Daydream Believers, Hakone, Hot Springs, New Horizons in the mountains

From the bright lights of Tokyo and possibly quite a little more sake than anyone of us had envisaged consuming, back to Shinkansen to whisk us away towards a possible view of Mount Fuji (second time lucky, right?)

Shinkansen views. Blink and you'll miss them.

Although Tokyo extends so far in each direction, Tokyo the city is not the whole story when it comes to its extensive and various landscapes. After less than an hour on Shinkansen we arrived in Odawara on our way to the mountain town of Hakone.

Hakone - Lake Ashi. Stunning

The train experiences – threefold – led us back in time with each connection. From the sleek, silent speed of Shinkansen to the more traditional Japan Rail (JR) trains to connect to – finally - the local train taking us at an altogether more sedate place in an old-fashioned tram-like vehicle towards Hakone. As we travelled this last, slow stretch the houses and buildings were shorter in stature, at most three storeys, but more likely one or two, interspersed with lovely trees and quiet seats where just a handful of cars, bicycles and buses, and people, were going about their daily business in equally sedate fashion as the train we travelled upon.

The stream down to Hakone town centre

Now, a few words about Japanese railway experiences, not only but partly because they made Helen laugh. Never in my life have I seen such a timely service on offer. Coming from Britain, where rail companies artificially inflate journey times to allow them to improve on (but not to perfect, mind) their timekeeping metrics, Japan was certainly an eye opener. Not only does every single service, from the tram-like plod-along local to Hakone, to the subway to Shinkansen, run on time, but there are also a large number of Japanese train-officials working on the railways who maintain a fastidious safety record, but who accord the ubiquitous Japanese quality of respect to each and every aspect of the train. As it comes into the station, an official on the platform will check the passengers’ safety and an official on the train will, white gloves, smart kepi-like hat, keep one hand and half his / her head out of the little conductor’s window to monitor the safe arrival of the train into the station. At the end of this, when the train is ready to leave, the conductor will make ready for the departure, and, as the safety gates close, the official on the platform will bow smoothly and deferentially to the train and off it goes on its (completely on time) way.

Borrowed photo of Japanese train officials...but you get the point!

To compare Hakone town centre to any European equivalent the closest I came is to think of a French alpine village or small town. One central street with little shops either side, combining the practical and ubiquitous seven eleven with a number of tiny chic tourist establishments selling everything from fish (of course) in all its many edible incarnations, to kimonos, yukatas (simpler kimonos worn for bathing... of which more anon) and all manner of post cards, chopsticks, Pokémon memorabilia and more. It was good to reach it with a normal level of energy as opposed to all those French visits to pen pals who you’re not still in touch with, skiing holidays or battle fields when you’re a) still reeling from chundering on the ferry over, still deaf from the continuous loop of most of the coach’s terrible taste in cassettes and in wiggly worms as a substitute for normal, nutritious ‘packed lunches’ as clearly described in the multi-page document your parents may or may not have received in advance of this trip across Le Havre.

Hello Kitty, Goodbye Cash

It’s never quite clear to me whether it’s a good idea to spend money in little towns to support local trade, or whether I’m about to get fleeced buying a Hello Kitty napkin for eight times the going rate. Regardless, it was a delight to visit each and every shop along the way.

Seen on the right: Japanese delicacy black sulphur prepped eggs...I did not try them. (Wimp)

And another word, this time about Seven Eleven. I first visited one on day one to get some Pocari Sweat (see previous post) and attempt to rehydrate after the exceptionally long flight out to Japan. This strange shop looks very American in style, the way that the shelves are laid out; the colours within; the range of drinks looks at a glance to be similar and they also sell cosmetics, foods, wine, cigarettes and have cash machines. So far, so normal. On my fifth visit it struck me, though, that it cannot have been a coincidence that in Every Single Store we visited in Every Single Location the one song that was playing, again and again, was Daydream Believer in a muzak arrangement that had me wondering when one of David Lynch’s dwarves would appear and take me off to the strange curtained room before my mysterious disappearance...Spooky.

