Checking into yet another APA Hotel, this one in the sleazily wonderful Nagoya Sakae neighborhood.
We go to the self check-in kisok, scan the passports, are told we are at the wrong APA.

Not a worry though, as we’ve learned this nutty chain puts several properties within the same area, and we simply wheel the gear back out to the sidewalk and look up the street and walk to the correct joint.

And though I’m sure this is some sort of Corporate/Starbucks strategy of cover and conquer, I prefer to think it is just another simple kindness extended us confused and weary travelers.

Yes, the rooms are tiny, but they are cheap.
And to have your own room while traveling on a nerve stretching punk rock tour, well.
To be able to check in, say farewell to the lads if even for the precious 90 minutes before soundcheck. 

I shut the door behind me and finally drop the bags and guitar to the floor.
I put the kettle on, plug the Firestick into the HDMI 2 input hidden behind the TV, and I am soon atop the twin mattress, my aching feet escaped from the Doc Martens.
Logan Roy up there on the flatscreen,  growling his patriarchal atrocities, as comforting as papa reading me a bedtime story. 
I nod off as he kisses my forehead, whispers goodnight in my ear : fuck off.

I find these little origami cranes in each room, usually on the identical light control board, though sometimes the birds nest among the tea packets, or have migrated to the bathroom counter.

I find the birdies comforting, and it wasn’t until we hit APA Kobe (or was it APA Mito?) that it occurred to me why.

A dreamed memory stays with me just as I wake from the nap, of childhood family gatherings.

These cranes, I’ve seen them flocked by the thousand.  Hung from ceilings or as curtains by barely visible filament, a traditional ritual –senbazuru-at Japanese weddings.

The girls and women would gather for weeks before a cousin or uncle was to be wed, folding these things at the kitchen table.
Their fingers mindlessly folding,, chattering away as if in a sedge of noisy cranes themselves. 
Sometimes they would enlist the boys to help as well, until I would destroy enough squares of foil backed origami to be dismissed once again to the backyard. 

At the wedding receptions the cranes would be present, a gift of good luck to the new bride and groom.
Known to mate for life, the birds would hover in the corner as the guests got drunker and the room got louder.
Then my bored cousins and I would inevitably swipe several birds off the lowest branches and steal outside to race them down the flowing gutter, probably dooming more than one marriage to early failure. Oops.

A word comes to me as I hold a bird up by the beak: Orizuru.

I say it out loud, to myself, alone in my tiny room.

A lot of long forgotten Japanese words and phrases come back to me on this trip, unexpected little daily bonuses.
Like crisp dollars found while unloading the dryer.
It is my half-Japanese coming to the surface of my thick Irish skull, for I am half breed: Hapa.

We jump into the cab and I automatically say Eki, the word for station.
The cabbie nods then, and I am so pleased.
Then I get greedy and say densha…..isn’t that train?
Densha eki kudasai I blurt out now.
.
Train liquid please, that’s what I’ve just said to the suddenly startled driver.

Back on the bullet train now-shinkansen-a bento box balanced on each of our laps.
The fellas expertly picking at their lunches as the scenery blurs past.

Anthony points at me with his chopsticks.
“Watch out for that olive,” he says.
He spits a stone into his palm. “Pits.”

I look down and see a mauve orb atop my rice, and I recognize it.
That’s not an olive.
I taste it, and I taste my childhood, with grandma, bachan, the meals around the table.
Umeboshi, I think. Not think, but know.

I look at my lunch anew, the rice freckled with black sesame seeds, gohan.
The utensils I click together with a grooved muscle memory: hashi.

Onstage, I growl out Minasan, konbanwa!, each night and the crowd hoots back.
Watashi tachi no namae wa CH3!
I say it in an urgent growl, like a samurai begging the honor of seppuku.
I am miming the cadence imprinted by bachan’s blaring TV, Spy Swordsman coming in snowy through channel 52.

