[i]Leave It To Beaver[/i]

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Like just about every other popular tourist attraction we’ve ever visited, our highlight for Nagano was under construction. Jess, Gina and I woke early on our fourth day in Japan and were greeted by the dreary grey sky that would become synonymous with Japanese weather over the next two weeks. As we emerged into the bone-chilling dampness, I could sense the clan was less than enthused about making the two-kilometer trek uphill to Zenkoji, one of the most visited temples in Japan. Emphasized by the Lonely Planet as the must see in Nagano, we stomached the cold and refocused our attention on the passing scenery - including the business man who appeared to be relieving himself in a sewer grate before heading to the office. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.

Continuing our climb towards the temple, we laughed at the different, albeit crazy, culture of the Japanese that we’d experienced during our first few days in the country. From the tuxedo and white-glove clad taxi drivers, to the vending machines dispensing everything from beer to self-heating coffee, to a seeming infatuation with everything animated, we certainly felt like we’d landed on another planet. It began to drizzle.

Zenkoji couldn’t have appeared on the horizon any sooner. The street narrowed into a row of souvenir and noodle shops before terminating at a large gate guarded by hundreds year-old carved wooden warriors. The oversized, lifelike figures eerily peered down at us as we crossed the threshold into the temple’s grounds. Small shrines covered with offerings of the faithful and several cherry trees in bloom littered the landscape - the smell of incense filled the courtyard.

We scattered in various directions to explore the shrines and temple. For the next hour, we perused the grounds, commenting on the similarity of Japanese architecture while stopping to take pictures with Frog at various locales.

With the cold chiseling away at our patience, we decided that our curiosity had been satisfied and set our sights back toward the hotel. Outside of the temple, we caught a man rolling soba noodles through a shop window and paused to observe the delicate task. A few minutes passed before our stomachs started to loudly discuss their deprivation. Acknowledging the long day of travel ahead, we detoured into a Mos for a 9 A.M. burger and fries.

The Japanese, fond of their plastic representations of meal presentation, spared no expense for the Mos Burger menu. Gina and I exchanged looks of, What the hell is that?, while Jess determined he would tempt fate by ordering the burger with what looked to be a hardened Sloppy Joe on top it. The ordering process couldn’t have been more comical. We pointed at pictures, made up words, laughed and nodded before handing over 12,000 Yen and hoping for the best. When the meal arrived it was anything but. Jess, unwilling to accept defeat, swore up and down that his burger was edible.

Shortly thereafter, we grabbed our luggage at the hotel and headed back to Nagano station, where we started our 3-train, 4-hour journey to Fuji. Opting to take the scenic route, rather than the most expeditious, we found ourselves winding through the mountains for the better part of our day. All hope of seeing Mt. Fuji faded, however, as our train ascended into a combination of fog and drizzle, prompting Jess to start a running joke where he’d point at random hills and mounds of construction dirt while yelling, “There’s Mt. Fuji.”

I think we all needed off the train by the time we reached Fuji station that afternoon. Without advanced hotel reservations for the evening, we were gambling that once off the JR we’d find a room suitable for the 3 of us - a difficult feat even when booking in advance, as no one seems to travel in groups larger than two in Japan. Spotting a hotel adjacent to the tracks with a giant 5000 Yen p/p sign dangling from its exterior, we decided to roll-the-dice.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter looked dumbfounded as we entered the hotel lobby. Holy shit, white people!

Since Jess had the pocket Japanese dictionary, we silently elected him to negotiate our destiny. He proceeded to flip through several sections of the book before cobbling together several misspoken words in a futile attempt to secure a room. The woman shrugged, lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a few numbers. She spat off sentences in Japanese, tossing in the word gaijin (derogatory slang for foreigners) somewhere along the way. Moments later, another woman emerged from a back room adjacent to the lobby and greeted us with unpracticed English.

Now combining English and Japanese words in the same sentence, we tried unsuccessfully to explain our need for one room with two beds. At one point, I raised my left hand while motioning toward my wedding ring to explain that Gina and I would sleep in the same bed. We were rebuffed as the woman insisted Jess have his own room. Moreover, she confessed that Jess’ single room was the only non-smoking availability they had for the evening. Lacking the stamina to venture out and find another hotel in Fuji, Gina and I reluctantly accepted.

