Japan 2010: 22 - Where I Make the Long Journey Home

The little resurrected alarm clock beeped into life at 6.15am. I dispassionately rolled over and looked into the gloom. It was still pretty dark, and the discoloured grey-cream walls around my head merged into the darkness. I stared at my toe in the reflection of the little TV in the corner. It was time to begin a long journey back home.

I had taken the wise decision a couple of days previous to buy the Narita Express ticket, although my optimism that buying it with the soon-to-expire pass didn't work out. I had to pay the going rate of 3310yen, which got me from Shinjuku to the airport. Now all I had to do was get there.

I washed and clothed, and packed my remaining things into my bulging bags, and after checking and re-checking the room for items that I'd forgotten to pack like some sort of loony, I finally took the psychologically important step of walking out of the door and locking it behind me. I had a standard sized small satchel, a large 35-litre backpack, and a wheeled luggage case, care of Don Quijote. They were all full to the brim with things for friends and family to open when they got home, and for me to remember my time here. Volcano dust from Kagoshima. Coral and seashells from Okinawa. Obscure games and treats from Akihabara. Volcanic rocks from Aso, and precious stones from the Akiyoshi plains. These and so many other things from my last three weeks held within them a thousand memories. I had no idea where it all was in the mass of taut fabric, or what I was going to do with it, but for now, I just had to worry about getting it the 6000 or so miles back home.

The first job was to get to the station. I checked out about 7am in the hope of missing the morning rush. No chance. When I reached the station it was already home to an efficiently moving weave of people going about their business; most of them going on the train. I stopped off for a last munch of that excellent bacon bread and then put myself on the train.

I was already sweating from heaving round my own weight in tat, but the discomfort got worse when I boarded. I had no way of removing my backpack and the train was standing room only. I could feel a dozen or so eyes burrowing into the back of my neck as I stood there gently crushing a young woman's face against the doors behind me, something that went doubly so as the train lurched between lines and came to a halt at the stations.

Mercifully the journey eventually ended at Shinjuku and I could head off to platform 5 where the Narita Express would soon be appearing, at my own pace - there was for once plenty of strolling time.

I wrote a bit of diary during the journey and had a check through my flight details once more, but made sure I spent a good half of it gazing out of the window at the final view of the country. I'd seen a lot of Japan through train windows but this time it had been tempered and replaced by spending a little more time actually out there. I was contented with that. I still had many places I wanted to go, but they could wait a year or so.

The greenery slowly replaced the built-up urban views, and aside from a second glimpse of the Tokyo Sky Tree in the distance dwarfing everything around it, my final views of the country were non distinct houses and scrubland, which though plain, felt like a gentle way of winding down after the visual assault I had just experienced.

Working my way through the passages in the bowels of Narita airport, I was stopped politely but firmly by a security guard, just outside the office where I had got my rail pass when I arrived. The sudden jolt out of the rhythm of my journey put me a little on edge, and I was reminded of how nervous I was - although for different reasons - the last time I was stood there. It was a 'security check' and he asked me where I had been. Well, I had to indulge myself, didn't I? I rattled off the list of places I had been on my journey round, and my visible enthusiasm must have had a positive effect, as he loosened up considerably after that. I got a couple of questions about who packed my bags, and then he let me go.

Up a few floors was the huge room containing all the flight service desks, and the large F board held the Virgin check-in desks. Predictably there was quite a queue for cattle class, and I had arrived about 1.5 hours before takeoff, which by plane standards is cutting things a little fine. After a little while the queue began to move and I snaked my way slowly to the desk.

Virgin did a lot of things better than what KLM/Air France did (my choice for the first trip). They had better food and service, and seemed to be generally a bit more competent; however, my opinion of them took a battering when I handed over my checked luggage and was told that the extra suitcase I'd bought would be charged extra - right there and then I had to leave the queue and pay 5000yen (about £40) with my debit card to get it on board. Air France had no such problems before. Grr.

I didn't let it bother me. I rejoined the queue (thankfully allowed to push in) and then finally boarded the plane. I got an aisle seat next to a middle-aged American woman who didn't seem to talk much (although we shared an amusing moment over the squid dinner). Frankly this was okay by me, as my eyes were getting heavy.

But I couldn't sleep, so the enticing allure of complementary films won me over. I watched the last half of The A Team movie (meh), then Toy Story 3 (again, because it's excellent), and finished off with Kick-Ass, which I really wasn't expecting to enjoy half as much as I did. I must remain on the lookout for more films where a small girl with purple hair swears her head off and kills people with impunity. It's a much under-represented genre.

The plane was about fifteen minutes late taking off, which was of little concern. However by the time we reached the shores of Blighty and came into land at Heathrow, the healthy buffer between setting down and getting on the connecting flight to Manchester was almost completely gone. It was pretty clear by this point that even if I would make the transfer, my luggage would not, yet again.

This is where things went a bit wrong. I don't find it coincidental that it happened as I stepped back on British soil. Out of the influence of the far east, things just stop working, and people begin not giving much of a crap. It happened on my last two flights back to Blighty, and it was about to happen again, although this time it would be more convoluted.

'This is your captain. We are sat on the runway awaiting permission to taxi in. Those passengers who are taking a connecting flight will be pleased to hear that I have radioed in to have them hold on for you until we get you disembarked and on your way'.

Bollocks.

I disembarked with about a half hour before the plane to Manchester left. I was at Terminal 3. I had to get to Terminal 1. This involved a lot of pacing round passageways and up and down escalators, plus some outside running between buildings and a bus ride that was far too 'sunday drive' for my current state of mind. It also meant an unwelcome baggage search and sweaty rub down at a bank of scanners. I say a bank, there was four, but only one had anyone manning it. The huge queue was achingly slow to move. Next to me was an equally exasperated man who I recognised from the flight. Howard was a high-flying although weary-looking German businessman on his way to a meeting in Manchester. We'd sort of acknowledged each others' presence on the bus between terminals but now we had got some quality time next to each other in the queue, so we got talking. He was reasonably suited up whereas I was less than smart, with a few days of beard and probably a little more body odour than was polite in company. Nevertheless we helped pass the time as we neared the front of the queue, until an angry storm of arched-eyebrow Russian womanhood came pushing through the queue and in front of us.

