Italy: Post Mortem

Post mortem. That's Latin for "after death," commonly used - as you probably know - as a term for a debriefing, whether after a disastrous medical procedure gone wrong or a business project. Which are, in the end, often one in the same.

The original Latin might be more appropriate for me, as I woke up sore and stiff this morning and really dreaded getting up. My body was battered and beaten, my feet barely able to stand the cold kitchen tile, my back starting to look like Quasimodo's.

But the sun was shining, the Parisian streets seemed cheery and welcoming, and my office surprisingly warm. One normally doesn't relish coming home to Paris in months ending with "-ember," but trust me, it felt like summer after putting up with this:


Granted, that's Milan which – I found out after consulting the Lonely Planet we picked up three days into the trip – is considered "the London of Italy" when it comes to weather.

I wouldn't rank this trip at the top of my travel experience. Not because of the weather, but because the extent of study I did before the trip was limited to booking trains and hotels. That and trying to learn basic Italian in 10 days. I normally study the hell out of a place and its language before I go, but I've been a little preoccupied with adjusting to a new job, new wife, new country - hell, a new life altogether - for months. If anything, I hoped not planning anything would make for a great escape, a willy-nilly adventure into the unknown.

It turned out to be part family gathering. Part necessary escape from Paris. Part honeymoon. (Alannah and I never had a proper honeymoon, so we now consider every trip a mini-honeymoon in perpetuity.) As such, this trip was appropriately manic, with highs and lows. The lows all came from the rigors of travel: Delayed trains, lost bags, inclement weather, getting lost... The highs all came from people, whether spending time with loved ones or laughing it up with strangers. Sightseeing just happens to be a little bonus on the side.

The ladies are still in Italy, currently soaking up the proverbial Tuscan sun, which I'm assuming is hiding out... I mean, beyond the fact that it's night time at this moment. So this rundown covers my five days.

In five days, I had four journeys by train spanning a total of 19 hours. All four were delayed. Three journeys by bus. Six journeys by metro. Countless hours walking. Many of those in pouring rain. Three of those rain-soaked hours while hopelessly lost. While in transit, I lost a Bialetti espresso maker, a wheel of peccorino alla zafferona cheese, a box of Baci, a package of Kinder happy hippos, and half a bag of rosmarina crackers. I have in my jacket pocket the soggy remains of: one two-day metro pass for Milan, two Portofino area bus tickets, what used to be my US passport (currently an unidentified hunk of blue with ink-smeared pages), and a stack of crumpled receipts. One of those receipts proves that I bought myself some cock in Milan, at 10€ a go...



When not cursing the weather or the lateness of trains, I enjoyed a full ball of mozarella di buffala (and then some), at least a kilo of cured meats, five varieties of pasta, four kinds of pizza, the most fantastic cheese ever (said peccorino from Peck), the most godawful cheese ever (a slice of white Kraft singles from one of my aunts' oddball supermarket runs), McDonald's espresso, kopi luwak, prawns straight of the Ligurian sea, McDonald's fried prawns, some strange riff on taco salad, a tako salad (that'd be Japanese for "octopus"), and enough hazelnut and chocolate in bar/pastry/gelato form to choke a horse or two. All with a side of mostly crappy, spongey, bread, with a notable exception at establishments that baked their own. On top of all that, add enough zucchini flowers to turn my tummy into its own garden, a steak big enough to ensure that I'll never be regular again, and enough cuts of veal to make PETA freaks get naked to protest me. (Which is my goal in life...) And the best street food? Roasted chestnuts.

I took exactly 888 photos with my camera. Alannah took 312. 310 of which are from her newfound favorite "from-the-ground" perspective, which I love.



Yes, we even disgust ourselves sometimes.


Along the way, we saw tens of thousands of hideously dressed Milanese. (Two of 'em shown here!) Upon returning to Paris last night, I was reminded of the Parisian flair for dressing subtly, yet so well that even the homely can look dead sexy. The four-stop metro ride home reminded me of that over and over. Inversely, in Milan, metro rides remind you that even the hottest Italian bombshell stacked like a brick house will look like a Jersey girl when dressed like one. Unfortunately, there's no escaping the eye-searingly bad mode of dress. Flipping on the hotel TV puts more of it on display, in the form of variety shows...


I never cared much for Italian wine because - like French wine - only a limited selection is imported to the US, and other than high-priced luxury choices, most of it is crap. Having access to a wide variety of the stuff gave me a far better appreciation for Italian wines, and now I won't be so quick to judge.

In fact, after just a short time there, I found that to be the case with much of Italy for me. As a land of passionate people that pour said passion into everything they do, just about everything falls into the love-it-or-hate-it category. There's no middle ground. So while it seems there were a lot of things I complained about while in Italy, there was plenty to really love.

Which is why I vow to go back. Not because I haven't yet gotten to see amazing works like David or the Pietà or the Last Supper - stuff I studied and drew inspiration from as a student and still long to see in the flesh (or marble or plaster, as it would be...). Not because I need to pick up another wheel of that crazy opulent cheese. It's because of the manic, bipolar, crazy duality of the place. It rains, but you want to splash through the piazza. Your train is late, but that gives you time for another espresso. There are pickpockets everywhere, but you can enjoy the fact that they will have the living shit beat out of them. The fashion is jarring, but the forward-thinking design means you can find the occasional unforgettable gem that nobody back home will ever have.

Most of all, it's just a beautiful place, with gorgeous scenery and welcoming people as varied as can be for such a relatively small mass of land.

Thinking back to the last five days, I can see what it is about the country that inspires so much amore. The wife and I will definitely have to have another mini-honeymoon there, perhaps when the weather is nicer.

But in the meantime, I'm happiest knowing that being there put such a smile on these people's faces:

I Sense a Theme Here...

One last backdated post... just got home a little while ago and now have internet.

I'm really glad I found the little rubber earpiece for my sound-blocking headphones before this trip. They're the part that make the sound-blocking part work. Were it not for these little babies, I'd be subject to the ridiculously loud mobile phone ramblings of the little shit down the car from me. In Italian, of course. I recall saying something about the Italian lack of voice modulation. It was in full force in the compartment on this morning's train, too, with a few strangers having an animated conversation about exactly how many minutes every train they've ever ridden on has been late. Despite the miserable guy visibly trying to sleep in the window seat.

Luckily, I have my trusty laptop as an outlet to write. And luckily, it's still functional. And with me.

In the string of overall rotten luck this trip (not mentioned before: one of my aunts had 100€ stolen out of her handbag her last day in Paris) I have been soaked again, this time after trekking around Torino for a few hours between trains.