Pronunciation is key I soon learn, and I call out the songs, introduce the guys as if I know what I’m saying.
People corner me after the show, now assuming I know the language

But they speak so quickly, I ask them to repeat please:
Mo icihido itte judasai, I say, then ask if they speak English.

Sukoshi, they usually say, holding up pinched fingers, as I do too.
A little bit, we are saying.
And in this tiny space, within these few millimeters between thumb and index finger, we communicate.

The days are going by way too fast now.
After Kyoto, it is Kobe, Nagoya, Kanazawa, all one nighters.
Each day, we check out of the APA, make our way to the station, train it to the next city.
Check in, play, sleep, repeat.
The shows are early, but somehow it is always 1 am when we return to our tiny individual cells.
A bowl of noodles from Family Mart, another episode of Succession, five hours of sleep.

On the way to Kobe station I look up at the green hills just beyond the high rises.
There are tramways that leave the city below, climbing up to the cool shadows of Mount Rokko.
Or so we’ve been told, by the cheerful lady who has just checked us out.
But we are burdened with guitars and luggage, and as always another train ride and transfer await between us and soundcheck, check in.
I vow to come back, though, and I will spend three days here. San nichi.

Looping back to Tokyo, it just happens that Robbie Fields-Posh Boy-will be in town as well.
We chat back and forth on messenger as I hurtle along the countryside, another train ride, another bento box lunch on the knee.
We make plans to meet for a quick coffee as we make it from Tokyo Station to Shinjuku.

Robbie, the world traveler, the master of the deal and the upgrade.
Here in Tokyo after a Trans Pacific cruise, this after a cross continental train ride that followed another cruise, Rome to New York.
This works, he messages back to me, will text the address shortly.

I start to dig into my lunch when my phone chirps once again, Robbie telling me he’s staying at a cozy place, tiny but quite efficient.

It’s an APA, he texts. Have you heard of these places?

Ah, Soda-ne I automatically say out loud, without thinking.
Oh yes.

We left our bags in storage and set out to explore the sights of Osaka.
I feel lighter, as if walking on some distant planet with a familiar yet slightly more forgiving gravitational pull.
I’m proud of how efficiently we have been getting around–navigating the stations, to and from clubs and hotels,–all while logging enough steps to make Kimm’s smartwatch to call us liars and give up count..
My roller bag following obediently at my heel, backpack perched atop.
And in a land where I have audibly smacked the ol’ noggin five fucking times on low temple thresholds, I had the bright idea to pack the guitar in a gig bag that sits high on my back.
The Telecaster headstock sits up there doomed, like a terrified child upon a drunken uncle’s shoulders.

The day is lovely, whole families enjoying the park surrounding Osaka castle, tourists and locals basking in the Fall sun.
We come across a chap with a owl, perhaps a Eurasian Scops, perched upon his gloved hand.
I wander close and ask to take a photo.
I take the shot then look for a tip jar, expecting this to be the sort of tourist experience we have back on Hollywood Blvd.
You know, where it cost you five bucks to be hugged by a tweaker in a shockingly bad Spiderman costume.

But no, it’s just a guy taking the bird out for a day in the park.
I nod to the owl. :“Namae wa nan desu ka?”
The guy shakes his head.
“No name. She’s wild animal.”

Our phones all chirp at the same instant, it’s Ryota on the tour chat line.
“Konnichi Wa,” the message starts, as always.
We get the day’s schedule then, load in and soundcheck, which we will inevitably miss.
The set times, perhaps a pizza party after the show thrown by the promoter.
Our man Ryota has served as driver and TM, utility merch guy when no one else is around.
The daily itineraries have become a comforting tether to the rest of the bands, our camp counselor waking up the campers with a rousing call to the mess hall and then onto a full day of potato sack races and archery.