Day Dream Believers...Seven Eleven, Japan-style

Anyway, we arrived, we shopped, we took a bus (a tiny little bus, which, yes, of course, was on time) up into the mountains for forty minutes to beautiful lake Ashi for the hope of a glimpse of Mount Fuji, which had so far eluded us. Sadly this was not to be, and what was supposed to be a glorious view of this master peak of Japan was just something we vaguely believed to be there, hiding behind the clouds, which is the geographical equivalent of what most Brits are hoping for in terms of a moral compass in any of all the miserable excuses for political parties we have to choose from before 7^th May.  

Buses. On time. Of course.

We ate lunch at Lake Ashi with a beautiful view of the pirate ship that tours tourists around the lake, and noted the Japanese love of serving food at almost boiling point, and our own distinct lack of ability for ‘doing it local’ and cramming our mouths with the food as quickly as possible whilst still in a state where it could easily remove at least the top layer of your mouth’s inside, if not the second and third. Then on to see a shrine and some botanical gardens (but not alas, mount Fuji).

Hot noodles. Now you see them, now you don't, now you need third degree burns treatment

Pirate ship on Lake Ashi. Voyage of the Dawn Treader, eat your heart out.

Mount Fuji (on the right) and where we knew it was but couldn't see it on our visit (left)

Japanese temples are often flanked on the right by fifty or more sake barrels (which look to the untrained eye just like white paper lanterns) which are sent by sake companies to the temples as offerings to hope for ‘good fortune’ for their sake yield. At one in Tokyo there were also a similar number of French Bordeaux barrels; clearly there is some fine Japanese-blessed red wine out there for the asking! Every interaction for an ordinary person (as opposed to a monk / religious officiant) at these temples is linked to a quest for good fortune. 

Japanese sake barrels at a temple near lake Ashi

Hand washing, in a ritualistic fashion, seeking and receiving (via a small payment) a paper fortune and clapping and bowing to the inner temple are all elements in which visitors seek good fortune. As far as the paper fortune goes, I only did this once in Tokyo, and got a terrible fortune (every aspect of it appalling) and so had to do what you’re meant to do when this happens (because of course there’s a way out of this!) which is to fold it up, wrap it around a specific little rack and leave it there...bad fortune be gone.

Prayers for good fortune

Bad fortunes tied up and set free. 

Back in Hakone at the hotel Senkei, we were treated to a traditional Japanese hotel experience. For the most part. Shoes off before entering the main part of the room, in favour of indoor slippers; the provision of yukatas for us to wear before visiting the hot spring (up lots of stairs, wearing ‘outdoor’ flip flops and quite difficult to do when you’re practically naked in a garment which flaps open at will, in one of the most modest countries in the world) and instructions on how to tie them on a living person (good) as opposed to how not to do it (as they’re also used to dress corpses so it’s important to tie them over yourself correctly!).

A really unflattering picture of me in a Yukata. 

See what I'll do for blogging to make it real? See?

You have to bathe (shower, they say, but in a tiny little bowl sitting down) so ‘wash’ is about the closest you actually get to a realistic description , before entering the hot spring, completely naked and in the open air. 

Bathing guidelines... (Note, no 'not petting'...clearly the Japanese are pro-girl on girl smooches)

Now, I wouldn't necessarily consider myself a prude, but even I know that after six months in bed with broken this and that and unable to do much exercise I wasn't competing with Cameron Diaz for 2015 bikini bod, so I was quite nervous at this point. 

Gardens around lake Ashi

Of course the Japanese have thought of every possible way to create a safe and modest environment by separating the times when men and women can bathe (and women get the best deal from the time table, let me tell you) but it does still involve stripping bare and then getting into a super hot bath with no bubbles with other women you don’t know, who have the unnerving habit of talking to one another in a language you don’t speak and giggling as they do it. 

More beautiful Lake Ashi, less pictures of me naked.

(You weren't really expecting that, were you? Good.)

Had I gone down the route of teenage tattoos, it would have been at this point that I was asking myself, why oh why did I think having a Japanese symbol between my shoulder blades was a good idea, when now that Google exists it turns out I've inadvertently gone for a permanent sign of “We’re the chipmunks” for the world and his wife to see.