The morning train arrived at the Porta Nuova station, where I checked in my backpack at left luggage. However, trusting such services as far as I can throw them, I transfered my laptop and SLR into my shoulder bag. When I travel, they do not leave my side, and they most certainly do not get checked in with anyone.

My load somewhat lightened, I made my way to the city center to do whatever it is that tourists to Torino do. Maybe do some shopping, have a hot chocolate, look at statues... that kind of stuff. I was about to start clicking my shutter at all sorts of neat things until the sky decided to open up. This, of course, meant that every historic seat at every historic café overlooking every historic plaza in Turin was suddenly taken by other tourists seeking shelter from the rain. And thus, I was left with the choice of hanging out in the covered arcades with all the enterprising umbrella salesmen from Africa and the Indian subcontinent, or taking refuge at the American embassy.

So off to McDonald's it was. Finally, I was handed the opportunity to fulfill my goal of poisoning myself at er... trying McDonald's in every country I visit. The menu didn't look very intriguing, so I almost made my way out of the non-line (the Italian disdain for orderly queueing apparently goes beyond bus and train boarding), until something caught my eye: Gamberi mariposi, 3 pezzi. That's right - McDonald's in Italy serves butterfly prawns the same way the corporation sells bits of processed chicken bits elsewhere. SOLD!

Unfortunately, the food is nowhere near as intriguing as it sounds. In fact, I dare say the gamberi were even oilier than at any grease schack in New Orleans... as in... the American South. Really. The rest of the food was just as craptacular as American McDonald's, too, only the beef in my burger was somewhat brown and not grey - a promising sign.

What my meal lacked in pleasure, it more than made up for with entertainment. As I exited McDonald's, a "gentleman" trying to look somewhat non-chalant as he carried a rather feminine-looking shoulder bag was grabbed on the same shoulder by one of those impeccably dressed, regal-looking Italian police officers. As he started to run, he was knocked down, then two more GQ-looking officers popped out from the other side of the sidewalk and picked him up so they could drag him somewhere more open for... god knows what. A crowd gathered and cheered as the resisting purse snatcher was finally shoved into the back of an official police Alfa Romeo. God damn! Even the cops are stylish in Italy. (And very pretty, in many cases...!)

I roamed around central Torino for a couple of hours overall, trying to find diversions and distractions, as well as shelter from the pissy weather. At this point, my shoes were starting to slosh around, and none of the open stores (it's Sunday, after all) sold either saffron cheese or Bialetti espresso makers, either of which I would have gladly snapped up to keep warm with retail therapy.

But I was miserable. Cold, wet, and missing my wife, I made my way back to Porta Nuova train station to collect my backpack. I figured with a few hours to go before my train to Paris, I had plenty of time to make it over to Porta Susa station. It didn't look that far on the map, and the directions aren't at all complicated - from one station to the other, it's simply north on a major street, then west. Forward and left. What could go wrong?

I'll tell you what can go wrong.

Italian street signs are second only to British ones in terms of illegibility. (Actually, British signs are easy to read - finding them is the challenge.)

Sure, it's classy (and classic!) to have them engraved into the sides of buildings in a serif typeface, and very small so as not to be garish and conspicuous. (Because, by god, no one here likes anything that's really visible, right??)

So I happened to miss not one, but TWO streets that lead directly to the station as I headed north, and kept going for, oh, probably 2 km more than I was supposed to. Normally, this would probably be fine since I'd left myself so much time to get to the station.

I knew something was amiss when it started looking less and less city center-like and slightly more suburban-business-area. I decided to make my left at that point, hoping to maybe triangulate upon the station, or at least see road signs pointing to it. (There were none, by the way...)

After a number of blocks of going west, that now oft-mentioned feeling of dread hit me.

Now normally, I have no issue walking through "bad" neighborhoods. I've hung out in South Central LA late at night, the "seedy" parts of Paris don't phase me, and my old neighborhood in San Francisco butted up to the projects where seeing a crackhead taking a dump on the sidewalk was no issue.

So walking through a downtrodden Torinese neighborhood with tons of hoodlums hanging out on the sidewalk isn't really a problem. I'm a big boy and can handle myself.

The thing is, I generally don't walk through these neighborhoods carrying a backpack, a shoulder bag, and a bright red shopping bag. If sharks can smell blood from a mile away, hoodlums can smell "tourist," at least from 20 metres. Now normally, I don't think this way. Hardly ever, in fact. I know the "law of the jungle," and there's generally no reason for anyone to rough me up. That and I'm about twice as wide as your average western European, and much scarier looking. Except for the fact that within three minutes I'd already witnessed two guys getting beat up... and on the same side of the street I was walking, at that!

As luck would have it, the next person I ran into was a young nun walking out of some church-y looking building. "Scusi!" I approached. She started to cower away, until I removed my beanie to show her I was a respectful, god-fearing (ha!) person. "Dov'è Stazionne Porta Susa, per favori?" I asked. The trouble with asking for directions in a language you minimally understand is that you get the answer in that language.

Following are the words I understood: Normally; you; keep; straight; but; left; but; bad; bad; bad; evil neighborhood; leave this street; future tense of "to be"; more safe.

I tried to say "Thank you, thank you very very much, I appreciate it" as I walked off but in my lousy Italian, I could've been saying, "Now can I see what's under your habit?" I think I got it right, though, because despite the storm above, I wasn't struck by lighting, and despite the thuggins around me, I wasn't mugged. And after stopping to orient myself a few times - and ask a few more puzzled passers-by if I could look under their clothes or whatnot - found the station.

Now I find myself less than an hour from Paris, likely developing a case of pneumonia considering how cold and wet it was at the Torino station and that the AC on this train was on for four hours of its nearly six hour run time.

I'm coming home with a likely pulmonary disorder, soggy shoes, much more weight, and far fewer euros. Worst of all, I'm doing it alone. Right now, all I can think about is drawing a bath, then crawling into bed. My big, empty, not-quite-warm-enough-on-the-right-side bed.

But I'm writing with a slight smile on my face. My wife, my mom, and my aunts don't have their last day for another week, and the weather forecast looks good. After all, I'm fairly certain I used up all of their bad travel karma.

Mamma Mia!

Another backdated post thanks to craptacular internet access...

Train delays suck.

They suck even more when you're really looking forward to seeing your cousin (and hopefully some of that elusive Italian sunshine) on the other end.

They really suck when you're dehydrated, have a nasty headache, and a body that feels as though it's just been put through a meat grinder.

No, I'm not hung over. I'm jotting down my thoughts in a train compartment with my traveling troupe, who got to the station well before I did. I, on the other hand, had to sprint across the north of Milan with my bags in tow. Without my morning espresso.

