A Most Serendipitous Experience: Dining Alone

Dining. Alone.

Yes, it elicits funny looks from staff and patrons. Yes, you do sit there staring at the decor and ceiling a lot. And yes, you do realise that everyone who looks at you is thinking thoughts of pity (no friends) or confusion (what's wrong with you if you have no friends?).

BUT, you also get seated real easy. Real fast.

I visit Serendipity 3 - a funky restaurant on the East Side of Manhattan around 60th Street. I rock up at 8pm. There is a huge crowd waiting outside to get in, and the foyer is equally packed.

There's a 3 hour wait if you don't have a booking.

I am tempted to say, "Blow this, where's Starbucks?". But one to never give up easily (or to believe anyone who says there is a 3 hour wait for anything), I hotfoot it up to the Host in charge of 'the list'.

Christina: Hello. There's just me. Party of 1.

Guy 1: Party of 1? (expression that is less 'pity' than 'You're weird and that's not possible, because NO ONE dines alone').

Christina: Yes, there's only me.

Guy 1: (turns to a waiter) Hey, that table for 1. Is it free?

Guy 2: Yeah.

Guy 1: (to Christina) Follow me.

3 hour wait? Pfff. I rule!

Of course, my rinky-dink little table is wedged between a 'proper' table for 2, and it juts out onto the hallway right next to the fire escape door. But do I care? No. I don't! After all, there is plenty of ceiling and decor to stare at.

The decor is extravagant and excessive. Tiffany lamps, a glow of red and obviously designed and decorated by a woman who was a pack-rat who never threw anything out. Absolutely marvellous.

I have a great vegetarian steak burger, and a huge-ass (very appropriate for describing my own rear at this point in my travels too) dessert: Serendipity 3's world famous Frrrozen Hot Chocolate. It is half the size of my head. I'm talking serious eating here folks.

So I eat well, got seated in the first 2 minutes and managed to see what all the fuss about the place was. For those not in the know, it was the cafe where the movie "Serendipity" was shot - John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale share a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate. Of course, I would have preferred to also be sharing a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate with John Cusack too.

Truth be told. The staff look like they don't actually like their customers. But for the ambience and experience, I'd highly recommend the place. And I'd highly recommend you book beforehand.

Unless you're dining alone.

Which I think only I do anyway.

A Most Star Wars Experience: Going (Han) Solo

Today, I do the United Nations Building. And it's not because I want to. It's because I keep saying I will. Self-imposed guilt is a powerful thing.

I could walk there from Times Square, but I am getting so damn good on the Metro system that I indulge in running to and from the trains like the locals, even if it would take just as long hot-footing it. Two weeks here thus far and I'm already walking like a New Yorker, getting easily peeved liked a New Yorker, and eating out like a New Yorker. Imagine what 2 years would do to me. The thought is too tempting. The speed of life here agrees with me, and I catch myself once again contemplating studying/working here. Oh to be rich... or an illegal immigrant.

En route to the United Nations, I stop by Ess-A-Bagel. It's a hub of activity and has a strangely warm and familiar feel to it. I can't say so much for my crotchety counter guy however. In this city, the customer is never right. Service staff here don't just dislike their jobs. They abhor them with a vengeance and the customer is the Devil's spawn. If there were only such a thing as Negative Tipping.

The United Nations Building. What can I say? Dimly lit areas not conducive for good happy snaps, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it whirlwind tour and a tour guide with such a thick accent you'd need an electric chainsaw to cut through it. It's United Nations 'Contikki-style' - without the sex and booze. It's a disappointing experience redeemed only by the spectacular photographic displays in the lobby.

Tonight, I am free and easy. I will try for One Man Star Wars Trilogy at Lamb's Theatre at 130 West 44th Street. I allow myself to be easily distracted in the meantime, a habit that is proving difficult to break in a city such as this one. I have acquired temporary Attention Deficit Disorder. As a tourist, there is no such thing as walking from A to B without detours in Manhattan. At best, it is A to B with a stop-over in Kenneth Cole. How conveniently placed it is.

I am pleasantly surprised to see that even though off-Broadway, Lamb's Theatre is wholly in the Broadway district. And I am even happier when I see a Storm Trooper out front doing some PR with the passersby. I'm glad to have opted for a night of being a Star Wars geek.

Sign says "SOLD OUT", but you can try your luck with cancellations in the hour before the curtains go up. Show starts at 8pm. It's 7.30pm. Never one to give up so easily or believe a "SOLD OUT" sign, I approach the ticket counter.

Christina: Hello. Ticket for 1. Any seats left?

Ticket Man: For 1?

Christina: Yes.