_{Ant and Ryota-san}

We take a multi stop local line back to Osaka, even though our beloved Shinkansen bullet train would get us there in, like, twelve minutes,
But the tinier JR line has us popping up just 350 meters from the Socrates club, so wel take the trade off.
Each day becomes a wonderful combination of walking, Uber, Go Taxi, Subway and Trainline.
The lads have become experts in calculating travel times in metric, god bless ’em.
As we march single file we whisper down the line how many clicks to head North-Northeast, using hand signs as if to guide us toward a hostage’s location.

The Socrates club is packing, and I am stunned once again by the people who welcome us to each city.
They see me and their heads tilt, eyebrows raised in question.
Then they point and nod their heads.
I nod back,
Yeah, it’s me, it’s us. We made it.

I feel a polite tap on the shoulder, turn to a bowing man in a DOA shirt.
“Thanks you so much,” he says. “For coming here. For being.”

And in my atrocious Japanese I try to respond in kind.
“Koko ni…Totemo ..Kansha?” I venture. “To be here, I am so grateful.”

He then tells me he will sing, less a question than a fact.
As if he is owed at least this, after waiting for us to finally get our asses over here.
And as we wrap up another beer flying, shout along set, he comes up and belts out the call and response parts of Make Me Feel Cheap perfectly.
He gets off stage, his hands shielding his crying eyes, as his friends wrap him in hugs.
I have to turn my back to the crowd then, afraid my own goofy tears might swamp the joint.

Our new pal and promoter Daniel invites us all to Pop Pizza for an after party, and we all get to sit, finally, and catch up with the camp news.
Casey Vaxxine fears a cold coming on, and we compare brands of throat lozenges.
Greg tells us how to fix a fret buzzing string on the road, :Luis keeps breaking drum heads.
Ryota finally has a chance to sit and drink a beer, eat a slice.

……and then things get weird.

The music keeps getting louder, tasteful stuff:
Slade, Runaways, Replacements’ Stink.

And by the time the Bon-era AC/DC set starts, the picture frames are rattling on the walls, and we are shouting to be heard.
The shirts come off, the horsehead comes on.

On the way out , I hug Daniel.
“You guys get wild, mate, ” I say “I love it!”

“We’re morons,” he says, and then turns back to the dance party.

Fushimi Inari is always open, and the locals urge us to go in the middle of the night.
No crowds, they say.
And, a chance to see the wild animals–monkeys, wild boar.

We take the Inari line and get off directly in front of the station gates of the shrine.
While walking up the path I hear someone hurrying up behind us, and see it is Ryota running to catch up.
He’d offered to drive us but I told him we could take the train, no worry.
It’s your night off, I text back, Relax.

But out of his culturally ingrained respect, he is here, to guide us, to protect us,
Or, I dunno, maybe he just wants to hang.

We take the requisite band photos in this sacred place, hoping to capture the vibe of those kimonoed KISS photos amidst these thousand gates, less the appropriated kabuki whteface,

The grounds are lovely late at night, empty save for a few other tourists passing us on the way down, some lone figures contemplating the stones in the tiny alcoves.
I peer down into a culvert at the sound of flowing water, see the clear water running over moss covered pebbles.
If I were home, I think, there would be a shopping cart abandoned here, a garbage covered tarp there.

I climb still, and when I come to a clearing I see them:

The wild boar, promised though not quite believed.
They root around the grounds, not as rodents but gods.
In this shrine, encroached on all sides by the teeming city, yet untouched still.
Still, yeah, wild.

The lads are all a bit grumpy with the accommodations in Setagaya.
After show one in Mito it was back to Tokyo station, then a meandering journey 18 klicks into the meat of this sprawling city.
The boulevards turned into avenues, the streets into alleys.
We were finally left to wander the tiny sidewalks like asylum seeking refugees, with guitars upon back and all our worldly possessions clattering behind us, guided only by smartass smartphone directions that keep re-routing every 10 meters.

And after finally getting the lockbox code and gaining entrance, we are stunned to find a place the size of a submarine workout room.