'Let me through, I'm late for my flight', she said as we sensibly got out of the way. She worked the metal detector in double-quick time and was through the next bit before we could blink.

Once through the gate, it was a mad dash - with all my remaining energy - round the passageways and predictably right out to the final bloody gate in the building at the far end. Had we made it? Had the dulcet words of the pilot worked to keep that gate open just long enough for me to make it through the assault course?

I trudged back from the gate, which had closed only a couple of minutes before. 'You'll have to catch the next one', the oh-so helpful steward said from behind the desk. When I asked when that was, she gave me the words that made my face fall. 'About 9.50pm', she said.

If the plane set off at 9.50pm, that meant it would land in Manchester about 11pm. The trains stopped running about that time, and as I recalled from last time, there was a lot of 'delayed baggage' form filling, metal detector-ing and, running over blue escalators before I would be allowed out into the open air of the train platform. It just couldn't be done.

Howard and the nameless Russian woman met me coming the other way. She was stomping, and had made her presence further felt by complaining loudly to an unfortunate lackey behind a nearby service desk, which by coincidence was the one I had been directed to go to to get an alternate flight. Russian woman immediately went on the offensive again, kicking off about the delays and the treatment, and where she had to be. The stewards had heard it all before and knew which words to use in response. Unsurprisingly, the angry Russian woman left us in a stream of incomprehensible words trailing off, never to return. I wouldn't have wanted to spend much more time with her, although if I'd have pushed through that huge queue like she did, maybe I'd have just made my flight.

Howard and me talked at a more reasonable volume with the steward at the desk, reviewing our options. We could transfer to a British Airways flight if we wanted which left an hour earlier, but it would mean we would have to go to Terminal 3 where someone behind a Virgin desk would be able to do the necessary key tappings. I asked about my bags, wary of my outward trip, but was assured that due to the delay they would both make it up with me to Manchester.

So we went. Howard lent me his mobile so I could ring my parents as I would be spending the night at theirs, if I was ever going to make it home that night, but there was no signal in the airport buildings, so we pressed on. After a lot of explaining at the Virgin desk (Howard had clearly done this before, and he shared a few stories of such cockups as we went) we eventually managed to transfer our flights for free, and then got the lift down to the shiny new Heathrow Express underground train to Terminal 5.

About 10 minutes wait and 10 minutes ride, and we were there. As well as the seats, Howard managed to wrangle for us a free pass into the 'North Lounge' - a business lounge filled with free coffee, soft sofas, nondescript pictures on the walls.. and free grub.

It was like a mini version of one of those buffet restaurants, with a selection of complimentary nosh and a few drinks to choose from. Having just come from the country that cannot do Indian cuisine for toffee, I eyed up the Tikka Masala with slavering lips, although I did eventually plump for their very European beef goulash which was close enough to being a traditional British meat and two veg as made no difference. I wolfed down a couple of platefuls as Howard more sensibly chewed his Korma.

Full up, we went our separate ways and passed the time until the gate numbers came up. I stuffed a few complementary biscuits into my backpack and tried to sit somewhere that was not so comfortable that I would fall asleep. Eventually, Gate 9 flashed up under the Manchester flight, so I wasted no time in heading off.

I spent a further twenty minutes sat in the gate lounge next to a man who reeked of pipe smoke, which helped me to stay awake at least, and then we all filed on. The journey started pretty much on time, but my now full stomach was sending messages to my brain that it was time to shut down for the night, which in an off and on way, did until the skyline of Manchester caught my attentions.

It was after 10pm now. I ran to the luggage area and - well, the backpack had made it at least, but the souvenir-packed case could have been anywhere. Fortunately I had pre-empted the situation and wrote down a description of each of my cases so I wouldn't be taxing my brain too much when I had to describe my missing property. I filled out the appropriate form, hulked my pack onto my back, and ran along the blue escalators until they ran out and the railway started.

I made it in time for one of the final trains to Leeds, and fortunately there was little in the way of ruffians to bother me along the route. By half past eleven, I was in Leeds, which was close enough for a Taxi home. I stepped out into the cold air of a brand new day and climbed the steps to my parents house, said hello, slurped a cup of proper Yorkshire tea, and then collapsed into a newly made bed.

Final Thoughts
In some ways, my second jaunt around Japan was an improvement on the first one. I had managed to keep my innards from turning to liquid this time by being a bit more careful with my food choices (and not running myself into the ground so much - spending more time smelling the flowers instead of trying to cover stupid amounts of miles per day), and the pre-booking of all the hotels certainly freed up my time to go do other things. It felt like a holiday.
But there was still much room for improvement. I kind of liked the flexibility I had when there the first time because if the journey got too crazy or I fell ill, I could change the route. This was not open to me here, but fortunately I had planned things sensibly enough not to need it.
I guess the main problem I had this time was that the second half of the trip could not hope to compete with the first half. Weather played it's part, as things slowly became cooler the further north I went (Tokyo was a wash-out both times), but the killer was the time spent in each spot. In the first half - Okinawa, Aso, Nagasaki - these were my favourites, and coincidentally the ones where I spent more than one day at. After Nagasaki, it was just a single night's stopover at each location until I got back to Tokyo - and that meant little time to relax, explore or make friends with other people.

The Good Bits

• Onsen -Relaxing and liberating!
  