Ticket Man: Let's see.

10 seconds later...

Ticket Man: Yes. We've got an available seat.

SOLD OUT? Pfff. I rule! *punch fist into air*

It's a serendipitous moment. I get a seat smack bang in the centre of the intimately small theatre and with a perfect view of the stage.

Charles Ross: one man, forty characters. The name says it all: One Man Star Wars Trilogy. The guy re-enacts the entire main narrative of the triptych AND manages to convincingly impersonate all the major (and not so major) characters. I have not laughed so hard in so long for such an extended amount of time. Bloody brilliant. Bloody awesome. Bloody funny. Bloody hell - I am more than glad to be here in the company of other Star Wars fans and with the Master Geek himself - Ross. Jedi here rules supreme. It's the new religion. Count me in.

And it is confirmed. No matter how dorky you look and act, and admit to the hundreds of times you've seen Star Wars, a sense of humour is one of the sexiest attributes in the world/galaxy.

When Ross appears for an encore (an impromptu chat with the audience) - talking of dreams and passions, and most importantly following them - it caps off a most excellent event. The man is living proof that passion, verve, persistence and a dash of insanity will take you far. You gotta love this guy. Especially since he also does a One Man Lord of the Rings Trilogy...

Intrepid Hitchhiker's Guide to New York

I'm posting this blog. It's significant. Truly.

I would never had thought to do so, but I ended up hitching a ride from Brooklyn into Manhattan with a complete stranger on account of the transit strike. Lucky for me, my driver (an indie filmmaker called Leslie Shearing) turned out NOT to be a serial killer. Lucky for her, I turned out NOT to be a serial killer. And she didn't even charge me any money for the drive in.

Who said the yokels are nasty? (well, she was actually from Nevada originally, so that could account for the fact that I am sitting in the New York Public Library writing this blog, rather than lying face down in a pool of mud water in some back alley, being eaten by rabid rats - which, by the way, I have not seen yet).

The intrepid hitchhiker. Adventure on the high seas. Live a life of daring.

No one tell my parents.

Continuing on from my transit-strike saga, the ride into Manhattan was a breeze. Walking 16 blocks uptown, and 5 blocks west across town... with an 18kg backpack on my back, a daypack strapped to my front, and a big-ass bag on one shoulder... was not. I learnt one very important lesson from that 45 minute non-stop hike.

I do not want to come back as a Tibetan sherpa in my next life.

I am now bunking out with friends - Mel and Des - from home who have just arrived in New York for holidays. I am camping out on the floor of their hotel room in Times Square (made all the more comfortable after a stealthy raid of an unlocked linen closet on our floor). If any maid comes into our room and opens our closet when we're out... she will most likely be suffocated as an avalanche of duvets, blankets, pillows and sheets falls on her. Death by doona.

The room is 'compact' and the toilet keeps clogging up. I don't understand it. The portions of food served in restaurants here is enormous. Why are the shit chutes so small? Since there are only 2 people booked into the room, everytime someone knocks on the door - I have to hide in the closet. This is New York living!

And on that note: Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and all that other jovial stuff that has people buying things they don't need at this time of year and unnecessarily consuming enough food to feed a small third world country. 8)

There will be 'No Sex In The City'

Ever the consummate people watcher and student of life, I have arrived at several deductions over the course of the last week (in no particular order):

1) I have decided that it would be financially advantageous in the long term to marry a bagel maker (I have been eating bagels like they are going out of fashion).

2) I have discovered where all the beautiful people work. It is a magical and wondrous place on Fifth Avenue called... Abercrombie & Fitch. Frat pack, anyone? It makes you want to be a cheerleader... or go out to a log cabin and toast marshmallows over an open fire.

3) I have learnt that for the more sophisticated strain of man (whose first name is unlikely to be Chad or Brad), one must frequent Saks Fifth Avenue. However, it is likely that the boys are more beautiful than you, and they prefer other boys who are more beautiful than you. Sex in this city will only be possible if you are a character in a television series of the same name, or if you look like Brian Kinney from Queer As Folk.

4) I have memorialized this holiday as the MOTHER OF ALL SHOPPING TRIPS. If you listen carefully enough, you can hear the sweet music that emanates from the swish-swish-swish sound of a Banana Republic carrybag when you saunter through SoHo. Oh, okay - maybe not. Capitalism is evil. But it feels so damn good!

5) I know that my diet has gone to shit here, and that I currently have more caffeine and sugar pulsing in my veins than blood. Dale & Thomas popcorn for breakfast is evil. But it tastes so damn good!

6) I have deduced that I should stop watching so many schmaltzy Hollywood-Christmas movies. Because there really is NO John Cusack to bump into at the glove stand at Bloomingdale's during the pre-Christmas rush.

