Roy Orbison Sings me Sayonara. Stealing WiFi. Finally, Some Practical Advice for DatingYourself

A Garden Past its Prime

I chose this photo for my final blog from Tokyo for a reason.  At the bottom of this page,  I'll tell you why.*

*****

Music to go Home to

Spotify is a wonderful thing.  It is delivering Roy Orbison's Last Concert album right here to my MacBook Air in my little Tokyo studio.  Me and Roy.  Nice.  Did you know he had perfect pitch?   Blue Bayou.  Just the right song to listen to when you're homesick.  And I am, alas, homesick and need to get back home.  ....Gonna see my baby again, Gonna be with some of my friends....

Really Dating Myself 
I  want to sleep in my own bed, put my head on a pillow that knows me, wear my old ratty housecoat, curl up in my worn sheets and smell the night air off the Pacific that finds its way into my bedroom window cracked just enough so that a  thief could not gain entrance and steal my Iphone and petite chef knife.   Did I mention it's crab season. ....I'm going back someday, come what may.....  I want a whole crab of my very own with a pot of aioli,  a side of sour dough, and a chilled St. Supery Sauvignon Blanc  to wash it down, if you want that much detail.   I need to  drink a whole pot of Peet's Breakfast Blend coffee in the winter dark with the fireplace going, catch up on all of the episodes of The Good Wife and  take the 23 MUNI to the Alemany Market on Saturday morning.  I need to resume eating green things I recognize; and fruit.   Only the Lonely know the way I feel tonight....Save me a place in line at Tartine.  Better yet, order me a loaf of their peasant bread.  I'll pick it up Friday.  I want to go Happy Hour bar hopping with my old-broad friends at the City's fancy hotels, get a little bit drunk and see the Christmas decorations.

Japanese taste in Christmas music god-awful

I want to hear Christmas music that doesn't sound as though it was recorded by my 94-year old mother's memory-care choir trying to sound upbeat.   I want to go to Yosemite and reacquaint myself with my own country's sense of sovereign majesty.

I've loved Tokyo, but I'm ready to go home.  I love you and I'm dreaming of you...

If It's Tomorrow Here, Then It's Yesterday There
The down side is that this getting-ready-to-leave  business seems to require some real planning and adjustments that'd I rather not have to endure.  First off, I need to take into primary consideration what time it will be in San Francisco when I get on the plane here in Tokyo. All of the best advice about  traveling outside of your time zone recommends that you board the plane and immediately assume the activity of whatever time zone you are going to land in. So if it's the middle of the day where you take off but the middle of the night where you're headed, take some drugs and a couple martinis before you board and conk out.  This would be the best-case scenario in my opinion.  (Some of those finer points are from my own operations manual.)

That  general time zone directive is all well and good but it gets complicated because it's already tomorrow here but when I get back, it will  not only be yesterday, but yesterday at a very different time.  I don't have all this nailed down yet, I'm still in the stage of just thinking about it and scaring myself.  Setting suns before they fall, Echo to you that's all that's all... 

I  remind myself that in the six weeks since I arrived here, I have mastered a lot of new skills and acquired a great deal of knowledge; some I had no idea I needed to acquire and others I acquired without my knowledge or consent.

Things I've Learned

• Metro train and subway lines are all different colors because colored circles are easy to follow.  Don't bother trying to learn the names.  It is a fool's errand.
• Metro train and subway exit signs are always yellow and numbered and there is a wall map of where they take you above ground.  Studying this map is a worthwhile exercise for navigational purposes.  This was a lately-acquired bit of knowledge.
• Best counter for fresh sushi at Tokyo Foodshow is under Shibuya station.
• Stealing wi-fi at Starbucks and Apple stores does not require a purchase; otherwise it's not stealing. (Starbucks Christmas Blend is $15 for 8 1/2 ounces and you don't get a free cup when you buy it or a free anything on your birthday and your Starbucks card doesn't work here.  Steal away.)   
• Decent French wine for about $8-14 is available at local convenience stores.
• Didn't need that jar of peanut butter hauled in luggage after all.
• Japanese platform beds only look comfortable.
• The stereotype of the Japanese tourist with a camera is not a stereotype.
• Just because you bought a purse in Japan doesn't  mean you have acquired the Japanese aesthetic.
• Bowing is a beautiful art form. 
• Expect raw eggs to show up with some hot rice dishes. You'll discover it's raw the hard way.  You won't know what to do with it.
• Stores, outdoor gardens and other places play what we recognize as "Auld Lang Syne" to indicate they are closing.  To the Japanese, this song is "Glow of a Firefly," a popular children's song whose lyrics are unrelated to those we sing. 
• Japanese  are master baggers.  Buy a small bottle of cold sake and when you get home, it will have one of those disposable ice packs tucked inside of the 5 yards of bubble wrap that's inside a plastic liner bag that's inside of the store's brand bag.  Resist fighting this excess. It's useless.  
• My favorite discovery:  a lot of Japanese are just as lost on the streets of Tokyo as you are. 