Here's how it worked out. We all got up nice and early. Showered, brushed our teeth, packed. I was so efficient, that I got all of my shopping packed into one bag - the really pretty paper Bialetti bag that the espresso maker came in - and then into a plastic bag - the big one that the hunk of luxurious Peck cheese came in - just in case the crazy rain followed us to the station.

We went to the nearest metro station, waited a little bit for the train, switched lines at the next station, then rode it out a few stops to Milano Centrale train station. So far so good, right?

Well, do you remember that trip-ruining feeling of dread I mentioned in my last entry? As we got off the metro at Centrale, it hit me. My expertly packed shopping bag was no longer in my hands. I mentally retraced - the last time it was out of my hands was back at the station by our hotel, when I put it down on the bench next to my aunt.

I looked at my watch. There was enough time for me to head back to the Lima station and - if it's still there - retrieve my shopping bag. I told the ladies to find the platform, and that I'd be back before they know it, hopefully with a fancy coffee maker and fancier cheese in hand. Hopefully.

I hopped back on the Metro and got off at the station to switch lines. Coming out, the station looked nothing like it had just minutes ago. There were construction barricades and caution tape all around. Disoriented, I went back down to the platform, made sure I came up the right exit, and looked again. Same barricades and tape. At that time, an old couple was trying to get to the same platform as I, and I had enough Italian down to figure out what he said: The station is now closed in this direction for scheduled construction, and in order to go south, one must go north one stop, switch directions, and go back south.

When time is of the essence, there's one thing you can absolutely count on: Italian transit's utter indifference to the clock.

I went through the motions, knowing that the ten minutes lost meant the difference between a future full of saffron cheese and crema-topped espressos after dinner and one filled with heartbreaking loss. I finally arrived at Lima station, went to the bench where I'm certain the bag was last, and had to settle for the latter.

The station chief was very nice and actually reviewed his security screens to see if he could find someone picking it up and throwing it away, but no luck. No chance - in a place where just about every vending machine, ATM, and ticket machine reminds you to "beware of pickpockets," there's no way my very conspicuous goodie bag would have been left alone.

But I had no time to feel sorry for myself. I had a train to catch in 20 minutes, with the station a 10 minute dash away. Or an 18 minute limp after leg cramps start forming at the 6 minute mark.

Now, with the train stuck between stations and operating on Italian time, I have plenty of time to feel sorry for myself.

Dogshit, Kebabs, and Heatstroke: Bienvenue Chez Midi

We'd just been to the northern coast of France for Alannah's birthday a couple of weeks beforehand, so why not go all the way south?

Our friend Alice had come from San Francisco to attend a drawing course in the village of Moux, in the Languedoc region in France's southwest (aka the MIdi), and she had a free weekend. I'd been working 50-60 hour weeks (this whole notion of a lazy, idyllic 35-hour French workweek is utter bullshit, by the way) so I felt I deserved a long weekend. And we really wanted to see Alice.

We chose to meet up in Montpellier. Or rather, I chose it, simply because there's a direct TGV high-speed rail connection from Paris, and after too many 12-hour work days, I just wanted a simple transit day - the quickest getaway possible.

Alannah had done a fantastic job of tracking down hotels, hostels, pensions - ANYTHING, on a weekend where there were apparently 1,597 conferences and events going on - and got us a room for three at the Hotel Colisée Verdun for just over 50€ a night. It was small, hot, and incredibly noisy at night, but only 150 metres from the train station.

This is important, because when you get off of an air-conditioned train in Montpellier in the summer, you start to melt. You have approximately ten minutes to make it into the shade before you're turned into a liquefied puddle of your former hair, skin, and organs. You think I'm kidding, but I saw these little puddles of biomatter everywhere.

Or maybe they're just dogshit. If the Hollywood Walk of Fame represent a whole galaxy of stars in Los Angeles, then the sidewalks of Montpellier represent a whole universe of dogs. Or dog owners who don't give (nor pick up) a shit. It is said that if you were to put together all of the dogshit in Montpellier, you'd have enough fertilizer to turn the Sahara into arable land and grow enough crops to feed the world ten times over. Hell, Dogshit is so prevalent here, it's up for sainthood:


Ok, maybe I made that part up, but what I'm saying is that the streets of Paris look like you could eat off of them in comparison.

About the only thing more prevalent than dogshit in Montpellier is the ubiquitous kebab shop. Being in the south and near the Mediterranean, the city has a huge North African and Arab immigrant population. This is much to the chagrin of the racist Nationalist Party right-wingers, but much to the benefit of the 65,000+ students who make up 1/3 of the population. Thousands of kebab shops mean tight competition, upping the quality and lowering the prices.

Of course, kebabs aren't the only kind of ethnic culture to be found at Montpellier. Beating the heat on the gorgeous patio of the trendy Welcomedia bar/restaurant/tapas place, we sipped on pastis, Perrier, and frozen drinks overlooking the main plaza, the Place de la Comedie. There was some ruckus coming from around the corner - what sounded like muted car horns played in a syncopated beat, maybe in three notes. "Are those cars?" Alice asked. "I think it may be the world's most atonal marching band," I joked.

The noise grew louder and, sure enough, it was the world's most tone-deaf marching band. Actually, it was an African performance troupe of some sort, blowing traditional horns and banging on small drums and dancing and being generally awesome. It was so mindblowingly random it was incredible.



There we were, sitting and drinking in sweltering heat under the mid-afternoon sun, suddenly surrounded by dozens of bright yellow-clad musicians who just turned up from out of the blue. And as quickly as they appeared, they moved on and disappeared. It was an interesting welcome to Montpellier, and we wondered if we'd ever see these guys again. (We never did.)

We poked around the Comedie a bit, but the wide-open, paved over, treeless plaza was entirely too hot and sunny, so we cooled off in the shade of the trees and market stalls lining the Esplanade. It wasn't long before our umpteenth break for refreshments. We decided on the Jardin de Glaces (Garden of Ice Cream), where Alice broke out some sketching materials, Alannah busted out with the camera, and my non-artistic ass ordered a Feu d'Artifice (fireworks) sundae for us to share, a schizophrenic concoction of merengue, five flavors of fruity sorbet, vanilla ice cream, coffee ice cream, whipped cream, candied fruits... It tasted like Christmas and the Fourth of July had a gangbang and finished in your mouth. An explosion of Frapuccino and Jamba Juice and pavlova and fruitcake and... Oh, who cares? It was ice cold and we were hot. And a bit stupid from heatstroke. At least there wasn't dogshit in it.

If anything, the sundae was perfectly representative of the disjointed nature of Montpellier. The city is a mashup of cultures, of social scenes, of architecture, of... everything. Other than brutal summertime heat, there seemed to be no common thread to anything. No consistency.

