Kyoto dramatically pressed against my chest as I launch myself triumphantly into the fast food chain. With nine hours until departure, we catch a train to Harajuku, nailing the subway system for the first time. Well, almost. Jess drops her ticket into the wrong machine, but it doesn’t count. She’s barely able to lift her feet to follow me around Tokyo.

Sunday, 15:05PM: I’m not sure if it’s the forest of evergreen trees towering above me, or the fact that I’ve just purified my hands at a fountain using a ladle of bamboo, or perhaps that we’ve just stumbled straight into a traditional wedding procession, but Meiji Shrine has me wrapped in its awe and delicate beauty. The newlyweds link arms, and I bow in front of the shrine entrance, vowing to harmonise with nature and be pure of heart.

Sunday, 20:25PM: It’s way past rush hour, but Shibuya Crossing is a sea of activity - a far jump from the serenity we’ve just left. For a whole, bewildering minute every robot cycle, this intersection is for people instead of cars. As all lights turn red, in every direction, hundreds of pedestrians instantly spill into the street. But, 60 seconds later, they’ve vanished, just as fast. Jess and I join the sea of bustling bodies (despite having no interest in the surrounding 100+ boutiques). Twice.

Monday, 6:00AM: The temperature is below zero, we’re in an exhaustion-induced trance, and people keep opening the door of the bus station, allowing wafts of frosty air to whip our weary faces. Don’t get me wrong: the bus was impressive. But, despite the conveniently-placed toilets, sufficient plug points, reclining seats, and dark curtains, a deep sleep was a little too optimistic on my part. With some straining of the eye, I notice dim lights in a nearish-by coffee shop.

Monday, 7:00AM: The stink-eye I would have directed at the next human who opened that damned bus station door… Luckily, the low lamps were not a mirage. We’re getting the stink-eye instead, for munching our store-bought snacks next to those we bought in-house. Or, maybe the waiter disapproves more of our audible laughter at the ‘flushing noise’ device we found equipped in each toilet stall. Surely bathroom prowlers will catch onto your number-two anyway if they hear more than one flush?

Monday, 8:40AM: We’ve decided it’s a reasonable enough hour to dump our hefty luggage at the hostel, even if we can only access our room at 3pm. In return for our bags, the staff, unpredictably, hand us our key card, so we decide to take a quick peak. The shriek escaping from inside the room is so sudden and so shrill, that all I notice before the door slams shut is some discarded clothing sprawled across the floor. Well, at least it’s a larger floor than at the last spot.

Monday, 10:45AM: We appear to be much more successful at navigating the bus system than the subway, because we have arrived at the entrance of Kinkaku-ji with our only misdemeanour being some short, unintended naps on the floor of the vehicle. We’ve chosen a good day for such an enchanting endeavour: standing magnificently before us is the Golden Pavilion, probably Kyoto’s most famous temple, shining against the backdrop of a sapphire sky, and its perfectly still reflection in the lake before it. We can’t quite bring ourselves to leave, so we wander the stone paths woven around small shrines, ponds and moss-covered floors, inhaling the magic of the place, and trying desperately to earn some luck by landing our loose coins in their collection bowls.

Monday, 12:30PM: We’re in a cosy eatery atop a cluttered curio shop because, for the first time in two days, Jess responded “I could eat” at the mention of my growling belly. We munch on tempura prawn udon, better than any we’d ever tried (and, boy, had we tried) two hours across the sea, in Korea.

Monday, 16:40PM: It’s not the best hour to be in the thick of the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove. The sunlight can no longer filter through the stalks and cast dazzling, dusty beams onto the paths. But, the famous forest isn’t any less charming now. Especially when we encounter an elderly man in a shadow, bent over a miniature canvas. If I hadn’t noticed the paint tubes beside his disintegrating shoes, I would have mistaken his artwork for a photograph.

Monday, 19:20PM: More hairy eyeballs headed our way. This time from the elderly in the bus, because we stole their priority seats. Maybe we haven’t got the bus system down after all.

Monday, 21:05PM: In an effort to slip inside before closing time, we’ve sprinted all the way to a popular sushi restaurant, but it doesn’t seem to exist. Evidently, I’m hopelessly inept at reading maps, even when they’ve been written by a hostel for tourists, in English, decorated with comically-drawn landmarks. We’ve gone up stairs, down stairs, across bridges, underneath them, and trespassed construction sites before Jess remembers to use her reading skills, and deciphers the sign of our no-longer-elusive restaurant in Japanese. Boy, am I glad she did. Five kinds of salmon sushi later (plain, fatty, pan-seared, lean, roe), I begin to indulge in the other fish circling before me, along with the green tea on tap at my seat.

Tuesday, 12:25PM: Of course we’re lost again, because I booked the traditional tea ceremony, assuming the directions on their website were child’s play. As my watch is about to declare us late, a foreigner in kimono waltzes past us and directly towards the gate we couldn’t find. I silently thank the employee for his perfect timing. But, he’s not an employee. He’s a Moroccan who attends tea ceremonies in the appropriate attire and is remarkably good at reading maps.

Tuesday, 12:40PM: Masumi, our host is precise in her movements, and concise with her words. She embodies the key concepts every ceremony vows to honour: wa – harmony in nature, kei – respect, sei – purity, and jaku – tranquillity. When it’s our turn to host, we use Masumi’s tea scoop, tenderly named after the snow atop Mount Fuji, to place the matcha into the tea bowl faced towards us. Our tea is whisked into an avocado-green froth – bitter, but beautiful.

Tuesday, 14:00PM: Omar, the Moroccan, decides to follow us to Nishiki Market for lunch, but since he’s a walking map, we find ourselves following him instead. Taking advantage of his new role, he detours slightly, and before we know it, Omar is handing us each a chocolate-pudding sensation from Krispy Kreme’s. I salivate at the sight of them but I also want to hurl them at his head, because just a few steps ahead of me is a food-filled alleyway which has no end. Spicy rice, teriyaki eel, honeyed sweet potatoes, and baby octopi on sticks, their heads bulging with the boiled quailed eggs inside them, are all cast in unfamiliar glows from the stained-glass roof above them. I squeeze every single one of these Japanese delights into my fast-filling belly, but linger on the last one longest, savouring each unusual mouthful.

Tuesday, 15:45PM: I like Omar, despite the donut incident. He tells me I have the spirit of a dancer inside me (he’s obviously never seen my moves), and that I should choose the road that feels ‘right’. He’s directing us again, this time to Gion, but he assures me he’ll land us there, no matter which path I choose. As I’m mulling over his superb directing skills, we arrive, not in Kyoto’s most famous geisha district, but at the Manga Museum. Jess, of course, is delighted at the mishap.

Tuesday, 18:20PM: A befuddled Omar had, after some badgering, agreed to a taxi, and so, eventually, we’re gazing up at the traditional wooden machiya houses against the backdrop of a pink sky. We’re not expecting to see a geisha. Their presence is restricted to those who dine at ochayas, exclusive and expensive establishments not catering for backpacking foreigners. But, suddenly, a short, strident noise escapes Omar’s lips, and he’s pointing. There, sitting respectfully in the backseat of a white Toyota, are two immaculate white faces, off to entertain as dusk falls on our final day in Japan.

See photos here.