Ryokan Wars

Walking around Osaka for the last couple of days, I noticed myself subconsciously whistling a catchy little tune I hadn't heard for a while. I wracked my brains for a few hours, until I realised it was the music Oh-Dae-Su hears every time he is gassed in Oldboy.

It's a little harsh on Kaneyoshi Ryokan, where I was staying, to unwittingly draw a parallel between it and a fictional hotel prison. Whilst I wasn't exactly scraping out the mortar with a sharpened chopstick, it had a certain "Old Asian charm" as the brochure might have said. And just like in Oldboy, things would mysteriously appear in my room when I wasn't looking; little rice snacks, flasks of tea or ice cold watery coffee. I came back yesterday to find this biscuit on the table:

Their Japanese breakfast was an experience. Two tiny little ladies came in at 8am, quickly rolled my futon out of the way and began assembling the feast on my table, before bowing their way out of sight. They were gesturing that I should sit down, but being over six foot tall in an ill-fitting kimono, I was concerned about my tackle inadvertently 'popping out', so just stood politely.

I was thinking that moving to Kyoto, the centre of traditional Japanese culture, things would get even better. Given that this city is older than the planet itself, I was a little disappointed to arrive at a building that looked like it had been recently purchased from Ikea. The staff are very friendly and helpful, but there's no Japanese breakfast on offer here. (It's 400 yen for a slice of toast and coffee if you're interested).

I make my way up to my room, which smells uncannily like a hamster's cage. I was expecting to find shredded newspaper and a wheel attached to the wall, but it must be coming from the brand new straw mats that line the floor. Even more disappointing is the absence of the computerised toilet I was getting used to, with the adjustable jet of soothing warm water that cuts down on the Andrex bill.

In Osaka, the ladies would come in and make up your futon on the floor while you were out. Leafing through the information pack in Sakura Ryokan in Kyoto, I discover that, this being such a traditional place, it doesn't happen here: To experience the culture of Japan, please try futon bedding by yourself. Surely the only hotel in the world where where they charge you £100 a night and then do you a favour by not bothering to make your bed. Brilliant.

Wherever the tourists are, you will find the peddlers of 'tradition' making a fast buck. Tonight I came in to see a group of Dutch guys sitting around the lobby in their kimonos checking facebook. On my last night in Osaka the guy behind the desk asked me where I was going when I checked out. I thought he was just being curious, but in the morning he presented me with this piece of paper, and I loved him for it.

That's Japanese tradition for you right there.

Osaka

Osaka feels like a very modern city. Its sharply dressed inhabitants strut around under the glare of neon lights and signs, or dart perilously amongst the pedestrians on their bikes. It's a bustling, confident place full of bustling, confident people.

I’m a massive fan of Japanese food, but here in Osaka it is more than a little daunting. There are thousands of restaurants. On the side streets they hide behind funny little curtains, and their names and menus are all indecipherable. On the main arcades they have unappetising plastic dishes in display cabinets, or less subtle alternatives.

I'm sticking to the back streets. I walk through the door of my first true Japanese restaurant and three extremely short ladies in traditional dress start bowing profusely and looking awkwardly at one another. I grin inanely and luckily, moments before I instinctively begin speaking Spanish to them, they usher me to the counter. Two chefs bow and we exchange konnichiwas.

I keep it simple - appetizers, sashimi and tempura. Not very adventurous but there’ll be time for that later. The sashimi is the best I have ever had. So fresh and soft it just disappears when you put it in your mouth. The texture is phenomenal. The little flowers that you scrape into the soy sauce along with the wasabi scatter bursts of crunch and flavour as I eat.

Their presentation is deadly. I’m watching dishes leave the counter every few minutes and they look incredible. One of the chefs speaks some English and comes round to talk to me. He shows me a book he has that translates Japanese food into English. I need one.

The first time I bought tako-yaki from a street vendor in Asia I assumed by looking at them they were like a sweet little doughnut or something, not greasy octopus balls. I will be assuming nothing in Japan. Around the Dotombori arcade in Minami, there are hundreds of tako-yaki stalls, but today I saw one with a queue. A long queue. I wasn’t that hungry but I joined it anyway, and watched the two chefs dextrously working their magic. They were topped with a smoky paper like substance, that melted into them, and were delicious.