Dear Sir and/or Madame Air BnB: I am outraged-do you hear? Outraged! -at such shamfoolery!
Do you ever verify these fanciful listings? I am an AMERICAN, are you hearing me? I need my vast spaces to sprawl, a refrigerator the size of an elephant’s coffin, Lazy Boy Recliners on each stair landing at least. You shall be hearing from me upon my return to the God Blessed states—-Good Day!

The two bedroom ,four bed palace, which looked spacious as a mid century ranch in the photos, turns out to be nothing more than a singular flat space with a ladder accessed loft.

But really, it turns out fine.
I realize the apartment probably had sensible tatami mats on the floors, perhaps a few buckwheat hull cushions to lounge upon.
It was only for us ogre-sized gaijin that the owner installed a king sized bed in the middle of the main room, which disturbed the flow of the airy space.
We take off our shoes, put on the thoughtful slippers, and sit upon the floor now, and are ashamed at our initial cranky impression.
The wee bathroom has Anthony’s beloved bidet seating, the washing machine also has a whimsical air drying feature that leaves our clothes refreshingly damp.
I push buttons on the wall and unseen fans start to whir, water starts to fill deep tubs.
Konnichi-wa a female voice chirps from the tiny control panels.
Nick takes advantage of the kitchen to whip up a tight pasta, Anthony and Kimm take to their laptops, quiet as monks, staying abreast of business back home in the slumbering states.

It is on the way to the Soshigaya-Okura station that we start to notice the odd designs surrounding us:
The streetlamps peer down at us like the watchful eyes of a super hero.
Discrete signage is confusing yet oddly familiar, triggering memories of childhood viewings on the scratchy UHF channels.

And then I happen to look up, and-ah! nani wa?– who soars above us but indeed that hero of kindness: Ultraman!

And down in the station it becomes clear:
We are staying in Ultratown brother!

Shimokitazawa neighborhood is cranking when we dip up out of the station, high end hipster clothing shops and happily noisy saloons neighbor the wee LiveHaus club.
The Vaxxines open up and slay once more, the crowd enchanted by the classy vintage punk tuneage, KC’s towering stage presence.
And then we get up and do our thing, our first time playing in Tokyo!

It is amazing to finally be here, to play our old songs for people who seem to actually know them.
I’ve thought about this for so long, and I now I am here, as if standing atop a mountain that I have only seen in the impossible distance from my darkened prison cell.

We were warned to be prepared for the reserved Japanese crowds:
Crossed arm appreciation, respectful silence between songs.
You gotta be kidding me!
The place goes off, people greet our old songs with fists raised, they shout along to the lyrics while beer cups launch into the air, baptizing us all in Sapporo.
The microphone gets smashed into my mouth by the rowdy pit, and it feels like a kiss from a girl you thought was long dead.

_{@beerdrop79 photos}

I climb up out to the street gasping for air, getting handshakes and bows at every step.
People crowd us and ask for politely for a photo, and then it is I who bows deepest, thanking them.

_Avengers!

And to cap the night, we get to watch the goddamned Avengers play once again.
What is this?
Did I suffer some consciousness robbing malady and end up on the Make a Wish shortlist?
I thank Sebastian Vaxxine once again with a sweaty hug, for making all this come together after months of planning and an email trail that had grown massive enough to crash Gmail servers.

On the way back to our flat, Ultratown is quiet now.
The town slumbers soundly, knowing they are safe,
Hayata’s finger hovers upon the Beta capsule, ready to become Ultraman once more and save his namesake town.

There is one lighted staircase on the street, though, and the fellas are in the mood for a nightcap after such an amazing night.
We find four people in a tasteful salon there, and the room is silenced as we lumber in like prehistoric mutated monsters risen from the deep.
We turn to leave, embarrassed to disturb their calm evening of relaxation.