7) I have accepted that Macy's television advertisements are evil. Because I am a sucker for the Ken doll models, the impossibly white smiles, the fake snow and hokey Christmas jingles which make me want to buy things... and continue to be deluded that John Cusack will be at a department store glove stand tomorrow.

8) I have concluded that I really don't need to see a rat in the subway tunnels to complete my NY experience.

9) I have realised that most people despise their jobs. And they have no qualms about showing it.

10) I concede that this country and this city encompasses the very best and the very worst of culture and humanity.

New York City. You don't hate it or love it. You do both. Three visits to this city is not enough. There will be a fourth time...

Whatever can go wrong...

Today, the shit hit the fan. The Metropolitan Transport Authority went on strike - which basically means that every New Yorker who catches some form of public transport to get to work is up shit creek. It's all over the news - like September 11 - and we stay glued to our televisions watching the same footage repeated over and over again in different news reports that regurgitate the same story. Brooklyn Bridge is teeming with a sea of people, with plumes of warmed air spewing from their mouths. Some will walk 2 hours one way. And once they've finished work, it will be 2 hours the opposite direction in the dark.

It is biting cold outside - sub zero weather.

I'm all for the little people receiving improved health benefits, a larger pay packet and so on, but I can imagine the patience and empathy of NY citizens waning very quickly. You can already see it on the news - the weary and disgruntled expressions on the faces of commuters who just want to get home without having to fork out $40 for a cab ride, or brave the chill.

Pam takes the day off from work. She has designated it 'snow day' (although there is no snow, but there might as well be a blizzard). Snow days are a waste if you don't do something social, so we put on our walking shoes and hotfoot it over the Williamsburg Bridge late morning to downtown. We have a 'cookie delivery' to do (the girl bakes a mean batch of biscuits, and I think she may be a blood relative of Martha Stewart) as well as a visit to Chinatown to stock up on food stuff that she will:
a) having difficulties pronouncing
b) wondering 'what the hell is this?'
c) all of the above.

It is a surreal sight to see the city's transport system at a halt. The arteries of New York City have stopped pumping, and there is an eerie movement to it. "Closed" signs hang over barricaded subway entrances. There is an odd and lethargic migration of human bodies across the city grid. I am reminded of a scene from 28 Days Later.

It will be interesting ( to say the least) trying to get from Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan tomorrow. I sure as hell ain't lugging my gear that 10 miles (16km) on foot. Taxis are unable to be reserved and those that are entering the island are only going to lower Manhattan. People are resorting to hitching rides with complete strangers to get from A to B. BUT if you haven't received another post from me within the next week...

I am hoping for an MTA Miracle - that tomorrow, the Union will have come to some sort of mutual agreement or satisfactory negotiation, and public transport will be up and running again. Denial is a powerful thing.

In the evening, Pam and I transform the apartment into a Christmas Lights Wonderland - otherwise known by its scientific name as 'Fire Hazard Hotzone'. Taking to the walls with nails, hammers and an insane amount of fairy lights - all in the name of the festive season - we are the Landlord's Nightmare Before Christmas.

Schlepping about in the Big Apple

Jaa ne ('see you') Tokyo.

Hello New York City!

I have left the Land of the Rising Sun and Decreasing Bank Balance to return to the Big Apple. Right now, I am staying in Brooklyn with my friend Pam. Her funky little apartment is - I am very happy to say - very well heated. According to the news this morning, it was 15 degrees Fahrenheit. Which is -9.4 degrees Celcius. Watch this Australian become a popsicle. My middle name will be Blue... or Four Toes by the time I leave. It snowed last week and you can still see big chunks of ice on the side of the streets where the snow has melted, then frozen again. Go the thermal underwear.

* * * * *

The plane trip yesterday from Tokyo to NYC was again uneventful. I had two seats to myself, which still meant that I was wholly uncomfortable the whole flight. No plane buddy. My Qantas flight from Perth to Tokyo was the 'veterans crew'. Last night's American Airlines was undoubtedly the Golden Oldies Geriatric brigade. Only they were not golden but a bit crabby and rather uninterested in their jobs. I have finally found an airlines where the food scares me. I did not think that was humanly possible. My 'special vegetarian meal' had tofu which had the taste and texture of bland chicken.

Arriving 5.30pm last night, I caught the AirTrain and subway into Manhattan. It was a world away from Tokyo's sanitised train system. Graffiti, old decrepid carriages, not one perfectly preened woman in sight, and people actually using their hoods for something other than decoration. Toto, we're not in Tokyo anymore.