• Okinawa (even though it was blisteringly hot) - a beautiful place
• Night-time Nagasaki
  
• The people I met along the way, who were friendly and kind (and generous with the freebies!)
• Many more beautiful sights
  

The Bad Bits

• Feeling a bit vulnerable after the last night in Okinawa
• The increased presence of western religion
  
• Rushing through the last half and not really having time to enjoy the ride
• Rain-soaked Tokyo!
  
• Not sharing the journey with someone (aside from with this blog!)

What I would hope to include next time

• A winter in Hokkaido - the wildlife, the ice festivals and the beautiful landscapes
• A major festival - maybe the Nagasaki Kunchi festival which looked cool, (there are many others)
  
• The Tokyo Marathon - can my legs take it?
• Going with someone - maybe I can find someone mad enough to share the experience next time.
  
• Hakone, just outside Tokyo
• Taking a couple of days to climb Mt. Fuji
  
• The third view of Japan (which apparently survived the earthquake with little damage despite being pretty close to it
• .....
  

At some point after the nuclear problems die down, I'll be off once more to see what I can see. But for now, that will do me for a bit.

Japan 2010: 19 - Where I Have a Rude Awakening

'Click-slurp',

...

'Click-slurp',

I opened an eye. Everything was dark, the merest hint of moonlight filtering in through the thin curtains.

'Click...... slurp',

I rolled over and lifted my body, narrowly missing the air conditioner unit just above my head. It was three in the morning, and I was at the hostel. I had acquired the top bunk in the corner next to the air con. Maybe it was that.

'Click-slurp-click-slurp-click-sluuuurrp',

My disoriented mind woke up enough to realise that the noise wasn't coming from above my head, it was from down below. I rolled over and peered through the gloom. Everything was still, from what I could see. The bunk below me was occupied but motionless, and the one across the room had a single figure on the bottom under a duvet. Someone further into the darkness was also sleeping in the third set of bunks, but nothing seemed to be coming from there either. In fact, the noise had stopped. I turned over and closed my eyes again.

'Click-slurp',

Oh for heavens sake. I turned and looked again. Was it the heater? There was an oil filled electric heater sat across the window. Maybe it was just chugging and glugging into life? But again, the noise had stopped. Oil-filled heaters aren't sentient. Not even in Japan.

I turned over and it began again. This was no coincidence.

'Click-slurp-squelch',

Oh no. My brain was becoming increasingly confused and thus interested in the situation, and because I have an analytical mind, it was trying to imagine what would be making such rhythmic sounds that stopped whenever I tried to see what it was. It didn't take my mind long to come up with an explanation.

Fully awake now, I slowly peered over as the clicking and slurping became increasingly squelchy and the tempo began to increase as if reaching a crescendo. There weren't many things in life that require such repetitive movements, so when I looked over to where the sound was coming from - the bottom bunk across the window - I was expecting some furious duvet movements. Strangely, there were none. In fact, I thought I could see one of the guy's hands sticking out of the duvet looking innocent and quite motionless.

I was getting annoyed. I got up, padded down the bunk bed stairs and headed off to the toilet. Partly because I had a call of nature, but partly to let the little git know I was onto him, and people were moving around in his presence.

The rest of the hostel was silent and dark. Automatic lighting came on as I entered the communal bathroom area. It was about half past three in the morning according to the clock. I sat on the loo and pondered. What sort of masturbation makes such noises? And how did he manage to do it one handed without any visible movement? Was he some sort of octopus-man? I didn't want to think about these things, but my mind had already followed a train of thought and it wasn't going to stop until the situation had resolved itself. I headed back again none the wiser, but maybe my moving around had put him off.

An hour or so went by, and just as I was dropping off,

'Cliiiiiiick............. sluuuuuurp',

Slower and more laboured this time. He was trying to hide it. And by doing it slower, the slurping became more disgusting, and there was some squeaking of plastic on plastic mixed in. Did he have.. a device?

My mind unhelpfully conjured up such a device. An image of a tube onto the end of which was a rubber pipe, and attached to that was a squeezy ball thing to give some sort of pumping effect. That would have explained about everything. He was a mucky little perv trying out his new Oriental sex toy when no-one was awake to hear him, except I was awake and by now pretty angry. Purposefully mid way through a click-slurp cycle, I thumped the sturdy wooden bed strut next to my head, and then glared over it to see what reaction it had.

No pair of beady eyes stared back at me, but it had stopped the noise. For a few minutes.

Again, I thumped the bed strut and stared. Again, it stopped.

At the third strike, I had had enough.

I still wasn't 100% sure this guy was the culprit, or even if he was doing what I thought he was, but I was ready to chance my arm. As soon as it began, I was bolt upright. I flew down the bunk steps barely hitting a rung, and stooped over his duvet, which had now gone very silent.

'PLEASE. STOP. WANKING!', I semi-shouted.

There was a nervous rustle under the sheets and a face popped out. There was a very large and angry looking foreigner staring back at him with wild eyes and the nasal respiration of an angered cartoon bull.

'...sorry', he said feebly.

'Thank you', I said, without really expecting to. I turned around and stomped up to my bed. The remainder of the night (now the morning) was thankfully peaceful.

I woke properly at 7.30. The duvet across the room was motionless and nothing was visible. He was clearly embarrassed about the whole thing, and probably suspected the others had heard the situation as well. After a quick wash I packed up all my things and went downstairs. The reception opened at 8am, and I asked the guy behind the counter to put my bags in their locked room rather than leaving them in the dorm. I didn't want wanky device guy attacking my stuff in my absence out of resentment or malice.

