A crazy last night.
OK. Well. I'm sorry it took so long to update this. I have several other projects I'm working on between trying to teach myself Icelandic and work 60-hour workweeks between Sony & Starbucks.
I'll try to post a memoir post on a roughly-daily basis until I'm exhausted.
I'll begin with recounting my last night in Japan. It was ... memorable, to say the least.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
I had hoped, throughout the whole trip, to meet a man named George Plamantouras. Here I have stolen a picture of him from his personal website.
He's a writer for Hudson Soft after having lived in Tokyo as an English teacher -- a route I will begin taking as of next year. He's also the author of this very entertaining and informative book, Year of the Dolphin:
Anyway. Our meeting looked as if it weren't going to happen. So, on my last full day in Japan, I gave George a call and told him I didn't think I could make it, since the $10 one-way trip into Tokyo from Chiba (where I was staying at the time) didn't exactly seem feasible. He replied that it would be a shame to miss each other on count of a train ticket and kindly offered to cover. I accepted.
I jumped onto a train after a very tasty dinner at Joyfull family restaurant, where I was heckled by the middle-aged Japanese waitress about my rather large piercing.
I mused somberly throughout the train ride. The lights whizzing past for some reason always seem a few impetus to thoughtstorms.
When I arrived at my transfer station, I popped my ticket in the fare adjustment machine (I had underpaid) to see what I owed. After settling up with Japan Rail it occurred to me that I hadn't even enough money to transfer to Akihabara, where I was to meet George... well, not if I were to call him and let him know I was there. Fuck.
Off I go on foot. I had kept "Declare Independence" from Bjork's new album, Volta, on repeat to keep my feet shuffling. At this point, walking through mildly seedy areas of Tokyo, lost, I had established a short list of goals: 1. find an international postal money ATM that was still open, 2. find Akihabara, 3. contact George.
After some fumbled Japanese and 20 minutes of blaring Bjork, I arrived, huffing, in Akihabara. Great. I soon located an ATM after having my credit card declined at Starbucks while asking for directions.
I ducked into an arcade -- as that's what one does in Akihabara.
I called George. The man had already went home, thinking, perhaps, that I wouldn't be able to make it. Well, being the winner he is, he agreed to jump up and begin his 45-minute journey to meet me anyway. He asked me to meet him at "Club Sega". "Do you know where that is?" he asked. "No," I replied, "but after everything I'm sure I can fucking find it." I turned around to ask for directions... when I looked up and realized I was calling from right outside Club Sega. What an ass.
Time was killed gazing into UFO Catchers. I began people-watching a very bizarre, OCD man who was very, very hooked on the UFO Catchers. This will be a subject for another blog post.
As if on cue, a very energetic and very not-Japanese man came hustling down the road as if a pixel-cross Christ had emerged from a television tomb.
At this point we realized that there was only about 40 minutes until my last train. "Oh, before I forget!" George interjected. He then handed me much more money than necessary to train home. I stammered something about him handing me the wrong bill from his wallet.
I swear, George, in the next two weeks it'll be in your PayPal. >.>;
We chatted as best we could while we walked briskly and he shuffled through train schedules on his cell phone. I made the last train by a matter of minutes while only managing to learn a few things about George's work, game goodies, and so on. I think I spent far too much time gushing praise for his book and trying to sell myself so that he would feel that he went through all this trouble, at least, for a worthy person. All smiles and no irritation visible in the slightest, straight up until I caught the last possible subway.
Thank you, George.
My connection at this particular station left me with about 20 minutes. I then began a(nother) foolish adventure: in 20 minutes, could I find food, cigarettes, and some drunkenness -- while knowing fully well I was gambling with my last train?
Yes. I wandered a bit and found this place an outdoor standing bar serving traditional Japanese drinking food and a lot of beer to some very loquacious businessmen.
I ordered a huge bottle of Asahi amidst some snickering. I wanted food quite badly, but I had to prioritize. In fear of missing the last train I downed the beer with the haste of a honeymooner who'd actually saved himself for marriage.
I arrived at the train station to see that only 10 minutes had passed. Out I went. Convenience store. Cigarettes. More Bjork. Yakiniku. More beer -- I finished another bottle on the platform.
Needless to say, my ride home was characterized by more dizzying lights, more introspection, some sadness, and the profound urge to urinate.
When I arrived at Nishishiroi, I had no desire to go home. In spite of the rudeness to Chris and Ramon (my host), I had been invited to visit once again "Ann's House", a local bar that I had been introduced to the previous night. I decided to drop in.
I made friends quickly. It turns out a Japanese fellow there and I had a lot of music in common.
Read the next post to continue.
