Eat Walk Eat Walk: My Winter Holiday: Kyoto & Tokyo

As my Scottish coworker would say, I am one lucky sausage. I am lucky because I have some truly great friends, and one of them decided to fly allll the way to Japan so we could spend our winter holiday together. Yippee! Here are a just a few photos and highlights from our time together in Kanazawa, Kyoto and Tokyo.

Torii gates at Fushimi-Inari Taisha, Kyoto                                                                                                                 There are more than 10,000 of these gates, stretching for 4 kilometers, up a forested hill dotted with small shrines. We followed the path, eventually walked through all 10,000, and were rewarded with a view of the city. Each torii is marked with a few Japanese characters, which I assumed were ancient words of Shinto wisdom. Um, no. Turns out the toriis are sponsored by corporations, so they basically say shit like "Top Ramen" and "McDonald's" and whatever is the equivalent of Walmart in Japan. But there is some logic to this lameness: Inari is the God of business, so the gates are supposed to bring wealth and success.

Nishiki Market, Kyoto

Jam packed with vendors hawking freshly pounded mochi, a rainbow of pickled vegetables, homemade rice crackers and skewered street food, Nishiki Market made my brain crackle with overstimulated food lover's anxiety. I wanna try that! Look at this! What are those? That smells good! We stopped at a little stand for grilled oysters with lemon and giggled with gluttonous glee. As we wandered through the over-300-year-old market, I nibbled a giant fish cake wrapped with bacon, and decided it was possibly the best thing I've tasted in Japan.

Cooking Class, Kyoto                                       

Thankfully, Cathy is perfectly happy spending the majority of our trip shoving delicious things into our mouths. We signed up for a cooking class and were extremely pleased to discover it would be held in our teacher's spacious home kitchen. There was only one other student, an adorable Chilean gal living in Brazil, and together we prepared homemade dashi for a soup, teriyaki fish, a super tasty rice, chicken and veggie dish, and a spinach & shitake salad with sesame dressing. Our soft spoken teacher, Mariko, was the perfect hybrid of a modern and traditional Japanese woman, and the class was a definite highlight of our trip. She served us tea and cool slices of slick persimmon for dessert. 

Karaoke

Remember that scene in Adventures in Babysitting when the big, scary, deadpan dude says "Nobody leaves this place without singing the blues?" Well, that's pretty much just like Japan, except instead of the blues it's karaoke. You gotta do karaoke in Japan. It's pretty much mandatory. To my shock and amazement, my gal Cathy admitted she was a karaoke virgin. So Christmas night, instead of sipping eggnog and baking Jesus shaped Christmas cookies, we sang our faces off. Wham! Snoop Dogg. Cher. Hank Williams. No cheesy 80's ballad was left unsung. This proved to be a warm-up for Kyoto, where we would link up with some superfun hostel dwellers for a late-night karaoke extravaganza. Those with stage fright needn't worry; in Japan you get your own karaoke private room, a remote control to pick your songs, a tambourine (!) and all-you-can-drink soda. No one notices the tall cans of Asahi you smuggle in with your purse.

Tokyo

Always up for something a bit bizarre and out of the ordinary, Cathy and I found ourselves booking "rooms" at a capsule hotel in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo. They only had "luxury capsules" left which meant we got a chair and a tiny desk in addition to our little cubby hole. So luxurious. It was actually quite nice, compared to a hostel dorm room, where you don't get a little privacy curtain.


In Tokyo we continued our habit of walking approximately 132,000 miles a day, until our legs ached and our feet threatened to pop off our ankles.

One morning we joined masses of other fish fans at Tsukiji Market, the world's largest wholesale fish market, where sumo-wrestler sized tuna are auctioned off in the wee hours of morning for hundreds of thousands of dollars each. We went for breakfast, but by 9:30am the queues at the most popular sushi counters were already two-hours deep. Fuck that noise. Instead we opted for fresh fish, sans the hype, and nibbled on perfectly delicious nigiri and hand rolls at a crowded counter manned by an old chef who looked like he could slice sashimi in his sleep. We also strolled Kappabashi, an entire neighborhood devoted to selling kitchen gadgets, cookware and the fake, but incredibly real looking, plastic food displays used by so many restaurants.

