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Published: August 6th 2007
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As I sat watching Jess chomp on his pair of fugu testes, I could only help but wonder how the Japanese determine their delicacies. Fugu, known in English as blowfish, is a somewhat adventurous, albeit tasteless, culinary treat. The fish's liver and other organs contain tetrodotoxin, a poison that can paralyze or even kill a human in small doses and, apparently, only 30%!o(MISSING)f apprentice chefs who train for three years pass the test to get a license to serve fugu. Taking my turn with the chewy fish, I envisioned myself lying awake in a temporary state of paralysis later in the evening as Jess blissfully snored the night away.
Our day had been filled with a series of misfires. After spending the previous night with bean-filled pillows on a hard tatami floor, none of us felt too compelled to play tourist. A quick analysis of the
Lonely Planet compounded our malaise by focusing on the ugly truth - Osaka isn't known for its sights. Jess picked over the pages, like a dumpster diver looking for something of worth, before suggesting we tour Osaka-jo, a 16th century castle turned museum, before heading into Kyoto to retrieve Gina's forgotten battery charger.
We grabbed a cup of coffee along Dotombori arcade before flagging a cab as the sky unsurprisingly opened up. The driver acknowledged our destination with a smile and proceeded to fleece us as he made several unnecessary turns on his way to Osaka-jo, concluding our trip with a tour of the parking lot. Exiting the car in a huff, we proceeded to the most promising tourist attraction in Osaka, which Gina promptly classified as "gay."
Approaching the all too familiar architecture of Osaka's main attraction, we found ourselves already contemplating what we'd do with the remainder of our day. Disinterest was quickly squelched as we were startled by high-shrilled squeals emanating from a passing building. Curious to determine the source of the ungodly sounds, we found ourselves lured to an open door and watched as two armor-clad women furiously beat one another with bamboo swords. Discarding our shoes, we invited ourselves in and watched a series of kendo matches unfold before us.
Donning our sneakers after tiring of kendo, we continued the trek uphill to Osaka-jo. Reaching the 8-story structure, which looked like every other castle and palace we'd visited in Japan, Gina repeated her contempt, "This
is gay."
Ignoring her prophecy, we handed over 3000 Yen ($30) for the pleasure of climbing 8 flights of stairs while being unable to take photos of anything on display in the museum. Our tour lasted less than half-an-hour.
Reemerging into the park to find that the rain had subsided, we decided to search the surrounding area for a bite to eat before heading into Kyoto. Finding most businesses closed on a Sunday morning, we eventually happened upon a noodle shop doing brisk business and wandered in. Performing the now typical, point-at-a-picture-and-hope-its-edible routine, we were pleasantly surprised when the server returned with something other than a non-descript piece of the pig.
Jess, who swore he hadn't slept well the night before, although Gina and I would have gambled otherwise, suggested that we head into Kyoto while he returned to the room and napped. We convinced him otherwise and set off for the station. 30 minutes later, as Gina and I sat on the train to Kyoto watching Jess' head bobble, we couldn't help but wonder why he didn't snore while sitting up.
Jostling Jess as the train arrived into Kyoto station like clockwork, we grabbed a
taxi and headed to retrieve Gina's battery charger. Completing our task in under 15 minutes, we were back on the train to Osaka in no time, planning out the balance of the day. While flipping through the
Lonely Planet earlier in the week, we discovered that we would coincidentally be in Osaka on the day of an annual
Bugaku dance ceremony at Shitenno-ji Temple. Revisiting the subject, the trio decided to round out our less than thrilling day watching a dance routine.
The steady downpour that greeted us at Tenno-ji station should have been an indication to get back on the train and head home. Instead, we bobbed and weaved through the rain, finally reaching the temple after a kilometer. Soaked through and with little patience, Gina, Jess and I stood for ten minutes trying out best to catch a glimpse of the dance recital that had been moved indoors and out of view.
Retreating to our tatami sanctuary, we cleaned up and relaxed before heading out onto Dotombori to tempt fate with fugu. Gina, ever the good sport, played along for the fugu photos, but ultimately ordered her tried-and-true chicken strips. Evidently, the Japanese don't cater to
non-sushi eaters at their sushi establishments because Gina managed one chew before promptly spitting the piece back onto her plate with a gag. Acknowledging that our fugu antics kept her from enjoying dinner, Jess and I offered to accompany her anywhere she wanted eat.
Standing in line at McDonald’s minutes later, I found myself less than full and proceeded to tack a chicken sandwich onto Gina's order. Opting out of the mayonnaise-based topping, I instead put my best Japanese-speaking foot forward, right into my mouth, as I proudly asked for "Mutardo" (mustard) instead.
With an extremely puzzled look, the teenage girl behind the counter repeated my request, "Mutardo?"
"Yes, Mutardo instead of Mayonnaise." I confirmed.
Jess, who had overheard the entire process, all but swallowed his tongue in laughter as he jabbed me and said, "The word is Mus-tad-o, dumbass."
Red enough to be someone's Valentine, I turned to the girl behind the counter and tried to mimic Jess, "Mus-ta-r-d-o, please," again butchering the pronunciation.
Gina was now in a full cackle as Jess told me I was a "mutardo" before turning to the girl and correctly asking for "mus-tad-o" on my behalf.
I took flak from Gina and Jess for the better part of the next hour over my mispronunciation as we bummed about Dotombori looking for some action. Much like our debacle in Roppongi the week prior, we realized Sunday night is not a party night in Japan. Well, that is except for the two drunken Japanese guys with paper crab hats on their heads that stopped us in mid-stride. Infatuated with Gina, one of the men asked through a drunken slur, "Where you from?"
"U.S.A.," Gina proudly announced.
"U.S.A.! We love U.S.A.," the man shouted, as the pair began dancing in circles around us with their arms around one another.
Amused, we insisted on photos with the odd couple who presented us with three kani (crab) hats of our own. Apparently, they'd swiped a few extras in their drunken stupor at dinner and had no qualms handing them over to their new American friends.
As we made our way into a dimly lit, overly proper bar twenty minutes later, Gina’s and my hat on our heads, Jess' around his waist, we could sense that they'd be adding a little extra to the service charge that night
as no one found the crabs as humorous as we did.
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darby
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mutardo boy...
also booked us in what very much appeared to be the red light district of osaka. ah, japanese only hotel websites. the joy. "ruv hoten!"