Dinner time came along and after exploring the very charming old center of town, we happened upon a small, reasonably priced restaurant called La Ferme (the farm), specializing in the terroir products of the region. Best of all, we were able to snag an outdoor seat on this balmy evening without a reservation. It's small, cute, and charming, with a touch of class belied by the fact that everything is obviously from Ikea. It's atmospheric and almost romantic, offset by pretty but pungent citronella candles (!) on the table and drunk college students throwing shit from the apartment windows above.

As for the food? If you ever find yourself in Montpellier and stumble upon La Ferme, stick to the appetizers. This region is known for its foie gras and other waterfowl products, and the restaurant's signature salad represents them all. Some of the most delicious, rich, creamy foie gras I've ever had, alongside the most tender gésiers (goose gizzards), on top of brilliant smoked magret (duck breast) and those details like, oh, lettuce and tomato that make it all qualify as a "salad." Between that and the tomato tart, we were having mouthgasms that made us vow to come back here for every meal. The so-so main dishes (confit de canard, piéce de boucher, etc.) didn't inspire as much oohing and ahhing, and the desserts - ugh, pre-fab and sub-par. But the salad? I'll never forget it. Having my first bite of local foie gras was like having my first real Cuban cigar ($125) or first "reserve" bottle of wine ($300). Only this salad will only set you back 12€.

Saltwater and Couscous
We awoke somewhat early the next morning to try and get out before the midday sun. For only 2€ a person, we got full-day bicycle rentals from Velo M'agg (the Montpellier version of Velib, only less technologically advanced). We packed some emergency food (having learned from my last bike rental in France that it's essential to bring food and water when venturing away from cities) and set off on the 11km bike path from Montpellier to the beach at Palavas.

As every web site, book, and tourst information office employee will tell you, this path is flat. What they fail to tell you is that 80% of it is not paved. This is the type of information that's nice to know before you head out on a 35-pound cruiser with no suspension and a frame geometry just short of a Penny Farthing.


Of course, none of this matters once you arrive at the beach, taking in the blue of the Mediterranean, rewarding yourself for the hot ride with ice cold beers alongside the beach. The sunshine, the sand, and that gorgeous expanse of sea help you forget that your servers have bad prison tattoos, foul mouths (one barman likened his shaking of Alannah's Orangina bottle to "what girls should do" with a wink and a nod... hah!), and that you're basically surrounded by the local equivalent of trailer trash.

But really, who can really complain when you're shortly going to find yourself a quiet chunk of beach, kicking around white sand, and swimming in calm, temperate seas?


The three of us floated in the Mediterranean, occasionally realizing, "Dude! We're floating in the Mediterranean!" Naturally, Alannah and I had to rub it into Alice that, "The crazy part is... we live a few hours away from here!"

A few hours. That's what the less-than-one-hour ride back to Montpellier felt like. Our brilliant plan to start early to avoid the peak sun was foiled by the fact that, well, you get peak sun from early morning 'til late at night around here. After spending a good chunk of the day swimming or just lying in the sun, the ride back was just brutal. At least there was no dog shit on the trail.

After cooling off a bit, it was time to forage for dinner. One of the regional specialties is seafood, but we were hard pressed to find any. There are tons of tourist traps. Shit-tons of the aforementioned kebab shops. Dodgy Chinese and Thai like one would see in Paris. We'd already had a full day, so even deciding on a place to eat seemed a Herculean task. We decided on Le Petit Valat, a small Moroccan place on a side street around the corner from our hotel. The place was tiny, looked incredibly charming, and was absolutely dead. We went there partially out of the knowledge that African cuisine in town is purportedly very good, and partially out of pity. Located on a nearly abandoned street, we felt bad that such a charmingly quaint place had just about no business. And, selfishly, that the three of us could have the restaurant to ourselves.

And we did. We had run of the place, and of the menu, delighting the owner by ordering just about everything we could. A salad of eggs and potatoes coated in rich virgin olive oil. A tangy purée of eggplant. The house "Valat" salad that contained pretty much everything all of their other salads did. Pichets of chilled rosé. A tagine of merguez sausage and eggplant. Another tagine of lamb and prunes and almonds. And a Pacha (royal) couscous with more of the aforementioned merguez and lamb, along with chicken and mechoui and kefta. The owner marveled that this small group of foreigners not only knew his cuisine, but fully appreciated it. Not to mention we ordered enough in one sitting to make his little venture profitable for the month. He was even further delighted when - instead of the usual coffee - we asked for the traditional mint tea. So delighted, in fact, that he brought us shots of chilled vodka, and further made us stay for what seemed to be another hour by repeatedly refilling our tea glasses.

Oftentimes it's those simple things that really make your experience. We'd chosen, instead of going to one of the bustling restaurants along the Place de la Comedie or in the old town centre, to visit a quiet, overlooked place without a hostess, without a waiter, without... much of anything really. And walked away with a fantastic experience.

Between that and swimming in the ocean, I found serious relief after a stressful month of long hours, six-day work weeks, and not knowing where to live. There's a lot of solace to be found in seawater and semoule.

Our night was capped off with a cheap pitcher of beer at the Rockstore, a music venue/bar oddly reminiscent of divey rocker bars in California, only without focus on a particular crowd. Music videos ranging from Hard-Fi to Metallica on the TVs, posters for upcoming electronica/DJ events, and the tail end of an old pink Impala or Malibu or whatnot crashed into the front facade of the building... yet another mash-up of styles so common to Montpellier, a town still searching for identity.


Comédie of Errors
Some days, you shouldn't bother getting out of bed.

Alice's free weekend was coming to an end, so she had to take the train back to Carcasonne in the afternoon. We had decided we'd seen enough of Montpellier, so we'd join her and check out the old medieval city for a few hours.

But first, some lunch. Although it's not a regional thing, we opted to eat at a crêperie as it's usually a quick and cheap favorite. Not so when you're in the tourist trap Place de la Comedie. Our tab for an adequate meal of salad and savory and sweet crêpes? 50% more than any other meal we'd had this trip. And that's after catching a 4€ overcharge on the bill. What's worse is that halfway back to our hotel, the waiter chased after us. I'd accidentally shorted him a 20€ bill. Oops!

We hit the sweltering train station to catch our train to Carcassonne, where the nearly enclosed platform was about twice as hot as the already ridiculous outside world, its stuffy atmosphere enhanced with the diesel exhaust of idling, older trains. The body heat from the mass of humanity was of no help, with what seemed to be thousands of people going home to Toulouse or thereabouts after the weekend. So bad was the heat that one girl collapsed just before the train arrived, revived just in time to board.

