A Month Of Sundays

Clearly it's exceptionally difficult to find time during any given Sunday to blog merrily away. It hasn't quite been a month, but three weeks isn't that far off, and at just over a quarter of the way through our little trip, it seems I ought to improve my writings' timings if there's to be any record of our travels at all. Perhaps not wholly true - Pete has uploaded a fair few photos, and all of our select F'ook friends can bear witness to the gradual convergence of Ben's hair and beard length. Besides that extraordinary visual pleasure, there are also waterfalls, pretty churches, drinks and views. Alongside which, I can be seen sporting an almost identical wardrobe to that which went to Jerusalem with me, thereby giving the impression that, on Facebook at least, the Holy City is somewhere east of Rio de Janeiro.

I mustn't get ahead of myself, on this blog at least. Sitting on a coach as I am, typing away after only the first hour of this nigh-on-twenty-four-hour-long journey east to Campo Grande, I would very much like to be ahead of myself, by almost a day. But not to complain. We have become quite inured to long journeys, and odd ones at that. From San Ignacio, we went north to Iguazu, and its cascades, as the Spanish would have it. From the quiet Jesuit ruins of San Ignacio, where the exhibits preached of cultural tolerance and peaceful coexistence, the Jesuit missionaries and local tribesmen having led by example hundreds d years ago, we left for the waterfalls.

In their tourist-proof setting reminiscent of a theme park, the falls themselves are a bizarre mix of stunning natural scenery and the best mankind has to offer in taming it. Paved paths, liberal splashings of concrete with dashes of railings, and a buffet restaurant. When Eleanor Roosevelt saw the falls, she remarked, 'Poor Niagara'. I think now she'd say 'Poor Iguazu'. I shouldn't complain - it was a brilliant day, even with an early start to avoid the midday coachloads. Our attempt that evening to make it into Brazil was less straightforwardly impressive. Two bus tickets had us paying in dollars and using up our last pesos. Led to a blacked-out car, driven across the border and the the stretch of no-man's-land between the countries, passports stamped at either end, and then abandoned at a bus station somewhere on the Brazilian side of the water. Two hours later a coach arrived that would take us, overnight to Curitiba.

We had barely survived the mysterious car journey, only just the seemingly interminable wait in a terminal full tired language that was far too different from Spanish for our liking, and then the coach trip itself. Cold, wrapped in sleeping bags, contorted up against the front window upstairs and waking every few hours with cramped knees in pain. The armed customs officials who peered into our bags and took away a woman for ten mins of questioning did little to reassure our spasming joints, and by no means ourselves, though Pete has by this point given up and aimed instead for some shut-eye. We can only assume the other passengers were smuggling blankets, because that's all they seemed to carry on board with them. Understandable, considering the damp chilly Curitiba we turned up in at some grey hour early the next morn.

The city was quite like a pretty girl with a hangover. General reception upon meeting her a tad frosty, didn't look great at the time but you imagine would under better circumstances, some of it shone through a little later in the day, and then only in the evening do you realise that if you want the best tankard of German beer and plate of sauerkraut this side of the Atlantic than she's the one to go with. So Curitiba was something like that. Some half-guessed Portuguese and embarrassed sign language later, we had a ticket to São Paulo. Spirits were high; a few emails exchanged that morning had found us the generosity of two charming Paulistas. And that was how we ended up driving down a dirt track  to the lake in the dark with a woman I met over the internet.

I mustn't get ahead of myself, I shouldn't complain or jest either in the case, because between them Aurelia and Lodovico, as I like to call them, ensured we had a brilliant time in São Paulo. As soon as we arrived, the ever-smiling driver Lukas whisked us off, still smiling over the top of the language barrier, to an apartment belonging to Lodovico, where we'd stay the next Monday to Wednesday. That evening however we were whisked once more, this time by Aurelia, and to her place by the lake, a gorgeous house where we passed almost two days' worth of very happy hours, enjoying the (Brazilian winter) sun by the water's edge, eating wonderful food and sipping caipirinhas and a chilled beer or two in the entertaining company of Aurelia and friends. Thank you for such a far cry from the cold showers in Curitiba.

