Tokyo

After I'd extricated myself from the airport, I got on the train for Tokyo. Though only 5pm, it was already dark and I watched the world of bizarre neon flashing lights speed by the window. God save the epileptic born in Japan.

Once I'd found the hotel, I stowed my gear and headed out to find something to eat. To be honest, I could see how Japan could be frightening. I know enough (continental languages and history) that I've felt comfortable in Europe (save Hungary and Czech, where I know nothing) and Latin America. I know jack and squat about Japan. I mean, I read "Shogun" and a history of the country, but that still means I only know "Konichiwa!", "Sayonara!", "Banzai!", "Kamikaze!", "Domo Arigato!", "Hai!", "Typhoon!" and "Toyota", "Mazda", "Honda", "Suzuki", and "Nintendo." I've watched at least one Kurosawa movie. I know the Japanese eat weird food (and endangered at that) and they like bizarre TV shows. I also know they're inordinately polite, unless they're at war, in which case God may not have created a crueler, more wanton race. That's what I know about Japan and the Japanese. What I know is of virtually no use.

From the hotel, I walked down the street. Lights flashed everywhere, cars drove past, people walked by, but it was oddly quiet. Reserved flamboyance is oddly unnerving. I walked past tiny Japanese eateries; American fast food; DVD stores with pornography interspersed with regular titles; convenience stores with potato chips, rice, sushi and bourbon; and video arcades reminiscent of carnival fun houses (and thus creepy).

Without company to bolster my bravado, I sought some familiar food. I was a bit too overwhelmed to handle fugu on my first night. I saw an Italian flag and a sign that said "Bistro." I went in.

When I went to visit my buddy Chris when he was in law school in Boulder, CO, I remembered vividly the restaurant we passed one night that proudly proclaimed it served "Asian Food." A continent in one restaurant. I imagined a "North American Food" restaurant serving halibut, maple syrup, pulled-pork barbecue, fried chicken, gumbo, and enchiladas.

This Japanese Italian bistro had French flags inside, along with pictures of Czech cathedrals and the Eiffel Tower. The only western alphabet on the menu were the headings (antipasta, pasta, frutti del mar, pizza, etc); the rest was in their glyphs, though they were numbered. I played it safe and picked my surprise meal #33 (from Pizza) and mystery beer #3. I was rewarded with a ham pizza with an egg yolk wobbling in the dead center and a Guinness Extra Stout. Later, I had a #4 beer, a Corona, I think. All told, $25 (the two beers ended up being nearly $15).

Having not slept but in fitful spurts for the previous 36 hours, I went back to the hotel and crashed.