* * * * *

I look out the lounge room window and see the Manhattan skyline with the Empire State Building rising above as the most prominent architectural landmark. Settling back with my copious cups of tea, I watch daytime television. On the news, the MTA is threatening to strike. The city will come to a stand-still if so. Deadline is looming for midnight on Thursday. Get your Christmas shopping done... right now. But no one really thinks it's going to happen anyway.

I blissfully enjoy the sounds of the streets below, the ambience of the apartment, and the skyline before me. Right here, right now - the moment is perfect. And life is beautiful. I'll deal with tomorrow later.

Friends + Vodka + Japan = A Necessary Sequel

My last night in Tokyo was the finest. And I don't mean Moet & Godiva Chocolates fine. I mean, fantastically fine-it-should-be-bottled-and-sold-in-department-stores! It is a fitting end to a most excellent leg of this adventure.

When I return from Kamakura, the hostel is packed with new and 'established' guests. Everyone is in the most jovial of moods. My kinda people. Staff and travellers convene at 'the table'. One of the guys brings out a bottle of Vodka which we proceed to drink. Straight. I am more than tipsy. I suspect I am also high on life. We laugh long into the night and early morning. We tell stupid jokes, practise our very embarrassing Japanese, rehash the worst and best hostels ever and revel in mischief. At one point, a Japanese rendition of "Do Re Mi" is belted out.

There is Mariko (the most well travelled Japanese person I have ever met), Kei (coy and sweet), Ken (one of the hostel's staff), Shintaro (another staff member) whom we have renamed 'Brad Nandei' for the evening, Katie (British girl who has just returned from Kyoto), Andrew (soccer hooligan from London who is in Tokyo barracking for Liverpool's football team - go figure), Lena (my room-mate who is teaching rugrats English here) and Warren (Harvard student who is insanely good-looking and sweet... and 20 years old: *rolls eyes* here we go again).

I've been here only 1 week, but my world has changed again. New encounters and new friends enter my life, whether it is for a moment, or a day, a week or a lifetime. Regardless of time, I feel blessed to have met these people, to have experienced this city and left 'normal'. I think back over my all-too-short stay in Japan, and a Cheshire-cat smile comes over my face as well as a wave of nostalgia and sentimentality. A case of 'homesickness' before I've even left the coop (yes, it is just me that gets it). I feel overwhelmingly sad that in less than 24 hours - I will be on a plane elsewhere. I already miss my new posse of buddies, some of whom I have gotten to know very well since I first arrived.

But it's a small world. And plane tickets are cheap. It's not 'Sayonara'. It's 'Jaa ne' (see you later). May our paths cross again.

A Fishy Affair and Buddha Zen

I get a grand total of 50 minutes sleep before I have to haul ass out of bed at 5am. My bad. I was up until 4.00 this morning chatting with 'Michael' from Denmark - otherwise known as the Danish Drool-Fest. I'd seen him floating around the hostel for the last few days and politely returned his smiles but it wasn't until last night that I put on my glasses to look at him. My God. I should have worn my glasses more often at the hostel. Tall, manly, perfectly smooth baby skin, a Colgate smile, funny, intelligent, striking blue eyes... it is most unfortunate that he returns to Hong Kong today to finish finals at his university.

The things we do for momentary lust.

Today, it's an early start for the Tsukiji Fish Market. Unfortunately, our big merry band of market wanderers is but three of us (a far cry from the 7 who had eagerly put up their hands last night when I stupidly suggested we get up at 5am). There's me, Shelan (from Denver) and Phil (who keeps following me around - having your own personal stalker is so over-rated).

6am at the markets. Smelly, chaotic, floor drenched in fish blood and guts. Did I mention 6am? Blimey. This is not the place to bring your date - unless they have a thing for giant-sized tuna and old men in galoshes. The Tsukiji Fish Market raises your blood pressure like a broker in the New York Stock Exchange 3 minutes before the close of business. There's insane wheel and foot traffic, swords, shouting, pushing, disapproving looks at the gaijin who get in the way. Forget caffeine first in the morning. Where can I get me a shot of Tsukiji Fish Market?

I leave the guys at 8am. Shelan (who is, by this point, looking like a war victim with blood splattered on his jeans) is flying back to Denver with his cousin today. And as short a time as I know him, I am sad to say goodbye to the traveller (whose favourite word is 'shinkansen' - if I only had a dollar for every time he said it). As for Phil, I could not run away fast enough!

Sleep and food deprived, I fall into a light sleep as I make my way out of Tokyo into Kamakura on the train.