Have come to the conclusion that if hell exists, it must be an eternal cold shower in the knowledge that hot water and even baths do exist, just somewhere you're not. Maybe heaven. Perhaps. Nature of an afterlife aside, Many thanks to Lodovico for lending us the keys to his apartment - it made exploring São Paulo far more civilised than it might been otherwise, gargantuan as the place is. Ranking alongside megacities Mexico City and Tokyo, Sampo is vast. We explored the galleries, the restaurants and the plazas and yet I'm sure there's always more. To leave the metropolis to a small tropical island then was a contrasting wonder. Ilhabela - beautiful island - gave us two days of sun, beach, bars, sunny beach bars and swimming in waterfalls' pools.

Striding up a dirt track for a few km, we finally found the place that had looked so obvious on the map. The man behind the counter didn't seem very impressed by our  Portuguese (not so much broken as never put together), so naturally he switched to French to explain where we could swim and that we should cover ourselves in his waxy gloop of an insect repellent. Oui, monsieur, dredging up my GCSE vocab. And if that weren't enough in addition to the freezing wonderful water and the inevitable still-itching insect bites, the half a dozen shots of the local firewater, brewed right there and then, did nothing to worsen our mood after a nice early afternoon freshwater dip. The next morning we set off early to make our bus back on mainland to Rio. A ferry in the morning sun was nothing against our previous journey to a bus station - three (rush)hours on São Paulo public transport was rather painfully tedious.

As Ladly Planet puts it, 'Rio usually digs its paradisiacal claws into most tourists', and it's easy to see why. The people views are why people started needing thesauruses. And then dictionaries to check how to pluralise 'thesaurus' when they saw how many they'd need. Again, we enjoyed the generosity of a local, the gregarious Henri. Sharing an apartment with him, we made it all over, starting with Ipanema, where there's another word that needs to be - the song should be about more than just one girl. You want to write songs about all of them, and all of each one. Our first evening, after a few beers and a glass of champagne, we made it to Rio Scenario, a samba club in Lapa that makes Tokyo's Womb look mundane. Surreal backdrops, live music, beautiful people and all after a glass of champagne. I lost Pete, and was reduced to embarrassing the locals with my gringo moves, but fun was had by all methinks.

Looking back over our time in Rio, I don't think of the half-naked men foaming at the mouth who came bursting out of a favela to try to rob us of all our earthly possessions. Even the open-sided tram into Santa Teresa or the samba-filled cog train up to Christ the Redeemer or the stunning cable-car across to the Sugar Loaf pale in comparison to where they took you and what you saw there. The city is beautiful. The mountains rise out of the city like vast elephantine ghosts, unconquered above the busy beaches that look out over a bay that stretches round against a coast full of joie de vivre. Brazil's great cities have indeed been paradisiacal (and not that predatory) and I do feel like Williams' Blanche, relying on the kindness of strangers such as we have. Much better than the streetcar we saw in Curitiba, a streetcar named Solitude.

Mendibuses and Satalan

Nine days on the continent down, and only twenty-seven of those hours spent in coaches - not backpacking badly by any means. We´ve made it through Argentina's capital, its second city and apparently its second second city and currently sitting in San Ignacio, home of Jesuit ruins and not much else, hence I´m sitting here with Pete wondering how to pass the next blog-posting session. Have been meaning to get down to this for a while, especially considering quite how lacking in lustre and polish the last post was. Am still not quite sure whether posting every now and then from hostels' computers will lead to better posts than dashed-off-but-at-least-bedroom-written, but I suppose we'll all get to find out. 

