Mountains (of rock and flesh).

After a mad few days in Tokyo, we decided to restore our inner calm by getting out of the city. We took the train to Kawaguchiko, to visit Japan’s most famous topographical feature; Mount Fuji. Cloud shrouded our first sight of the mountain, it’s shallow base the only thing visible, but undeterred, we hired bikes and rode around the lake that mirrored it. Breezing past Japanese families having picnics, a handful of chic hotels, and a pungent herb garden, we admired the shifting aspect of Fuji’s shadow.

Kawaguchiko, though small, offered a number of (what we believe to be) authentic restaurants, and being the gastronomical adventurers that we are, we resolved to try the local delicacy, Hōtō noodles. We cycled to a little white building off the main road, with a queue of patient parents and rambunctious children outside. Inside were eight low tables, surrounded by cushions. After removing our shoes we politely (we hope) gestured to a couple, who were only too happy to share with us. The next obstacle was the menu. Paper tickets were on the table, and after trying and failing to decipher the characters (with earnest though limited help from our neighbours), we picked a couple of dishes and hoped for the best. We were soon presented with a steaming bowl of thick, doughy noodles in a miso broth topped with beef, and other interesting unknowns. The thicker noodles offered a new challenge to our developing chopstick skills, and the waitress sympathetically offered us forks (though we did doggedly persevere). Satisfied, we returned to the hostel, getting an early night.

The early night was not just a consequence of our physical exertion and mental exhaustion, it was part of our ingenious plan. We got up at 5:00 am, threw on the clothes we’d laid out the night before, and stealthily crept downstairs. We cycled through the dawn, to the opposite side of the lake, and waited. Slowly, the vista seeped into vision, grey and blue in the morning light. And there was Fuji, temporarily liberated from its manacles of cloud, it’s peak simultaneously reaching up towards the heavens, and down towards the bottom of the lake.

Mission accomplished, we got the train back to Tokyo. We were lucky enough to obtain tickets for the Sumo wrestling that’s taking place this week, so after dumping our bags at a new hostel, we made our way to the Ryogoku Kokugikan, where the bouts were taking place. After finding our seats, we paused to take in the atmosphere. Perched right at the top of the cuboid arena, we surveyed the tiers of seating below us, which gradated into cushions the closer it got to the dohyo. The wrestlers were immune to the impassioned crowd, consumed by the Shinto ritualism of their sport; crouching, clapping, throwing salt and stomping before hurling themselves at their opponent. Two great mounds of flesh collide, rippling from the impact. And in an instant the bout is over, the winner graciously ascertained, and the next bout begins. It was a fantastic experience, and by the end of the day’s tournament we were as enthusiastic as the other spectators, celebrating Yoshikaze’s unexpected victory over his unbeaten opponent, Kakuryu. Today we’ve indulged completely in the beguiling idiosyncrasies of Japanese culture, and we’ve loved every second.

Senso-ji, Sky Tree, Sushi.

Today we visited the beautiful Senso-ji temple. Architecturally, it was everything I dreamed of, with its five-storey pagoda, and magnificent red gateways flanked by deities. Walking down the busy stall-lined street, we headed towards the temple, weaving in and out of elegant women in silken kimonos (which, to their credit, looked very difficult to walk in). Before we reached the temple steps, we obtained our fortunes (omikuji). We paid ¥100, shook a tin cylinder until a numbered wooden stick came out, and then found the corresponding draw. I was blessed with the ‘highest, most excellent fortune’, however Alex wasn’t so lucky, so decided to give it another go (you can’t be too careful about these things). Satisfied with our portents, we climbed the steps of the shrine, bowing and clapping with everyone else. The ornate structure was even more resplendent inside, and for all that it was lacking in calmness and serenity, it made up for in its aesthetic magnificence.

Spiritually conditioned, we made our way to the highest tower in the world, the Tokyo Sky Tree. Now, I’m not one for heights, but I couldn’t deprive Alex of her soaring aspirations, so we (tentatively on my part) climbed into the lift and whooshed up 350 metres, in fifty seconds. The uncomfortable pressure on my ears was muffled and heavy, but we soon reached the top. And it was breathtaking. Angular buildings were neatly plotted out below us, occasionally interspersed with pockets of skyscrapers that were robbed of their imperious condescension by our vantage point. As we gazed out, the hazy sun set, and the view was transformed into a magical collage of glittering lights, mesmerising in its imperviousness to the busy life that it represented.

To get closer to these illuminations, we travelled to the famed district of Shibuya. The second that we emerged from the station we were confronted with walls of people, converging seamlessly on the impressive crossing, which was restored to calm linearity as soon as the traffic lights changed. We were on the hunt for sushi, however the place that had been recommended to us was full. Disappointed, we despondently wandered the side streets, and struck gold. We noticed a tiny sushi bar, tucked away in a corner, but encouragingly filled with locals (and cheaper than we had anticipated). As soon as we opened the door, the chef invited us to sit at the bar, where we could watch him carefully carving tuna into strips. The sushi melted in our mouths, and after talking to the locals (who generously offered us sake and Asahi beer) and we congratulated ourselves on our find, especially when they told us that this was much better sushi than our original choice. The atmosphere was fantastic, despite there only being ten seats in the restaurant. Well-satisfied, and drunk with laughter (not sake), we wandered back to the JR line, to get the train home.

Palaces and puzzlement.

Our unavoidable trust in our taxi driver was not ill-founded, and just after midnight we were on the steps of the Khaosan Tokyo Ninja hostel. After climbing to the fifth floor, with a little stumble here and there, we found ourselves in a galley, framed by wooden cabins. Exhausted, we crashed into a fitful slumber.

It was a bit like sleeping in a cupboard, the sliding doors reducing the snores of our fellow travellers to a muffled tremor, regularly interspersing the whispering fans.