Hotel Review: K's House Backpack Hostel Mt. Fuji (2700 yen/night, 1 night)
Ignoring the night antics of some visitors, K's House is a really nice hostel to visit and perfect for going sightseeing around Fuji (although a bit far if you're thinking of climbing it). Friendly staff, lots of info about the area and a load of facilities - and now it even has it's own bar. It's pretty cheap even for a Hostel, but you can pay a bit more and get a more private room. Internet: free, Towels: 100yen, Laundry: 200yen. Ring them for pickup from the station (10-20min walk depending on baggage) 8/10

Out of everything I could have done at Fuji, time had put some pretty strong restrictions on me. I would have to do whatever I was going to do before 11am, which is when the bus went to the station. I didn't fancy lugging my things up that steep hill (I'd remembered how bad it was when I did it before) so the bus wasn't going to be missed. I had put my name down the night before. This left really only one thing to do - go get a decent picture of Mt. Fuji, and the best place to do that, was at the top of Mt. Tenjo.

The ropeway to the beginning of the Kachi-Kachi trail up the mountain was out of action the last time I had visited, so it seemed like the ideal thing to do in the time I had, especially as it was so close. It wasn't the most exciting thing to do but the most achievable. My mind was made up.

According to the flyer, the first trip up would be at 9am, so I had a little time. I got a cup of tea and sat in the communal area once more. Before long, another guy came in who I recognised from the night before. He was Toby, and he was in the bottom bunk in the darkened corner of the room. Conversation began light about where we had been and where we were going, before Toby segued the conversation towards the antics of the previous night. Turns out both Toby and Wanky had been staying at the hostel for a few days, and each day he had been hearing the 'click-slurp'-ing every night. And he thought it was the air con too. I said goodbye and I hoped my outburst would put paid to things.
Outside, the air was cold, it had been raining, and there was fog. Lots of it. I couldn't see the majestic Mt. Fuji last night because it was dark. Today, it was completely hidden from view by fog. I took the long way round to the ropeway, across the Kawaguchiko bridge and round the lake coast, taking some moody mist-dominated pictures as I went. The summer had ended and the autumn was fast running out of steam. I passed by beds of dying flowers and greying grasses, their seeds wet and drooping from the rain.
Rounding the curve of the lake, I peered on the ground and saw a fabric camera case. It was thoroughly wet from the rain the night before and thus it's owner was long gone. It wasn't big enough for my new camera I had brought with me, but my old one should fit OK. I looked around furtively and no-one was about. Despite my conscience telling me to place it on a nearby post in case it's owner re-appeared, I squeezed the worst of the water out and pocketed it.

The ropeway entrance was up a small track off the main road, nestled snugly between a couple of hotels. Annoyingly, I had just missed the first car, which was now heading up to the summit, so I got my ticket and waited in the second one for it to leave. After about 10 minutes, it was clear that I was the only punter, so they let it go.
The trip up only took a couple of minutes, and gave nice views of the lake below, except for the dirty great cables in the way. And Fuji was still hiding.

At the top, I was greeted by a raccoon and a rabbit. The raccoon was wearing a heavy backpack, and the rabbit was stuffing yet more things into it. The raccoon seemed happy to shoulder this burden, but I don't think we're getting all the information on the relationship here.


Climbing up a set of steps I reached a plateau. A large platform covered in wooden decking, with an observation tower and some toilets. A love heart shaped frame provided a perfect photo opportunity for tourists as it would have framed Mt. Fuji perfectly, had it been there. Around the place were several other statues of the same raccoon and rabbit pair in a variety of japes, seemingly the character ambassadors for the area, trying to enthuse the kids into going exploring. However, each successive statue started to tell a darker story about their unhealthy relationship.
Over near the picnic area, poor Raccoon sat lonely, his rabbit friend disappeared off somewhere else, leaving him with his thoughts, and maybe some bruises. An expression of deep loneliness and regret lay behind his eyes. Over by the observation platform, Rabbit was treating Raccoon to what I can only describe as an aggressive sexual act, the pained and tearful expression of Raccoon saying it was not consensual. As if to bring the torture to an end, poor Raccoon ends up tied to the ceiling by his legs in the toilets. If I were still a kid, I'd be scarred for life by the story they were telling me.

I abandoned my search for more chapters in their sordid relationship, not wishing to look any more for fear of coming across a scene where Raccoon exacts a bloody and fatal revenge by bludgeoning the damn Rabbit to death with a lump hammer, posing forever over the mangled body letting out a primal scream of long-dreamt freedom. I took the trail up from the platform which was headed by a picture of them both happily about to start the climb themselves, best of friends as ever they were.
The ground was slippy underfoot, the trail heading steeply through the trees, the gnarled roots threatening to loosen the dirt steps and trip you up on the first opportunity. A little way up, the canopy above disappeared and an abandoned building - maybe a shop/museum mix - emerged out of the fog. Carrying on upwards, the forest reappeared. Snaking my way up still further slippy logs and roots and through leafy mud, I eventually reached what appeared to be the summit. A small stone shrine sat waiting for someone to take notice of it.
All around was dead silence. There were no birds singing, and there wasn't even any wind. The mist created a spooky gloom, through which the darkened branches of the trees cut a shape, it was atmospheric and beautiful, and reminded me of the opening forest scenes from Princess Mononoke. But it was hard to convince myself that the trip was worth it.

I turned round and slip-slided back down to the observation deck. Still Fuji refused to show itself, so I sat down on the platform steps and waited for a bit, in the hope that it would peek out and I'd get some pictures before I had to leave. It was about a quarter to ten, so no chance to do anything else. I was stuck.

Slowly, some people made their way up on the ropeway, and populated the deck. Many were the older guard, who had come out of season to get a view without loads of kids running everywhere. A couple looked up at me and shared some amusing observations about the missing mountain in commendable English.
For the next half hour I scrutinised the shapes that came and went in the clouds and fog, trying to decide whether the constantly morphing shapes within were the outline of a mountaintop or not. In the end, I came away disappointed. My time had run out and the clouds had beaten me. I took the half past ten ropeway back to ground level.

Back at the bottom, the tourist shop on the street below beckoned. If I didn't buy something here, then everything else would be Tokyo-related, so I popped in to see if I could find something, and then rush back in double-quick time.