I did while away an hour or three on the rather lengthy and luxurious coche cama coach journey looking back over all we have accomplished, and have come to the conclusion that there´s just no point attempting to whack off a travelogue here and there; else you get semi-rants like below which highlight a few travelling details and architectural marvels, but are low on anecdotes and odd occasions. From the post below on Jerusalem, you'd never know how exquisite it is, after a month in Blightly, to drink cheap Arabic coffee on a damp sofa watching a man beat a dog chained to a post. Or quite how exciting it is to make it through Israeli border control and into Palestinian territory, stroll down a grafittied wall of such terrible stark just-there-ness and then get stoned by little kids who you won't give any money. 

But this is a new Page (har har) in the travel diary, and though I don´t quite miss Israel, there's a lot to be said for comic encounters with American monks (¨You're British? You do look like Prince William¨ Does that make me Kate?) and breakfasting while people walk the path of Jesus past you, bearing wooden crosses. Or even riots happening outside the church you´re in and ubiquitous 'Gun 'n' Moses' tees. But enough of that little patch of fervent land. We´ve got 1000s of km to cover out here, and we've barely scratched the surface. Not scratching much actually, especially not mosquito bites - wouldn't want to get into bad habits. No malaria as yet, but I was struck down by a bad bout of food poisoning that laid me up good and proper for twenty-four hours or so. And in Buenos Aires' premier party hostel too, meaning that when the music from the club next door stopped at seven in the morning, you'd then have half an hour to fall asleep before your roommates got back from their respective-but-not-quite-respectful nights out.

Everyone did keep telling us about the city's party scene. Suffice to say that the only time we'd have the dorm to ourselves was when we were going to bed; the other folk (two law school grads and a nurse) slept in and stayed out far later than we ever managed. My stomach didn't help matters, but we did go out on the town porteño-style for one truly remarkable evening. At least we've done it and all that. After a steak, red wine and a few beers, perhaps we weren't probably energised, but that didn't stop my making a fool of myself in the now nototious 'Two Cups, One Girl' diplomatic incident. Though we'll leave the gory details until after this blog's watershed (very late indeed), I can tell you it's never a good idea to attempt to talk to a young lady on a loud crowded dancefloor while you´re holding two full plastic cups of beer for no good reason.

It was a minor relief to escape the yah atmosphere of B.A. Most everyone in our hostel was young, English-speaking, and after a rollicking time. Not that we're not part of that, but do forgive us for visiting the sights ever now then. I am sorry I don´t have the mental and spiritual strength to fly for thirteen hours to the capital city of Argentina and then only see it in the dark, out the window of a cab going from a club, through bleary eyes clogged with secondhand smoke and beer goggles. I do think that would have made things easier for everyone. As it is, we bussed out to Rosario for a few days of calmer wandering, and to enjoy our first brush with Chinese cuisine on the continent. Also shared a dorm with an Italianate transvestite who left at four in the morning. At least we've done it and all that.

Carrying two guidebooks with us. One is 'mine' and one is 'Pete's'. Mine is the Footprint Handbook, which is predictably quite ecologically-minded and vaguely comprehensive. Pete's is Ladly Planet, which recommends places built for things other than sleep. In fairness, each covers the other's faults quite nicely. Just realised that this does all give us the look of party-haters who crave only culture and a few Zs each night. This is only partly true. We just don't want to be like the American who set an alarm at half seven and slept through it for ten minutes until a Frenchman swung (like Tarzan, honest) out of his bunk to then carefully place the offending phone next to the sleeping Yank's head. That I could handle. Him then packing away while delivering a spectacular monologue on the best manner in which to treat local women - choice phrase, ¨Get them all pregnant. Then if they say, 'But stop, I'm too pregnant!', just ask yourself ¨What is too pregnant?'¨ - was a touch too surreal to be taken seriously on a Saturday morning pre-croissant.

But a Chinese buffet and a sixteen-hour coach journey later, we've made it to San Ignacio. We've even attempted to get into an invitation-only club along the way. And watched a water feature dance to the tune of 'We Are The Champions'. And of course, that's what makes travelling interesting, not the landmarks and the statues. Córdoba's Plaza de España? Grey and fading. Getting interviewed by Argentinian television on the contemporary art installation there? Interesante. Decided that when you send a postcard home, there are two things to make a fuss over. The first is the picture of where you've been on the front, and the second is the story of what happened on the back. No matter how many words that pretty postcard snap is supposed to be worth, give me the story everytime. As long as it's not just another yah nightclub in the outskirts of Buenos Aires. 