Panorama of lake Ashi in Hakone. Stunning

I ended up staying in the hot spring for only a short period, as, although it was truly stunning it was, and I know, the clue was in the title, but a little too hot for me. We looked out on stunning ever green trees of different hues and heard the lovely choruses of swifts and other mountain birds in our tranquil spot, so I am glad to have had this stunning experience. 

Lake Ashi, sakura and me.

In order to continue the relaxation I went for a massage, where a lovely lady who looked like she might just about have been old enough to be someone’s granny, listened carefully while I pointed at each of my scars and explained, broken back, broken elbow, bad foot. Before proceeding to pummel the shit out of my poor body and – when I actually cried out in agony – make ‘Oooh I really understand that’s a bit painful’ murmurings at me, and followed this up by lots of very pointed deep breathing, as if to say, “Come on you big Nelly, this is nothing, you should try lugging logs up the mountain. I do that in my spare time!”

"Think of the cherry blossom, blot out the pain. Blot out the pain..."

After the delights(?) of this experience I felt – unbelievably – quite amazingly better, but exhausted from the travel and from the hot+springs+plus+fierce+massage I ate some gyoza and noodles before passing out from all the fresh air and ‘mountain goodness’ at around eight, leaving Helen to watch episodes of Pokémon on our Japanese TV. I mentioned that the hotel Senkei was traditional in nearly all aspects. They (like many hotels) offer a concierge service to look after your bags while you continue to explore having checked out. In this case that consisted of placing a green netball / basketball net over your belongings as if this somehow rendered them invisible and immune from theft attempts by its (clearly hidden) quality as Japanese kryptonite...

Green nets. Those bags are going NOWHERE.

All I can say is, it must have worked, as we returned to Tokyo with bags still in hand. Aside from missing mount Fuji (again) a super mini break in the mountains.

It's dancing time for dwarves, day dream believers.

Keep on dreaming...home coming queens everywhere...

Plane Talking, Wild Films and Winning Olaf

Shinjuku. You kinda blew my mind.

My friend Michael used to say that if he wanted to think he would often get on a bus. Its motion, plus the literal fact of travelling somewhere used to bring thoughts to him as if by magic. I feel the same way about travel, of all kinds, whether on foot walking or running, by bus, car, train or plane, the motion calms me with its peaceful continuation, with or without me (except for the walking or running, I guess) and I often find myself thinking philosophically about my life and where I’m going with it – figuratively.

LOVE film. On Planes. I watched 6.5 on the HND-->CDG flight.

Some of this comes from watching films on aeroplanes, and with a fourteen hour flight from Haneda, Tokyo to Charles de Gaulle before my tiny final hop over le Havre, it’s easy to see why from the films I like to choose. I’ve just watched a great film – Chef – written and directed by Jon Favreau about a disenfranchised Los Angeles chef whose mighty fall from grace via an utter lack of social media knowledge leads him to reassess his priorities and find happiness in Cuban sandwiches, a food truck, and a reunion with his ten year old son.

Favreau doing what he does best: small scale, big heart, good humour. 

And the sandwiches looked amazing. Drooool.

Next up is Wild, about the writer and walker of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). I've read the book – I love books (especially written by women, though Bill Bryson and Stephen Katz’s journey along some of the Appalachian Trail has a special place in my heart) about writers who are on a literal journey. I’m not obsessed by travel writing, I think it’s the bravery of doing something out there that is different and the sheer factor of their having come through their journey to an end point, challenges and all.

Katz and Bryson. A hilarious unlikely walking duo.

When I find myself in bed dreading the day, having no desire whatsoever to leave my bed because every bloody thing is just too hard, I find I can go on their travels with them, and it makes me feel better. What’s even greater about this particular plane journey, that is, my own, is the fact that I am feeling unusual sensations I haven’t recognised in myself for quite a while. I feel content. I feel rested. The idea of being delighted at the sun shining, a good film, a fun day out was almost lost to me about a week and a half ago, when I felt my depression plateauing, still bad, still not bad enough to go back to hospital, still just about okay to keep working. Today I feel...good. It’s a bizarre and unfamiliar thing for me. Perhaps it will be gone by next week – because, just in case you’re wondering, happy things do not make depressed people feel better. There’s a difference between feeling happy and feeling well. Or, to explain it better, I can still be happy about things while generally feeling pretty awful.