They had so many different boxes of sweets and cakes and biscuits, it took me longer than I wanted to choose. Finally I settled on a couple of boxes for no-one in particular (they're good presents for when you forget about someone) and then headed out of the door at a rush.

Five seconds later, I was spread out face down on the ground, my clothes soaking up most of a handily-placed puddle. There was a graze on my hand and a rip in my jeans, and the cake boxes were out of the plastic bag and across the road. I could feel a camera-shaped indentation on my stomach and I groaned at the prospect. I got up, noticing just behind me the bump in the road I had tripped over. Fortunately my camera was in my fleece pocket rather than round my neck and had largely survived, although the screen was now covered in scratches. Maybe this was the karma kicking in for nicking the camera case.

I got up and dusted off the grit, and squeezed as much water out of the fleece as I could, then half ran, half limped back to the hostel to catch the bus.

I had ten minutes when I got back, so got into the bathroom and tried to make the best of things. I washed my blooded hands and tried to get out the gritty water from my clothes, and put a bandage on to reduce the flow. When I'd done all I could I resurrected a few ounces of dignity and headed out to get the bags with as calm an expression as I could manage.

The people carrier was empty but for me, and the driver made a little smalltalk, though I was not much in the mood. Especially when, after I said I was going to stay my final couple of days in Otsuka, (a neighbourhood in Toshima), he said, 'why on earth would you stay there, it's awful'. Well, it was too late now. I just wanted a place to stay that was cheap and on the Yamanote line, and the hotel I had chosen was both these things. I sat silently after communicating this and waited for the station to appear on the horizon.

Inside, I bought a ticket back to Otsuki station (1110yen) and passed the time before the train arrived looking through the station gift shop (again). I settled on their nice but thin Mt. Fuji photography book (1250yen), and then had a Tempura Udon (700yen), which they had in stock this time (nice but I preferred the curry one). I did my bit to point an American guy towards the hostel, and then boarded the crazy mountain train once more, although not before being burned for an extra 300yen ticket because the train I was taking was an express. Grr.
Last time I had taken the express (the one with the crazy cartoon mountains on it), it was in a poor state inside. But they had fixed the televisions this time, and it showed an airplane-style journey along the route. Fortunately, the express missed out most of the stations on the route, although it had to keep to the same speed on the track line as it was heading through so many little towns and villages, so there wasn't much benefit.

The JR trains were a welcome sight once more, and after waiting a quarter hour I was on one and heading for Shinjuku once more. Otsuka station was a couple of stops away on the Yamanote line, and then once at the hotel (apparently, only a few blocks away) I could put down my things and then not worry about them again until I was ready to leave for the UK.

Shinjuku was it's usual hyper-busy self, and it was nice to get through it and up to the relatively quiet Otsuka station, four stops clockwise around the route. My lugging time would shortly be over it seemed.

I exited the station. It was raining. The hotel was thankfully quite close, but when I got to the counter inside and checked my wallet, it was lacking in cash. I needed 13000 yen to cover my stay, and I needed to find an ATM.

The hotel had handily provided a map, but I could see no Post Office on it, so I relied on the 7/11. It was across the station and into Toshima, and quite a trek. Perhaps foolhardily, I didn't leave my backpack with them.

The rain became heavier, and my backpack soaked it up. I was tired and aching, and this damn 7/11 was nowhere to be seen. When I eventually found it and entered through the doors I was soaked and less than cheerful. I got out 20,000yen and retraced my steps back, getting slightly lost on the way. Not. Happy.

The room was small and grey, barely big enough to fit a bed in, and there was a few years of dust and debris behind the heater. But it was functional and a welcome sight given what I had been through to get here. I showered and changed, and put up my dirty clothes to drip-dry in the bath, which was a bit naughty but I was past caring by this point.

I laid on my bed writing my diary and considering my next move. It was 3pm, and if last time was anything to go by, I'd be needing an extra case soon. Tokyo last time round was an exercise in propping up the economy with large amounts of tat purchasing, and it seemed quite likely I would be doing much the same this time. After all, tomorrow I would be visiting the Ghibli Museum again, and I know how much of a hole Mama Aiuto's wares burned in my wallet last time.

There was only one place I knew would have a decent range of luggage, and that was good old Don Quijote, a chain of shops that sold absolutely everything. I had been introduced to the Shinjuku store the first time on coming over, and now I would return.
They're dotted all over Tokyo, so I decided to visit the Akihabara branch. Arriving at Electric Town once again, it was still raining heavily, so my progress was hampered by using the intervening shops to try and keep dry. In amongst the anime and electronics shops was the Sega Arcade, a multifloored plaza containing the latest arcade games, as well as whole areas dedicated to the classic stuff.

Arcades in the UK are a pale imitation of what they used to be; most of the video games have gone from them, the 20p stand-up cabinets replaced by a mixture of fruit and gambling machines, and any open areas dominated by large £1/£2 a go driving/house of the dead sorts of games. Give me back the early nineties any day.

But Japan is different; their arcades take into account the desire for the old and the new, and they often sit together; the old JAMMA boards stuffed into a generic large-screened sit-down cabinet, or even better, a 1001-game compendium where all but the most obscure titles can often be found. I spent a good hour or so catching up on some Super Mario Bros, Gradius 2, R-Type, Parodius and Ikaruga, and if I hadn't have run out of 100yen coins, some more besides (although I was quite annoyed I couldn't find Raiga anywhere).
On the upper floors, past the photobooths and trinket vending machines stood the latest cabinets. The future, it seems consists of networked cabinets where players actually log in with accounts so they can build up stats.
Huge arrays of multiplayer cabinets with queues stretching back, and high-definition monitors set up around the walls showing the action from a spectator's view, often huge arenas where player mechs were fighting it out in a sort of Japanesey-fied Call Of Duty situation. Some cabinets (such as the Square-Enix Lord of Vermillion machines) were so new they were guarded by staff and I wasn't allowed to take pictures.
I managed to somehow tear myself away and got to Don Quijote's Akihabara store. It was in a block of buildings that I hadn't explored up til now, so I'd missed it at the start of the holiday. The first five floors were your typical DQ fare - stuffing as many things as possible into every available corner. On the 6th floor was another arcade, and floors 7 and 8 were host to some ticket-only event which the likes of me could not possibly attend, as was suggested to me by the polite but firm attendants at the top of the escalator.

