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.