New Year's Eve, Tokyo

It turns out our Kyoto karaoke buddies were also spending New Year's in Tokyo, so we pieced together a 13 person posse and headed for Shibuya to ring in 2010. Normally I am turned off by traveling with such a big group of sorta-strangers: no one can agree where to go, people wander off, one girl gets too drunk and locks herself in the bathroom barfing. But no such shenanigans occurred and it turned into one of the best New Year celebrations I can remember. When the clock struck midnight, we were standing shoulder to shoulder in Shibuya Crossing, with masses of people from around the world, under the pulsing neon lights and massive plasma screens fixed to the sides of buildings.

As we weaved through the crowd, in search of a bar, we hugged strangers, shook their hands, called "Happy New Year" to everyone in our path, and really meant it. My cheeks ached from smiling. I felt connected to every single person on the street. I wasn't thinking about the future or the past or people I wished were with me or getting another beer. I was completely in the moment and so happy to be there.

The Ramenatrix Takes On Yokohama

If there was a beauty pageant for cities, but instead of a Swimsuit Competition there was a Best Museums Competition, Yokohama would take the crown. Hands down. Yokohama would have black mascara running down it's face as a monstrous bouquet of red roses was thrust into it's arms and a glittering bejeweled tiara placed on it's head. Yokohama would be choking back grateful sobs as it thanked God for this honor and hugged all the other competing cities, sulking on stage in their silky pink pageant-issue sashes.

Not only does Yokohama have the Yokohama Museum of Art (an amazing modern art museum with the best exhibition I've seen in years), it is home to the Yokohama Silk Museum, The Japan Newspaper Museum and Broadcast Library (after I left they exhibited New Year's Day front pages from every newspaper in the world. Interesting idea, no?), the Yokohama Doll Museum, the Yokohama Curry Museum and about a bazillion other galleries. But the main reason I went to Yokohama was to tour the Shin-Yokohama Raumen Museum (their "u," not mine). No, I didn't stutter. An entire museum devoted to ramen. I'll slurp to that.

I could almost cry brothy tears just thinking about that fact that the majority of Americans think ramen is nothing more than a 10 cent packet of culinary desperation, eaten primarily and shamefully by college students who'd rather spend their parent-supplied grocery money on cases of Keystone Ice. If you've ever enjoyed true ramen, from a ramen shop, you know that is it so much more. At my favorite noodle slurping spots, in both Seattle and Kanazawa (they also have a branch in NYC for those of you in that hood), you can decide the firmness of your ramen noodles, the flavor of your broth, and a variety of accessories that include slices of pork, bamboo shoots and soft boiled egg. In Japan, different regions are famous for their particular spin on what was originally a Chinese noodle soup. At the ramen museum you are challenged to taste nine varieties.

The museum has three floors and two of them are built to be a 1:1 replica of a particular Tokyo neighborhood circa 1958, the year instant ramen noodles were invented. I strolled past the fake store fronts and old Japanese movie posters, cursing my lack of stomach space as I tried to decide which of the nine ramen shops I wanted to try. The original goal was realistic: to eat two bowls at two different shops. But, lamely, I woke up with a stupiddumb cold and didn't have much of an appetite, so the new goal became quiet pathetic: one bowl of ramen. Thanks a lot, immune system. You always ruin everything.



I eventually settled on Eki, from the Hokkaido region in northern Japan. I have been curious about Hokkaido ramen since I arrived in Japan, mostly because I heard there is often a pat of butter in the broth, plus it looked particularly porcine in the photo with both slices and crumbles of pork floating around the miso broth.