Access Delayed

In six hours I'll fly away to Madrid, and from there on to Buenos Aires. In three months' time I'll come back, so this is the last time in a while I'll find myself sitting at my undersized desk tapping away on this particular laptop. Blogging is still of course on the cards, but not quite sure how well I'll manage it all without my own computer to lug around with me; mobile posting with poor formatting might well be all I'm left with. But how else to share all I want to share? Postcards are so twentieth-century; not even two-thousand-and-late, while writing a blog is very 2008. But the sense of history isn't quite as intense as it was this time last week, in the narrow corridors of Jerusalem.

The Old City's divided into four quarters: Armenian, Christian, Jewish and Arab. Each has its own feel, each its own people, its own churches, mosques, synagogues, cuisines. In our little hostel, tucked away outside Damascus Gate, firmly in the Arab quarter, we had a fairly decent if narrowly-bunk-bedded base from which to wander around the dingy little streets. Israeli solders at every corner, all young, and the women far to darn attractive for armed people you probably shouldn't stare at. We'd already played the eye contact game earlier, at passport control, which wasn't too much fun.

Turns out that having an entry and exit stamp from the U.A.E. both entered in the same fifty-hour time period marks you out as suspicious to the state of Israel. Who knew? The lack of accommodation, a visible return ticket, an obvious connection to Will, and a barely decent reason to visit the place (sightseeing? tourism? in a poltical hotspot that also happens to be the one of the most significant site in the world's three largest religions? really?) as well as Will's numerous Malaysian visas left us high and dry for a few minutes as they worked out what to do with us. But we made it in, packs were carouselling and we were in the minibus to Jerusalem, just as your god intended.

If I'd had one of my own - God - then I think the city would have been terrifying. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus was supposedly crucified, was one of the most godawful places I've been to in a long time - almost up there with the Japanese immigration centre on Tennozu Isle (see below). The whole city in fact was bizarre. The Wailing Wall had a ring of absurdity to it, watching as we did the Jews pray at the beginning of Shabbat on Friday night. The Dome of the Rock? vast, stunning, and perhaps the most intriguing if only because we weren't allowed to go inside as non-Muslims. Couldn't even go down certain streets that led to various entrances to the place.

Mark Twain, whose Innocents Abroad chronicles a trip from New York to this Holy Land, gets across what struck me most about the place:

Perched on its eternal hills, white and domed and solid, massed together and hooped with high gray walls, the venerable city gleamed in the sun. So small!  Why, it was no larger than an American village of four thousand inhabitants, and no larger than an ordinary Syrian city of thirty thousand ... A fast walker could go outside the walls of Jerusalem and walk entirely around the city in an hour.  I do not know how else to make one understand how small it is.

It's oddly minuscule. The whole place has the feeling of a storm in a teacup. The Mount of Olives is really more of a molehill. We did go outside, into the new city of Jerusalem, around its hallowed walls, and that was fast-take-out hummus and American teenage Jews enjoying the drinking age. Don't get me wrong; I'm not decrying the place, only its reputation. My guidebook recommended reading the Bible as a primer to the city. Wouldn't bother. See it for the history and what it is now.

Along the way also popped into Palestine, took a quick peek around Bethlehem. Separation Wall was awful, quite literally - was in awe at just quite how determined the Israelis must have been. The Palestinians we met were charming, friendly, welcoming, etcb. All you could really want in hosts at your hostel. Had wander around the city, even finding a shopfront sporting the name 'Nazi Dental Laboratory'. Thought we'd leave that for another day and went back to the leopard-print beds in what is apparently the only hostel in Palestine: the House of Peace (www.salambethlehem.com, if you're passing by). Still think my hostel in Okinawa has spoiled me for the rest of the world. We'll see what they're like in South America. But now I really must go.