Skills I've Acquired

• Navigate Tokyo metro system without causing system interruption.
• Except for those little copper colored ones with the holes in them that vending machines won't take, have almost mastered Japanese coins.  
• Walk on the left.  But sometimes on the right.  Stairs at Metro stations observe inconsistent walking patterns. 
• Can say following phrases in Japanese:  Hello; Excuse me; Thank you; What do you recommend?; Delicious.  See no need to add to this list. 
• Expect to wait in line.  Start at the back.  Don't push or elbow anyone, even if you're taller and you know you could take them.
• Do  not give money directly to sales clerk. Place money on that little plastic dish with the fake grass surface.  

If you have been reading this blog hoping to get some practical advice about what to bring on your future trip to Tokyo, here it is. Don't get used to it.  I'm not the travel tip sort.

Things I'm Glad I Brought With Me

• Long sleeve house sweater
• Sheepskin-lined slippers, even if they took up precious space in suitcase
• Multi pocketed travel vest bought at the Embarcadero day before I left 
• Two good scarves
• Mostly black clothes
• Two Tokyo specific guidebooks
• Small notebook for planning and note taking
• Small to medium size purse/back pack for hands free touring.  Easier on back than shoulder purse.
• Small but real camera with big-bite memory card 
• MacBook Air laptop,  SKYPE-ready
• Iphone set on airplane mode for stealing wi-fi when not at apartment
• Ipod Touch for back up
• Electric toothbrush
• Chargers for all of above
• LOTS of cash

So that's all of the new stuff I've learned,  followed by a list of things  I can do that I couldn't do before I got here,  and, finally, what you need to bring along if you want to try DatingYourself in Tokyo.  

*Blog Photo Backstory

Koishkawa Botanical Garden in late Fall

Yesterday I visited the Koishkawa Botanical Garden that belongs to the Tokyo University Graduate School of Science.  I only had an hour before they closed, but it was the final garden on my list.  It clearly was a garden in seasonal decline.  The flower beds were gone, the pond lilies were sad and broken,  canopies of ancient cherry trees planted to show off their Spring foliage were barren.  Thick layers of dead leaves covered the pathways beneath the maples, sycamores and ginkgoes.  "How disappointing," I thought.  "This garden was designed to look good in the spring and summer."

Youth always appears more beautiful and easier to enjoy than the product of maturity and old age.  It's also more photogenic.  So I headed back to the entrance, trying to picture the flowers and trees in bloom, buzzing with life, erupting in color, capturing the attention of thousands of Japanese with cameras.  I had come wanting to find something special to look at and found instead, just an old garden.

Signs of shedding

Ginkgo's glory days

Layer of Maple

I didn't want the day to end in disappointment, so I began looking at what was there, rather than what I had missed had I been here in May.  A few minutes walk among these faded beauties found me under the tree whose photo appears at the top.  It wasn't much to look at from a distance but the closer I got, the more intrigued I was with the fineness of its features and the small, exquisite seed pods that remained from its former glory days.  In its time, it must have been a real stand out.  A show off among the other specimens vying for attention in this botanical bonanza.

Just an old tree

How much older women are like this tree, I thought.  We are invisible to most people, not worthy of a photo, having passed our days of youth and beauty.  But after the blooms are gone, there is a possibility, if we are lucky and have taken pains to prepare ourselves, to still have something to offer anyone who takes the time to stop and study us. I took the photo, previewed it, and made my way contentedly back to the Metro stop.

Worth a closer look

Later today I'll board a plane and tomorrow I'll be back in California where I'll continue DatingMyself and keeping my own company, as best I can.

For now, a Sayonara to all. California blue,  dreaming all alone,  nothing else to do, California blue...  Oh, Roy! Sing it out!

Ippudo Tonkotsu. Ralph Lauren Models Eat Here. Under the spell of the Ginkgo. Orchids You Won't Find at Trader Joe's.

Orchid from show at Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden

First, I would like to brag a bit.  Here's why:  I successfully navigated to the Ippudo Ramen restaurant over in Ebisu on Sunday afternoon. I did this on my own, without getting lost or asking strangers and even created an internal directional compass for myself using an east-west orientation when I left the  train station.  Like I said, I've got bragging rights and now street cred.