For all I know, an entire pig had been marinating in my bowl of ramen all morning long. The broth tasted more like a rich gravy, with a thin layer of oil hovering on top. The noodles, thicker and more yellow than the ones I usually suck down, lay in a lazy tangle on the bottom of the bowl, passed out and drunk on pork fat. An Elvis track is barely audible behind the sound of scissors snipping at the stiff tentacles of a large dried squid, the sizzle of oil hitting hot pans, and a spoon loudly banging on the rim of a metal pot. But, of course, the most powerful noise of all: the chorus of in-stereo slurps as my neighbors noisily sucked up the long curly noodles. I looked down the counter at the chopstick wielding ramenistas bowing into their bowls and imagined miniature Honey I Shrunk the Kids sized people climbing up the toothsome noodle ropes that stretched from broth to mouth. It is not only acceptable to loudly slurp your ramen in Japan, it is encouraged and seen as a sign of enjoyment. It is also very practical: the slurping allows in air that helps cools down the steaming hot soup.

It was a damn fine bowl, though not the best I've ever had. But, a lover of all things noodle, ramen has quickly made it's way onto my Favorite Foods list and I'm game to try a new variety any chance I get.

Truth be told, the rest of the museum was a bit disappointing. You can buzz on through the Tokyo neighborhood section in about 15 minutes, and the actual ramen exhibit is fairly small and completely in Japanese so I didn't learn a thing. However, I absolutely appreciate the museum's existence and think it was would be about 74 times more awesome if you can read and comprehend Japanese. I've heard of people spending their entire day there, but I worked hard to stay for an entire hour before hopping back on the train and heading back downtown.

Luckily, it turns out Yokohama is super mega awesome and I didn't make the trip in vane. I was completely smitten with the clean, modern and architecturally organized city with it's picturesque skyline, many parks and beautiful harbor. After spending a few days in the land of chaos, crowds and neon lights that is Tokyo, the country's second biggest city felt more refined, relaxed and breezy. I instantly got that "Oh my God, I could totally live here" sensation and was reminded of both Seattle and Boston. The city boasts a touristy Chinatown, where I was (finally) able to buy some proper hot sauce, and enjoy a little dim sum. Standing on the harbor on my first night in the city, I caught an amazing sunset and my first clear view of Mt Fuji. It was New Year's Day, I had just spent a week traveling around Japan with one of my best friends, and now I was on my own. I felt incredibly calm, happy and peaceful. With just a wee bit of a swine hangover.

In the kitchen: Japanese Cooking Classes!

Back in October, when I finally arrived at my apartment after a week of hotel living, I couldn't wait to get to the grocery store and start cooking my own meals. Foreign grocery stores are one of my favorite things in the world, and my first trip to Apita supermarket was a three hour affair. I wandered up and down each isle, squinted at the mysterious characters printed on packages and marveled at the huge selection of colorful, pickled vegetables in the refrigerator section. I was determined to cook only Japanese foods and filled my cart with miso paste, tofu and a two foot long bundle of skinny green onions.

Two weeks, and dozens of saran wrapped onigiri, later and I had completely exhausted my supply of Japanese recipes. I wanted to try new dishes but felt helpless, unable to read the labels on the bottles and jars in the grocery store. Was this mirin or cooking sake or vinegar? Defeated and frustrated, I turned to comfort food. I bought a package of spaghetti and the only Parmesan cheese I could find: a tiny, extremely overpriced, green can containing the dreaded Kraft Parmesan of my youth. I went home, locked the door, boiled up the pasta and ate the entire packet of noodles coated in butter and showered with processed fake cheese, salt, a shake of nutmeg and a drizzle of truffle oil that I'd smuggled into the country inside a pair of striped knee socks.

A few days later, I discovered that a foreigner-friendly community center near my apartment holds a free cooking class once a month. Unsuccessful in my attempts to find a cooking school, I couldn't believe my luck, and counted down the days until my first class.

The morning of class, I slid the paper screen door open and took off my shoes, adding my giant clown-like flats to the pile of teeny tiny boots and minuscule old lady loafers. Inside, a gaggle of hens in mismatched aprons were already peeling daikon and washing rice, clucking away and laughing in the large sunny kitchen. I was thrown an apron and handed a pile of shitakes to slice. The class was less of a formal class, and more of a let's-all-cook-together and eat lunch kind of affair. I watched the teacher as she poured mirin, soy sauce and sake, the holy trinity of Japanese cooking, into a hot pan of chopped greens before thrusting a pair of long wooden cooking chopsticks into my hands.