Walk it off. I cannot WAIT for my foot to be better so I can do more hiking. 

#ClearingMyHead

Here are some things that I've been able to feel good about this week: I made it to Japan in one piece and took sensible amounts of painkillers, was assertive about my mobility needs and got help when I needed it. This is a step forward: better self care. My friends (I feel genuinely) were both happy to see me and made me feel that it was okay to be myself – to drink or not drink alcohol as I wished (even if they were downing sake!); to sleep early; to say “I need to stop for a rest”. I've a long way to go toward feeling more secure in myself, but assertiveness is something positive: I've never really been good at stating my needs or putting myself first (except probably in a work context, as I've always been ambitious). I've also been able to experience joy, pure and simple, in small things: seeing friends from Australia two weeks ago and laughing till my cheeks hurt; cherry blossom, eating crab innards (probably I’m slightly out on a limb with that one). 

Aliens. "You have saved our lives." Etc. Etc.

And yesterday, on my last day in Tokyo, Helen and I went to Shinjuku in search of an arcade; not the mad slots that are louder than I knew slots could be and have promotional staff outside jumping around and shouting in a forced jollity that is either cocaine induced or must be a genetic mutation; no, I’m talking about modern old fashioned arcades like we know from the sea side, where you can try and fail to win soft toys, and in Japan where you can make your face look exceptionally weird and then decorate it for about £2.50. On our way back from the photo booth I decided to try to win an Olaf snowman soft toy from one of those claw machines (think cute green aliens in Toy Story at Planet Pizza, except 8 times the size. You got it).

Detached but still so cute. 

Helen had won an Olaf a few days before I arrived, a small cute version with detachable body parts (Velcro is a spectacular invention...see Girls Just Want to Have Fun). The only Olafs available in the arcade were enormous, but knowing I had little chance of success I thought I would go for it just the same. 500 yen bought me six goes. Helen and I talked strategy. The claws are weedy in the extreme for all their look of metallic mettle, and I played my turns by moving the claw so that it would rotate and bump Olaf towards the drop point. After six goes he had moved quite a way, and I wasn't ready to give up. Another 500 yen. This time I needed to raise my game so that Olaf would be mine. In one turn I moved him yet more across the drop point, but he rested on bars. I heard gasps behind and beside me as I played.

Lynne: Velcro. Next to the Walkman and tab it is the coolest invention of the 20th century!

Three or four Japanese young women had come to watch. Another move. Nearly – I tried to nudge him with the grabber and everyone gasped. Finally – he was so nearly mine – everyone weighed in – “Push him down with the claw,” they said – now ten or twelve people around me. I moved the claw to the right then froze with stage fright. My brain couldn't compute the final move with these people all around me. “You do it,” I told (begged) Helen, and she moved the claw forward one last time. The claws opened and the grabber moved down, pushing Olaf’s stomach. And then he fell through. Cheers from all around – young girlish yelps of delight! I have not smiled so much for a year I don’t think. I am smiling now. 

Helen and I, with *some* adjustments...

What a lovely way to end a holiday – not only with a gorgeous cuddly Olaf to envelop in warm hugs, but the pure unadulterated pleasure of others at one’s own success. They didn't know me, they will never see me again. 

Joy

But they were rooting for me and were pleased for me. It feels wonderful today, and felt wonderful yesterday. I wish I could bottle it and keep it forever, that feeling. But if I can’t, well; I had it today, didn’t I?

Giant, faintly scary, Hello Kitties. (I wonder if that's been pluralised before.)

Toasting Tokyo: A Taste of Tall Towers and Tinny Tunes

View from Karaoke. 

In retrospect we should probably have been singing 'Everything is Awesome'

Now, still a large city, it has nothing of the New York Times Square feel to it that much of Tokyo’s Shibuya and Shinjuku areas offer. For the most part the office blocks are lower rise, but this sprawling city is really a prefecture by any other name, spanning hundreds of square kilometres and sprawling out as far as my eyes could see, even from the 350th floor of Tokyo’s Skytree building.

Lights in Skytree lift. Stunning, even as my ears popped, again.