But the smiling little woman behind the bar waves us in.
Irasshaimase, she says, bowing. She nods to four empty stools.
Wel-come, neh? she says. Then she points at the young couple sitting at the end.
“Tanjobi…he, his…” and here she turns to the old gent by the door “Kore wa Eigo?. Ah, birthday, neh?” she says.
“His Birthday.”

We raise glasses to the young man, and he toasts us back.
Kanpai, we all say quietly.

It runs out he speaks perfect English, and he tells us this little bar has survived 14 years, a miracle in this area.
I ask him about the Ultraman theme, and he explains that this whole area was transformed in preparation of the Covid cancelled Olympics.
What was to be a bustling Olympic village became a darkened ghost town, and almost all the neighborhood restaurants and bars were shuttered.
But this one shining little gem survived somehow, and was able to reopen, serving once again as a saloon and salon for the grad students and staff of the nearby universities.
“Keiko, that’s her,” he says, “she is know as the Miracle woman of the neighborhood. A hero”
Keiko bows then, eyes shining with grateful tears.
He nods to the man by the door, who we assumed was just the neighborhood barfly.
“He’s a professor, Sociology. English is so so , but fluent in French.”

Anthony pats him on the back.
:”The professor!” Ant says. “Bon Soir,” Ant says.
The man perks up then.
“Ah. Très heureux de vous rencontrer jeune homme,” he replies, and we all laugh.

We sing Happy Birthday to our new friend then, and after he says though he is a salary man he is also a serious operatic tenor, protege, we convince him to sing us one.
He blushes, then clears his throat and launches into a passage of Un Aura Amorosa from Cosi Fan Tutte.

And the tiny room is now filled with his soaring voice, all of us transformed, grateful as Fernando knowing faithful love is something real.
And now it’s out turn with the shining eyes.

We leave them then, and when I stop for one last look at the other neighborhood hero, I look back and Keiko is still waving after us.

Sayonara-Dozo Yoroshiku, she says, whispering, so as not to disturb her neighbors.
.

I wake to a polite chime,
A message appears on the flat screen, notifying me that my airline-lost guitar has been delivered.
Dammnit.

On the way back up from the lobby I stop to check out the 8th floor pool, unzip the flimsy gig bag expecting wood splinters and spilled electronics after the Fender’s twisted journey.
But no, all seems good, the thing is still in tune even.
I zip it back up, my plans for buying an absurdly shaped guitar with Kanji lettering on the headstock suddenly unjustified.

The lads all got in late, wide eyed and shell shocked from their own trans Pacific journeys.
I walk them next door to the tiny gyoza tavern and fill them with plump dumplings while we each take turns complaining about delayed flights and LAX traffic, our aching knees and backs.
We sound like a group of grumpy retirees bitching about a blowout back nine while tallying golf scores, too busy kvetching to notice the Great Egrets sunbathing in the Florida sunshine.
But then we take a moment to realize we are on yet another grand adventure, courtesy of that rascal punk rock.
We touch glasses, say kanpai , and smile to each other that we are -finally, actually-goddamned here.

We’re all up at an ungodly hour, our circadian rhythms still cued to middady So Cal.
But it is tourist day, so we take advantage of the early start and hit the Oedo line.

We wander the Tsukiji Outer Market, navigating the other hungry gaijin swarming through the crowded alleys.
And though the actual business of dawn maguro auctions seems to have relocated, leaving only a touristy maze of food stands, we find decently priced sashimi bowls and a few yatais shilling the good stuff:
You know: Gizzards and hearts, livers and tailmeat.
Stuff bound for the compost bin back home, here gloriously transformed through spice and glowing embers to something miraculous.

After taking the mandatory shots of the Shibuya scramble we take a moment to consider the heartwrenching tale of the loyal Akita that waited upon this spot for years .
Forever denied his deceased master’s return.

The thought of such canine loyalty leaves Ant and Nick weepy, already pining for their beloved pups back home.
I console them by promising to buy them each a wee toy-whatever you want kiddo! -and set them wild in the wacky capsule store.