We didn't have assigned seats, and neither did anyone else for that matter. Seating (what little of it was available) was a free-for-all. We kept moving forward through the train cars until we realized - this one hour ride would be a standing room only affair. I started to suspect that the girl passing out on the platform was suspiciously timed just before the train arrived... as she was given space and seated right away.

No matter. After two stops, we were stuck. At a station (at least) in the middle of nowhere. With no air conditioning. I chugged at my water like a madman to no avail. It neither cooled me off, nor helped the train get moving. A TGV train headed to Perpignan (the same we'd taken in from Paris just the other day) pulled up on the other platform. They kindly invited all passengers headed in the direction of Perpignan (i.e. not us) to board the TGV, while the others should wait for our train to be fixed. The TGV is air conditioned. Bastards.

Another ten or fifteen minutes passed. They then invited passengers who are headed to Perpignan or Narbonne.

And then, they told us our train would not be fixed, and that everyone should get on the TGV. It wasn't going to Carcassonne, but it was air conditioned. I'm in. Somehow, I explained to the locals on the train - heading home to Toulouse or Carcassonne themselves - that it'd be ok, that we can transfer at Narbonne. Why I knew we could do this and they didn't is beyond me. I guess southerners fit the stereotype no matter what country you're in...

The TGV was blissfully cool inside. Unfortunately, the train runs very fast, so we were in Narbonne in no time. There, we would transfer to another train going on to our destination.. "Hi, I just came in on the TGV from the Toulouse-bound train that broke down," I explained at the ticket window. "Which train do I need to catch to Carcassonne?" "The one coming next," the man replied. "The same one you were scheduled for."

Yes! We went back out onto the hot platform for our imminent train... which showed up to a roar of applause... an hour and a half later.

What was supposed to be a nice half-day of exploring the medieval city became a quick, less-than-one-hour jaunt to walk around and snap a few photos.

But really, can you really complain when you walk a little ways from the station and see this?



We also happened upon a lot of military hardware and people in uniforms and helicopters flying everywhere. Apparently, there was some kind of huge French army expo/show going on in town. As we made our way through the newer city center to get to the old walled city, we heard what seemed like hundreds of sirens, coming from police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks racing down the main streets of town. "Wow," we thought. "They really like to include the first responders in their military parades here!"

It wasn't until I was having lunch with co-workers on Tuesday that I found out that in one of the military demonstrations... they accidentally used live ammo... and 17 people were mowed down by gunfire...

Oooh! That explains all the commotion and sirens and people looking at me funny for snapping photos like a dumb tourist. It also gives a ton of ammo (no pun intended) to people who like to make fun of the French military... as well as to President Sarkozy, who got rid of a political enemy with the subsequent resignation of the army's general.

Alannah and I returned to Montpellier, now free to have a little quiet time together. We opted to stay in, take it easy, avoid the heat, and enjoy a little (Euro 2008 soccer final) action. We did absolutely nothing but lie in bed, watch le foot, and decide that going to sleep at 11:00 pm - despite being something old people do on holiday - sounded like a good idea.

Of course, Southwest France may as well be northwest Spain. And in the Euro 2008 championship that night, Spain beat Germany. So in a sense, via shared history and close proximity, Southwest France felt like it beat Germany. And if you think southerners are loud when they're not celebrating, well, let me tell you - we had the kind of hot, sleepless night we didn't have in mind.

I Don't Know. What Do YOU Want to Do?
We had breakfast on Monday morning and then tried to figure out what to do for the next eight hours, as our train home wasn't until 7:30 at night.

Being that when I booked the tickets, I didn't yet have a French credit card (we just got one last week). French credit cards, unlike American credit cards, have these little IC chips in them for security. The ticket machines at train stations only accept those newfangle chipped cards for purchase/online order pickup. Otherwise you wait in line for an hour to get to a human being who'll mostly go on lunch break when you finally get to the window. However, they have this thing called IDTGV, where you can buy your tickets online, then print them out at home. No waiting in line at the station. No chip required. Which is excellent for someone who's still using his American cards.

And that's how we had so much time to kill on Monday: The only IDTGV train back to Paris was in the evening.

I don't think I'd ever been so lacking for anything to do while on holiday. We decided to check out a couple of the sites we hadn't yet seen. That killed an hour. Tops.



We had a little mini-picnic on a shaded park bench in the Esplanade, watching cute little kids playing in the cutest, most awesome Dr. Seuss-inspired playground, where every play object also happens to be some sort of sound-based, musical art installation. That killed 45 minutes.

We went down to Antigone, this annex of the town we'd briefly seen by bicycle the other day. Montpellier, being the only major city in southern France that wasn't founded or occupied by the Romans, apparently has some sort of classics envy and has built a gleaming new neighborhood in shiny new faux-Greco-Roman architecture. Doric columns (or are they Ionic?), those triangular archway top thingamabobs, fountains, statues... It all smacks of desperation or an inferiority complex. "Come! Look! We have old Mediterranean culture, too!" That killed maybe a half hour.

We went to the mall. Yes, the mall. We had smoothies. We looked at cheap accessories. Don't make fun of me. We achieved our major objective: We reveled in air conditioning. And killed two hours.

We decided to go on a random hike. Interestingly enough, the French word for hike is randonnée. We ended up in a rather grubby, ugly part of town, then discovered a gorgeous enclosed plaza with a funky café where Alannah had an incredible smoothie/sorbet float. I had a mauresque, which is pastis with orgeat syrup. We watched a crazy guy bathe in a small fountain, then yell at the fountain, then start a fight with (as in throwing punches at) the fountain. He then started a fight with another crazy guy, whom I believed considered the fountain his turf.

That killed... god knows how long. Watching crazy people must be the top pastime in Montpellier. After watching out for dogshit, of course. There's no shortage of either here. Something about hot climates brings out the indigent/vagrant/perpetually-drunk types. It's easier to sleep in a doorway or on a park bench when you don't have to worry about freezing to death, I suppose. You just have to worry about being shit on.

We capped our trip off by finally indulging one of the numerous kebab shops (verdict: not bad) and enjoyed the smooth, air-conditioned ride home. By the time we'd made it back to our flat in the 17th, we were appreciating how much better people dress; how much more quietly people speak; how much more classy and refined everything is. But just as in colorful climes with colorful people anywhere else in the world, we realized how warm, welcoming, and markedly friendly the people were down south. And ultimately, we realized that we've already become Parisian snobs.

Planes Trains & Automobiles

We arrived in San Francisco last night and hadn't realized how much this country had missed us.

As we wound our way down the Peninsula on CalTrain, a professional fireworks display would go off every few miles, a display of pyrotechnics usually saved for national holidays and Super Bowls.

Thanks for the warm welcome, U.S.A., but no thanks - we're just here to get our visas and get the F back out. For real this time.