"You stir!" she commanded, a big watermelon slice of a smile on her shaggy bowl-cut framed face. 

The other teacher (far right in photo), who has since sent me an email declaring herself my "Japanese mother," proudly showed me photos of her baby grandson, but her face turned sour, and she clucked her tongue, before telling me about her other "bad son."

"He live in Tokyo and he has skin head! He in a band. Very loud. Not married. No good." A photo from her cell phone revealed a good looking guy with the cursed shaved head. She clucked again. "No good."

There wasn't a measuring cup in sight, so I took photos and tried hard to remember how to replicate the dishes we were preparing. Our little assembly line turned out savory foil packet salmon filets, smeared with miso, on a bed of caramelized onions and topped with shitakes, matchstick carrots and fresh parsley. We ate "good luck" rice, usually reserved for special occasions and served to girls after their first period, laced with red adzuki beans and sprinkled with coarse salt and black sesame seeds. I learned that the peels of a daikon should not be thrown away; they can be julienned and transformed into a side dish, along with the root vegetable's scraggly leaves, which are boiled, chopped fine and stir fried with the Holy Trinity and a small scoop of sugar. Lastly, we made a simple miso soup and tossed in all the extra veggies and plenty of chopped green onions.

The next class turned out to be a rare treat: we would be preparing a traditional New Year's Meal called Osechi. When I told my Japanese co-workers, they were surprised and impressed. Nowadays, most people order their osechi pre-made, giving the women a break from the everyday grind in the kitchen. Each item on the plate is symbolic of the New Year, and families across the country eat similar foods just like Americans on Thanksgiving. The meal is made up of many small components, varied in color and texture, and arranged artfully on the plate.

We started off  peeling: first the ginkgo nuts, collected from a nearby tree, were roasted until tender and threaded onto pine needles. Meanwhile, a couple of women peeled tiny boiled quail eggs, scored the tops, and carefully nestled a single salmon egg inside, like a jeweler setting a sparkling ruby into a ring. I was on fish cake duty, slicing the pink tinged loaves into half moons, and then making a few slits and transforming them into fancy fish cake twists.
There was a sort of stew packed with Japanese root vegetables, chicken, mushrooms and konjaku (one of my favorite Japanese food discoveries), teriyaki chicken and a shredded carrot and daikon salad. But my favorite part of the meal was the creamy black soy beans, sprinkled with Kanazawa's famous gold leaf.

At the end of the meal it was business time; I wanted to secure a deal with the two adorable teacher ladies. I wanted private cooking lessons. Once a month was not gonna cut it. They agreed, and no matter how much I tried, they insisted I only pay for the cost of the food.

This month: Project Eggplant!

Snow is For Suckers

So, the sky decided to open up it's giant butt hole a few days ago, and it's been pooping down plops of freezing cold snow ever since. It must have eaten a bad cloud or a rotten oyster or something because there are monstrous piles of white stuff everywhere. Poor sky. Oh, and poor me.

It might look pretty idyllic if you happen to be a rosy cheeked character in a Norman Rockwell painting, perched before a roaring fire, wearing a cashmere unitard, with a hot toddy in one hand and a bottomless trust fund marinating in a downtown bank. In that case, you might feel obliged to say something like "Oh, Richard, isn't it just beautiful? Put down that Chicken Soup for the Rare Coin Collector's Soul and and come look at this! It's simply magical!"

But those of us who have to tromp to work in this blustery mess, who have to wear tights and leggings under our pants, two shirts and a jacket under our coat and manly, super-tread, not 100%, waterproof hiking boots, that look ridiculous with the business suit you are required to wear, aren't so thrilled. Let me rephrase that: I'm not so thrilled.

I know this snow business is old news for those of you who grew up in New York or Alaska or for those raised by a talking cartoon polar bear in Antarctica, but I'm from California, bitches. Not Lake Tahoe or Plumas County: the Bay Area. I can handle the rain, thank-you-very-much Seattle, and I thoroughly enjoy an afternoon of sledding...but living in the snow? Meh. It's been four days and I'm totally over it. Are we there yet?