I'll try to post a memoir post on a roughly-daily basis until I'm exhausted.
I'll begin with recounting my last night in Japan. It was ... memorable, to say the least.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
I had hoped, throughout the whole trip, to meet a man named George Plamantouras. Here I have stolen a picture of him from his personal website.
Hopefully he won't kill me for this.
He's a writer for Hudson Soft after having lived in Tokyo as an English teacher -- a route I will begin taking as of next year. He's also the author of this very entertaining and informative book, Year of the Dolphin:
Year of the Dolphin
Anyway. Our meeting looked as if it weren't going to happen. So, on my last full day in Japan, I gave George a call and told him I didn't think I could make it, since the $10 one-way trip into Tokyo from Chiba (where I was staying at the time) didn't exactly seem feasible. He replied that it would be a shame to miss each other on count of a train ticket and kindly offered to cover. I accepted.
I jumped onto a train after a very tasty dinner at Joyfull family restaurant, where I was heckled by the middle-aged Japanese waitress about my rather large piercing.
I mused somberly throughout the train ride. The lights whizzing past for some reason always seem a few impetus to thoughtstorms.
dodesukaden... dodesukaden...
When I arrived at my transfer station, I popped my ticket in the fare adjustment machine (I had underpaid) to see what I owed. After settling up with Japan Rail it occurred to me that I hadn't even enough money to transfer to Akihabara, where I was to meet George... well, not if I were to call him and let him know I was there. Fuck.
Off I go on foot. I had kept "Declare Independence" from Bjork's new album, Volta, on repeat to keep my feet shuffling. At this point, walking through mildly seedy areas of Tokyo, lost, I had established a short list of goals: 1. find an international postal money ATM that was still open, 2. find Akihabara, 3. contact George.
After some fumbled Japanese and 20 minutes of blaring Bjork, I arrived, huffing, in Akihabara. Great. I soon located an ATM after having my credit card declined at Starbucks while asking for directions.
I ducked into an arcade -- as that's what one does in Akihabara.
Yes, sir.
I called George. The man had already went home, thinking, perhaps, that I wouldn't be able to make it. Well, being the winner he is, he agreed to jump up and begin his 45-minute journey to meet me anyway. He asked me to meet him at "Club Sega". "Do you know where that is?" he asked. "No," I replied, "but after everything I'm sure I can fucking find it." I turned around to ask for directions... when I looked up and realized I was calling from right outside Club Sega. What an ass.
"Come here, boy...I know that my face is only too familiar."
Time was killed gazing into UFO Catchers. I began people-watching a very bizarre, OCD man who was very, very hooked on the UFO Catchers. This will be a subject for another blog post.
As if on cue, a very energetic and very not-Japanese man came hustling down the road as if a pixel-cross Christ had emerged from a television tomb.
At this point we realized that there was only about 40 minutes until my last train. "Oh, before I forget!" George interjected. He then handed me much more money than necessary to train home. I stammered something about him handing me the wrong bill from his wallet.
I swear, George, in the next two weeks it'll be in your PayPal. >.>;
We chatted as best we could while we walked briskly and he shuffled through train schedules on his cell phone. I made the last train by a matter of minutes while only managing to learn a few things about George's work, game goodies, and so on. I think I spent far too much time gushing praise for his book and trying to sell myself so that he would feel that he went through all this trouble, at least, for a worthy person. All smiles and no irritation visible in the slightest, straight up until I caught the last possible subway.
Thank you, George.
My connection at this particular station left me with about 20 minutes. I then began a(nother) foolish adventure: in 20 minutes, could I find food, cigarettes, and some drunkenness -- while knowing fully well I was gambling with my last train?
Yes. I wandered a bit and found this place an outdoor standing bar serving traditional Japanese drinking food and a lot of beer to some very loquacious businessmen.
Certainly the only honk at this hut.
I ordered a huge bottle of Asahi amidst some snickering. I wanted food quite badly, but I had to prioritize. In fear of missing the last train I downed the beer with the haste of a honeymooner who'd actually saved himself for marriage.
I arrived at the train station to see that only 10 minutes had passed. Out I went. Convenience store. Cigarettes. More Bjork. Yakiniku. More beer -- I finished another bottle on the platform.
Needless to say, my ride home was characterized by more dizzying lights, more introspection, some sadness, and the profound urge to urinate.
..........
When I arrived at Nishishiroi, I had no desire to go home. In spite of the rudeness to Chris and Ramon (my host), I had been invited to visit once again "Ann's House", a local bar that I had been introduced to the previous night. I decided to drop in.
I made friends quickly. It turns out a Japanese fellow there and I had a lot of music in common.
Read the next post to continue.