Our disrupted circadian clocks did little to set us up for the busy day we had ahead. Eyeing the ticket-machine with utter perplexity, we benefitted from the help of a kind stranger before we made it to Tokyo station to claim our rail passes. We then wandered through a miasma of unfamiliar, but inviting smells in the outer fish-market, savouring the magnified flavour of the salmon and tuna kaisendon that marked our first meal in Japan.

We explored the rest of the Tsukiji Fish Market as it was winding down, plashing through the water that traders used to wash down their stalls, and doing our best to avoid the scattered buckets of entrails, before making our way north to the Imperial palace. Ignorant of Japanese history, we gleaned a superficial understanding of the Shogun, but were disappointed with the concrete reconstructions of the buildings that had been lost. Nevertheless, the gardens more than made up for our disillusionment, serenely ambivalent to the overbearing sterility of the towers around them.

After a brief trip back to the hostel, we headed to Akihabara to get a first hand glimpse of the otaku subculture. Emerging into the glare of neon towers, we walked past countless billboards bearing infantilised women drawn in an anime style, the street itself a huge, three-dimensional manga-world. We climbed a rickety fire-escape to reach the ‘@home cafe’ – one of the plethora of ‘maid-cafes’ that the area boasts. Greeted by a giggling ‘seventeen-year-old’ called Hinako, dressed in a brown maid outfit carefully accessorized with furry cat ears and pink bows, we apprehensively sat down at a bar, which framed a stage on which a man was having his photo with another maid. Told that we had one hour, we were invited to choose drinks. On their arrival, Hinako proceeded to draw a rabbit and a cat on them, which though artistic, only added to our feeling that there was something we didn’t quite understand.

Once we’d gotten used to the saccharine powdered texture of our drinks, we were given food presented in a similar way; a puppy and a bear constructed of rice and curry. We did our best to consume what was in front of us, but thankfully were offered a reprieve when it was our turn to have a photo. Sporting animal ears, me and Alex joined Hinako onstage, and after two poses, we were presented with some polaroids to remind us of our time at the cafe.

Glad to escape into the cool night, we tried to work out what we thought about the whole experience, concluding that our feelings were convoluted. Initial pity for the women, and disapproval of the single men that formed their clientele mellowed when we considered that the women worked of their own volition, and that the perverse (to our eyes) fantasies of the men were perhaps a consequence of loneliness, social discomfort, and poor self-esteem. Men walked in sheepishly, avoided eye contact, and spent most of their hour on their smart phones, trapped in a private virtual world even as this world was being fawningly reenacted in front of them. It’s been a day of contrasts, but we’re beginning to understand that this may be a fundamental aspect of the culture that are exploring.

The last homely house east of the sea.

Calgary’s a bit like Rivendell. I’ve eased gently into the travelling life, but maintained the comfort of having my own room, free laundry, and Mum’s roast dinners. My disturbed sleep last night was punctured by visions of delayed flights, lost luggage, and fake reservations, but I’m now safely at the gate in Calgary airport,  gazing out at the towering silhouettes downtown, which are sharply juxtaposed with the unearthly clarity of the mountains to the west. I’m waiting for my flight to Vancouver, where, all being well, me (and my bag) will board our next flight, to Tokyo.

I’ve really enjoyed my time in Calgary, particularly meeting the friendly locals, eating the sugary delicacies, and spending time with Mum and Aaron. Circumstances have changed a lot since I was last here, and being a lot more relaxed (with no vacation work hanging over me) has meant that me and Mum have got on better than ever before. The location of my mum’s new house meant that I didn’t feel isolated, and the dogs have ensured that I never had a dull moment.

I’ve felt really shaky all morning, and I had to hold back the tears when leaving Mum (neither of us like goodbyes). I hadn’t anticipated this fear when I was planning my travels. Apparently there’s a lot of stress involved in being a free-spirited travel bum.

After the shortest and most beautiful flight of my life (to date), skimming the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, I’m now sitting in Vancouver airport – the most westerly point of the Earth that I’ve ever visited. Tokyo will be the most easterly. I’m really expanding my horizons today. The fear has melted away, replaced by excitement, anticipation, and self-belief. It’s too late to turn back now, I can do this, everything is going to be okay.

I’m thirty two thousand feet high, flying over the Pacific ocean. I’ve just had a very interesting plane meal, consisting of edamame, egg, a mini pickled onion, noodles, seaweed, and vegetable curry with some weird holey thing I’ve never seen before. Fumbling with my chopsticks, I surreptitiously watched my neighbour deftly scoop the noodles into her mouth, barely hesitating in her game of Candy Crush, and tried my best to imitate her technique. I’m going to be a pro by the end of this adventure. The cabin crew are omniscient, anticipating what you want before you open your mouth (big up All Nippon Airways), and so far my journey’s been really enjoyable. There are two eighteen-month-old children in the aisle next to me, so this could all change very quickly, but so far, so good…

The flight passed by in pockets of sleep, and an immersion exercise in the Japanese language, courtesy of a film called ‘Samurai Hustle’. My younger fellow passengers weren’t a problem, and neither was security or reclaiming my bag, which dutifully followed me across the Pacific. I’m now sat in arrivals waiting for a certain someone, who just happened to book a flight to coincide with my time here. But it’s okay because there’s free WiFi. And a friendly police officer called Takayama who’s been keeping me company. He’s very up to date on his current affairs; we discussed the radicalisation of British Muslims, the impending referendum on Scottish independence, and Abenomics before he scooted away, presumably to do his job. He also helped me out with my Japanese, and recommended some places to go and food to eat;  though a visual image of Okonimiyaki offered absolutely no elucidation as to what it actually is.

She’s here.