Ippudo Ramen has 80 locations throughout Japan, not a lot when you consider there are 127 million people who live here, but evidently good enough Ramen that they have attracted the attention of foodies and travel writers.  The restaurant specializes in Tonkotsu, a creamy, pork-based Ramen, that comes with condiment options on the table so diners can personalize their bowls to suit their tastes.  I don't know about you, but I love condiments.  Give me a set of  containers on a table with stuff in them, and in all likelihood I'll sample every one of them. Doesn't matter what I've ordered.  In the USA, this is not a problem.  In Japan, I worry about making a big culinary faux pas by putting the wrong set of condiments into or on top of my food and, along with looking like the fool that I am, I will l ruin a perfectly good meal.  After all, a container of soy sauce looks very much like a container of Japanese vinegar.   A review of the Japanese' fealty for  establishing systems and  following order, it is vital to observe what others are doing before emptying the condiment containers into your bowl.  It is also good form to remind yourself that the reason the Japanese are so beautifully thin is that their portions are small and so are their condiment containers.  We're not at an Interstate 7-11 taco bar with a giant pump filled with processed melted cheese and bins of jalapeno peppers.  Try to control yourself.

Last week in Kyoto I ordered a side of kim chi with my Ramen.  When the waiter informed me that kim chi was available "free" and pointed to a table where a bowl of it sat, I made a bee line to it. Three trips later, I rested.  So it's not as though I take my own advice.  That's part of the challenge of traveling alone.  There is no one to talk you out of your own follies.  On the other hand, there's no one to watch you either.

The directions to Ippudo warned that there were no English signs on the restaurant.  I knew I had found the right place because the front of the store matched the Google street view photo I had taken on my Iphone before I left my apartment and, of course, there was a line.  Families with children in strollers, couples without children and a bunch of guys.  I queued up at the end of the line to wait. Then an odd thing happened.  The women with the kids in the front of the line turned to look at me and after some conferring amongst themselves,  sent an emissary down my way and, given confirmation that I was just by myself, indicated that I should go to the front of the line.  And so I was led to the proper position and once again, just waited.  Sometimes time is the answer.  Time and nodding and Arigato, arigato.

Shortly after assuming this #1 place in line, the door to the restaurant slid open and a group of six of the most stunning, tall, blonde, extraordinarily beautiful creatures I have ever seen in real life, emerged.  Swedes or Danes or some pure Scandinavian bloodline sporting high cheekbones and skin with no visible pores.   They were straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.  You know, the ones you see surrounded by dogs and horses and guns, moving in slow motion on PBS right before Downton Abbey.  For a moment, I imagined that Ippudo takes people who look like me and turns them into people who look like that.   It would explain why my new Japanese Ippudo friends were so anxious for me to get on with it.  But, in the end, it seems that the bar inside the restaurant is reserved for single diners and there were stools available,  so there was no reason for me to wait it out behind the groups.  (The Lauren clan quickly disappeared into the street chaos, probably to meet up with other beautiful people from the Viking Cruise line and then off to dinner with Lord and Lady Grantham. )

The hostess ushered me in and I settled into a bar stool, which also faced directly into the kitchen.  What a treat.  The hostess scurried to my side with a small plastic clothes basket to hold my purse.  I sat it on the floor beside me.  Then she handed me the best gift of the day:  an English menu with pictures.

Three cooks--why do all Japanese restaurants that I eat at seem to have three cooks--were producing hot steamy bowls of Ramen and little meat dumpling sides with astonishing speed.

Guidebooks and common sense tell you to order the house speciality.  This time I went against such advice.  I had had Tonkotsu in Kyoto and while it was good, I had my eye on the spicy red Ramen

Condiments for sharing. Try to control yourself.

that, to me, looked more promising.  The kid sitting next to me was already well into his spicy bowl when I sat down.  I also eyed up his set up.  Three little bowls spread out before him, each with the remnants from the condiment containers, so I knew I could condiment my way up the Ramen wazoo.

Why is it that even though the menu is in English and the waitress seems to have a good command of English, I still find myself pointing to a photo and announcing what I want as though I were reading a picture book to a toddler?   One of these, hold up finger, point deliberately to spicy bowl photo.  Point to standard three spice option but think about being brave and going for the eight spice option.  Best in foreign countries to not be quite so brave in the face of escalating spice.  Then point to meat dumpling photo and show waitress four fingers, indicating the smaller side portion and not the eight piece portion. ( I'll bet those tall skinny blonde models shared a four-piece portion. )

Ippudo Spicy Ramen and side of meat dumplings

The Ramen was great.  If I missed something special by not ordering the Tonkotsu, I can live with that.  I was especially thrilled with the little dumplings.  They are best described as miniature pot stickers, but more tender and easier to eat.  The meat filling speaks of pork and ginger, not unlike a potsticker but more subtle.  I ate every noodle, every floating piece of green onion, every bean sprout and pickled something or other from the condiment containers, and then I picked up the bowl and drank it down to empty.