Today is glorious and perfect in every sense. The sun is out and at times, the weather verges on warm. Today, I let time slow down and my pace ease. There will be no shopping agenda in Kamakura, no gaudy cosmopolitan spots to frequent, no bizarre images to capture on camera. Mediation and quiet is the order of the day.

I head for Daibutsu to see the state of the giant Buddha. I have managed to escape the tourist hoardes today. The expression of the giant Buddha is immediately calming. Eyes half shut; a mysterious look of contentment and contemplation. It is but a small place for visiting, but I take the time to memorise its architectural and spiritual depth. I am as far away from the city as one could possibly get.

A short walk away is Hase Kan-non Temple which houses the 30 foot statue of the Goddess of Mercy clothed in gold leaf. She appears more fierce, more frightening a deity. Her eleven faces return the gaze. In her infinite strength, there is beauty. I am in awe. The temple grounds are breath-taking. The canopy of trees fuses the sky with red and auburn leaves and the striking green of bamboo. A lookout provides a far-reaching view of Kamakura's cityscape that meets the ocean.

I stop for a coffee from a vending machine. When it drops down the chute, I am pleasantly surprised that it is hot in my hand. I take in the spectacular views around me and create a narrative for the Gaijin on his own whose only company is a stray cat that has settled by his feet. The potshots are far too easy - Charisma Man with his Japanese Pussy...

It is 2pm by the time I start the 3.3km Daibatsu Hiking Course (armed with 2 crackers and a bottle of water for the day - what a genius - sometimes I wonder how I ever did a PhD). The terrain ranges from gentle slopes to sharp inclines. I am reminded how much I enjoy my own company and not having to make polite banter. I pass other hikers along the way and give the occasional 'konnichiwa'. An old man aided with a walking stick passes by me going the opposite direction. I imagine he has been on this trail every week of his adult life and knows the path the way a pianist knows the keys of the piano.

I stop at a small shrine called Kuzuharagaoka. It stands alone, devoid of grand gates, gold leaf and impressive gardens. An old man tends to the shrine, putting out a small urn in the courtyard. The smoke drifts up and creates a misty cloud in the trees. I drop some yen into the donation box and ring the bell. It clangs loudly. There is a humbleness to Kuzuharagaoka that makes me extremely glad I stumbled upon it.

The final stop for the day is Jochichi Temple. It is nestled in a forest of cypress and green moss. Two cemetries reside here. The place is so embedded amongst the trees that it feels as if it has been cut into the woods. Statues of deities poke out from crevasses and holes in the surrounding wall of rock. A groundskeeper is busy raking up mountains of fallen leaves. We nod in acknowledgement of each other. An old fragile monk watches me pass by as he shuffles slowly along his verandah, grasping carefully onto the wall for stability. When I exit the temple, the old woman at the gates smiles and waves goodbye.

I have to return to Japan again.

I make my way back to Kita-Kamakura train station. Here, the streets and sidewalks are narrow. A woman is bent over a tray of tofu which she is mixing, a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth. A barber is on his cigarette break. School kids are on their way home. This is country living. I'm glad I took Miyume's advice and visited Kamakura. I owe her one.

I leave Kamakura, again falling into a light sleep. This time, I dream of returning. Returning to this place. Returning to this country. And even returning to the hostel in Asakusa with the now familiar faces of new friends.

Harajuku Heroes and Charisma Men

If you happen to be male, single and seriously cannot get a date because you are boring, unattractive, uninteresting, out of shape ... I have advice to turn your bad fortunes into good. Listen carefully - because I will start charging a fee if I have to repeat this. This will change your life, especially if you have been watching endless reruns of Steven Segal movies every Saturday night on account of being socially inept.

Come to Japan.

Easy as that. I guarantee that within 2 weeks, the feeble, the ugly, the undesirable, the wholly uninteresting will change miraculously to ... Charisma Man.

The Japanese women here LOVE gaijin - foreigners for those not in the know. I have seen the most hideous men walking down the spendy and trendy bits of Japan with the most gorgeous local female on their arm.

The male gaijin constitutes a necessary accessory for any hip chick here. They do, however, come second after Louis Vuitton handbangs.

Some observations - the women here are beautiful (even the unattractive ones make the rest of us look 'passable' on a good hair day). Head to toe - decked out. Very Coco Chanel. As a well-seasoned traveller, I leave the good stuff at home. When travelling, 'good clothing' = 'clean clothing'. How I am regretting that in this city.

The foreign female can but only feel inadequate without perfectly coiffed hair, impeccable makeup and matching D&G handbag and shoes. Today, it was so cold that I had to wrap my scarf around my face and put my hood on. That did not help my already ailing 'look'. I was the image of a very strange ninja.

Traffic stopped.