In the film Lost in Translation I remember loving the soundtrack and an overwhelming sense of being very alone in the city. For this reason, as I type this, I’m so lucky to have been able to see it with great school friends who know me very well. With these friends I have always been able to pick up just as if they had stepped out of the room – just for a moment – and are now stepping back in. We know how little work we did in English (me), how talented at art and dance (them) and where we have struggled through the twenty or so years of knowing one another.

Prosecco with dried fruit and views of Tokyo as the sun went down. Lovely.

Having a frame of reference for me is not just about being able to relate my surroundings to something I recognise, but being able to experience it with others to have an holistic experience of what others are feeling about the art exhibition, the building, the crazy arcade and so on, and with this comfort to my anxiety I was able to enjoy Tokyo fully in all its foreignness.

'Times Square' Equivalent - Shibuya, Tokyo

Heated loo seats here too, added to which were a number of additional features: my favourite is the sound of running water, which you can choose to play in public toilets as a way of modestly hiding the sound of one’s own activities in the loo. (We could have used this at school, in our drafty and ancient loos, where we used hand dryers to mask any sounds that might prove we were using the toilets as nature (by our nurture, of course) intended.

Another toilet. In this case, after a little sake, I was at first puzzled, and seriously wondered whether Japanese men (who like all Japanese people, are on average not tall compared to us westerners) were expected to pee into the top of the loo...!

I had my arm twisted (yeah right, I was jumping at the opportunity) to ignore my extremely sore throat and take the opportunity for karaoke. The words ‘kara’ and ‘oke’, which I first remember being introduced to (again) on Blue Peter, when they ended up naming their two kittens after the new found hobby, mean ‘empty orchestra’ and we were up for the challenge of lending our voices to the mix. Being women of education and taste, only the finest songs of our generation would do: Like a Virgin, Bohemian Rhapsody, Let it Go and Don’t Cry for Me Argentina were all on our one hour’s hit list before we knew it, and we certainly did let it go. So did the Japanese, it would seem, when it comes to artistic input.

It all went wrong when you decided to stop using Clearasil, love. 

Also, blue is not your colour.

The video footage accompanying each song made us laugh so hard we could scarcely sing: ‘The Summer of Sixty Nine’ featuring a spotty student who spends so much time looking seriously and whistfully at his computer screen one can only assume he’s watching porn; the gothic girl who looks more Dark Water monster than the first lady of Argentina and Like a Virgin? Well, there was a lot of walking around and touching metal bars. I think we’ll leave it there.

My feet and me (just about) looking down 350 floors. When I have vertigo. Yikes.

Through the bright lights of the streets of the Shibuya and Shinjuku regions I was pleased to learn I had unwittingly visited one of the film locations for Lost in Translation: a super busy Starbucks. I may hate coffee, but I love wifi, and it was great to see the bustling mix of Japanese people and tourists, clambering for tables which were at such a premium that, oh so politely as always, we were given a time slot by which to vacate the table. I typed fast!

Shopping in the Skytree Mall.

Hello Kitty, Goodbye Cash.

My feet were still a major factor in selecting a daily limit for activities, so the Skytree was not to be missed, but had to be factored in to lots of sitting down. Luckily we were able to enjoy prosecco and see the city lights come on as the sky light faded, toasting Tokyo. We shopped a little in the mall, although we knew we were sitting ducks for sky high prices as well as sky high views. There was no getting away from the fact that, on this trip unlike many of the other places I've visited, I was a tourist only, so felt no compulsion to shun the tourist sites. I embraced them!

Flamed salmon. Delicious. And the plates were beautiful, and used to indicate the price of 

the different options

However, I love to get to grips with the culture of a place as best I can and had the opportunity to do so shortly after spending all my money on Hello Kitty toenail clippers. (No, not, really.) In Ueno, opposite exit seven of the station, we went on our second night to meet Helen’s friend Phil, who is a man of many talents, teaching English, acting in commercials and voicing electronic toy animals as well as finding time to be a coach in global communications some of his multiple claims to fame and fortune. Phil, originally from South Carolina (though sounding nothing like this until he staggered us by lurching into a southern drawl as smoothly as hot molasses, speaks perfect Japanese, and thus we were able to taste some of the best, freshest and most adventurous sushi.