We relinquished the remainder of our Yen as, naturally, the hotel was cash only. Dropping Jess at the 2nd floor, Gina and I continued to the 3rd where the stench of days-old smoke bowled over us as we emerged from the elevator. Opening the door to our room to find two double beds, we could hardly keep from laughing at the woman’s insistence that Jess sleep separately. Like something from the Japanese version of Leave it to Beaver, Gina and I contemplated if the women downstairs actually shared beds with their husbands.

To prevent the smell of smoke from permeating every inch of our being, I opened the window for a much needed airing out of the room. We deposited the bags and returned to the 2nd floor to find Jess imbibing some iichiko. Short of cash and long on hunger, we left our palatial accommodations to find a working ATM and some dinner. Almost tritely, it began raining as soon as we exited the hotel lobby.

Lost in the drab, featureless streets of Fuji, we wandered aimlessly looking for a bank. The rain, now a steady downpour, quickly persuaded us to purchase a cheap umbrella at the local convenience store before continuing our quest for cash. Like a bad case of déjà vu, each ATM we ran across danced with animated characters before spitting our cards back at us, sans Yen. Frustrated, tired and wet, we surrendered and began looking for a restaurant that would take credit cards.

Risking that we may have to dine-and-ditch, we settled on an upscale looking restaurant of unknown fare with tatami seating. All heads turned in our direction as we entered, none of which were other patrons. A woman approached and motioned us to a table without uttering a single word of English. We removed our shoes and assumed Indian-style seating positions as the woman handed us warm wash clothes, again without offering a word. Jess, Gina and I laughed hysterically as the woman then exchanged our towels for Japanese language menus without pictures. Still not knowing what type of cuisine was offered, Jess again thumbed through his pocket dictionary and questioned the perplexed woman. The waitress finally answered “sashimi” after Jess pointed at the word he kept mispronouncing.

Again, faced with one of the few food options she doesn’t like, Gina prodded Jess to ask if the restaurant offered anything but sushi. “Yakitori?” Jess asked.

“Hai,” the woman nodded.

“What the hell is Yakitori?” Gina wanted to know.

Not wanting to describe in detail, Jess answered, “It’s like chicken shish kabob.”

Without many other options, Gina flicked two fingers at the waitress and ordered, “Yakitori.”

As I sat and watched the sushi chef puff on his cigarette while slicing our fish, I couldn’t help but think I’d end up with lung cancer by the end of my two weeks in Japan. We ordered a bottle of wine, which the Japanese clearly do not favor over sake and beer, and watched as the waitress struggled to remove the cork. Moments after a little toast to our less than thrilling day, a plate of delectable fish was placed before me and Jess. Devouring the catch in less than five minutes, our attention quickly turned to the empty spot in front of Gina. “They’re probably out back killing it,” I joked.

Five minutes turned to ten and our patience was sapped. I rang the table button, another quirk of Japanese culture, and the waitress appeared from behind the smoke covered counter. “Yakitori?” I asked curtly, not knowing any other way to convey our frustration.

“Hai. Hai,” she again nodded.

Another five minutes expired and the woman reappeared with two skewers of chicken, each with enough meat to feed a small cat. Gina bit into her first piece of chicken, grimaced and spit it back onto the plate. “It tastes like cat food,” she groaned, while taking a large gulp of wine to eradicate the taste from her mouth.

Jess, ever curious, sampled Gina’s cat food before concluding that it ‘needed something.’ He proceeded to drown his next bite with a teriyaki-like sauce that he found on the edge of the table, before concluding that Gina would like it. I couldn’t help but feel bad as I watched her stomach the rest of the meat, more out of hunger than desire.

On our way back to the hotel that evening, we stopped at the grocery store to purchase some snacks and a bottle of wine. Finding a round of Laughing Cow, Gina and I headed for the fresh bread aisle where I asked if she minded buying the day-old 50%!o(MISSING)ff loaf. Not wanting to cause a stink, she replied, “Sure, let’s keep on budget.”

With that task completed, we went looking for a bottle of wine. In keeping with the day’s theme of less-than-adequate, we found ourselves checking out with a boxof wine instead, as the grocery only offered a few options in glass, all out of our price range.

We retired to Jess’ room after our shopping spree to recount the day. As I started to blog, I watched as Gina bit into her first piece of bread. From the tormented look on her face and the gnashing of her teeth, I realized the Japanese label must have indicated 1-week old and not 1-day old.

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Photos

International Symbol of Peace
Seriously.

Comments

[darby]

nothing in the book mentioned...
that she would be getting grilled chicken heart... and it wasn't like the waitress was going to be able to explain it. it took so long because each chicken only has 1 heart and they had to put 4 on each skewer... YUMMY! tastes like sauce.