Tomorrow morning I fly to the Land of The Rising Sun. For now, I pack. And pack I do, thoroughly, and - if I may say so myself - like a bloody professional. Chargers, socks, travel wallets, Aspirin, passports, Yen, books, new toothbrush, and yes, I will not forget the vital thing: Tickets. I will be attempting to write a travel diary.
- There will be the cherry blossom festivals with drunk salarymen under the trees. (Oh, yes indeed. The national excuse for a thousand drunken picnics and for ordering office underlings out with a blanket to reserve you the best place, under the best tree.)
- The hunt for Matsuo Basho's grave. (The final resting place of a legend. But where the hell is it?)
- The Ninja Museum. (Secret corridors and assasins. Hidden doors and tourism mixed with violence.)
Matsuo Basho.
- A stay in a 'love hotel.' (Where drinks appear whooshing down tubes like in the Jetson's house, and you can order sexy outfits on room service.)
Matsuo Basho.
- A stay in a 'love hotel.' (Where drinks appear whooshing down tubes like in the Jetson's house, and you can order sexy outfits on room service.)
- And I will be attempting to pass myself of as the T.V movie star Barry Apples, promoting my new film, 'Garlic and Apples.' A gritty cop drama starring the handsome Gary Garlic and me, Barry Apples.
Wish me luck, for I am an inveterate drunk and a part-time scoundrel. The frequency of events may not match the amount of words, but, by God, they will ring out with the truth of a man swaying from the Sake, punchdrunk after the storms of culture shock, but proud of his grip, against the odds, on the bottle.
Sayonara.
See you in the East.