Don't take it personally. But you know shit stinks when going through US customs and immigration is a better experience... in Canada. We've flown home via Montreal, one of many Canadian ports of entry where you actually go through US customs and passport control, and the experience was sublime. Professional passport screeners who don't feel the need to ask 400 questions. Polite security personnel manning the X-rays and the conveyer belts. None of the "baggage cart rage" I usually feel when going through the process at SFO or LAX or JFK or whatever... So Zen.

Which is necessary during a week like this. Right now, Alannah and I are at San Jose (CA) airport, waiting for our flight to Seattle, after which we will hop on another flight to Spokane.

This is after waking up at 6:30 in the morning to drive my parents' barely-roadworthy car with bald-ass tires to the airport. After arriving on CalTrain at 10:30 the night before. Which we caught after the BART ride from SFO to San Bruno and back to Millbrae.

Before BART, there was the five hour flight aboard an Air Canada Boeing 737 from Montreal. Two hours before that was the long 767 haul from Paris. To get to Paris, I had to drag a gigantic, 27-kilo case through one Métro and one RER line.

Only three days earlier, we had taken the high-speed TGV train back to Paris from Montpellier, where we'd ridden Velo M'agg bikes, taken shitty local trains (TER) and nice regional trains (Corail Téoz). About the only modes of transport we haven't used in the last seven days are a) the TAM tramway in Montpellier; b) taxis; c) horses and/or camels.

Oh yeah, that whole Montpellier thing. It was pretty awesome. I suppose I'll have to make a retroactive post about it, as I was blissfully away from the internet for a long weekend. Maybe I'll work on some pics and write it up on one of the next flights...

Japan: The Now de Rigeur Recap

I've been back for a full day now, and my little head is still trying to process everything from the trip to Japan. Not only because of the mind-boggling array of stuff I saw - and ate - from Osaka to Nakamura to Tokyo and every point in between, but also because I'm running on so little sleep.

It's a complete time warp coming back from Japan. There's the whole issue of coming home from the future: I left Japan at 5 PM on the 27th, took a 9 hour flight, and was in San Francisco by 9 AM of the 27th. All the way, instead of sleeping or getting a few quiet moments to read, I also had to contend with the incessant screaming and spoiled demands of some undisciplined little shit of a child, whose parents should be drawn and quartered and served up as a delicacy at some Japanese izakaya, so we can consume these dickweeds, punish them further with our digestive acids, and subsequently flush them down as the human pieces of shit that they are.

Seriously, if you bring kids on a plane - which is totally fine - have the decency to exercise a little discipline and control. Otherwise, you are nothing but human feces. Excrement. Shit that doesn't deserve the honor of being flushed down a super-duper-musical-automatic-do-everything toilet.

Speaking of which, I miss the toilets in Japan. After a couple of weeks, I finally got used to them, and even started to like them. I made a little video the first time I decided to try one whole hog, but I never had a chance to upload it. Be warned - even though the video section of my website has been edited to say, "Watch me my crap on YouTube," you will, indeed, get to watch me crap.



Sadly, all the pooping in the world isn't helping me shed the, umm, shitload of weight I've gained in just a few weeks. It didn't help that I'd just been on feeding frenzies in Europe and Tennessee just before, but having the opportunity to sample all sorts of new stuff like sparrows, locusts, raw horse, akebi and more really put the face-stuffing pedal to the metal.

I thought I'd lose weight being in Japan, what with the whole small-portion thing, and the myth that Japan is ridiculously expensive.

Well, that's exactly a myth. Even though our exchange rate fell a couple of times while i was there, Japan is really not that expensive. Although transit and hotels can be pricey, you can work around that.

Transit
For instance, a JR (Japan Rail) pass for foreigners is just around the $225 mark for a week. I used this for most of my traveling around, and it's good for all the trains (except the fastest nozomi bullet trains), inlcuding the JR lines that go through and around Tokyo. And it's simpler than a Eurail pass in that you don't have to validate it each journey. You just walk up to the side of the turnstiles with a little booth, flash your pass, and walk in. No reservations, no nothing.

And trains in Japan are ridiculously on-time. As such, if you do miss the 4:12 to Shinjuku, they are so plentiful that it's not so painful to wait around for the 4:16. Intercity trains aren't quite as many in between, but you'll generally never have to wait more than an hour for a train anywhere which is more than I can say for the CalTrain on which I'm riding at the very moment, a train for which last night I had to run across active tracks and jump in before the doors closed right behind me. That wouldn't happen in Japan, because I'd just kill a few minutes on my keitai (mobile phone) while waiting for the next one.

Oh, and despite the fact that they allow eating, drinking, and sometimes even smoking on the trains, they are devastatingly clean. Not that you'd ever want to, but if you spilled a little rice from your bento box onto the floor, you could probably pick it up and eat it without getting deathly ill. You can't even touch a railing on San Francisco's MUNI system without scheduling an appointment for a shot of penicillin.

Lodging
I was lucky enough to stay with family for all but five nights of the trip. But should you need hotels, they are plentiful, and pretty affordable. Especially when compared to Europe or the US. There are hostels, of course, and if I were traveling solo through the country, I wouldn't hesitate to stay at one. They tend not to be in the center of cities, but - again - the transit system is so good, it doesn't really matter so much unless you plan on going on a bender until after the trains stop running. Even then you have the option of the legendary "capsule" hotels. But if you're with others or simply can't stand the thought of communal living, "business hotels" are a good option. They're generally small, but fairly decent, and often provide breakfast with the price of lodging. They're also western style, which is great if you're trying to get used to Japanese social norms. However, if you really do want to dive into the Japanese experience, you can stay at a ryokan, where you'll get the full-on Japanese style tatami room, futons for beds, breakfast (and sometimes dinner) served to you, and as is the case with many of them, onsen communal baths, which are the bomb.

Bathing
Yes, I just said communal baths. Oftentimes, in the western mind, this stirs up images of hiding one's genitals in shame, contracting lice or athlete's foot, or even being cruised by lascivious gay men with handlebar mustaches. As such, it seems like an odd thing to do, but as I've recounted in this blog several times, it's actually very pleasurable, and probably one of the things I miss most about Japan. Even when I had western-style bathrooms at my disposal, I was still happy to throw down a couple of bucks to bathe at an onsen. Besides the ability to get myself nice and clean before dinner or before going to bed, it also gave me a chance to unwind in one of the thousands of geothermal hot springs that are all over Japan. Definitely worthwhile and not to be missed.

Eating, Eating, Eating
Yup, in the paragraph above, I mentioned bathing before dinner. This is actually very common in Japan, and I'm guessing it's because dinner can be an event. Take kaiseki for example, the artful, methodical, and absolutely gorgeous multi-course dinner that's as much about presentation and beauty as it is about taste.