For dinner I decide to tackle Kaiseki - a set menu designed to showcase the skills of the chefs. I find a little laneway with a high concentration of serious looking restaurants, and begin trawling their doors and menus for clues, not that I know what they might look like.

Eventually I plump for a place that has a small sign in English in the corner of the window. Maybe someone in there will be able to explain some of the obscurer ingredients. I'm the only guy at the counter, with five young chefs the other side of it. Open kitchens in England are one thing, here you're almost in the kitchen. Watching them working away, balancing ingredients on the plates with their chopsticks, is mesmerising.

What follows is a succession of extraordinary flavours, textures and colours. Jellified fish roe with tart greens; sashimi; glazed chicken; tempura; grilled fish; a broth with some bizarre green substance wobbling around in it; crab meat with pickles and a strange medley of vegetables; mushroom miso soup deeper, richer and more intense than any I have tasted before; crisp pickled vegetables; then a dessert of papaya and a kind of creme caramel made with sweet potato(!).

I have decided to eat everything that is put in front of me in Japan (except Dolphin - have you seen The Cove). At times that could involve some strange surprises, but that is half the fun - nothing really looks like what it is. Take the grilled fish dish for example - here's what I wrote in my food diary:

Seabass, a very small egg, scallop with cheese(!). Some kind of eggplant like vegetable with dry hoisin, then four things that are both delicious and completely unidentifiable. 'A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma'.

Towards the end of the feast the head chef appears. He too speaks a little English and we exchange pleasantries. He is watching me eat - really watching, to gauge my response, see if I really like it or am just being polite. I don't disappoint him - the food is incredible and I tell him so. He compliments me on my chopstick technique - I'm sure the pea sized tomatoes were a test. When I leave, all the chefs file out behind the counter and begin bowing. I'm bowing too, and firing off the arigatos and sayonaras as I back reluctantly out of the door.

Walking home along the narrow street, smiling and content, it dawned upon me that behind all those doors are thousands more bowing, proud, brilliant chefs; quietly, diligently and expertly producing food of the highest quality. I could have walked through any one of them and been no less blown away.

Faster than a speeding train

It’s tempting to attribute the foggy haze that engulfed my shrivelled brain this morning to the jet lag, but I suspect the sake may have had a heavier hand in things. Either way, I was in absolutely no state to tackle the challenges that lay ahead, and procrastinated accordingly.

But sooner or later, I have to venture beyond the sanctuary of the front door, and make the journey to Osaka. The searing heat and cloying humidity are enough to dissuade me from taking on the subway, so I hail the first cab I see. Tokyo-Eki! I tell the old man in the Michael Jackson gloves behind the wheel. He responds in Japanese, I look blankly and pitifully at him in the mirror, and we drive off towards the station.

Buying a ticket is a lot easier than I thought, until it comes to paying. None of my cards work. They don’t work in ATMs either. I hold up my Barclays Connect and utter a puzzled grunt at a man behind a counter, but to no avail. So I begin to wander the streets of Tokyo in search of cash, backpack weighing me down and the sweat beading on my brow. I’d forgotten how it felt to be so foreign.

I lucked out and stumbled upon a Citibank just round the corner and withdrew tons of cash whilst marvelling at the touch screen desks and Bond like technology. It’s amazing how having money in your pocket changes things - suddenly I’m the intrepid traveller again. Ten minutes later I’m eating sushi from a bento box and sipping a lip twistingly bitter green tea drink in my window seat on the Nozomi Shinkansen from Tokyo-Eki to Shin-Osaka. The bullet train.

I’d been looking forward to this, though I don’t know why. Sure, it’s got a cool name, looks a lot meaner than other trains, and the staff wear neat military uniforms, but it’s still a train. And it’s fast, but the Chinese are a lot faster. The seats definitely weren’t built with Europeans in mind, but don’t stop my hangover kicking in and forcing me into an extremely deep sleep for most of the journey anyway. Far from feeling like a tour of the set of Blade Runner, the Japan I see through the window is predominantly agricultural.