And then it’s back to the Shibuya guitar club, where we ogle some gorgeous vintage axes, smirk at the nutty 8 stringed jobs, their bodies shaped like an amoeba caught in the act of binary fission.

The Harajuku side streets remind me of Camden market, though the crowd is infinitely more stylish and far better behaved. 
We remark once again on the cleanliness of the streets.
Indeed, there is not even a trash receptacle to be found for our emptied Red Bull cans, as the people here would never dream of doing something as barbaric as consuming food or drink while walking amongst their fellow man.

It’s back to the APA for cat naps, and then back down the subway.
The car is packed with red faced salarymen, helpless to a mandatory night of drinking with the boss.
Tiny women in outrageously heeled shoes  stare at their phones, oblivious to the men hovering over them.

Perhaps on the late night train ride home, the leers will linger longer, the drunken guys will brush up against them a moment too long.
But for now, at least, everyone is fucking cool. Courteous, silent.

After a dinner of Udon and, yes, more of them chicken gizzards, we wander down the back alleyways of Roppongi.
I am guided by Google maps and a memory from decades back.

For I recall a tiny bar down this street-or was it that one?– that I visited with my sister back in the 90’s.
Finally a red sign appears out of the darkness, and I nod to the fellows to follow me up a short stairway to the second story door.
We found it.
We’re at Soul Bar George’s.

I see the same Motown stocked 45rpm jukebox sitting in the corner, the walls plastered with signed 8×10’s of American soul greats.
The tiny haven claims to have been established in 1964, and has hosted a galaxy of stars at the tiny counter.
It is quiet on this night, 11pm on  a Tuesday.
Only the smiling bartendress behind the bar, and one gray haired old gent a few stools down.

Nick gets up to feed the Juke with his remaining 100 yen coin.
The Floaters’ Float On comes on then, and the old guy nods his head.  He raises his glass of Suntory in approval of Nick’s choice.
And by the time Larry introduces himself (..and I like a woman who loves everything and everybody…!) he is grooving to the song, shoulders swaying along to the beat.

We examine the signed photos along the wall, amazed at the people who have made pilgrimage (or at least sent in a signed promos) to this delicious little dive.

There’s the expected stars, Thelma Houston and James Brown, Harold Melvin along with all the Blue Notes.
But Sammy era Van Halen?
I look up and see who but Keith Richards stapled to the ceiling, grinning down as if from Heaven.

The song ends and the bar is once again silent.
Oji-san gets unsteadily to his feet and goes over to the jukebox then, one hand already in his poket fishing for change.

He stands at the juke now, feeding the slot as if dropping coins into a hopeful fountain, wishing only that his wife were still alive and waiting for him in his cold dark room.
By the time he sits back down it’s the opening cheers of Otis Redding live in Europe, Try a Little Tenderness, and we are all in now.

We sing along to those pleading lyrics, eyes closed under raised eyebrows, hands raised in surrender.
I look down the bar and grandpa is grooving too, shaking his gray head and dipping his shoulders as the horns kick in.
Then I notice his slender fingers, tapping along the bar top, a practiced code only he and the worn oak can understand.

And though it may well be just the muscle memory of his five decades behind an IBM Selectric as a low level clerk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I prefer to think it is a soulful Fender Rhodes that he is now playing.
I can see him now, the only cat in Roppongi who could play in the pocket.
The go-to session guy for the Motown greats who dared tour Japan in the 60’s and 70’s, called up once again to lend his tasteful keys behind the wailing legends.
He opens his eyes then, and looks up.

And it is not the dusty bottles lining the back bar he sees now, but the silhouette of Al Green center stage, backlit by a halo of spotlight..
His point of view recalled from those glorious days, holding the line with the musical giants, all of them now gone.

But he, he’s still here, and good god! – he plays on.

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.