Of course, having such a dinner can be very expensive, and it's just as much fun - if not more fun, to share a communal pot of sukiyaki or shabu shabu or teppanyaki, all of which can be found at the dinner table of just about any Japanese family on any given night. Like the bathing, communal eating in Japan can somehow become a magical, fun experience, even though it seems awkward and invasive in the west.

And don't worry - while I've showcased a bunch of weird-ass foods on the video clips about this trip, you won't be surprised by fried locusts or boiled eel guts or smoked fish heads when ordering normal, every day foods. I went to specialty joints for these things. Most everyday Japanese food is very palatable and easy to order.

Then you've got your ramen bars, izakaya, soba bars, fast casual restaurants... The Japanese take all their food very seriously, so even at these - the cheapest of cheap - the quality of the food is generally high. For only a few hundred yen (just a few dollars), you can have a small but very satisfying meal, and often very quickly.

While you may feel like lingering for hours at an izakaya ordering up various grilled or fried items, you can be in and out of a ramen bar in less than five minutes if you so choose. Japan has a huge culture of convenience - if you couldn't tell by all the mobile phones, automated ticket kiosks, butt-washing toilets, etc. And this becomes highly obvious when ordering food at some places. You just go up to what looks like a ticket vending machine, insert money, click the pictures of the food you want, and you get a ticket or two. Hand these tickets to your server or cook, and within minutes you've got your bowl of ramen, your plate of yakisoba - whatever it is whose picture you clicked on the machine.

While tipping is out of the question, service is still excellent at most places, even the ticket-machine ramen shops.

Polite Society
You have to go out of your way for the Japanese to be mean to you. With the exception of Roppongi (have I mentioned I fucking hate Roppongi?) I didn't once feel unwelcome, uncomfortable, or generally that I'm "in the wrong place." If anything, I felt a bit uncomfortable with the fact that so many people were being so damn nice to me without having to profusely kiss their ass first.

The exception comes on the road. And yet again on my travels, the stereotype out there has proven true:

Asians suck at driving.
It seems that once the rubber hits the road, the whole concept of courtesy, politeness, and doing things with honor are straight out the driver's side window - which in this case is on the right. At first I thought getting around Japan by car was odd because of the whole drive-on-the-left thing, but I've driven in England. I've driven in Australia. I've gone the wrong way down a one-way street in the US after one or two drinks. But something here seemed wrong. Then I realized - these people can't drive! In a society hell-bent on following custom and rules to the letter, the roads are anarchic. Stop signs are ignored. Lane markings? Ffff-whatever! Traffic signals? Hey, stop in the middle of the intersection once you notice it's red!

If you want proof that the Japanese suck at driving, all you have to see that over 90% of car sales in Japan are automatic transmissions. And everyone knows that only vehicular morons can't drive a manual tranny. Ok, you can say the same of America. And I say my theory still holds true. Even on this side of the Pacific, you're a moron if you don't know how to drive a stick.

But Japanese drivers definitely trump us in one aspect. While they may not be able to see traffic signals, road signs, or lane markings, they can squeeze their cars through the tightest of spots without a single nick on the bumper. One-lane roads with two-lanes of traffic? No problem. One-lane bridges with no railings with cars going both ways? Again, no problem. Squeezing between a brick wall and two illegally-parked cars? They'll do it in their sleep here.

This strangely acute skill, however, disappears again when riding a bicycle or walking. Neither of which you are allowed to do, apparently, in a straight line. Step out or ride out on the sidewalk (which is the norm here), and just try, TRY, to get somewhere in a logical fashion. Everyone is swerving, or walking around dizzily, or nearly bumping into everyone you move. This is largely because everyone on their mother is on their phone. While that's illegal on the road, no one's stopping anyone from being a jabbering or text-meassaging moron while under foot or pedal power. Walking a crowded sidewalk in Japan can be one of the most maddening experiences in an otherwise orderly, beautiful place.

I asked my friend Keith - who's been living in Yamagata for the last few months - if he bikes, and if so, if he does it on the sidewalk. Both answers were yes, the latter of which infuriated me. Because I'm a cyclist in San Francisco, where we have some serious biking balls, and he's from San Francisco, and should have some serious biking balls. And on only one night, in Tokyo, did I see anyone with serious biking balls, riding along in the slow lane of traffic with all the car craziness. They even have bike lanes in many towns, yet no one uses them. Even the ones on the sidewalk. So I asked Keith, "Hey man, I understand drivers here suck, but how come everyone rides on the sidewalk? Even you?" And he told me that in smaller towns, the gutters - unlike ours - are open ditches and with the crazy way people drive, it's easy to get run off the road and into a ditch. So everyone rides on the sidewalk.

This answer made sense. Even as a ballsy SF cyclist, I'd be pretty freaked out if an evasive maneuver had a 75% chance of landing me in a drainage ditch. But Tokyo doesn't have these, so I still posit that Tokyo cyclists are still a bunch of inconsiderate jerks. And pussies. Big, inconsiderate pussies.

Speaking of pussies...

Drinking in Japan
I knew this already, but the Japanese are a bunch of drinking lightweights. How my inconceivably high tolerance came about despite being born of a Japanese mother is beyond me. I thought maybe my mom wasn't quite representative with her ability to get smashed after a drink and a half (I got her hammered at the 300 Bar with a couple of cocktails), but no, it seems the majority can get pretty schnockered off of a few orders of sake or shochu.

Which is a good thing.

First off, public drunkenness is totally acceptable in Japan, judging by the number of salarymen I saw stumbling through various bar areas and to numerous train stations throughout the country. Or the loud, conspicuous slurring and yelling of young ladies who gather up to get shitfaced after one large bottle of beer shared among them after work.

It's also a good thing (for them) because drinking can get damned expensive if you're not careful. I wish I had the Japanese ability to nurse two drinks over the course of the night and end the evening in La La Land. Instead, I got accustomed to $60 bar tabs for an hour of drinking. Damn my crazy gaijin tolerance. It's bad enough that bars can surprise you with cover charges, seating fees, and other hidden costs. (That girl sitting next to you? You just bought her drinks!) But if you drink like, say, an Irishman, a German, or a Japanese-Iranian-American, don't be too shocked if your bar bill is in the quintuple digits. (That's triple digits in dollars.)

That isn't to say that there aren't good bargains to be found. Drinking at an izakaya isn't too bad with giant beers at around $5 a pop, and then there's the Ginza's ¥300 Bar, which may well be my favorite bar in Japan, if not the world.

But for most westerners, you're going to burn a 10,000 yen (ichi-man en) note or two if you want to get to the point where you're pissing in every alcove on the way to the station.

