Bus bound, beer still in my belly from the previous night, and headed for a location that is about as familiar as Mars, I can’t imagine a better start to my first Japanese road trip—destination Kyoto. I’m a Portuguese clipper ship, or perhaps a faster, sleek, more maneuverable caravel, and just as Prince Henry the Navigator was feeling cool and confident as he ventured past the Cape of Good Hope for the first time, I too, have good omens that allow not the slightest bit of apprehension. My first good omen: waking up ten minutes before the alarm went off, giving me much needed extra time to pack. Armed with what could be equivalent to an agrarian man’s expertise in scholarly diction, I must admit that my knowledge of Japanese language—or lack therof—permits me not the most complete level of confidence and rigor, as I set sail. Nonetheless, I feel excited, exuding a child-like enthusiasm (I know the pretty girl sitting next to me can feel it, she keeps throwing smiles in my direction). My knowledge of the terrain is inferior, but I’ll use the stars for navigation if necessary; my will and determination are indefatigable.

On the bus, we carve a path through massive walls of Earth and immovable rock, while the scenic valley passes far down below us. I check to make sure everything I packed is in proper order; 1 set of clothes, an extra t-shirt, passport, wallet, my copy of Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. I look forward to the sights of the city, as well as the memorable, hopefully humorous occurrences. The following is my summary of the trip:

At the Shinkansen (bullet train) station, I fully understood the awesome power those trains were capable of, as I felt the entire station grumble and howl as a Tokyo bound express train roared by somewhere above me. After I hungrily wolfed down my breakfast, which had bits of meat in it I’ve never seen before (I convinced myself it was just chicken and resumed eating), I cleaned up the mess I made and boarded my train. Onward we flew inside the steel belly of this speeding missile, our bodies hurled like fleshy projectiles towards our target. The train jolted as we picked up serious speed, whole towns flashed by in mere moments, my ears began to pop as we soared through mountains and across rural landscapes. Even Barry Allen would have been impressed with our speed.

Welcome to Kyoto

When I arrived at the station in Kyoto, I was greeted by a swarm of busy travelers which I hadn’t seen since my orientation in Tokyo a few weeks earlier. It energized me to see this sort of high-paced, sprawling urban city, which is not how I would describe my town. I was meeting Brian, acclaimed drummer of Hot Bricks, an obscure college band whose glory was cut short in its infancy due to the impending graduation of its members. With Brian was Scott, lead singer of the band Monopoly Trust Buster, whose tenacity and resilience were matched, if not amplified by his old-school, American swagger—surely the Japanese girls could feel power of our collective energies. It took us about 20 minutes to figure out there was more than one side to this obnoxiously huge train station, and after we briefly conquered our confusion, we were Kyoto drifting our way through the city in a car we rented, with the notorious Mizuki “No one can contain me” Mori at the controls.

Our first—and what later turned out to be the only—sightseeing stop was Kiyomizu Temple. Built into the side of a mountain, this ancient Buddhist temple captures the essence of Japanese temple architecture and craftsman ship, and certainly their keen eye for the aesthetic. It offers a breathtaking glimpse of the city from one of the balconies at the base of the main pagoda, and only the body heat of hundreds of tourists coupled with the scorching breath of the unrelenting afternoon sun could take away from what would otherwise be a flawless experience. The panorama of the mountainside setting paired with the pristine cityscape visible in the distance was truly awe-inspiring.

After an unsuccessful attempt to gain admission into the Golden Temple (closed for the day), we retreated back to our hotel, a luxurious castle in the mountains of Kyoto, and we were treated to what seemed like a 10-course (I lost count after 5) gourmet Japanese dinner, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Mori. Later that night the guys went to the 100% nude steam bath in the hotel, where we all went to bed after having experienced a surge in our confidence levels after seeing what Japanese men were capable of.
The next day we took a taxi back to the Shinkansen station, where I had to go back to Hagi, while the rest of my friends were headed to Nagoya for the night, Mizuki’s hometown, before they departed back the US the next day. During the cab ride, we entertained ourselves with conversations about whether or not the wheel in the Showcase Showdown from the Price is Right was filled with blood, which would explain the cumbersome, full-body heave that was required to move the monstrous contraption. We had a discourse in mathematics, when trying to prove whether or not 2 wrongs do in fact make a right (If you use the multiplicative rule, multiplying 2 negatives make a positive), or whether or not the addition rule applies (If the right is bigger than the wrong, its still right). I was sad to see my friends go, and even sadder to find out that I accidentally booked a commuter rail ticket instead of the bullet train, which would put me back home in about 11 hours.

There were no places to get food once I got on the train, and I only had what I ate for breakfast to sustain me for the rest of the day. I kept thinking of that Seinfeld episode where Kramer tries to beat the closing doors of the subway car so he can buy a gyro from one of the vendors. We made about 100 stops, none of which were long enough for me to tempt it. So now its almost 10 PM my time, one much needed quesadilla later, and I’m writing this entry on the back of an advertisement I picked up in the bus station once I got off the train, and I can see the lights of Hagi in the distance.