Touchdown Tokyo

Off the non stop LAX-Haneda, and the jet lag is magically erased by the excitement of being here.
That and the relief of unfolding my body out of the economy seat, where I have been penned for thirteen hours like a calf destined for tonight’s Veal Marsala
Hey now!!
(It wouldn’t be a good ol blogpost if I don’t complain about the indignities of modern airtravel at least once, am I right?)

I stand dazed at the baggage claim, watching the people grab their bags and vanish into the drizzly night.
Then I am the last one left, waiting for a guitar case.
Tragically, the conveyor stops, and I experience the hot flush panic of a mother seeking a child who has vanished off the park carousel.
And yeah, before you internet wiseguys chime in to flame me for not gate-checking or carrying on, they informed me the wee JAL overheads would not accommodate even a Telecaster.

No matter.
I had visions of prowling the Ochanomizu guitar street, justifying the purchase of a Greco Dan Armstrong knockoff to the wife.
(“But I had to buy it,” I’d say to her silent side of the phone call. “I had no choice!” The dog followed me home!)

But damn the luck, the airline located the axe and they assure me it will be brought to me before tour starts on Thursday.
(It is on the way to the hotel as I type, probably in the trunk of a Maybach limo, of course, while I had to endure an hour wait for the Shinjuku bus and a 1.5 km walk in the rain.)

Oh sure, I’ve been to Japan before.
As a tourist, seeing temples, even venturing out to Japan Disneyland for the surreal thrill of hearing the Haunted Mansion spiel in Nihongo.
But this will be our first jaunt over as a band, and will be supporting the legendary Avengers if you can believe it.

I check into the extremely decent APA hotel in Nishishinjuku, for I have treated myself to a room with a dedicated bathroom.
Oh sure, there will be the usual hostels and pod motels coming soon, where we shall drift off to sleep to the symphony of Anthony’s farts and snores that are by now as familiar and calming as waves lapping at tropical sands.

I examine the jail sized room and am charmed by combination sink/tub, the toilet that rinses your butt with a bracing splash of water. I wrestle with the top of the kettle for three minutes before putting on my readers and following the childlike diagram printed upon it.
But when I examine the overcrowded desktop, I stop short when I come across an actual ashtray.
I examine it as if it were a triceratops fibula wrestled from the mud.
I hold the heavy bakelite and consider its heft, amused at my own amusement.
I am like a gushing millennial that takes endless selfies inside a working phone booth, finding such artifacts an absolute riot.

I force myself to go back out, hoping to stay awake until at least ten pm and get on track.
I avoid doing the complicated math, what time it is back home, how long since I have slept.
I assume I have been awake for, what? 96 hours at this point? but I press on.

Outside it is quiet and cool, a Monday night after all, even in Tokyo.
I pass a few curry shops still open, ramen bars that are backed shoulder to shoulder with serious noodle slurpers.

And then I see McDonald’s up ahead, the beckoning sign of corporate America that tempts all travelers to surrender.
Oh come on, plead those golden arches, like the horrifying raised eyebrows of its mascot clown.
You’ve been traveling all day and you’re exhausted.
Just come in and eat this crap, you don’t even need to utter a word.-just point to the number 3 combo and give us your credit card.

I just can’t.
I backtrack and find the lighted windows of the neigborhood shops.
I step through the curtains of the tiny Ramennaoji Nishishinjukuten shop, thinking my high school Japanese might come back to me sufficiently enough to at least not be laughed into the street.

Konbanwa, aiteimasu ka, I mumble.
The dudes working behind the counter smile at me, the dorky gajin blocking their door.
NWA’s Straigh Outta Compton is coming from the boombox perched upon the counter, and not one of the customers bothers to look up from their noodles to gawk at me.
I ponder the ticket machine that is used to place your order, sounding out the hiragana to myself when the counterman tosses me a laminated menu in English.
“What’s shaking, brother man?” he says. “Sit down.”

I take my place on the narrow counter, shoulders touching the drunken busnessman to starboard, a young manga reading hipster to port.

The bowl is filled with juicy fatback, noodles astonishing: chewy and plump.
The surface of broth is rainbowed like the ocean after an oil spill, slick with fat.

I take apart the hashi and dip in, and I taste what I am not here to call love, but care.