I felt I owed myself this little feast as a reward for having found Ippudo so easily.  Now it was time to head out to the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, just southwest of the Shinjuku station and not far from the Lost in Translation Hyatt hotel.  An area that I could claim some familiarity with, but wouldn't go so far as to say I knew my way around.  Because, you see, I didn't.  It's great to create a cosmic compass inside your head, but if your cosmic compass is off by, let's say 180 degrees, you are going to have a hard time finding the National Garden.

Ginkgo grove hard to capture 

One of the Ginkgo trees in grove at Shinjuku National Garden

It was later than I had anticipated when I finally arrived at the Garden and the day had lost whatever portion of sunshine was going to make an appearance, but that did not seem to deter the hundreds of people still streaming in.  I paid my 200 Yen (about $2) and followed the crowd.  It was the last day of an orchid show and I wanted to see what the Japanese orchid growers were up to.  In a moment of true arrogance, I had put away my camera for the day, thinking that I had taken enough pretty photos of trees in autumn in Kyoto and how could anything in Tokyo even come close to matching the beauty of the shrines and temple grounds from last week.

Then I saw them:  a grove of old, giant ginkgo trees, still holding on to their foliage.  Below the trees were dozens of people, photographing the leaves, posing beneath the canopy, families on blankets, bystanders just staring and taking it all in.  There was something magical about this grove of ginkgo trees, getting ready for their final shedding.  The light from above and beneath it was warm and glowed with a rich yellow hue that had me suddenly in tears for no apparent reason I could name.  I watched all those families and individuals who were, like me, drawn to this spot that demanded our attention and required us to stay.  I thought about how alone I was here in Tokyo and although I have not wanted for distractions or entertainment at any time, I wanted very much for someone, anyone, everyone I love, to be with me at that one moment, beneath these majestic trees.  I took out my camera and snapped away.


In less than four days, I will leave here.  Seems like I have no time left, yet many people pass through this city with less time and they manage to create memories that last forever.  As Bonnie Raitt has sung so often, "Life gets mighty precious when there's less of it to waste."

So I'm off to make the most of the next  precious few days.  Wish you were here.

Sample of the orchid show in the Summerhouse.  Good timing.  It was their last day on display.  

The Consent, by Howard Nemerov. A poetry moment observed in Kyoto

The Consent

Late in November, on a single night

Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees

That stand along the walk drop all their leaves

In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind

But as though to time alone: the golden and green

Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday

Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.

Howard Nemerov

Oh-No-Not-in-Kyoto. Conspiracy Theories and the Communists. I Want to Report Naked Women in the Onsen

Kinkakuji, Kyoto's Golden Palace

There are many things you can do in Japan.

$8 worth of sushi from convenience store

You can buy really good sushi at convenience stores.  You can walk safely down the streets at any time of night without fear of being mugged.  You can count on sitting down on a warm toilet seat that 's not necessarily warm because of the person ahead of you.  You can get strangers to help you do all manner of things, from selecting your food to performing simple arithmetic with a handful of what are still strange and exotic coins.  And if you can handle those coins on your own, you can even buy beer out of a vending machine.

But one thing you cannot do in Japan:  you cannot check into a hotel until the check-in time.  Please do not ask.  It produces That Look.  You know That Look.  It's worn on the faces of service people everywhere  when confronted by wretchedness.  If you think you'll just show up at the hotel an hour before check in time in mid-week when hardly anyone else is there,  do not assume they are going to be happy to see you and let you in.  Half of this is true.  They will be happy to see you.  They will not let you in.

Luggage for a mid-week visit to Kyoto

Despite how many Certificates of Excellence  I am certain the desk clerk was awarded during his service training, as I was walking away from the lobby with my backpack stowed in the luggage room but no room key for another hour, I imagined the  internal dialogue that went off inside his head.

"Early check -in!  Mon Dieu!  When will these Americans learn to read? We state it clearly on the website, in the confirming email we send them when they made their reservation, in the warm and sincere welcome-to-our hotel-message from our manager ten minutes later, in the follow up e-mail two days before their stay, in the immediate email the day before they arrive  and  right now, here on the desk in front of them is a sign we paid big Yen for someone to translate into English.  It clearly says, 'Accept -in:  13:00.'  And how many times do I have to  answer their stupid question, 'What time is that in my time?'  If  I have to hear about how only Communist countries measure time with all 24 hours or endure one more insult about how we drive on the wrong side of the road, I may just have to do something disrespectful.  I'm actually thinking about flaring my nostrils or maybe I'll breathe deeply as soon as they're out of hearing distance.  I'm that tired of it.

Do all these Americans get together and decide to torment us with a request for an early check in?  Is there a website somewhere they all subscribe to?   We start letting these Americans go to their rooms early and the next thing you know, those Australians and Brits are going to begin demanding equal treatment.  All that good English must go to their heads.