By the time I get to Osaka I'm beginning to feel alive again. My taxi driver (“Kawasaki - like the motorcycle”) speaks phenomenally good English. He points out a few good places and tells me to stay out of the girlie bars or I’ll get fleeced. I’ve stayed in enough crummy motels in the last few months, so in Japan I’ve decided to go native, and booked myself a Ryokan. It’s like a hotel, only you have to wear special slippers, and sleep on the floor.

Waiting for me is a kimono, which I slip into after a shower. When a culture is so different to your own, you have to embrace it in a non-judgmental, honest and respectful way. No giggling or mockery, no matter how tempting. I’d love to say I’m grown up, mature and respectful enough to do so, but I can’t - the slippers don’t come in a size eleven and the robe looks like it’s been whipped off the nearest picnic table. One glance in the mirror and the photo takes itself. Oh well.

Transportation

I assumed that after the States, arriving in Japan was going to come as something of a shock. Like being plucked from a Caribbean beach and plunged into an ice bath in the Norwegian Tundra. But actually it all felt rather familiar.

Air travel is hardly travel at all; it is transportation, and it robs you of a journey. So the excitement of going from North America to Asia is tempered by the sterile familiarity of all airports. No-mans land connecting countries the world over. Thousands of people funnelled, sorted and repackaged in steel tubes, then distributed around the globe.

It's an empty flight. No-one on my left and to my right just the engine for company, hovering there all the way, sucking us towards tomorrow. We took off at noon on Wednesday. Twelve hours later, at 4pm on Thursday, we dipped beneath the clouds and a country emerged from the sea. It was flat and green, and as we glided over it, the tiny little rectangular fields made the land look like a child's watercolour palette of greens, browns and yellows. And everything looked unfeasibly miniature.

I'd expected the bus from the airport into town to feel completely alien, but it actually felt like driving round the M25. It was getting dark by then, and Tokyo, when I arrived, was just a sea of lights. Waiting for me with beer in hand was Dave, my best friend. We walked to his place and tackled my jet lag in the time honoured tradition; by getting absolutely arseholed on local booze and staying awake as long as humanly possible.

At some stage during the evening I received a phone call from my brother-in-law telling me I'd just become an uncle again, and suddenly I felt a long, long way from home.

God Bless America

I wanted to begin this by saying that I know I'm beginning to sound like a bit of a..... but apparently there isn't actually a word for someone who loves America. Anglophile, Francophile, Sinophile, yes. Americaphile? No.

Lets be frank here; America and Americans are universally stereotyped, derided, patronised and loathed, so there really is little need for one. I myself have harboured all these views at one time another. Paul Theroux remarked that the English "...hold very strong opinions about places to which they have never been". I've been guilty of that in the past, but now I'm in a position to be a little more objective, I can safely and proudly say that I absolutely love the United States of America.

Americans have their moments too. I have generally found them extremely warm and hospitable. But then I think people the world over are friendly and welcoming to strangers (except Parisians). Unless you're hovering by the rim of the Grand Canyon, an accent immediately identifies you as a curiosity. (If you have an English accent, it also marks you out as Australian. Every single day. I will never understand). People want to know where you're from, why you're here, where you've been, where you're going, and most of all, they want to know that you're enjoying their country.

But there's always a but. America is all about Freedom and Rights. Because it has a written constitution, these rights are specifically articulated. This discourages people from viewing them in the context of the rights of others, and can make them demanding, impatient and lacking empathy. Not all of them of course, but enough of them, mistake their rights for entitlements. I think that's what pisses people off about them.

I didn't really know what to expect when I arrived just over three months ago. Two days in Miami were as inappropriate a prologue as ever was penned. Texas was a relaxing, if hot, experience where true American hospitality, and the charms of its small towns began to work its magic. By the time I was back from Canada, armed with a Mustang, and embarking on the long trek down the Pacific coast, I was sold.

After that meandering journey through the transient landscape, came the inland excursion. The wonders of the west didn't disappoint - in fact they hid a few very special moments amidst the dusty red sand. Things changed again with Colorado, New Mexico. Red sand became white. The freeway miles disappeared, the speeding fines mounted, and I found myself, for the first time in a long time, back somewhere I had been before.