I descended back to the shop and found a few things, including a suitcase for 4990yen, (which was bloody expensive compared to last time), plus some bags of sweets, an Akihabara Station towel and mug, and an Evangelion-themed box of chocs for friends. I was already down another 11000yen and I'd not even been to the money sink that was the Ghibli museum yet!

As the rain battered down still further, I flitted between shops and returned to Super Potato once more, and since I'd received requests for them, I bought a couple of reconditioned N64 pads (about 2000yen each) and a mint copy of Pilotwings 64 for 50yen (they had stacks of them)!

As the shops began to close down, I flitted between the ones still open, as the rain continued to batter downwards. Model shops, anime, arcades, souvenirs, and more. But by 10pm I had had enough and was on the train back to Otsuka, the rain finally abating. Rather annoyingly I headed down the wrong road back to the hotel and was greeted by.. a post office not more than a block away from where I was staying. I could have got my cash there instead of trudging through the rain. Sure enough, it was on the hotel map, but some genius had decided to take the post office sign and integrate it into a smiling face for me, thus making it less apparent. Thanks.

I sat eating pringles on my bed, grumbling and leafing through the dog-eared Tokyo Film Festival brochure I had picked up on my first day, trying to work out which I would be seeing tomorrow. My new suitcase had been given a trial by fire as I had moved all the souvenirs collected thus far into it. The backpacks were breathing a sigh of relief, but the new case was 95% full. Would all the inevitable tat that I would be powerless not to buy fit in tomorrow as well? Only time would tell. I looked at my grazed hand and rued the way this day had turned out. It had been a mixture of bad and worse. Tomorrow could only get better, couldn't it?

Japan 23 : Nerdvana

The next morning, I surveyed the damage. There was a large, heavy backpack, a smaller, but still heavy backpack, and four carrier bags, bulging with the finest tat Japan had to offer, and there was still a half-dozen or more people who would be expecting a souvenir back home. I was several thousand miles from my little house, and I had no teleporter. It was clear that I needed an extra suitcase.

Down at the lobby, I tried to explain my situation to the guy behind the desk, using my limited vocab and a phrase book that inexplicably omitted the translation for the word 'luggage'. To my great relief, a woman who was clearly multilingual came over to my aid and formed an intermediary. I was told enthusiastically (twice) of a huge shop a block away named 'Don Quixote' that sold just about everything on the planet. There would surely be something usable there.

The manager of the hotel explained the situation to his wife who agreed to help me find it. The kindly woman who had acted as translator bade me farewell, but not before imparting the hugely useful phrase 'doko des' ka?' which when pointing at a picture of something or a map means 'where is this?'. Something that I should have perhaps learned for myself about three weeks previous.

The wife kindly escorted me to the appropriate street crossing the busy road I entered a place that might just sell everything in the entire world. The deceptively normal-looking shop front outside was about the size of a local Argos, with two large windows and a door between, but when you went in, it was like a tardis, stretching backwards into infinity with seemingly never-ending tightly packed aisles. Everything you could possibly want, from food and drink to electronics to clothing to household stuff were squeezed in wherever they would fit, no section of floorspace wider than a pair of legs was allowed to bare the floor to anyone. On my travels round I fingered through bags of dried fish snacks, engrish caps, and more flavours of Spam than we ever get in Blighty (a letter of complaint has been written).

After an age of chopping down overgrown special offers with one of their reasonably-priced machetes, I finally happened upon my booty - a selection of wheeled suitcases with extending handles - eyeing the size of it and mentally filling it with my accumulated tat so far (which had increased to include what I had picked up on my circuit of the shop) it should just about cover my needs without accumulating an airline fee. 2990 yen (about £15) was a little pricey but I had little choice or desire to go bargain hunting anywhere else. I took my things, and dragged the case on its maiden journey back to the hotel.

I gathered everything up and packed it into the case as tidily as possible, and surveyed the result. It was about 3/4 full, so there should be a enough room available for the remaining gifts after coming back from my final shopping spree - in Akihabara.

A little history: Akihabara is the electronics capital of Japan, and a couple of stops down the Yamanote line from Shinjuku. I had made my plans around the fact that I wanted to be here last - so my day could be spent happily darting in and out of the shops, picking up bargains and eyeing the weirdest the place had to offer. As a kid, I had read in awe of the lucky few people who had travelled there in magazines such as Super Play, greeted with shop after shop of the latest electronics and games. In particular, I was interested in the Super Famicom - or Super Nintendo/SNES as it was known here; a system launched in 1990 in Japan but wouldn't see UK shores until 1992. I didn't care, because I had an imported one which ran at the proper speed and displayed the games without a blurry screen or stupid borders at the top and bottom.

Many games were released for the system, but typically Japan got them first and Europe some time later, if at all. A thriving import scene had grown up around this inconsistency, and my spending money would be enthusiastically poured into this money vacuum whenever a new game was released that Super Play (the bible of the time) had recommended. A golden age of popularity for the Nintendo systems, it spent many happy years at the forefront of gaming technology until the next generation of systems came along in 1996. It's still holds a spot in front of my telly.