Lost in Translation - Literally. But SO good.

And here it is! Don't say anything nasty about the way it looks. Honestly it was fabulous.

We had flamed salmon (think crème brulée but with fish), sea urchin which, alas, I couldn’t taste - damn you taste buds! – and my personal favourite...the untranslatable delicacy seen below. It tasted like paté, my culinary equivalent of ‘You had me at hello’. Yum. Taking it very easy on the alcohol because of my medication and general cold / sore throat, the delightful hosts plied us with free, excellent (apparently) sake, both hot and cold, green tea and some very good Japanese white wine. The best part was we were able to talk to one another by interpretation. どうもありがとうございました (arigato gozaimashita) is about as far as I got with the Japanese, but you’d be surprised how far being able to say thank you can get you.

I have to dash to get on a plane home, and there's just so much more to say. For now, though, here's to a taste of Tokyo, and more soon. 

Japan is an Anagram: TOKYO to KYOTO

TOKYO to KYOTO, Shinkansen style.

Travelling on the Shinkansen (bullet train) has long been an ambition of mine ever since I saw it as a child featured on Blue Peter, and of course that other time I saw it – in Entrapment – where Catherine Zeta Jones magically disappears, which probably would have been the best course of action for that watchable-though-terrible film in its entirety. It was pretty exciting, therefore, that this is how my journey in Japan began. Or nearly anyway.

Yep, These hair cuts were totally acceptable when I was a child.

And the shirts are now in style if you're a Brooklyn hipster.

Travelling has now become something I almost never do, so to contemplate a 14 hour flight was no mean feat. I flew business class to enable me to lie flat, armed with enough pain killers to tranquilise a horse and my usual coterie of anti depressants and side-effect-countering medication to stem the tide of anxiety at the unknown effects of travelling such a distance after such a catalogue of ailments and injuries over the past year.

Merci Beaucoup Air France!

Business class is an extremely strange experience. Rather than feeling you're crammed into a carriage of four hundred people all sitting within spitting distance, and that's just the adults (let's not talk about the children...not on fourteen hour flights. Just no) I felt like I was practically the only person on the flight at all. (And luckily it was very quiet in business so I did what I do best and nicked all the pillows to make myself a little comfy nest for my back, elbow etc.)

Seats appropriate for the vertically challenged. 

In the sense that being vertical is a challenge.

Menus in three languages were presented; Champagne offered; real glass, real knives and forks and, most importantly, real pillows were mine for the taking. Food was presented in a way that almost looked tasty, and even my breakfast croissant tasted like a croissant and not some half defrosted packet of puff pastry. Films were available (more than the usual number in French, well this was, after all, an Air France flight). I love the way the French rename their films to suit their own preferences. I remember laughing when my French pen pal circa 1995 confirmed that Home Alone was – in France – called “Maman, J’ai Raté L’avion”. (I think Home Alone Two was also called “Maman, Encore J’ai Raté L’avion”.)

Admit it, you thought I'd made that up. See?!

I had never thought of "Silver Linings Playbook" as "Happiness Therapy"...

Luckily I made it – arriving in Tokyo at 7am on a grey morning not unlike weather one might expect to see in England, and managed to move my (hand luggage only) bags along the many moving walkways towards the immigration desks.

At which point I realised I had made a gross error in assuming it would be a smooth pathway through super-efficient Japanese gates. Although my foot problem has now been diagnosed as not a stress fracture but tendonitis, and although I have been wearing (off the shelf) orthotics in my shoes to correct my gait and help me walk without pain, I just cannot stand up in line for more than about 3 minutes before I feel distinctly unwell. In fact standing is without a doubt the least possible of all postures for me, as it fatigues my back, my arm and my feet and I’ve never been able to stand up for long anyway.

Note: this picture is from Google images.

I wasn't rude enough to photograph the genuinely long queues. And then put them on here.

When I started dating my (now) husband almost ten years ago one of the biggest compromises in our budding relationship was the fact that there was no way that I could stand at a pub bar for a drink. Even in my injury-free state, it was sit or go home. Cursing myself for not asking for a wheelchair from the aeroplane, I asked a very nice security guard who brought another official who brought another official with a wheelchair – success! – and suddenly my tired and aching back, arm and feet were rolled through customs without a second glance at the other four hundred people waiting.