Why should we let them in their rooms early anyway?   They're not in  their rooms 10 minutes before they start  calling down for more towels and bigger slippers and do we have an XXL size yukata?  What do Americans do with all those towels?  One towel.  One person.  How hard  of a concept is that to grasp?

And to think I wasted a a great bow on this woman.  In fact, it was probably my best bow of the day.  For this I'm still paying off a school loan?


And it's bad enough that when they do finally check in, they start playing around with the operation buttons for the toilet  and it never fails, within 15 minutes someone has to go up and show them how to turn off the sprayers or lower the temperature of the cleansing squirts.  It's not my fault their behinds get burned.   Right there, a big warning, plain as anything in bold face hirgana,  熱制御には触れないでください.  

And didn't anyone teach these Americans how to bathe properly?  They treat the onsen soaking tub like it's filled with water for swimming.  Last week one of the American women guests complained that no one was wearing swimsuits in the soaking pool.  She went in expecting a hot steamy place to lie down in and relax and instead found a dozen naked Japanese women submerged in the water with folded towels balanced on their heads.  I heard about what goes on in hot tubs in America.  Maybe she should go to California before she comes here with her high-minded ideas about wearing swimsuits in the onsen.  My grandmother would laugh her right off the tatami mat.

Oh, I know this sort of thinking is unkind and I need to stop.  OK, I'm stopping now.  I really like Americans.  They always want to know how I know they're American before they even start talking. What else would they be?  Certainly not French.  

I always tell them it's because they are so friendly and so upbeat.  But the truth is far from that little lie:  like we don't get Duck Dynasty in Japan?  Who do they think started Dynasties to begin with.  What sort of country do they think we run here?"

Did I mention the weather in Kyoto was really nice?

  

Icky-Butts-Row. Skirls. Very Salty. Good with Wine and Beer.

Can You Repeat That?
Because Japanese is such an unfamiliar sound to my ears and nothing in the foreign language part of my brain can process it productively, I am very hesitant to ask questions that require me to understand the response.  Oh, sure, I've got pretty good at interpreting how far to walk before making a left or a right--distance is measured by the height of the hand thrust forward, times the number and length of grunts the kind stranger is making.

Audio recordings of each Metro station are announced first in Japanese and then in English.  The name of the station in Japanese never sounds like the English version, which I still don't hear correctly.  Internally, I've Americanized the names of the important stations so that when I see their names crawling across the arrival sign, regardless of what I hear coming out of the speaker, I'm ready for action.  For example,  Omotosando is Oh-no-my-honda;  Shimbashi becomes Shimmy-knees; Asakusa is Ass-kisser;  and my favorite, Ikebukuro to my way of thinking is Icky-butts-row.

Couple my inability to  process the language with the Japanese sensitivity to ensure that all exchanges end with courtesy, grace and perfection and you have a set up that should be avoided for good reasons on both sides.  But there are times when one just wanders into this landscape littered with language barriers and bad hearing.

Gummy Worms Make a Comeback
I happened to stop by one of those upscale supermarkets buried deep in the bottom of the Tokyo Metro Station on my way home yesterday where a very nice man invited me to sample a bite of what I think were salmon eggs.  He promised me they were a "little salty" but very good.  They were. Glorious little salty balls bursting with a hint of whatever ocean, creek or river from whence they came.  Their locavore status probably  matters; but not to me.   At his suggestion, I could take them home, ($15/100 grams) and eat them with beer or wine.  If only  he knew I eat most everything with beer or wine.  If only I knew what 100 grams looked like, I might even have bought some.

Grannies' Alley Gummy worms make a reappearance

Then, suddenly, I saw them.  There, behind the container of little salty salmon eggs that I could eat with beer or wine was a familiar-looking stack of small, pink, worm-like forms that looked suspiciously like the mound of mystery I sampled at Sugamo's Grannies' Alley earlier in my visit.

"What are those?"  I asked, pointing to the slithering pile.


"You want to taste those?"  he inquired, rather incredulously.

 "No, thanks.  I've already tasted them.  I just want to know what they are."

"Oh," he replied rather slowly and cautiously.  "Those are squirrels."

"Squirrels?" I repeated.

"No, skurls," he responded.

"Skurls,"  I tried, mimicking his pronunciation.  Still not there.  One more try, bigger smile.

"Skirls,"  he beamed, certain that I now understood.

So as not to completely ruin his day or allow this exchange to disintegrate any further, I smiled back my biggest smile, nodding as though we had arrived at a break through moment and said, "I didn't like them."

"Oh, very nice.  Salty too.  Good with beer and wine," he added.

"Do you cook them?" I pressed,  knowing I was pretty much nearing the limits of his patience and any further promotional efforts he could provide about skirls.

