EPTI was determined, however, to press on. I ate some breakfast, threw my laundry in the hotel’s washing machine, and went to look for an ATM. A half hour later, mission accomplished, I returned to the hotel to move my clothes into the dryer. While there, I asked the front desk clerk if there were any nearby internet cafés. She handed me a map and circled a nondescript building around a mile away. I had an hour to kill while I waited for my laundry, so I wandered off towards the café.
An hour and a half later, I finally admitted to myself that I was lost. I had gotten turned around after weaving through a sports complex and had walked a mile or more in the wrong direction. It was hot and humid, and I was wearing jeans; my shorts were in the dryer. I stopped at a vending machine, purchased a grape soda, and considered the situation. I knew the basic direction I needed to go, but my location was a mystery to me. I took a drink and felt a drop of rain splash on my hand.
![[image loading]](http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v316/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30504585_5411.jpg)
Lost in Matsue.
![[image loading]](http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v316/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30504586_5787.jpg)
Still lost in Matsue.
The hour-long walk back to my hotel was beyond miserable—heat, humidity, rain, my diminished physical condition, and worst of all, the knowledge that the entire situation was my own damn fault. When I arrived back at the hotel, the first thing I did was tell the front desk clerk that I would be staying another night. Izumo Taisha, Matsue Castle, and the Adachi Museum of Art would have to wait. I drank as much water as I could stomach and dropped face-first onto my pillow.
I awoke five hours later and felt a little better. As I drank yet more water and retrieved my laundry, I realized that what I really needed was food. I checked the hotel’s restaurant directory and hustled off to the first establishment I could find that a) had an English menu and b) specialized in something other than fish. I wanted solid food. I wanted calories. Looking back now, it was a historic decision; I proceeded to have one of the best meals of my life.
The best thing about yakitori restaurants is the variety. At most restaurants, you get a large entrée—usually a protein, a starch, and some vegetables. But in yakitori restaurants, you pick your own assortment. With portions so small and prices so reasonable, it’s easy to have ten small plates of different grilled meats and vegetables. I felt like a king as I ordered. “Yes, this, this, this… and this… that, too...” I said, pointing. “Oh, this….”
In the end, I feasted on chicken thigh, chicken cartilage, pork loin with leek oil, scallops, pork and asparagus “meat rolls,” and chicken breast with avocado, yuba, and tuna. I also requested, and ate, two bowls of rice, to make no mention of the enormous, mixed vegetable salad that I devoured with glee. To wash down all this food, I had a large glass of iced plum liqueur, two beers, and ten glasses of water. The wait staff, after filling my water glass for the fourth time, brought me my own pitcher. The chicken cartilage represented the only weak point of the meal. Its flavor was outstanding, but its texture was an odd cross between elastic and crispy. I could feel it gently giving way between my molars before cracking with an audible pop. It was too strange for me to ever consider ordering it again, but I had to try it.
![[image loading]](http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v352/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30504587_2067.jpg)
It's hard to make out, but the menu reads "Minimum Order One Drink Per Person," and they weren't talking about sodas. My kind of place!
Feeling very content after dinner, I strolled around town, looking for a distraction. A half hour later, I spotted a Guinness sign through a row of windows and was delighted to see that a bar was open so late on a Sunday night. The bartender spoke excellent English. When he handed me a coaster for my beer, the name on it caught my eye. “Oh, this is Filaments?” I asked.
Lonely Planet had recommended a bar called Filaments, but the night prior, I had been unable to find it. I’d mentioned this to Tonya. She’d told me, “I heard Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide made Filaments too popular with tourists. The owner was upset that he was losing his local business, so he moved the bar, even though the rent is higher at the new place.”
The bartender laughed. “You know us from Lonely Planet, yes?”
“Yeah, I heard you changed locations because of that book. Is that true?”
“Yes, yes.”
“So I am part of the problem, I guess.”
“No, no,” said the bartender. “You are welcome here. I always have need of company, because I am workaholic and alcoholic.”
I started to laugh, but stopped myself; the bartender was not laughing. His face was contemplative. “Well you have very good English,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Yes,” he said, “many Japanese do not want to use English because it is not perfect. But to me, language is just a tool. You know, a tool for communication. It is to be used.”
A short while later, a young woman and an older couple joined us. The bartender was kind enough to include me in the conversation by translating the gist of any funny jokes. At one point, the bar erupted in laughter. The bartender pointed to the young woman and said, “We are laughing at her, because she is hostess. It is her job to please customers. But she is not busy with business, only busy with love.”
“Her boyfriend drives trucks for… one week trips, you know? One week gone each trip. He is long time away. When he is not here, she has too little customers to keep busy.”
I smiled appreciatively. The atmosphere was wonderful. I felt as if I was among old friends. The older woman asked if I had ever tried what the bartender described as a “traditional Japanese summer cocktail” and insisted that I try hers. I ordered one of my own after one sip. The cocktail was a mix of red perilla, ginger ale, and lemon juice—very refreshing. The older man spoke some English and asked me a few questions, things like my home town, how long I was staying in Japan, and my age.
“I’m twenty-four years old,” I said, trying to speak slowly, “and I’m from California. I was born in Alaska, though.”
The older woman started laughing and spoke a few words to her husband. “How old do you think she is?” he asked.
I paused. With the memory of Michiko fresh in my mind, I was loathe to give an honest estimate. The woman looked 60. I studied her for a moment and, with as straight of a face as I could muster, said, “Thirty-five.”
The bar erupted in laughter again. I was just happy to have deflected the question. “Where are you going next?” the bartender inquired.
“I am trying to decide between Tottori and Hiroshima,” I said. “Where do you recommend?”
“I am biased, because I am from Hiroshima-ken,” he said. “But I think Hiroshima is very important place, good to visit.”
“I want to visit, but I heard I might not be welcome there,” I said.
The bartender shrugged. “The A-bomb is passed, done and gone. We have to, I think, look to the future.”
“I agree,” said the older man.
The bar was quiet for a long moment. Then the young woman asked the bartender if she could see the snack menu.