That Los Angeles should remind me so much of London, and be the last stride of this walk is no less absurd than Miami being the first. In time, these book ends will topple from the shelf and the stories clasped between them will stand alone; simple stories of the great outdoors and the wonders of nature. The tale they tell is a truthful one; it revealed itself to me chapter by chapter, day by day. Although it ends now, for the time being, I know that really it has barely begun.

L.A. Takedown

Before I came to Los Angeles, people told me it was crap because it was basically a giant car park with some obscenely rich areas, and some obscenely poor ones. And when I heard that, I thought I should feel pretty much at home, since it sounded exactly like London.

Just like London, it is a city made of many different towns. I haven't been here long enough to tell you which London Boroughs they equate to, but I'll take a stab at Beverley Hills = Kensington and Compton = Peckham to give you both ends of the spectrum.

What it lacks in history, it makes up for in celebrity. I marvelled at the Getty Villa in Malibu, a stunning example of Roman architecture, built in the 1970s. On a driving tour around town I passed the Scientology Celebrity Centre on Franklin. Driving around Beverley Hills past giant iron gates and the distant mansions, it was a nice change to see Al Pacino's gaff, where he is often to be found sat on the porch playing chess a few yards from the passing plebes.

The Roman Empire finally reached Los Angeles in 1974

A bit like Alcatraz, Los Angeles feels familiar. For the millions of shit films to come out of the place, a few gems have been set here as well; Chinatown, L.A. Confidential, The Big Lebowski. But none have gotten under the skin of the modern city quite like Crash (Paul Haggis, not David Cronenberg, before you ask): the story of a place in a constant state of torsion, punctuated by a series of private epiphanies.

It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

In my nine years in London, I brushed past people, people bumped into me. Instead of freeways snaking across town, we have underground trains and buses. In this cramped, collective and miserable ushering of bodies, Londoners are exposed to an exasperating range of horrors: body odour, bad breath, RnB music, loud phone calls, inappropriate displays of "affection". But worst of all, you get to look at everyone else's miserable faces.

In Los Angeles, you are protected from sharing these moments by your car. Everyone trundles off to work in their little (well, large) bubble. Inside it you can stink, sweat, grope, shout and fume as much as you like. The surplus angst that might cause you to shove someone in the back on a crowded escalator vents itself through the horn, or agressive lane changing. But the principle's the same; everyone gets home from work stressed, knackered and angry. There's a bit of extra fallout in terms of pollution and obesity of course, but it's still the Rat Race, and the Rats still win.

Fire

It’s pretty much dark now. It’s cold too. The campfire is fighting on two fronts, and winning. It’s winning on a third too, since I’ve been tying to write for the last hour but keep finding myself staring at it instead.

I wrote those words two months ago. They were to be the fire post, but I never got to finish them. When I set out on my trip down the west coast, I had never camped before; never been exposed to its magic. Now I realise that so much of that magic dances from the flames of a proper fire. They are so absorbing: stare into them, and the hours fall through you.

As I journeyed through the parks and wilderness of the States, I began to appreciate the natural forces that shape the world around us - water, wind and sun. Forces that slowly carve out landscapes over the millennia. And fire. Fire doesn't take centuries to do its work. It's not ubiquitous, like the others; it doesn't touch our lives every day. But when it does spark into life, it does so swiftly, menacingly, and with devastating effect.

Natural fires have been started by lightning since the world began turning, and they create as well as destroy. For years, conservationists went to great lengths to protect the Giant Sequoia groves in Yosemite National Park from fire. It was only in the sixties that people began to realise that Sequoias were actually dependent upon fire for their existence. With no flames to thin out the canopy, shade tolerant pines thrived and covered the forest floor, preventing Sequoia seeds from starting. They needed fire to open the canopy and coat the forest floor with a blanket of ash. The heat from the flames would force the pine cones to open, sending the seeds sprinkling onto the newly fertile ground.

Sequoias are perhaps the best example of the importance of fire, but they're by no means the only ones. Regular fire clears debris, thins brush, adds nutrients to the soil and releases seeds across meadows, mountains and forests. All members of the natural community; trees, shrubs, fungi, insects, birds and mammals benefit when the flames of a lightning fire touch the forest.

Death and destruction are natural, essential components in the cycle of life. And yet they are abhorrent to human beings. We resist them, I thought, as the flames danced and flickered before eventually petering out.