Alone At Last

If you know me, you know I love traveling alone.

While I've had many great adventures with friends - and for the last two weeks with family - there's something to be said for the lone wolf. A certain spirit. A certain attitude. A certain freedom. Such a great feeling that it makes you want to go buy a t-shirt with a big picture of a wolf on it, proclaiming your independence.

Alright, maybe not that last part. But going solo is cool, mmkay?

Tonight, for example, I finally had the opportunity to venture out on my own. As I walked from the hotel to the main business/entertainment/whatever area of Okayama, the usual questions hit me. Will I be able to communicate? Will I stumble when ordering drinks? Will anyone talk to a scruffy-looking Yank? Hell, will I even find a place I'd want to go into?

The answers were to be found at Aussie Bar: Yes. No. Yes. Yes.

Ok, I just heard that record scratch in your head. Yes, I'm in Japan. Yes, I went to an Australian expat bar. Now this may seem counter to exploration of a country and its culture, to eschew its rich traditions of izakaya, dark whiskey dens, and hostess bars. But au contraire, mon frere, I hereby posit the theory that expat bars can be rife with opportunities for cross-cultural exploration.

I walked in and was immediately greeted by the owner, Jason. An Aussie from Melbourne, he's been in Japan for 11 years and running the bar for four. Ok, nothing special there. You can't spit anywhere in the world without running into some Australians. They travel. A lot. But sip your drink as he talks to his bartender in Japanese... with an Australian accent. Then it's become a hell of a lot more interesting. Throw in a big-screen TV showing some Fox talent-show crap from America... with Japanese subtitles. Throw in conversations about traveling and living abroad, and the experiences and lessons from it all. Then throw in some rusty Japanese + Engrish conversation with the bartender to round out the experience.

Ok, all that was an excuse to go and have some Bundaberg rum and Coopers Sparkling Ale, Aussie staples that we don't get in the States.

But like I said in an earlier post - I'm really damn good at rationalization.

And it was really nice to get away for a night, even if it wasn't a fully Japanese experience.

Kickin' it in Ok-town

Our packed train from Nakamura finally made it to Okayama, and not a moment too soon.

I fell asleep and sat funny, got a throbbing headache, and it's like someone decided to drop some arctic weather at the place. Never mind that we're at about the same latitude that we were just a few hours earlier.

The Okayama Business Hotel - our digs for the night - is just shy of depressing. The room's tiny but serviceable, the bathroom's microscopic but, again, serviceable, and BY GOLLY! There's internet! For free! Just ask for a CAT-5 cable at the front desk. w00t!

But this is no time to mess around online. Although I just wanted to take it easy, I wanted to do so in front of a big, steaming bowl of deliciousness. What sort, I don't know - but we just had to get out there.

We walked down the main street, Momotaro-Odori, called such because this is the birthplace of Momotaro-san. Actually, his birthplace is the middle of a peach. Huh!? Ok, Momotaro is a Japanese legend about a boy who was born - honest to god - from inside a peach. ("Momo" is Japanese for peach.) He grew up to be a brave warrior, and his tale has been told to Japanese (and half Japanese/half Iranian) kids across ages. The tale originated here in Okayama, known for its delicious white peaches.

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, we walked down Momotaro-Odori, checking out the bright lights and big buildings of what was once no more than a middling town - now it's becoming downright urban, and with a population over 700,000, it's catching up with San Francisco in size. This isn't the quaint little transit town I imagined.

We got sidetracked from our quest for food when we went into a shopping arcade that had to be at least a mile long. Or so it felt. Block after block after block of shops selling, food, clothes, and anything remotely cute. If there's one word to describe things in Japan, it's "cute." The puppies, kittens, pot-bellied pigs, and ferrets at one pet store were no exception from that rule. I swear, they even make the puppies cuter here than anywhere else. Despite our growing hunger, the charm of all these stores was too irresistible. Of course, there wasn't really anything worth buying - at least, that's legal to bring back into the states. Until I found a camera shop. They didn't have the Nikon speedlight I wanted, and most of their stuff seemed overpriced anyway... and then I saw it. A shiny new 4GB high-speed SD card for my camera. For one third of the price back home. Cha-ching! I plonked down the cash and walked out of the store, and then it hit me - other than food, all I've bought on this trip has been camera gear for myself.