"Oh, no," he chuckled, as though I had suggested cooking a pan of candy gummy worms.  "You eat just like that.  Very good. A little bit salty.  Good with beer and wine."

No doubt they are.

Thanksgiving in Kyoto
Tomorrow I head off to spend Thanksgiving in Kyoto.  There is no turkey in Tokyo so there is no reason to stay here.  Well, there's turkey but it starts at $85/person over at one of the big hotels in Roppongi  (Rip-on-these), so,  to my way of thinking, there is no turkey.

I don't expect to find turkey in Kyoto either, but my daughter convinced me to ride the Shinkansen (Japan's bullet train that goes 198 miles/hour) because this is probably the only time in my life that I'll ever be in Japan, so if not now, when?  And so I have my round-trip reserved right-side-window seat ticket (the better side for viewing I'm told) and a hotel room for two nights.  I hear Kyoto goes good with beer and wine.

The Tokyo Metro Japanese Ramen Vending Machine Challenge and 10 Reasons to Bring a 10-Year Old to Tokyo

The Ramen vending machine challenge

Monday's Ramen Vending Machine Lunch Adventure
The Japanese love vending machines.  It appeals to their sense of efficiency, economy and service.  You need a snack or a drink?  You are never far from a machine that will quickly, cheaply and without attitude produce a variety of snacks and beverages.  The machines take coins, bills and your pre-filled Metro card, but not likely any of your credit cards.

So when I read about a Ramen shop in the bottom of a Metro station that  required you to order your Ramen from a vending machine, it was too much of a challenge to ignore.

If you have been reading some of my previous blogs about my experiences here in Tokyo, you will probably know that I did three things:
1.  I read and researched [excessively] how to order from the vending machine
2.  I read and researched [excessively] how to find the Ramen shop
3.  I failed at 1. and 2.

Tokyo Metro Ramen Kiosk

But as luck would have it, I stumbled on a random vending machine shop at the basement of the Tokyo Metro Station and although it wasn't the Ramen shop I was looking for, when the unknowing and uninformed travel in Tokyo, one learns to adjust to all sorts of disappointments and failures.  To clarify, you do not make a Ramen selection, feed money into the slot and then wait for the vending machine to produce a cup, some dried noodles and hot water and go on your merry way.  This is a  country of culinary civilization.  The vending machine allows you to select from a wide variety of Ramen options (with pictures), requires you to pay for your selection, then gives you a ticket that you hold on to  until the guy at the counter looks your way. Hand him your ticket.  And now you wait again, but not for long.

Don't know what Ramen this is but can point to photo

Soon, a black tray with a hot, steamy bowl of Ramen from the crowded kitchen kiosk appears and you pick it up and march it to one of the long, high shelves that serves as the communal dining area.

Note that I have taken you very quickly through the process to where we are now enjoying this bowl of Ramen with soba noodles and  have skipped the obvious:  How did I manage to order it?  Answer:  By holding up the line and having someone come to my aid.

In fairness, I stood for quite a while watching the vending selection process and then cross checked the button someone punched with what their bowl of Ramen looked like.  I cannot begin to explain the variety of things one can order, but if you count the buttons on the photo of the vending machine, that will give you some indication of the choices.  Some of the buttons are just toppings; others are bowls that require you to add your favorite toppings. I really thought I had it mastered.  I didn't.  Like all things Japanese, there is a process, an order in which to do things and the first mistake I made was not obeying the order of things.  I wish I could claim that I am wiser now for having gone through yesterday's vending exercise, but were I to return there today--and since that's totally out of the realm of navigational probability--I would still need assistance to successfully order a lousy bowl of Ramen on my own.

I'm not sure how long it would take me to master the art of Tokyo Metro Japanese Ramen vending machine ordering, but at my age, I suspect I don't have that long on earth to find out.  So, as Blanche DuBois has so poignantly observed, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."  I'm guessing none of hers were Japanese.

Ten Reasons to Bring a 10-year Old With You to Tokyo
I'm fairly convinced that the best companion for a Westerner in Tokyo would be a 10-year old.  There are a number of reasons for this which I have begun to catalogue internally, but during yesterday's Ramen lunch, I decided that among the many, many good reasons, the number one reason is this: slurping.

Like so many ordinary behaviors, the Japanese have elevated slurping to an art.  And here's the thing--when eating Ramen, it's compulsory.  And here's the other thing:  I can't do it. Western culture and my mother wiped out my slurping instincts years ago.   But I would bet you a 100 sticks of yakitori that any 10-year old could pull off expert slurping without a hitch.  And he or she would be thrilled to instruct you in perfecting the technique.

