During the first week of May, the natives of this island celebrate a string of public holidays commemorating, well, I'm not quite sure what, but it's commonly referred to as Golden Week. It's "golden" primarily because it allows one to take a week off without actually having to take a week off. A few months ago, Mr N, Mr S and I decided that we would take the opportunity to escape our daily drudgery with a week in Vietnam. Mr S had not traveled outside of Japan since he stranded himself here almost two years ago, with the exception of a visit to the Home Republic, and Mr N sought a last adventure before his impending return to the New World, where he will no doubt build an army of robots to ensure that all humans eat their vegetables, refrain from all vices and never sneeze again.
Our journey began with a six hour overnight bus ride from Sendai to Tokyo. We had opted for the cheaper, and therefore less comfortable, bus - a decision we would later come to regret as we were driven to the brink of sleep deprived madness and homicidal inclinations.
The windows were curtained in a clash of blue and yellow and purple fabric that seems to plague public transport and budget hotel rooms. I was seated next to a woman who sighed repeatedly (interestingly, when Mr S and I had gone to purchase the tickets, the cashier inquired if the third person was male or female. The masculine confirmed, they proceeded to seat me next to another woman, presumably for fear that I would drive a man to wanton abandon, resulting in disastrous and unmentionable consequences. Unmentionable because I can't think of a suitably witty punchline here). Where was I before the parentheses? Oh, yes! The sighing woman! She was trying to tell me through the violent, tense release of air how annoyed she was with my presence - that I should deign to have been designated a ticket next to her seat.
She wore a leopard print shirt over black pants with too many zippers. She was years beyond looking good in this statement of coolness (but I doubt anyone would, except in the 80s, when standards were lower). I didn't get a good look at her when she twaddled on to the bus, but I could sense the presence of a few extra kilos (although, I may have been projecting) and suspected that she sold make-up at cosmetic Tupperware parties. She enjoys white wine out of a box and laughs a little too loud. Divorced, but believes in the Hope of Pop Love thanks to the Japanese version of Oprah (aka J-Oprah). She was hoping for someone - a similarly situated laydee (not a gaijin) - to sit next to, so that she wold be distracted from her return home to a romance novel collection and mid-range chocolates.
It was at this point in my presumptuous musings about my neighbour that the lights were turned off, and everyone was well-behaved and went to sleep. Except for me.
Hours of dozing later, we were dumped in Toyko at 5.30am. We stumbled past the drunk salary men who had failed to score the previous night into Tokyo station just as the first trains arrived, and watched the deserted platform swarm with hundreds of synchronized suits and heels that had no business being up this early on a public holiday. Hours were whittled away as we hunted for a palatable breakfast that would not offend our collective dietary fussinesses. Already the sleep starvation was taking its toll, as we wondered the streets of Shibuya, snipping and biting each other's heels.
I erupted as Mr S and Mr N sauntered while debating the finer points of Japanese grammar and schedules were delayed. My concerns over time management were met with, "Chill the Fuck out" - which only stirred the madness more.
Twelve hours after arriving in Tokyo, we finally boarded the plane and prayed for sleep to descend in Economy Class. No one was listening.
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