Green And Pleasant Land

Home for a month, and have posted nil up till now. This has been sufficient time that I feel I can stray away and onwards from Japan, with no tedious lists of what I miss or rants over our failings as a nation and a people in comparison to them folk. Instead, a humble insight into the stop-gap between adventures. It all goes seem to go a tad more slowly here, but that's been quite nice, really; home-cooking never did anyone any harm, and handing over my laundry instead of washing it all myself is a distinct advantage of returning to the family seat. The present's also been ticking by rather lazily perhaps because I've spent a fair part of it thinking of the future, with decisions having been made on the further education front and plans on the next few jaunts off out of Blighty.

Although I could walk almost everywhere I wanted to go in Tokyo - and I do miss that - I couldn't drive anywhere, and I did miss the easy independence that a car gives me. I've flitted hither and thither in my bright red little motor, although with it's meagre engine (at less than a litre she's hardly one for the fast lane) I fear 'flit' may be too optimistic a verb. Perhaps 'trundle' would suit better. Before getting back in my car though, I had to face British rail travel, and up to London at that. The Tube doesn't have much on the JR Yamanote line - no jingles at all to be heard, let alone different ditties to tell apart Green Park and Victoria,  and certainly no signs to tell any bereft little girls that dropped teddy bears can be retrieved from the tracks with a claw-like implement, never you fear little lady.

But London. Into Charing Cross, past Trafalgar Square after a call in a red telephone box, a coffee in the café downstairs at the National Portrait Gallery, across to Holborn for lunch and then over the Thames to the Hayward Gallery, then an early dinner on the South Bank and a Tube journey from Waterloo out to Islington for a play at the Almeida before back to Victoria and a train home. No kanji, no Tokyo crowds - a whole different plodding breed - and coffee and sandwiches and pizza and just that view down the river as the sun is coming down. There ain't a city like it, I think. But no, I'm not going to university there after all; that will be over in Abu Dhabi, thanks for coming.

That was only the first day back. The following week had Brighton with M, after a few renditions of classic musicals' best numbers with a healthy dose of nostalgia (we weren't singing, never fear) and then off to Hants for beers and a pub pint and more golf than I've managed in years. English sun isn't quite like that anywhere else as well; it comes out with a vengeance, and it doesn't like pussy-footing around. Despite radiation jokes on all sides, been most pleasant not to have been pussy-footed around myself, as straight back into life as we know it (or I know it) it was. Parents even upped and left for a week, leaving me again back in London a few times, and of course there was some wedding on the Fri.

As public holidays go, it had a vaguely Marmite-tinge to it, but I loved it, no shame in saying so. Tell me all you know about that dress and I'll throw in a factoid I picked up along the way. The hats? The swords? The trees? The children? The crowds? I only really saw the latter, but it was a fine end to a few days of all I like in London. Anything that gets that many people excited that doesn't involve any sort of competition is good enough for me - no-one loses at a wedding, but the city doesn't see crowds like that 'cept for marathons (pure one-up-manship) and I suppose it's up there with the World Cup for international viewing figures. On my front, throw in Frankenstein at the National (literally spectacular), an afternoon at the Udderbelly and a filming session at the Tate Modern for a few days of fun.

A night out in Sidcup washed down the week up until the wedding - drama students reach a full enough bloom for me on a Thurs night out with the inevitable theme of Kings & Queens, and I was happy to get back to the normal reserved quiet British masses on the Fri. That night had seen a 3 am call to the M&S garage for a sandwich, noodles and curry after Pete and I had raced (trundled) up the M25 for a two-hour delayed arrival in Plastic Red, a club that knocks Womb into a cocked hat by all accounts. Fuelled by that late-night carb fix and the two or three hours of sleep that came between hitting the sack and up again for the train, we made it through the happy day at Hyde Park and then back to home and some sleep. Fair bit of that in Blighty these days.