One of the many, many, MANY reasons why Nige and I are unmatched.

So sad. So very, very, sad. 

The Japanese (I have now found consistently true) are unfailingly kind and go out of their way to be helpful. In general I am so grateful for the help available to people like me who have (albeit temporary) disabilities which make travelling pretty impossible without flat beds along the way and moving vehicles the rest of the time in which to sit or lie. The Japanese, however, take this to a whole different level, and in transit I was always able to find an escalator or elevator to help me toddle along to my next point of transport.

Thank you, THANK YOU, Japan, for realising that English people are not thoughtful enough to prepare and actually learn your language. I'm sorry!

Having exchanged my Japan rail pass for an actual Japan Rail card, off I crawled towards the monorail, then the JR train to the Tokyo hub where I could catch the Shinkansen to Kyoto and take the bullet train. From some of the photos you will see how many different options were available. It is absolutely incredible to me now, having visited many of Japan’s subway, monorail and Shinkansen stations, how any visitor not used to the Roman alphabet can possible comprehend our London underground system or our trains. I haven’t attempted this myself, but I’m fairly sure that you cannot press a button on any of our various automatic ticket dispensing machines that turns all the instructions to Japanese. No longer any surprise to me now that many Japanese tourists arrive in coaches for their tours of England. How on earth would they be able to navigate a country which expects you to have a pretty darn good working knowledge of the English language if you want to do anything at all?

Yeah baby. This is how we roll.

In Japan there are three classes of Shinkansen, the fastest being the Nozomi, mostly used by commuters, which travels at roughly the speed of light and helps you to arrive at your destination before you left. Okay so none of that is true, but it doesn’t make as many stops so is the ideal commuter train. These trains are unavailable to the Japan rail pass holders. (Note: if you’re going to Japan make sure you buy your JR pass a few days before and have it sent to you / pick it up in your own country, as it’s far, far cheaper to do this than to buy it in Japan itself). The next option is the Hikari, which travels very fast, but makes more stops, so you reach your destination about the time you left. Ha. I’d recommend the trains. (Then again I am a nerdy train spotter by all accounts.) They’re very clean, run like clockwork, have lovely staff offering you many completely indistinguishable food and drink items, and beer / wine if you feel that 9 am is an appropriate time to be drinking (It isn’t).

From rural...

I may have slightly exaggerated the true speed of Shinkansen, but the speed at which the landscape changed before my eyes kept them open in spite of my enormous fatigue and pain, and I took many, many photos of varying degrees of blurriness to capture the city blocks, apartments, houses, fields, mountains, rural land and rivers we passed along our way. Like a time-lapse capture documentary of the geography of a country, the bullet train is worth the ride just for offering a true glimpse of the very varied landscapes of Japan, at a glance.

...to industrial, in under three hours. Like magic.

Given my aforementioned slightly wounded state, to which I now add painful blocked ears from the plane’s descent and a sudden raging cold and sore throat, which I would be unsurprised to learn came from my general anxiety at flying thousands of miles away from all the support networks available to me at home for my depression, it would be fair to say that I was feeling rather delicate on the train. It was, then, by some miracle that I made it in my jet-lagged, pained and dazed state onto the Shinkansen, though not before watching a curious TV show in the station waiting room featuring two men each sitting on a basketball trying to dislodge the other from his seat by yanking on tea towels which both held (two towels, crossed over) over a number of minutes. Bizarre. I’d rather watch Gardener’s World, I think.

Yeah, Lorraine. Sorry, you still don't make the cut. Sorry. 

Although if you fancy trying the basketball game I might tune in. Maybe.

2.5 hours later I arrived in Kyoto, which is just under 300 miles away from Japan. Amazing. More amazing still, my friends successfully found me at the station without any use of mobile phone technology, especially despite the many, many exits there appear to be at most railway stations in Japan. More on Kyoto soon. But immediately after lunch it became apparent that no, I would in no way be making it through the afternoon without a good three hour ‘nap’ and that yes, the travel had not left me unscathed. More soon. Now sleep. さようなら Sayōnara for now!