This morning *cough* at noon *cough* as I hit the snooze on my alarm for the fourth time, I began to seriously contemplate hibernation. What a great idea! Now I see why that crazy Grizzly Man wanted to befriend all those bears in Alaska: bears know what's up. Maybe I can just lounge my way through the winter. I'll hide inside my cozy little bento box with my new fuzzy pillow, and my friends, and wait for the city to thaw out. Oh, and when I say friends, I mean instant ramen (the good kind), the Internet, Sex & the City, downloaded Mad Men episodes, Bon Appetit magazine and a stack of good books. I'll emerge in Spring, bleary eyed, bloated from MSG, warm and dry, just in time to watch the cherry blossoms pop! pop! pop! open, on the trees, like kernels of fluffy pink popcorn.

Beer, bras and donburi: they're all just a vending machine away

People often ask me if I am a good cook. To this I reply: I've got some skills, but I am definitely, 100 percent, much better at eating. I am really good at going out to eat too. You should see me! I like nearly everything about a restaurant meal...except paying the check. You've just had some wine, a good chat, and stuffed yourself silly. There has never been a worse time to do math and, if it's a fancy pants night, hand over the equivalent of a month's rent in Calcutta. I would much rather pay up front, so that by the time I've thoroughly stained my shirt with Sriracha, slurped the oysters, or dragged the last piece of naan around the empty, curry stained, bowl I can leave in a happy daze and pretend the meal was free.

It appears some people in Japan felt the same way. Introducing: the vending machine restaurant! It's the perfect solution for those who'd rather avoid the end-of-meal bill and pretty much any interaction with a server.

Here's what you do: walk into the restaurant, choose your meal by pushing a button on the vending machine, and insert cash. The vending machine spits out a little ticket that you hand to a server, who wordlessly whisks it out of your hand, only to return with your meal in minutes flat.

Now, this is far from fine dining. The donburi vending machine restaurant near my work is basically the equivalent of a greasy spoon diner, and to be perfectly honest, after 3 visits, I swore I would never go back. Yes, three. I really like pushing the button on the vending machine. The donburi in the photo might look tasty, but it might as well be a pile of salt, shaped and painted to look like food, topped with a slimy egg and fatty meat. This doesn't mean all vending machine restaurants are crap. I'm sure some are quite tasty. I hope to find the tasty ones so that I can enjoy pushing the button and partake in a delicious meal.

Japan is famous for its vending machines, and according to Wikipedia, there are over 5 million of them scattered around the country, one for every 23 people, selling everything from live lobsters to freshly popped popcorn, umbrellas, underwear and sex toys.

Here in Kanazawa, I haven't seen such an impressive variety, but we do have a particular type of vending machine that I hold close to my heart. The beer vending machine. Correction: the beer, cocktails in a can and sake vending machine. Fuck the Flowbee, this is an amazing invention! It's 3am and all the stores are closed? Beer vending machine to the rescue! It's 3am and you need a new bra? Yes, there is a vending machine for this as well. In walking distance of my apartment. My boobs have never been so lucky.

Couch...um, I mean FutonSurfing!

When I was a reporter I was constantly meeting new people, and my afternoons were usually spent running around the city like a stressed out crazy lady trying to interview them all. Some people were so inspiring, so sweet, so funny, so interesting; they perked up my work day and had me skipping down the street, like a cockeyed optimist, cooing at every baby, puppy and homeless person in my path. On the other hand, some people were incessantly rude, close minded, obnoxious and idiotic. Sometimes I'd meet one of each specimen in a single day. This lead me to coin the expression: "I love people! I hate people!" Simple, yet effective; I used it often.

Despite my (maybe just temporary) retirement from broadcast journalism, I find this phrase to be quite useful in everyday life. The world is full of assholes and awesome people, and hopefully we will meet more of the latter.