The editorial staff of such magazines spent many trips going to Japan to report on the various goings on, and even employed some people who lived over there to do monthly columns. Invariably, this included the legendary Akihabara, the place that was literally humming with the transistors of a billion new gadgets and games and around every corner was a new sight and sound. For a young seedling from wet, dirty Britain, this was a magical place always well out of reach, and consequently became the place that me and my friends would always aspire to go to, if we ever had the time and money.

Well, now Akihabara was well within reach, and my mind had at several times during my journey skipped forwards to the time I would eventually dance around the shops giggling like a schoolgirl. The long-battered feelings of elation and excitement that would consume me on my fantasy quests to the east were regularly resurrected and reminded me of what being a kid was all about. I had vied many years ago that I would enter a shop, and inside that shop would be row upon row, aisle after aisle of games to look through, not at the silly prices the importers would charge, but the dirt-cheap amounts that they paid in the east. It was with some sadness that I concluded that those days would surely have passed, the shops long since clearing that sort of outmoded 'cartridge' rubbish out in favour of the latest systems. However, I vied that I would search high and low for a place that had at least a few second-hand retro games in a dusty corner, for these places definitely did exist - I had stumbled across some way back in Nagano a dozen or so days before, so I just had to find them.

190 yen for a train ride was all it took, and then I was there. The station was squeaky clean and there were signs to the main shopping district almost as soon as you got off the train. The large windows as you came down the steps to ground level teased with their views of huge video screens above shops advertising the latest games and gadgets.

So I began to look around. There were shops selling touristy things, such as plates and scrolls and posters and such, including some Ghibli merchandise that looked a little less than official. There were shops with shiny and brightly lit ice-white interiors where hyper-attentive assistants grabbed the attention of whatever customers they could find to help them purchase as much as possible. Every square inch that wasn't road or pavement was shop. The train lines criss-cross the main shopping district and even the cramped covered back alleys - under which my western frame had to stoop - were filled with sellers of transistors and circuit boards and capacitors by the thousand, supporting a thriving community of people who didn't want to go the easy route of buying a radio, but wanted to put one together themselves from scratch. My dad would have been on cloud nine.

And then there was the porn. Lots and lots and lots of porn, of every imaginable dialect. It was partly due to my inquisitive nature and partly because it was bloody everywhere that I found myself heading down such aisles, placed directly next to much more innocent stuff such as plush toys and mobile phones. There was the usual fare, and there was also a lot of deeply weird stuff: women dressing up as power rangers and subjecting their male counterpart with multiple kicks to the nads. Partners enjoying a relaxing time thrashing about in squid entrails, still others spending an entire DVD dressed up like Bo Peep and licking an oversized lollipop whilst looking needy and unprotected. After the third time of browsing an aisle of gadgets and gizmos only to find myself eyeing up a nippleball in the middle of the display, I became resigned to it all that I was not only in Otaku central, but also perv central, and I should just take a more relaxed attitude to the relaxed stance on the subject the people over there clearly take.

Although my voyage of discovery had certainly been varied and enlightening, I was still falling short when it came to my own personal aim of finding some good old fashioned retro gaming. There had been a couple of places with the odd glass cabinet sporting a dusty cartridge or two in amongst the busty animé figurines in suggestive poses, but nothing that I could yet consider a 'horde'. I had managed to buy a selection of souvenirs from some of the more reputable-looking shops, and had managed to find a couple of places that held my attention with stacks of the latest animé releases (everywhere was going crazy for Evangeleon 1.0), or obscure references to Japanese culture I had remembered from the past, such as a DVD of an old series, some super-deformed retro plush toy or hundreds of airfix-style kits for things I would never have guessed could be marketable in such a form. The only reason I didn't walk away with this Gradius kit was that it was so bulky - it would never have survived the journey back.

It was getting late, and I was a little weary. I had by now moved away from the central area and was getting increasingly far away from the station. Though I was enjoying the experience, I had come up with a blank about my most wanted items, and the feet and arms were getting sore, it was getting dark, and I was having trouble remembering which way I had come from. It was time to give up and head back.

Then, as I walked to the end of the final street I was willing to walk down, I heard over the airwaves a bleepy little tune that I had not heard for perhaps fifteen years. It was the intro theme tune to Mega Man 2 on the Famicom (NES). I spun round to see a little loudspeaker on the corner of an unassuming alleyway. The shop next to it looked like a general electronics store, so it probably wasn't anything to do with that. I headed down the alley. It was a brightly-lit tunnel with some lifts and a set of stairs AND A DIRTY GREAT SIGN WITH A FAMICOM ON IT. I had hit the jackpot. I had by pure chance found Super Potato. Retro gaming heaven.

The sign that adorned the wall - though all in Japanese - was clear. There were several floors to this building, each of them dedicated to a particular games era. Suddenly my weariness and tired legs disappeared. I was fifteen again, and I was bloody well going to get up those steps no matter what.

Neglecting the lift, which may or may not have worked, I went up the stone steps for a few floors before being greeted by a cardboard box half full of identical Super Famicom games. This was the first of the retro floors, dedicated mainly to the Super Famicom and Megadrive games, but also had a good wodge of stuff from even earlier than that. I stood at the entrance to my own personal heaven and wiped the sweat from my brow and the drool from my cheek. One guy behind the counter looked over to me in the universal 'can I help you' style - to which my childish instincts took over and I returned a look of stupefied glee, combined with a double thumbs-up.

I spent a little time looking through the barker ends of what was clearly a deep trio of aisles. There were ancient systems running conversions of games they really shouldn't be able to handle. There were piles of reconditioned Super Famicoms, a pile of unsold Donkey Kong Country 3 games, and a selection of charmingly daft little lego-style ornaments that you built up to create an old-school Mario sprite for your coffee table. After I could resist no more I headed down the central aisle. This was the sight I had thought I would never see - on the left side: a dozen rows of neatly stacked, individually shrink-wrapped Super Famicom cartridges, each with its own little label and barcode. On the right side: a half-dozen rows of perfectly preserved, mint copies of hundreds of Super Famicom games still in their boxes.