God, I've been selfish. Here I am in a place where there's a multitude of cutesy, non-sensical, amusing crap I could be buying for my friends back home, and I've been spending my money lavishly on myself and my camera.

Of course, then I realized I share my pictures with all of you, so that's gift enough.

Aren't I good at rationalizing?

Then another thing hit me. The smell of yakitori. Who can resist the allure of flame-broiled chicken skewers? Not I. Nor my mom. We headed into the izakaya (pub/grub place) from which the seducitve scent was emanating. And in it we found heaven.

Now izakaya's not some culinary masterpiece of any sort. But it's a hell of a good substitute. You sit down, order some beer or shochu or sake, and start ordering snacky food as you would at a tapas bar in Spain. First round: Three types of yakitori: breast, skin, and gizzards. Believe it or not, the breast was the weakest link in that chain o' chicken. Next up: kushikatsu better known to you and me as fried meat on a stick. That with a side of fried local fish sort of like sardines. Another giant beer, and then on to kaki-fry or fried oysters. Good lord, these things were HUGE! And tender! The oysters here are so huge that when you deep fry them, the centers don't cook up and shrink like they do at home, so you get a gigantic, moist, tender oyster in each nugget. Then there was the ebi-fry, the same deal with shrimp. I think we had a few other items but the food coma must've atrophied the part of the brain that would remember.

Mom and I walked outside full. Uncomfortably so. But the cold was harsh, cutting through all our layers. So five minutes later, we were talking about how good a hot bowl of noodles sounded... in theory, of course. Definitely not in practice.

Until we came upon a shop window where fresh udon noodles were being pulled by hand. We looked at each other and said, "Yeah, I guess I could eat that." We each ordered the simplest bowls available. Her the kitsune ("fox") with a slice of fried tofu on top, and me the tanuki ("racoon") with bits of fried tempura batter. Forget all the fancy sides. We were just interested in trying the handmade noodles.

My reaction: Ho hum. "Mmm, this is good."

Wait, what? I just spent that time writing and putting up a picture of noodles to which my reaction was so mundane, ordinary, and, well, not worth writing about?

No... it's just that it's really really really difficult to have an orgasm in front of your parents, ok? Had I reacted how I really felt about these ridiculously fresh, tender, delicious, non-pareil noodles, it would've been a recreation of that restaurant scene from When Harry Met Sally.

And really, nobody wants to see that.

Especially not my mom.

So, suffice it to say that the udon was good.

On the Road Again

We paid a very brief visit to the Sunday market in Nakamura, and while it was short, it gave me a market hard-on.

Jiggawhat!?

Let's just say I love open air markets. I love farmers markets. Flea markets. If there are people outside selling a bunch of crap, I'm there. Markets are the lowest common denominator in learning about cultures. So here's what I learned about Nakamura: It's small. It's simple. It's highly approachable. And really full of old people. The market totally reflects the city pretty accurately.

We picked up a bag full of hot, freshly made obanyaki (basically little pancake-like buns) for today's travel... but they smelled so good we finished them during the 5-minute ride to the station. Oops.

I'm now at the Nakamura train station, waiting for today's transport. I've bid adieu to Aunt Izumi, whose hospitality I will miss. Her constant insistence that I take a bath, however, I will not. I can only bathe one, maybe two times a day. Three times a day is pushing it. She needs to realize that I'm naturally brown, and that this un-Japanese skin tone will not simply wash off.

When we get to Okayama, I'll bid farewell to Makoto, who will go back to Aunt Hiroko's as my mom and I stay the night before moving on in the morning. I'll miss Makoto as well. Not just for his food knowledge and shared curiosity about all things edible, but for his ability to CONSUME MASS QUANTITIES. It's nice that in this nation of small eaters and lithe figures that there's someone who can inhale as much food as I can, with curiosity and general gluttony outweighing common sense and that feeling most people get that says, "You're full. Stop eating." Apparently, neither of our stomachs are armed with that apparatus. I will not miss, however, every room of the house smelling like smoke.

So... what's in Okayama? Who knows? I don't know. I don't really care. My mom was kind enough to book us a night there so that I wouldn't have to suffer another miserable travel day. We'll be in by late afternoon, so we'll have time to relax, get something to eat, and who knows? Maybe I'll find an internet cafe (yeah, right) and upload this post.

Because today I also say goodbye to a reliable internet connection. I'm pretty much on the road from now on.