I recently found myself thinking "I love people!" after my first experience with www.couchsurfing.com. If you're not hip to the concept, it's basically a website that connects travelers from around the globe who need a free place to stay. You have a profile and photos, similar to other social networking websites, but you also include details about your spare couch, room, bed, or futon, as my case happens to be. Couchsurfers are either offering up a place to stay or looking for one. The idea is not to use a fellow couchsurfer's pad as simply a free place to crash, but to meet new people, to get to know a city through a local's eyes and to promote trust, kindness and generosity.

Most of us were raised not to talk to strangers, and here we are, millions of us in 232 countries, inviting those very people into our homes...and beds. My poor parents. They haven't quite recovered from my brush with Dumpster diving, and now this? Oy.

My first couchsurfing request came from a girl who shares my name, age, and native country. How could I turn a fellow 29 year old American Rachel down? I prayed she wasn't a sleepwalking kleptomaniac who would gobble up my sacred jar of organic peanut butter in the middle of the night, and accepted her request. After a series of emails, we figured out a plan, and I met my Oklahoma roamer in front of the McDonald's near my work. We started to gab immediately, and after a quick trip to my place to drop off her backpack, we were off for a getting-to-know-you beer.

After several failed attempts (many bars charge a hefty cover charge and my favorite local dive was closed) we were eventually introduced to a man on the street who would allegedly take us to a no-cover bar. In broken English we were asked if we like cats. Um, yes? Yes! But how is this relevant? Five minutes later we were walking up a narrow staircase and wondering where this strange man was taking us. There's a sign. The bar is called Zero Cool. I'm assuming the Japanese to English dictionary was not consulted during the naming process.

"Meow! Meow!"

The door opens and a frisky little black cat is there to greet us. Apparently this guy opened up his bar just for us! I put my bag on the bar, and the cat immediately jumped up, slid down the bar and dove head first into my purse. A wrestling match ensues between him and my scarf. The cat question has been answered.

As Rachel and I chat, the bartender flicks on the stereo and proceeds to serve us a complimentary, and very unexpected, plate of sausages with mustard and various little bowls of crunchy snacks. He also slid over a dish of tiny dried fish so we could feed the cat.

It turns out to be quite a silly night, and Rachel and I laugh and talk about traveling, relationships, jobs... It doesn't feel as if we met only an hour before. I am happy to be hosting this not-so-strange stranger, and feel completely comfortable sleeping a few feet from her in my tiny studio apartment. Her plan to stay for two nights has changed, and in the morning I actually felt sad to see her go.

My first official couchsurfing experience left me all warm and fuzzy. The Afterschool Special moral of the story is: A lot can come from being open and trusting. Always a fan of a good story, I like the idea of meeting people in unusual ways. But more importantly, as a traveler, I love the idea of showing a fellow globetrotter a good time, providing a nice place for her to stay and sharing all that I know about the city I'm living in. Anyone who has ever traveled knows that these things are golden. Maybe they're even better than a free hot dog and a frisky black kitty cat. Mmm...maybe they're about equal.

Autumn in Kanazawa

As many of you know, I have a sort of love affair with trees. I don't like to hug them, mind you, but I do like to dreamily gaze at them. Words can't describe the way their beauty affects me. Luckily, Japanese people seem to feel the same way. Embarking on a day trip, just to look at Autumn leaves, is a perfectly common weekend activity here.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm lucky to live in the same city as one of Japan's most celebrated traditional gardens. The following photos are of Kenroku-en Garden in the Fall. The leaves on the trees are actually that vibrant and colorful. Oh, and in the lake photo, those are ropes, pulled tight, around the trees to protect them from snow. It's a Kanazawa tradition and many trees around the city are decorated this way.






*Please excuse the sloppy photo layout. Blogspot makes it nearly impossible to make things look clean and neat. It's driving me mad!

27 hours and $270 in Osaka

It was in the months leading up to my departure for Japan that I found myself with a new, life changing, hobby. I slowly but surely become a bit obsessed with improv and was less than thrilled to be giving it up cold turkey. Nothing else has allowed me to feel so in-the-moment, so creative, so scared shitless, so silly - all in one go. So, after I cozied into my new apartment, the first order of business was finding some English speaking improv companies.