Two birthdays later - my own and my Gran's, though she does trump me by sixty-one years - and that's a month in England. Where next? Not very far away if that bloke William Blake was writing about had stuck to his word. I suppose he might still be mentally fighting away with his insomniac sword (though perhaps he left it somewhere so it could catch a few Zs), but it seems more likely that he didn't manage to build Jerusalem over here, so I'm off to Israel and Palestine for a few days come Friday 13th with a good pal of mine. Especially excited by the prospect of eating at Holy Bagel. And all the churchy/mosquey/synagoguey stuff too. 

Innervisions

One of Stevie Wonder's great albums, is that. Now I'm leaving Tokyo come Tuesday morning my time, and tonight will be my last sleep in my bed of the past few months. So although I'll try to avoid getting too reflective or melancholy or even spiritual, à la Stevie, thought it might be worth writing a little something tonight, even if just to counteract my last post's rather 'down' feel. But there'd be no Innervisions without 'Living for the City', which is a nice title but a black tale (in more ways that one) of living in a city when everything you've got just keeps going down. And so - here, and not in order of to-be-missed-most, after a swinging (almost) three months, is what I'll be missing come Wednesday...

1.) All The People I Didn't Meet

Trust me, they seem pretty cool. And pretty nice, too. We could even just go with pretty. There are a helluva lot of them round here, this being one of the most densely populated collections of metres cubed in the world, so the minuscule but hardly insignificant fraction that I did shake the hands of, say hello to or share a drink with will have to be my representative for the rest. I'd have liked to have been able to speak to more of them with a bit more fluency, but we've coped on both sides, and it's been fun. I'll be back one day, and I get the feeling most of these folk think they're on to something here, and won't be leaving anytime soon.

2.) All The People I Did Meet

From the comedians to the cougars, the bartenders to the bachelors, the waitresses to the weight-lifters, I think I've had fun with most of you all along the way. I'm not quite sure who that apostrophe's addressing, as I haven't spread the word about this here blog around those whose antics may feature in it - rude, perhaps? Over-protective? Not sure, but no complaints so far. To all those who laughed that extra bit loudly at the open mic nights, to all those who put up my hour-long lunch-breaks and inability to use Photoshop, to all those who smiled wearily when I went to eat even more toast... Why thank you. It's been charming. 

3.) The Toasty Mornings

For most of my stay here, that 'toasty' has been only in the sense (and it may be a new one) of 'involving toast'. The temperature when I'd crawl out of bed before work in the not-so-early a.m. was hardly balmy, even once I'd switched on the heater. But the prospect of golden peanut (butter) cream melting on just-so toasted bread was enough to get my down to the bathroom and under the hopefully-not-radioactive water in enough time that I could probably enjoy my coffee and Kindle time. And did I mention the toast? Also - the quiet. Save for the occasional rattle of the early commuter fetching his coffee from the vending machine, those twenty-plus minutes were quietly nice.

4.) The Surreal All-Nights

Remember that scene in The Jungle Book, where all the apes are dancing to the tune of King Louie singing 'I Wan'na Be Like You'? That's how I moved in Womb, only one of the globe's top clubs, to the sound of Sasha, only one of the globe's top DJs. No regrets, obviously. But as if turning the lights on at the end of the night wasn't bad enough, leaving the club and discovering it was bright outside? I was in there for a little over six hours, and the walk back through Shibuya at dawn was enough to make me sure I'm going to miss this here place. And that was only one night... Throw in will.i.am and indie gigs and some U.S. Marines and it's been swell.

5.) Day-To-Day

So getting up's not too bad and I can have a good time into the wee hours of the morning, but that wouldn't count for diddly if I couldn't get myself a hot coffee out of a vending machine or meet people by a statue of a dog or learn how to treat a green light the Japanese way or ride the subway to-and-fro or see all those cherry blossoms or just watch all these people in all of this city that just keeps on going - there's always more, and what earthquake are you worrying about? We're here for a good time, not a long time. But now I'm off and out. That'll be a 'sayonara', then, I guess. So long, Tokyo.

