Wherever I May Roam

Land of grace, Samurai honour and coy Geisha elegance; quiet restraint and unrivalled politeness, ruled by obscure social cues impenetrable to the western mind - these things I had been taught. Still I was lost.

With primitive language skills and even the foreigners around me nattering away in fluent Japanese, I felt helpless but to follow the herd. Despite my having lost track of directions 20 minutes ago, someone seemed to know where we were going and that would have to suffice.

One day things would become landmarks to me – a supermarket, a shop I couldn’t yet decipher the name of – but in the eerily quiet night of this supposed city, greyness overwhelmed all.

All, but for one ludicrously garish sign; bright yellow burning on hot pink. It read, I was told, “Mario’s”. My romanticised view of feudal Japan was about to be assaulted.

I was stood on a dark, empty street Jack the Ripper would have felt at home on, facing a psychedelic restaurant named after a fictitious Italian plumber. In Japan. We were greeted by bombastic 80s J-rock with wailing guitars, too-emphatic vocals and trendy synthesisers. The décor wasn’t any more modern. The books lining the walls were all sports-themed comics. I was told that this was a ‘guy’ restaurant; a concept that had been alien to me. True to form though, the other customers were suited salarymen stooped over bowls of rice, their fashionable locks excluding sight of the world beyond.

The owner swaggered lazily over. Her permed and short hair was another homage to the 80s. Her face was compact and owl-like, lips sucked into a permanent pout that gave her a look of mild surprise. Despite her slight frame, her manner gave an air of cockiness that was a far cry from the primness of most Japanese women. Had we been in America, I am sure that she would have been named ‘Bertha’ and able to hold her own whilst serving bulky bikers.

Embarrassingly, I alone needed assistance and had to have the menu translated for me. Exacerbating my embarrassment she caught sight of my hairy arms during this time.

“Amazing!” she gasped, and without warning reached out and stroked the hair. So much for Japanese reserve. She babbled away, apparently oblivious to my discomfort – something about being like a bear. Another Japanese 80s classic blared to life. Blithely she went to give our orders in.

The food turned out to be delicious. I smiled and decided I'd put up with her occasional eccentricity. Besides, food tastes better in a time warp.