I ran a teasing finger down the length of one of the rows, remembering at once a thousand games and their box art, often beautiful or at least representitive but typically replaced with inane, clumsy westernised 'art' when released in the west. (A situation which thankfully rarely occurs these days so I'll step down from my soapbox right there..). I recalled the games that were never made available, and those that I missed because the importers got only a tiny handful and often charged silly money for. Here they were for prices as low as 50 yen - about 25p - although the more desirable items were going for a few thousand.

Resisting the temptation to gather an armful just yet, I turned around and went upstairs. The fourth floor was dedicated to the fifth generation of machines - The N64 (the successor to the Super Famicom), the Playstation, and the Saturn. I immediately headed to the N64 aisle, which had a smaller but no less impressive array of treats, a full side of naked cartridges on the left, and a smaller section on the right with a decent mix of boxed and unboxed carts. Next to the shelves was a pair of rare sights - a TV with an in-built Super Famicom inside it (released only in Japan) playing Mario Kart 64 with a strange, squashed N64 controller dangling temptingly in front of it. Underneath was a pile of reconditioned N64's going dirt cheap (about £15), each individually wrapped in a cellophane bag.

One of them wasn't there though. I am a bit of a fan of Treasure, who are known for their old-school style shooters, pinnacles of their achievements for Nintendo systems are the crazy Go Go! Troublemakers, the hard-as-nails Ikaruga, and the frantic and slick Sin and Punishment. I had all three, but had long hankered for a fourth; Bakaretsu Muteki Bangaioh, a shooter as strange as its name where you can literally fill the screen with chaos if you choose to. This shooter arrived late in the N64 era and there were scant few copies made (about 10,000 for the Japanese market only) before it was translated to the Sega Dreamcast. I had wanted to get it for a while but it was super-rare in the game shops I frequented (the one time I saw it, a second-hand one was going for £150) and now, in the place where it should be, it was missing.

Disappointed, I concentrated on the lines of cartridges, pencilling a few in my mind to have before heading upstairs once more. What I saw upstairs was the icing on the cake - the fifth floor was packed with retro arcade machines, some of which I had not seen for decades. Two particular iconic favourites, Gradius 3 and R-Type, were crammed into the corner next to a chair. A chair made entirely of Famicom games! These people knew how to be opulent!

I spent a good long time filtering out all the 100yen coins from my spare change and pumping them into the slots of several of the games, including one system which must have had a directory of a hundred or more classics all available from a giant scrolling menu. After a moment sampling the majesty of sitting on the Famicom Throne, I headed back downstairs for a buying session.

Starting with the N64 lot, I whipped out a half dozen cheap cartridges from the line-up including Sim City 2000, Bust A Move, Mario Tennis and Densha De Go! - an obscure Taito train simulator for a train driver friend of mine. I was about to pay for them when I noticed some select cartridges and boxes in a glass case on the counter - and one of them was Bangaioh! They were asking silly money for a boxed copy (£8000 yen - about 40 quid) but they also had a cart only copy, at a more reasonable 5500 yen (nearer 27 quid). Since I was definitely not going to be popping round the local Super Potato very often, I decided to stick that on the bill as well. I then headed down to the Super Famicom floor and repeated the process, getting hold of Mario's Picross, Desert Strike, some Soccer game and Parodius Super Deluxe, plus a spare controller. There was so much more that I would have loved to buy, but the journey home was long and there was already a heap of things to play with. I had a fond last look around the shop to take in as much as I could, and then headed downstairs, although not before taking one of the free games they couldn't get rid of in that box at the door.

Stepping out into the night, I felt content. I had come so close to the shop and may have missed it if it wasn't for the little blue bomber, and now I had fulfilled another of my childhood wishes. I got my bearings, and then after visiting a post office to stock up on money, left Akihabara about 7pm for Shinjuku.

I alighted back at the hotel sometime later, packed all the new things away with the existing ones in the case (it just about fit) and then headed out to the Italian again. The spaghetti bolognaise was good, and the mystery dessert, which the waiter tried to convey to me without the necessary English translation turned out to be Crème Brulee, which was also very nice.

At about 8.30 I left the restaurant and instead of heading directly back, wandered nonchalantly along the back streets of Shinjuku for a while. I watched the assorted people enjoying themselves and getting on with their lives, and it hit me that if I was in an unfamiliar place in the UK like this, I'd probably be feeling pretty wary at that moment, but there was no need. I strolled into a late night shop selling all sorts of foodstuffs, pondering whether to take a bag of dried fish treats back with me for my friends to try, but decided not to as it might not be allowed back in blighty.

The country had one final surprise in store for me as I sat in my room watching some final crazy Japanese TV. Almost asleep, I felt a sudden sense of movement - the building was swaying left and right, like I was on top of a piece of wood sat on marbles. I was several floors up, meaning the effect was especially stomach-churning. Regaining my full consciousness, I grabbed the bed frame with both hands until the shaking stopped, and then checking that I wasn't actually dreaming, looked out of the window. No alarms going off, no fires, and nobody running around in circles screaming. I rushed downstairs to the reception desk where the manager was quietly doing paperwork. Confused at his lack of panic I gasped 'there's an earthquake!' at him. 'Has there been?', was his improbable response, to which I could do little more than turn around and with slight embarrassment head back up the stairs through the still-swinging door.

A few minutes later, the news on the TV was interrupted by an item about a magnitude 5 earthquake occurring on a map of Japan 50 miles or so northwest of Shinjuku, showing a shock radius that had dropped to about 2 by the point it hit where I was. Then, they just calmly went on with their other news like it was just some other item. I guess rumbles such as these are pretty common when you live on the intersection of 3 tectonic plates.

I tried to put the experience out of my mind and get some sleep. It was 10pm, and tomorrow I would be heading home on a day that would last 33 hours.