Make 'Em Laugh, Make 'Em Cry

You know things aren't going well when it all gets a little bit worse after you leave work. It's not like today had even been a particularly exciting day at the office; I wrote another review of a movie I haven't seen, and watched some video of a Swiss girl writhing around on the floor with a guitar between her legs as some sort of preparation for writing another review, this of a contemporary dance piece. The walk back to my little room in Harajuku could even warrant the description pleasant, with the evening sun sliding down the sky and that summery feel in the air, the sort for cliched romance and mediocre poetry. But then I reached said little room, and switched on the laptop, and tried to rearrange my flight home, and just - why.

I'm quite partial to British Airways. I have no particular complaints, most of the time. But after three attempts to navigate their ridiculous system, and three unknown errors encountered only ever at the close of the process, I was lethargically miserable. So I contemplated my options, and noticed the word 'plate' was in 'contemplated', so set off with a heavy heart for dinner. A burger? No thank you. But there seemed no alternative.  I must resist! My heart had sunk, my tread was heavy, but my spirit was strong. So onwards. Across the road. Alas! A red light. Forced to wait. I could see a Thai restaurant across the way. A destination! My hunger began to rise; the sinking of my heart had depressed him too, but now he was awake, and he must be fed. To the food!

But what's this? A handshake from out of nowhere, an American accent, a Japanese face. Who are you? 'My name is Yujiro. I am standing as a candidate to become governor of Tokyo.' He was still holding my hand in his white glove. He spoke English with fluency, he even swore in the language, which was surprising in a way that's difficult to explain why. (I suppose we expect the West to have a monopoly on shit.) He was campaigning as a youthful force, throwing aside the old and the old-fashioned; Tokyo needs a new force to lead it out of the recent turmoil; he gave me a flyer, told me to look him up on Facebook; asked me how old Boris Johnson was, and told me he was young; so that's why England is doing well, apparently, except for our debts, of course.

He's got a video on YouTube, a little old I think, called 'Obama City and Democracy'. Play spot the influence all you like, but I liked him. Made my evening, perhaps. The name of his campaign? 'Change Tokyo'. After three weeks out of the city, I can see that already. It's changed. The peanut butter's moved about a metre down the shelf at my nearest convenience store. The Lindt shop, which I used to watch getting built, though I never knew then it was going to be a Lindt shop, has leapt from scaffolding and buzz-saws to polish and vacuuming. A whole new alleyway seems to have appeared in my neighbourhood - guess I never noticed that before, or maybe the earthquake stretched Harajuku out a little. And there's no dark chocolate and no lemon-flavoured Vitamin C drink cartons in the shops anymore. Where have they gone?

Tokyo scares me a little now. I was easing into it. I'd just got used to her ways; it's like I went to the bathroom and when I came back she'd changed  the colour of her eyeshadow. I didn't notice immediately, but then- what'd you do that for? The old way was quite nice. Well, no, not to offend, this isn't not nice, but... Why change? I was happy before. Now I'm just - unnerved. So, yes, I'm leaving. Next Tuesday, if B.A. gets its act together. A week early. Got other things to think about, like where to spend the next three, four years of my life. Finish work on Friday, which is the deadline for our first post-disaster issue. Look out for the film review if you get a copy. Would you be able to tell I hadn't seen it? I doubt it. You haven't noticed I've never actually been to Tokyo. Actually just been writing this from my bedroom at home.

You wouldn't come up with half this stuff from a bedroom in the south of England. Japan is way out like that. I think of it as a grand big, black-tie dress-coded cocktails-and-dinner party. Most of the time, I've felt like I was in a lounge suit and tie. A little out of place, but throw out some good one-liners - and even I managed at least one of those at the last open mic night - and everyone forgets about the slight wardrobe mishap and you're on your way to a good evening. Other times, it's like wearing a full-on wardrobe malfunction. Maybe even like turning  up in a wetsuit, flippers and a snorkel dangling out my mouth. Not so much feeling out of place as knowing your only options are to laugh or cry.