Kids are natural slurpers.  What parent has not heard themselves chide a child taking on a bowl of noodle soup with, "Stop that slurping!"  But stand around a group of Japanese addressing their lunchtime bowls of Ramen, and all one hears are loud, sloppy sucking noises.  At first, you may think you have been transported to the middle school cafeteria on spaghetti and meat sauce day.

But the thinking is that, when done correctly, slurping noodles maximizes the experience of the Ramen because it delivers the noodles with the perfect amount of broth into the mouth at the same time.

I have put my lips to a lot of slurping  practice here in Tokyo and rather than that luscious, slightly erotic sound produced by master slurpers,  I dry-squeak like a bad first kiss.  Every mouth muscle in my face is rejecting the movements at the same time my brain is trying to redirect my puckered lips to master the perfect combination of noodle speed and broth inhalation.  Can't do it.  Pass the 10-year old,  dōzo.

Nine more reasons to bring a 10-year old to Tokyo

2)  The ubiquity of the "yuck" factor.  Show me a 10-year old who doesn't have both a highly-developed sensibility for yuckiness and an appreciation for it at the same time and I'll show you a 10-year old who can't sing all the lyric's to Taylor Swift's 1989. 

3)  Drinking out of bowls.  If you don't think this is fun, ask a 10-year old.

4)  Unbridled consumerism.  Ok, that spans a lot of ages, but a 10-year old's ability to blow a wad of your cash is just taking shape.

5)  Japan's respect for rules.  Because  clouds of rebellious hormones have not begun gathering, 10-year old's are still young enough to like knowing the rules and enjoy obeying them.  It's the ultimate in fairness, a topic any 10-year old can hold forth on.

6) Appetite.  Even though many 10-year olds have a good, hearty appetite, consider the economies realized at feeding a kid at 10 over that same kid at 16.

7) Chopsticks.  Ten-year olds like learning new things and then showing off to their friends.  A simple matter of popularity.  A kid who's proficient with chopsticks could usher themselves right to the pick of the prom line when the time comes.

8) The 10,000 Yen.  Give a 10-year old a crisp 10,000 Yen bill (equivalent to about $100) and tell him that's his spending money for the trip and he'll think he's got $10,000.  Don't ever come clean on this.

9)  Japanese school uniforms.  Think:  gratitude.  

Picture any 10-year old you know wearing this hat and uniform

10)  Final reason, and I'm not proud to say this:  Obedience.  You can get them to do anything you want them to do under the veiled threat to leave them alone or, in the case of extreme measures, abandon them in a foreign country.

Have a nice day.

Bonus photo

Last night's dinner from grocery convenience store.  $8.

Try to get it right: Fiji is an island. Fuji is a mountain

Mt. Fuji, not to be confused with Mt. Fiji, which evidently does not exist

According to Wikipedia, Fiji "is an island country in Melanesia in the South Pacific Ocean about 1,100 nautical miles (2,000 km; 1,300 mi) northeast of New Zealand's North Island."

Also according to that website of accumulated knowledge, "Fuji, located on Honshu Island, is the highest mountain in Japan at 3,776.24 m (12,389 ft).^[1] "

Like my mother, I am  a carrier of malaprops and ignorance, which can make for great hilarity, except when it doesn't.  So when I casually mentioned that I was really looking forward to seeing "Mt. Fiji" to one of the very kind individuals who was on Saturday's train excursion to the Hakone area about 2 hours south of Tokyo, I knew from the look on his face that I had ventured into this familiar and compromising arena and suspected that "Fiji" was the source of his confusion.  And, clearly, mine.  In an admirable  display of diplomacy, he responded by delivering a few details about the area and worked "Mt. Fuji" into his response just enough to save me from my ignorant self and him from coming off as a pedantic jerk. Yes, diplomacy has its role in everyday life.  I salute his gifts for such and with that let's move on.

Day Trip to Hakone to see Autumn in the Mountains and Mt. Fuji
In an early move I do not regret, I signed up for a three month membership with an international organization that organizes events for expats.  Yesterday, we journeyed to Hakone for a day of sightseeing and camaraderie.  In the event anyone wants to reenact yesterday's journey, I am going to attempt to explain how to get from Tokyo to Hakone in an accurate way that neither guidebooks nor Google maps will not, dare not and cannot approximate.

1.  Rise at 5 a.m.

2.  Leave apartment by 5:45 a.m., in time to catch Yamamote line from Shibuya to Shinjuku. 

3.  At Shinjuku station, locate Okakyu line and, at gate, try to purchase "FreePass" that is both a round trip ticket to and from Hakone and a discount pass to a number of attractions.  It is not "free."  Despite having studied how to do this on line the night before, you will still screw it up and create a long line of Japanese-appearing-patient, but you know they are thinking, "#@%-this-idiot."  Spend no less than 10  minutes trying, cancel transaction, trying agin, cancel transaction...and so it goes.  Finally, you get  to a screen asking for 51,100 Yen.   Ordinarily, such an amount would be a reason to pause, but it's not real money to you anyway.  Deposit what you think is 60,000 Yen and receive back a small black and white ticket and a LOT of 10,000 Yen bills.  Evidently you gave the machine a lot more than you had intended. 