Our Lord and Savior, Google, led me to The Pirates of the Dotombori: an Osaka imrov group made up of improvisers from around the world. I emailed a bit with the lead pirate, and finally got up the guts to ask if I could crash on someone's futon the night of the next show. Five minutes later I had an email in my inbox. I would be staying with one Kwame Alexander. He even offered to pick me up at the train station. Michael Moore is right; Canadians are good people.

Traveling around Japan is not cheap. A one-way, 2 hour and 45 minute, train ticket cost me about $70. But, considering I'd paid $7 for a bottle of beer a few nights before, I figured this trip had to be more fun than chugging 10 Asahis.

Osaka is the comedy capitol of Japan, and the people are said to be the friendliest and most outgoing in the country. I liked it immediately. After dropping off my bag at Kwame's I was free to roam around on my own for several hours before the show.

I started my night at Shinsaibashi, a massive covered shopping arcade with eight bazillion shops and just as many people. It was a Sunday night but I couldn't walk an inch without bumping into a group of giggling high school girls or a thigh high boot clad woman dripping with shopping bags. I escaped onto a side street, passed a bakery selling cheerful slices of cake, and eventually found myself in the famous Dotombori section of south Osaka.

1. The streets are lit by huge, pulsing, neon signs, delicious smells flood out of every restaurant, and scads of takoyaki vendors compete for business by hollering at the passing crowds. It's a food lovers paradise and I spent a glorious 45 minutes wandering the culinary maze looking for the perfect dinner. I darted back and forth between ramen shops, packed with satisfied slurpers, to okonomiyaki street vendors, sushi restaurants and curry houses. I curbed my hunger with an order of takoyaki (octopus balls), one of Osaka's famed street snacks, before deciding on a surprisingly inexpensive sushi spot.

Please forgive me, but I can't figure out what this particular style of sushi is called. It's very similar to chirashi, but doesn't exactly meet the definition. Eh, who cares. I do know that each slice of salmon and tuna melted on my tongue, there was a big heap of coveted, chopped up, toro and the rice underneath was perfectly warm and sticky.


By the time I finished dinner it was nearly show time, so I pulled out my little homemade map and prayed that my naturally poor sense of direction was taking a nap so I could find my way to the correct location. I'm a little bit shocked every time I don't get lost, and this was no exception. I internally high fived myself when I arrived at Sam & Dave's in Nagahoribashi on time.

Long story short, the show was awesome. The first half was all improv games performed in Japanese and English, which were fairly easy to understand despite the language barrier. The second half was a part scripted, part improvised, all English, musical written and scored by a company member. I spent the entire second half of the show alternatively guffawing my face off and perma-smiling like a goon.

The show lead to after-show beers which lead to drinks at a nearby bar which lead to an after-party at Jaime-the-improviser-and-best-host-ever's apartment, where he and his girlfriend proceeded to ply us with hooch, snacks and a mountain of spaghetti. If there are sweeter, funnier, more hospitable people in Osaka...I'd like to meet them. And tell them to make me spaghetti and force them to banter with me.

The next day, after a thanks-for-letting-me-stay Korean lunch, I left Kwame at the train station and spent the rest of the afternoon at the Osaka Aquarium Kaiyukan. It is truly an impressive "fish museum," as one of my students called it, and I spent a couple peaceful hours gazing at schools of colorful fishies, whale sharks, dolphins, sea lions and pondering philosophical quandaries like "Is there such thing as a good looking penguin? Like, do penguins think 'Hey! That penguin is hot!' or 'I would never be caught dead mating with that penguin.'"

Apparently I pondered for too long, because I ended my trip to Osaka with a mad dash to the train station, and managed to hop on with literally one minute to spare. Phew. I kicked off my shoes, flipped on my iPod and let the train take me home.

Scrub a dub dub in a Japanese tub

Having reached the wise old age of 29 and 5/6ths, I'm sure no one would question the fact that I know how to take a bath. Sure, I've taken far more showers, but bathing is kinda like riding a bike, but with more bubbles. Oh, and a lot more nudity. But as I stood stark naked in a Japanese bathhouse amongst a dozen other naked ladies - it was quite clear that I am an amateur. I don't really know how to take a bath after all.