Actually, I lie. I was at the traffic lights, and there just happened to be a big bus stopped there. But the people did peer out the window to gawk at the ninja-gone wrong.

Today, I explore Harajuku - home of the famous Harajuku Girls. They are my heroes. Kawaii, kooky and outright puzzling visualists of Tokyo who make the Shibuya Girls look like the rest of we commoners. The Harajuku Girls - little Bo-Peeps reincarnated, the post-Punks, the Goths, the Drag Queens, the outrageously bizarre who defy any categorization. They strike their poses - the ubiquitous two-fingered gestures, expressions of faux innocence and at times practised boredom. They are the image of anti-Japanese conservatism, a backlash against strait-laced, by-the-book order and tradition.

While they pose for the cameras today as they have done so hundreds of other times, there is the sense that even if the tourist flow dried up and the cameras were no longer flashing, they would still be here every Sunday. Self-preservation needs no adoring fans.

Just minutes away from this visual spectacle and excess is Meiji Jingu - a park smack bang in the centre of the hub. Here, tradition is in order. Processions of kimono-clad women dressed like porcelain Japanese dolls and their husbands-t0-be filter through the temple, followed by priests, female attendants in their flowing garbs, umbrella attendants and finally the 'Mods' in their suits and conservative contemporary wear pass by. When the obligatory marriage photo is taken, it is a throw-back to the past. Bled of colour, the image would be unrecognisable from one taken 50 years ago. It's beautiful, but so serious and strangely sombre. When one bride is unable to refrain from a smile and giggle, it is a momentary glimpse into the heart that the face must hold back.

These boots were made for walking...

I have accepted the fact that there will be no 'Early Morning Christina'. I give in to this resignation. Any good intentions of rising at the crack of dawn and hitting the pavement when there are only two other people up and about go out the window.

Besides, a girl needs as much sleep as she can get when a whole day is devoted to that artform (and some would say Olympic-medal sport) called 'Shopping'. Well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

As is fast becoming a daily ritual, I make my way through Nakamise-dori. It's a rather perfect day. The sun is out and it's warm. The crowds are out in full force, but it is Saturday and there's an aura of reverence around Senso-ji. The air is scented with incense and trails of smoke snake upwards before dissipating into a cloudy haze above our heads. A group of monks hold out wooden bowls for donations. Street vendors with their stalls selling all manner of food on skewers - meat, sweets, fruits - add colour, sound and smell to the scene.

I begin to notice things, even slight nuances, that I had not seen the first day.

Today, I devote to Ginza - Tokyo's answer to New York's Fifth Avenue. I exit Nihombashi Station and am easily sidetracked by Takashimaya. It's boutique and high-end couture. It's probably a damn good thing that my budget doesn't allow one to indulge in Jean Paul Gautier underwear that would cost the price of my plane ticket here. There is little to 'realistically' entice.

And then... I discover the Shoe Floor.

Think: blinding ray of white light as the clouds part and a lot of 'hallelujahing'. I am in a country that has shoes small enough for size 4 feet.

However, reality has a way of biting you in the ass when you get too cocky about good fortune and luck. The one pair of boots I have been eyeing off are apparently too big for my midget feet. In desperation, I start wondering how ridiculous it would be to wear three pairs of socks. I leave dejected. No big bag with big box with (big) boots.

Ginza Strip: very swish. Door attendants are ready to usher you in wearing their white gloves, thick overcoats and expensive suits. The big European designers reign here. Wallets will be emptied faster than they can be refilled. 'Freebies' become a welcome relief - even if it is playing with the toys in massive Hakuhinkan Toy Park (every child's dream, every parent's nightmare), or the new gadgets in the Sony building. I also engage in a failed mission to find the famous Godzilla Statue that is a landmark around the area.

Then, the flash of blinding white light and a chorus of 'hallelujah' starts up again. Hellooo Kanematsu-Ginza shoe store.

Can we say 'boutique'. Exclusive. Swank. I pick up the first pair of boots I see. They happen to be a size 22.5 (4). They are perfect. I want to marry the attendant. We speak the universal language of 'Credit Card' and 'World Cup Football'. Huh?

For 29,800 Yen, I get my beautiful boots and a shopping experience to write home about. My attendant carries my (big) bag and sees me to the door, then bows when I depart. I LOVE JAPANESE ETIQUETTE!

Christina Very Happy. She Get Boots.

Back at the hostel, it's Girls Night Out. Lena, Mina and myself make the 20 minute jaunt to Zai's - a small Korean restaurant that Makiko works at. It's in the backstreets of Asakusa, hidden (albeit unfortunately) from the main strip. We are the only customers at that time of night. We missed the earlier rush. Probably a good thing because, as with most eateries here in Japan, it is compact. It is, however, homely and welcoming. One cook (the owner whose name is Zai) and one waitress.