Which is totally acceptable by the way. While there are signs in some spots telling you not to urinate there, public pissing is the norm throughout Japan. Sure, public bathrooms are seemingly always open, but it's totally normal to unbutton your 501's and let the golden glory fly as you stumble back to wherever. Oddly enough, I've pissed in the street in every single country that I've visited, except for Japan. I just felt bad. I knew it was socially (and legally) acceptable, but I couldn't bring myself to urinate on otherwise pristine looking streets.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness
If that idiom is true, then Japan is pretty much up there with a commanding view of heaven. With the notable exception of *gag* Roppongi, it seems everything in Japan is immaculate. If someone does litter, it's cleaned up right away. Train stations are spotless. Train station bathrooms are spotless. Hell, bar bathrooms are spotless. Except in Roppongi.

In fact, while litter and trash do exist in Japan, it seems you have to be actively seeking it to find it on the streets. Hell, outside of Roppongi, you didn't even see cigarette butts on the ground. Maybe this is because the "pocket ashtray" is a top-selling item at convenience stores. It's a foil-lined fire-proof pouch that you can use as - you guessed it - an ashtray that you pull out of your pocket when you can't find a real one. Tossing butts on the ground is frowned upon.

In fact, in most of Tokyo and busier parts of other towns, it's downright illegal to smoke. This may seem odd in a country that has cigarette vending machines no more than 12 feet apart from each other on any given city block, and where McDonald's has a smoking section, and where any other restaurant IS a smoking section. But walk around Tokyo or parts of Osaka or Kyoto and you'll see a sign of someone walking and smoking with an "X" through it. Even weirder, you'll see - outside - signs for "Smoking Area," with a mass of people huddled around an ashtray.

But it's totally OK to light up while eating dinner at a restaurant, drinking in a coffee shop, browsing through a record store, or even playing games at a video arcade. Yes, there are ashtrays next to the joystick of the Virtua Fighter machine in the local game center. WHAT!?

Other Non-Sensical Bits
There are lots of seemingly paradoxical things going on in Japan, besides peeing on pristine streets and smoking while hanging out with a bunch of five year-olds playing Taiko Drummer.

For a country obsessed with cleanliness, you will rarely find a bathroom that has hand soap. Restaurants are often an exception, as food handlers have to wash with soap by law, but you still won't find soap at all of them. And towels? Some places have air dryers, and even fewer have paper towels, but it's best to do like the locals do and carry a handkerchief or mini-towel with you at all times.

Internet access is another non-sensical phenomenon. Or rather, the lack of it. I hiked around Kyoto with my laptop all day hoping I could find an internet cafe with Wi-Fi or even an ethernet port so I could get online and work. Strike one. Starbucks? Tully's? Doutour Coffee? Strike two. I was finally able to get access at Kinko's, which was barely a base hit because I could've mortgaged a small house for the price. Looking up access on jwire, I found out that McDonlad's has wi-fi. And Mos Burger, a Japanese burger chain. Great. Otherwise, the lobbies of hostels and some tourist information centers and maybe some hotels have coin-operated internet kiosks for us lowly foreigners.

So I wondered to myself... "Why the hell is this??? How is it that the most technologically advanced society on the face of this planet has so few internet cafes and wi-fi hotspots?"

It's because that jerkstain who nearly ran into you on his bicycle on the sidewalk was probably surfing the web. Or checking his email. Or putting in an order for some hentai comics. Everyone has email and other internet access on the ubiquitous mobile phone, making net cafes more or less obsolete. Although you can also get internet at 24-hour manga kissa places (comic cafes), which double as crash pads for those that missed the last train. How, I don't understand. Being in any manga shop or cafe is like having a seizure without the joy of shaking around on the ground.



Seriously, there's only so much demons-raping-schoolgirls hentai anime and lactating mom bukkake porn one can look at. At least for me... I have a living, breathing girlfriend.

Which brings me to another point...

Sex in Japan
No, I didn't have any, thankyouverymuch. Although the offers were plentiful in that filthy Roppongi.

I'm talking about the concept itself. It seems everything is contradictory when it comes to sex.

Selling sex is very much out in the open (see: Shinjuku, Roppongi), but people pay more to not have sex. (see: hostess bars charging ¥10,000 a drink)

I'm a former San Fernando (aka Silicone) Valley resident - home of the porn industry in America - and thought I'd seen it all. Well in Japan, here's demon rape porn, tentacle porn, school girl porn, and all sorts of stuff that makes even a hardened pervert like myself blush, or at the very least wonder, "What the hell...???" Yet it's illegal to show pubic hair.

News and public opinion show outrage over sexual assaults (which is great, don't get me wrong), yet there is no age of consent, and grown women are often encouraged by their mates to dress like school girls and take on teenage mannerisms to maintain youthful sexuality - this only blurs the lines. I was on the train with my mom and pointed out some adorable little kids, telling her, "Mom, Japanese kids are so adorable. It's crazy that their moms look like adorable 12 year-olds themselves." Which I meant as a compliment because, well, every damn person, place, and thing in Japan is cute. And my mom replied, "Yes, but that's why you hear about young girls getting raped. There's no line."

I'm no expert on the subject and despite my background in anthro I've not really researched any of this stuff in Japan, but at first glance, it seems there are incredibly competitive forces of repression and perversion at work, making for a cauldron of strange sexual practices and predilections which, frankly, turn me off.

I'm glad I have a western girlfriend!


But if you look past the strange porn, perverted cartoons, horrible driving, drunk public pissing, environmentally unfriendly foodways, human sardine can commuting, and strange toilets, you'll find a people who are as kind, welcoming, and joyful as any other on the planet.

Dig a little deeper and you'll find that - like you or I - we all have the same interests at heart, we just have different ways of getting to them on a daily basis. We love to eat, drink, be with our friends and family, and get our rocks off. It's the variations in how we get about it all that makes traveling a worthwhile experience.

And while this time around I had the unfair advantage of family showing me around and helping me get a closer glimpse at Japan behind closed doors, I advise jumping on any opportunity to travel there, if only to get a little taste of a culture that's got a foot in the past and another one well in the future.

For you experienced Euro backpackers out there who haven't hit up Japan yet, take London's propensity for putting gleaming new architecture next to centuries-old historical points of interest and multiply it by several orders of magnitude. And make it a hell of a lot cheaper. If that's not incentive enough to go, then I don't know what is.

Of course, it helps a lot to know the language. Again, I had an inside track on this, but still, even with my somehwat decent abilities, there were a few times I felt dead in the water - and that was just ordering yakitori at a bar.

So do yourself a favor. Learn a little bit of Japanese. Visit Japan. It is truly, as the natives say, sugoiiiiiiiiiii!