Onsen, as these hot springs/bath houses are called, seem to be about as prominent as post offices. There are literally thousands of them scattered throughout the country. A fixture in Japanese culture, it's not uncommon to take a soak in your birthday suit with a group of girls from the office (or guys, for you dudes out there) or step into the tub to discover the woman who filled your Slupee at the 7-11. A people known for their modesty, all rules (and undergarments) are thrown out the window when it comes to spending a few hours at an onsen. While some onsen are private, luxurious and spendy, set in picturesque locations, others are simple and cheap. A few are famous for the monkeys who soak in them.

Eager to experience the tradition, I hopped on a bus at Kanazawa station and 47 minutes later arrived at Yuwaku Hot Springs, located at the end of a small street, tucked into the mountainous outskirts of the city. I paid my ¥350 (about $3.88) entrance fee, left my shoes at the front door, and walked into the ladies room. As I watched the other women unload their towels and bottles of shampoo and soap from home, I immediately realized I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't bring a towel! Shampoo? I just showered at home! I just came to have a soak! I scurried out to the front desk and bought a teeny tiny ¥100 towel to dry off with.

I slowly and gingerly undressed, thinking about a story a friend told me about her onsen experience years ago. There was much pointing and laughing at the naked white girl. I was scared. Were there robes to change into? There were not. After what felt like a slow-motion strip tease, a sock here, a bra there, I was clothing free and ready for my bath. But apparently it wasn't that simple. I slid open the door and walked into the bath room.

The tiled walls of the steamy room are lined with faucets and women sit in front of them on what look like upside-down plastic trash cans. Some are dumping entire buckets of water over their heads. Others are digitally assaulting their scalps, creating white, foamy wigs of shampoo atop their heads. Tiny hunched over grannies, with sagging breasts, vigorously scrub their armpits with bars of pastel colored soap.

I saunter over to a faucet, feeling like a right pervert, accidentally feeling everyone up with my eyes as I try to figure out what the fuck I am supposed to be doing. I hunker down onto a bucket and stare at myself in the mirror, not sure what to do next. The older lady next to me smiles sweetly and motions for me to grab a bowl and fill it up with water. I do. She points to her shampoo and soap and asks me a question in Japanese that I interpret to mean: "Where's your soap, bozo? You think you're gonna put that tall, filthy, white body into our clean hot springs without a scrub? You crazy!" I explain to her that this is my first onsen experience. We both smile stupidly at each other, completely unaware of what each other is saying. Finally she nudges her bar of lavender soap in my direction and I dip my teeny tiny towel into the bowl (she made me! now what will I dry off with?!) and get scrubbing. She continues to chat me up, asking me questions in Japanese while ever-so-casually soaping up her cha-cha, then grabs the shower nozzle and sprays it into submission.

When I decide I'm suitably clean I bid her goodbye and walk into yet another room to take my bath. The tub is lined with stones and faces out to the green, wooded hillside. There are no glass windows, only large screens, which provide a much needed cool breeze. The water is startlingly hot so after boiling my body for 10 minutes, I punch modesty in the face and move up to the top step, my entire top-half exposed. I try and act natural, looking out at the hillside, pretending I do this all the time. Just sit around, silent and alone, with a bunch of naked strangers. But really I'm thinking "Am I supposed to sit up here? Should I keep my boobs under the water? I'm glad I shaved my legs! Damn, I guess no one waxes in Japan. Hey! That girl was on my bus! I wonder if someone will talk to me. What do I do now? Just sit here some more?" I try not to look down at my body, to check if I look skinny or to see how my boobs look - but I kind of can't help it. I also can't help checking everyone else out a little bit. What's the point of being naked with strangers if you don't take a little peak at what everyone else has going on.

After about half an hour I am thoroughly bathed, lobster red, and just a little bit bored. It's certainly relaxing, but how long can you sit in a hot tub without a glass of champagne and a gaggle of pals to gab with? Determined to stay at least as long as my bus ride, I put in another 15 minutes and call it good. Nobody pointed and laughed at me! Success. I buy another tiny ¥100 towel and pat my crimson body dry.