The company and staff soon become like old friends and close family. Good food, good company and good discussions. This is what life should be about. This is what travelling should be.

And it's official. There is no such thing as a non-meat-eater in this country (or at least, the places I keep frequenting - save for the 7-11 when I have become a regular). We are an oddity. 'Bejitarian' meals inevitably come with floating prawns.

We adjourn to a small bar on a sidestreet called Muchas Gracios - a literal hallway/hole in the wall with undoubtedly Japan's cleanest toilet. When we arrive, Singin' In The Rain is playing on a screen and the three patrons already there are having a quiet one. That's how it was when we arrived. When we leave, it's a rather different story. There's something quite wonderful and ludicrous about being tipsy in a bar with a Spanish name in Japan, drinking Baileys and watching 'Bob' the owner (Japan's equivalent to a Hawaiian uncle) and his regulars doing the cha-cha behind the counter.

We are the Architects of Fun. 8P

Lost in Translation

Today I visit a gallery in the back streets of Harajuku called Design Festa (1F and 2F 3-20-18, Jingumae, Shibuya-ku) after Lena tips me off. It is a temporary home to artists in residence. Small rooms filled with crude paintings of girls that would easily pass for a child's work if not for the poetic patternings of images and mood; geometric jewelry; fragmented bodies in black and white photography; explosions of colour in digital projections. It's an amazing find.

Upstairs, I meet a petite Japanese girl who ends up being one of the artists called Akiho Sasaki. She and her two friends invite me for tea, which escalates into 3 cups of brew and a 2 hour conversation in which only one girl - Kumi - sort of speaks English and I complement her by speaking absolutely no Japanese (though in my defense, I am getting rather good at pronouncing names of train stations). The third - Yukari - has the tendency to laugh at anything that is said and swings between expressions of confusion and surprise.

2 hours and several toilet breaks later, I am Grand Master Flash of Charades and have developed the rather odd habit of putting a very unconvincing Japanese accent on my English words... as if that is going to make them understand me even more. It's the equivalent of speaking snail pace to a foreigner. It doesn't work and you sound simply ridiculous, but I try.

I can safely say that at least half the conversation has been lost in translation. However, I can happily report that several issues and topics of universal importance are broached. Common ground is established as we agree that:

a) roo bars stop your car from being totalled when you hit a Skippy in the outback

b) the girls need to watch "The Lord of the Rings"

c) Harry Potter is hot. Actually, I establish that. The others just nod with wide eyes and amused (and confused) expressions.

This international mixing is really doing wonders for world peace and cross-cultural dialogue.

When Yukari and Kumi get set to leave at 6pm, they kindly offer to take me to Harajuku Station with them. We pass quickly through the throngs at Takeshita Street. It's glorious chaos; a surging collective of bodies compressed between the narrow walkway and pushed forwards by the ever-moving crowds behind them.

It is Yukari who takes me all the way as far as Okachimachi (by far one of the coolest places to pronounce). She turns out to be a lot more down-to-earth and understanding than she had initially let on. I get a warm glow when she waves goodbye from the platform. New friends are to be found in the most unusual places and situations.

Mental note: Learn some Japanese for my second visit to this country (and there will be a sequel).

En route back to the hostel, I get lost and spend a good hour traipsing around in the dark back alleys of Asakusa. Thank God for the Poo Building (aka the Asahi Building) as a landmark for navigation. I finally figure out why I am so disoriented. I turned down the wrong street at the corner of the Mercedes Benz building. I am a genius.

Tonight, the hostel is 'the place to be'. There's an influx of new peeps willing and able to discuss their worldly adventures. And I've come to the conclusion that 'good looking American' (aka Rob from New York) from the other night, well, he is a lot less attractive when he opens his mouth. Like a Ronan Keating song, some people say it best when they say nothing at all.

Turning Japanesa

I have landed in a country where clothes and shoes fit. There is a God.

It is my second day in Tokyo. I have well and truly left normal.

DAY 1: An uneventful plane trip with no Plane Buddy next to me. Just a plain non-buddy. I have unusually high expectations that every person I meet in the sky will have a good sense of humour, an interest in time travel movies and a funny English accent. It's all down-hill from here.

The brain, after having laboured through the PhD for three years, has made the rather swift transition into 'blonde mode'. As I make my way out of Narita Airport to Asakusa Station, I experience my first bout of frustration with Japanese signage. Never mind that there's always accompanying English captions. I'd like to boil it all down to jet-lag and the fact that I am schlepping around with a jam-packed backpack. That's the excuse I'm sticking too.