On the subject of inappropriate clothing, I certainly stood out strolling down the street in Okinawa on a Saturday night. You've got all these U.S. Marines out on the town, and it's then that you realise why these stereotypes exist - maybe you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but these guys were the real deal, these are the good ol' boys, according to what I'd been led to expect of a member of the American military. And then's there moi. The Marines can tell I'm not Japanese, and so can the Japanese, but in my close-fit leather jacket, my skinny jeans and my white shoes (natch), they can all sure tell I'm not a soldier either. Where you from, kid? England, I say. And back to Blighty soon.

In The Bathroom...

...everyone can hear you scream. Or so I imagine. Judging by the odd looks when I emerged, they can certainly hear your sharp intakes of breath and quietly high-pitched expletives. Although they may just have been startled by my face, which was a rather spectacular shade of red. This was obviously enhanced by my embarrassment, suspecting they'd heard my pained expressions as well as now being able to witness its cause: south-of-England-style sunburn, in its most brilliant and bright variety. In one day on the beach, I think I probably exposed myself to more harmful radiation than if I'd stayed in Tokyo. At the time, I knew I was burning - but I always burn. Not until my return did I realise that this was perhaps something a little worse. So armed with after-sun (aloe and menthol), I retreated to the bathroom.

I don't know whether it was the gel's aloe, or whether it its menthol. It might just have been my highly sensitive nipples. But whatever it was, it stung like a scorpion on acid. A week later, and I'm still peeling a little bit. But of course, no pain, no gain, right? From that - today's favourite t-shirt, spotted on the man who cooked my burger (and what a burger) was 'No rain, no gain'. Maybe he does some farming on the side. I at the moment do nothing on the side. I do nothing as a main, it's the dish of every day. Of course, not literally - you can't sit in a hostel's living room all day, nice as it is with its leather armchairs and wi-fi. I watch obscure mockumentaries at the local film festival, I write short stories and I find neat cafés to read neat books in. These have all been on the menu since the weekend, now that everyone left.

I do get occasional emails, some of which checking I'm coping with all this radiation and general Japanese danger. I feel rather absurd when I answer, telling family (and) friends I am why yes still in Japan, and have spent the day lazing on a deserted beach with some Oxford girls who picked me up, paddling occasionally in the azure waters and watching the fish glide over the shallow coral reefs. Of course, I was then rather red for the next few days, probably as some sort of prescient karma for being so crass as to refer to Pan and Amélie merely as 'good company' and 'Oxford girls', when really they deserve a post of their own in thanks and memory. And while on memory and memories - plenty of them, not mine, at Pan's own blog (sorry): http://tokyomeridian.wordpress.com/

Having latched onto the two them, together with a then-accompanying Hollander, I passed a pleasant nine days in their aforementioned good company, during which I of course posted briefly. It was in their company that I enjoyed a local island's beach, and in theirs that I saw most of the wonders mentioned below. They have now gone to a better place. Well - two better places; Thailand and Oxford, respectively. Since their departure, I've passed an entertaining weekend - entertaining evenings and early mornings would be more accurate - with Goldie, a young man from Sheffield, by eleven years in Japan, and awamori, the local firewater, most of which has been in Japan for far less than eleven years, save a few tasters sampled at the local brewery.

So here I am, all alone in Naha. Although you do struggle to feel quite lonely in this particular city. Feels like Hong Kong selling a Japanese take on Americana by way of Brighton and every other metropolitan seaside city of the world. I've seen a man walking his cat in a red silk coat. The cat, that is, all dressed up. Recycling vans come round each morning playing 'Greensleeves' (I think; else the tune remains mysterious), and that only adds to the cacophony. This is Tokyo-loud, but difference is it all dies off after about ten p.m. Can't say I particularly appreciate the local music, and especially not the Musak, but my quite little coffeehouse/bar plays jazz records, and is decorated with old radios, record players and television. All some of my favourite things, and now including John Coltrane's fourteen minute take on the Sound of Music classic.