4.  Head to gate.  (Do not make the mistake of  looking back at line of faces as you slink away. The Japanese are good at hiding their emotions, but they're not THAT good.)

5.  Take Yamomote line to Shinjuku.

6.  At Shinjuku station, you have approximately six minutes to find the 6:31 a.m. Odakyu line for the train to Odawara.  Shinjuku is the biggest station in Tokyo. 

7.  Follow as quickly as possible--no running--signs pointing to the Odakyu line.  At Odakyu gate entrance, feed your FreePass into fare slot and proceed to Platform 14.  The train is already there.  You are to meet your group in "Wagon 4" but every sign posted in front of each car has two numbers so you're not sure which one to use.  Scurry along the train until the number 4 begins to appear and then look for anyone who looks familiar. 

8.  Spy a tall white guy up ahead standing on the platform and enter the car.  Wherever two or more people who aren't Japanese are together, that's probably where you need to be.   Smile at your fellow excursioners (10 of them) and settle into a warm seat.  Say prayer of thanksgiving to the Japanese appreciation for temperatures that come in contact with your bottom.  More on that at another time.

9.  At 7:59, train arrives in Odawara.  Exit train, go across platform, enter another train.

10.  In about 15 minutes, at Odawara station, exit train again, go across platform, enter another train for Hakoneyumoto.  (I may be a bit off of these times, but the outcome and process are solid. As per advice in previous posts, follow the crowd.)

11.  In about 40 minutes, exit train again at Hakoneyumoto, go across platform, enter another train to Gora.

12.  Stay on train until you come to an outpost in the middle of no where.  Exit train, enter small gage railway car.

13.  Ride small gage railway car up very, very steep terrain until you come to what the Japanese call "rope cars."  We call them gondola's. 

14.  Have I mentioned how increasingly crowded the stations and trains are becoming?

Gondola bound for mountaintop

15.  Get in line for gondola.  It's Japan.  Expect lines.  Get used to them.  Get over your American self.  Ride gondola up beautiful mountain side, eventually crossing over very deep pit filled with loud machinery and spewing heavy sulfur mist from naturally occurring sulfur hot springs,  to arrive at top where gift shops, restaurants, convenience stores, overlooks and did I mention gift shops, await you.  No one can tell you what they are doing down below in the pit. You suspect it is a Japanese version of fracking but you do not say this out loud.

Sulfur hot springs erupting 

Mt. Fuji in background of sulfur fumes

16.  Orient yourself to the beautiful view of Mt. Fuji and enjoy the mystical fog from the sulfur hot springs. (Yes,  it smells like sulfur.)

17.  Wander up to a higher level of elevation and investigate a small market selling eggs cooked in the sulfur hot springs' waters.  The chemical reaction between the egg's shell and the water turns the eggs black.  People everywhere are eating them.  One inquires, "Does cooking in the sulfur water change the egg's flavor?"  The answer is, "No.  They taste just like a hard boiled egg."  One is left admiring the enterprising mind that discovered this phenomenon and then created a business model selling black cooked eggs to tourists.  Try to imagine this being allowed in America.

18.  Enjoy rest of day with a companionable group of ten other international expats.  Discover wonderful young woman who now lives near your daughter in Cambridge, MA,  but once lived just across the freeway from you in San Francisco.  

19. Talk to a guy from Poland who recalls his favorite mountain climb eight years ago in the Rockies near your Denver, CO daughter.   

20. Meet a tall, very handsome German in his mid-40's who tells you that the best time of his life was as a 23-year old attending UCLA.  

21.  Trade British comedy show tips with a Brit.

22.  Accept one of the black eggs from a sweet Irish girl who bought a half dozen because, "The sign said that you turn back 10 years of your life for every egg you eat."  You take it home with uncertain intent.

23. Take the advice of a gay couple who tell you where to find good bread, excellent cheese and a decent wine store  in Tokyo.  Don't mention you've been buying wine mostly at the 7-11 because they carry some French cabs for around $8.  You've bought all of them and they have not been restocked in the past week.  You are getting nervous. 

24.  Be grateful to the kind and generous spirit of Nils, the gifted organizer of this fine and memorable day in Hakone, under the shadow of Mt. Fuji/Fiji.  

A couple more photos, just for fun.

Sign on wall in gift shop

Needs no explanation

I so wish I could do this

A gift for sleeping on the trains