I people watch on the train. Face masks abound and everyone seems to either be asleep or fiddling around on their mobile phones. There's hot air wafting up from the ankle-level vents and blowing up our asses. It's uncomfortably warm and I'm feeling uncomfortably unfashionable and boho. Here, young women's attire is a strange melange of conservatism and the ecclectic. Purple-bowed high heels mixed with grey socks; cowboy boots with shorts and fur-lined bomber jackets. Spot the tourist - joggers, Kathmandu 'couture' and detachable hump.

My hostel is Khaosan Tokyo Asakusa Annex which is a 10 minute trek away from the train station. I follow my dodgey print-out map. All the signage in this area is in Japanese. Follow the landmarks - the Mercedes Benz building, the bridge and the dentist's building on the corner of the street. It's only been open for a little over a month. Brand spanking new, ultra-clean and with staff who genuinely look happy to see you (a far cry from what New York will be like). I can tell I'm going to like it here. I'm on the 4th floor, but with backpack it feels more like the 14th floor, in a dorm of 4. There's already a resident occuping the bottom of the other bunk bed.

I make my way out to Sensoji (temple) and Nakamise-dori late afternoon. Big lantern, camera-happy tourists, jinriksha selling their rickshaw rides, kitschy memorabilia, local produce and a hive of energy. Faux cherry blossoms line the rooftops of the stalls lining the thoroughfare. It's always springtime here. The stress of the last few weeks has literally melted away in a matter of hours. I should have gone on holidays way earlier.

I meet a Thai tourist called Meow (like the cat) and we talk about Japan, taking turns getting our faces in photos. I try out my new digital camera. Thanks to "Delete" function, I shall never again have a double chin.

I discover shopping Tokyo style and the famous Japanese customer service. EVERYONE greets you in the store. I go into 'foreign shopper guilt', compelled to apologise for not buying anything and overcome (with whiplash) when I attempt to return all the 'hellos' that come at me from every angle of the store. The voices of the sales attendants are high-pitched and sing-song.

Back at the hostel, I meet several other peeps on my floor - mainly Japanese girls. There's Mina who sells soy sauce, Makiko who speaks English brilliantly and Kei who doesn't. I have yet to meet the other bottom-bunk buddy in my room.

DAY 2: Today, it's off to Shibuya. It's all neon-lights, cowboy boots, impossibly short skirts, orange-suntans, nude pink lips and Americana with a distinctively Japanese flavour. School kids walk around looking as if they've just stepped out of a Manga comic book. The women are primped and polished. The men swing between strait-laced business types to post-punks. The 109 building is a riot. Bikini meets Nanook of the North. Girls are dressed to the nine. In Tokyo, I am representing the Third World of Fashion. Shibuya Girls put me to shame.

Mental note: Never entrust your eyebrows to a beautician who doesn't speak English. You may end up with half an eyebrow cut off. As if I wasn't looking unfashionable enough.

I'm through with Shibuya by about 5pm. There are only so many bomber jackets one can look at in a day. I'm up for a trek to Shinjuku - land of lights, back street boudoirs and 'places of unsavoury pleasures'. What greets me is the world's most convoluted and confusing subway station. 15 minutes later, and I've finally managed to find a way out of it.

Isetan building is for high fliers. And for those of us who do not fit that category, there is always the freebies on the ground floor. I quickly realise that there is no such thing as a 'bejitarian' in Japan. Either that, or my attempt at putting on a Japanese accent is as good as my attempt at trying a French one - it incites quizzical raising of the eyebrows. All the savoury food has a mildly fishy smell to it. Inari sushi will become my best friend in this country. That and carrot sticks.

I cannot help it. I am back to bomber jacket shopping. There's something to be said about a one-track mind and a credit card that is crying to be used and abused in this country. Several hours of traipsing Marui City building, I have elevated myself to Second World Fashion Citizen. One bomber jacket down, a hundred other things on the shopping list to strike off.

The trains here apparently shut down early. I can't recall when exactly. As much as I like shopping, my second day in this city is not the time to bunk out at a Capsule Hotel with a dozen boozed out, sleazy men. I play on the safe side. Tonight, I return to the hostel early.

Back at Khaosan, I acquaint myself with my bottom-bunk buddy - a Sydney gal called Lena. There's not much action happening in the common room. People here keep largely to themselves. They're either watching badly subtitled movies or tapping away at the computers (free internet).

On the plus side, there's a rather nice looking American chap in the hostel whose name escapes me. Very frat boy. With the Man Drought back home in Perth (and some would argue the state of Western Australia and quite likely, the whole bloody continent), one should never complain about eye candy.