EPT![[image loading]](http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v316/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30504578_2734.jpg)
Taken from the train on the way to Matsue.
The train glided along the tracks, and I became curious about my destination. The more I read about Matsue, the more I knew I had made the right decision. Matsue was known, Lonely Planet said, for its seafood, sunsets over Lake Shinji, and laid-back atmosphere. An original castle and nearby art museums and shrines were the chief tourist attractions. Accommodations appeared reasonable in cost, and the city looked compact enough that walking would be a non-issue.
My hotel was more than reasonable. For $50 a night, I had a spotless room on the sixth floor in the middle of downtown, complete with a westward view over the lake and a complementary breakfast. Matsue itself was picturesque. Narrow canals littered the streets, which were alive with people without feeling crowded or rushed. No one seemed to be in any sort of hurry, a sharp contrast to Osaka and the insanity of Tokyo's central station. Attire was subdued but still somewhat formal. There was none of the ultra-chic, zany neon of the big cities. This was a city. To me, this felt more like a home, less like Las Vegas.
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Looking out over Lake Shinji in Matsue.
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Uh.
After a quick shower to remove the stench of travel, I found a crowded restaurant and requested a table for one. The waitress ushered me to a small table with four cushions around it before taking my drink order and scurrying off to the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, I folded my calves under my thighs and sat bolt upright with my butt on my feet. The waitress returned, beer in hand, and started giggling loudly. "Relax, relax!" she said.
I extended my legs under the table and loosened my posture. "OK?" I asked.
"Good, good," she said, placing my beer in front of me. "Maybe more beer, more relax."
I laughed, took a gulp of beer, and stared helplessly at the menu. The waitress held it in front of me and pointed at some prominent characters. "You know sashimi?" she asked.
"Yes, I like very much."
"OK, sashimi."
When she returned with my dinner, the waitress made a point of identifying the silver-skinned fish in the sashimi set. "This... skipjack," she said, pointing at it with pride.
"Oh, OK. Thank you," I said.
Not being familiar with the fish, I didn't know what else to say. I later found out that skipjack is another name for bonito, the most important fish in Japanese cooking. Practically every broth in Japan starts with dried, shaved bonito. The waitress seemed slightly put out, so I asked her about the other fish. She mumbled to herself, pulled out her cell phone, and finally said, "Sea bream."
"Oh!" I said. "Sea bream, yes."
"You know?"
"Yes, yes," I said. "Very good."
The waitress beamed. "Beer?" she asked.
"Hai, nama biiru," I said.
"Good, good!" the waitress said, beaming a second time.
The sashimi was excellent, but what really surprised me were the fish eggs. They exploded in my mouth with a delightful pop and a rush of liquid, a delicious surprise. The octopus was too chewy for my taste. The eel would have been fantastic, but hundreds of tiny, crunchy bones marred its distinctive flavor.
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The sashimi set.
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The aftermath.
After dinner, I found a deserted bar staffed by two young women. I ended up teaching the bartender how to make a martini and was getting ready to leave when an honest-to-God white girl walked through the door. She spoke to the bartender in Japanese, however, and walked directly into the bathroom. Put out, I sipped at my nearly-empty drink.
The girl returned, grabbed the beer she had ordered, and took a seat in the opposite corner of the bar without even glancing at me. I frowned. This night was not unfolding as I had hoped. "Well?" the girl shouted across the bar. "Are you going to join me?"
"I hadn't planned on it," I laughed. "Would you mind some company?"
"Grab a chair. I'm only over here because I like the view out the window."
We talked for 20 minutes before exchanging names. Tonya was an English teacher living in Matsue. Originally from Australia, she had a strange demeanor, an odd mix of sociability and introversion. She often mentioned "hating people," but asked me to tell story after story. When I asked her to tell me one, she steadfastly insisted that she had no funny stories to tell.
"You've been here for six months, you just got back from Vietnam, and you have no stories to tell? Come on," I said.
"It's just, well, I was broke for a time when I was between jobs. I wasn't doing much of anything, you know?"
"How'd you manage?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know. You see, my school went out of business after I'd been here for just a few months. I went four weeks without paying for food. My friends and coworkers invited me over for dinner every night. I have a job now, though, and my father sent me some money. So drinking," she said, pausing to finish her beer, "is financially acceptable now."
A friend of Tonya's, a Japanese girl who looked around 16 years of age, joined us a short while later. Michiko spoke excellent English, and she was clearly excited to use it. She assaulted me with questions, all of which were formed with perfect grammar. When I told her my age, however, she said, "Oh, so young!"
"How old are you?" I asked, thinking maybe I had underestimated her age by a year or two.
"Twenty-eight," she said.
I was floored. Michiko's had mentioned that her mother had dropped her off at the bar, and she had enormous buck teeth that jutted out past her upper lip when she smiled. Her outfit was reminiscent of a schoolgirl's uniform. It was then that I decided I would stop trying to estimate the age of Japanese women.
The girls mentioned that there was a "house party" across the street. "Do you dance?" Tonya asked.
"No," I said, "but I'll stand at the bar and drink."
The party was in a smoky basement, and a mixed drink was included in the cover charge. Fighting the bass, I tried to convey my desire for a whiskey cola to the bartender. I ended up just pointing at a random item on the soaking wet drink menu. I then watched the bartender pour me a double shot of gold tequila and top it off with orange juice. This night was really not unfolding as I had hoped. I sipped my drink and surveyed the scene.
Two DJs from Tokyo were on an elevated platform on the far side of the basement, but what held my attention was the dancing. I couldn't discern a rhythm or pattern in the motions of the people on the dance floor. They would abruptly spasm from one leg to the other and back again, stopping to take a sip from their drinks or a drag on their cigarettes. It was hysterical, and I sincerely wish I could better convey their motions in words. This was something that had to be seen to be believed. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.
Maybe an hour later, Michiko informed me that her mom had come to pick her up. I tried to keep from laughing, made her spell her name for me, and thanked the girls for showing me a side of Japan I could never have seen without inside help. The girls, by this point quite drunk, asked if I knew how to get back to my hotel. "Yeah, I think I'll manage," I laughed. "It's right across the street."
