Ainoshima Cat Island

Posted on 24/07/2014 by Luke

With muscles loosened after a wonderful massage, I decide to truly test my body. My destination today is Shima Ferry Port. “You’re cycling to Shima?” asks a confused staff member. “Please make sure the bike is back before 9 p.m., okay? It has to be back before nine.” The time is now 11 a.m., and I have no intention of taking ten hours on this excursion. Little do I know.

I cycle for an hour in the direction Google suggested before realising I have no idea where I am. I spend a good half-hour navigating around an industrial estate, reaching a dead end, then turning around to eventually get back on track. None of the road signs are in my language, and there’s nobody around to ask for directions.

Ninety minutes into my journey and I arrive at a beach.

The beach offers a welcome rest, prompting me to park my bicycle and go for a short stroll. I stumble upon the only map in Fukuoka Prefecture and compare it to my photographed route; everything matches up. There’s still a long way to go, but at least now I know where I am. Thank you, ‘Mishima Water Area Circumference Route Map’.

At the end of the beach is what appears to be a closed amusement park called ‘Motown’

I continue cycling until the beach ends and the houses begin. I start uphill, hoping it’s the right direction toward Shima. Eventually, I find myself atop a mountain. It doesn’t seem right. Up here, I discover a stunning, random shrine and some very old houses, but not much else.

I eventually reach the downhill part of this frustrating journey, only to encounter a dead end overlooking the ocean. I have to push my bicycle back up the incredibly steep mountain roads, and it’s exhausting. Today is scorching at 35°C, and I’ve already used up a full bottle of Sun Aqua by now.

At the top of the mountain, I spot a human being. I ask him in Japanese for directions to Shima. He responds in Japanese, and though I’m not entirely certain, I follow his directions. To my relief, I discover a small train station where one of the stops on the route is Shima.

I opt to follow the railway tracks, at times finding them disappear or being forced to detour due to a lack of pavement or road. After a challenging navigation, I finally spot a sign for Shima. I adhere to the instructions on the sign, and miraculously, after two hours and forty-five minutes of cycling, I arrive at Shingu Port.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Fukuoka anymore.” I pay ¥460 to a vending machine for a one-way ticket. After a forty-minute wait, the ferry finally arrives.

On the ferry, a television airs footage of a dirty factory in Shanghai. Staff members, their faces blurred out, are seen relabelling one-year-old rotten meat with new expiry dates. The screen shows a pile of processed meat spilling onto the floor while rats crawl below. The gloop is scooped up and pressed into another machine, which churns it into the shape of nuggets. I have no idea what this advertisement is for.

Ainoshima Island is just off the coast, a twenty-minute journey away. It boasts more cats than human inhabitants. In Japanese, the word for cat is ‘neko’, and its pronunciation rhymes with ‘echo’.

I arrive on the island to find a cluster of traditional old Japanese houses against a backdrop of mountainous terrain covered in deep forests. Despite its small size, the island takes a considerable amount of time to traverse completely. In the shade between each house, cats are scattered, peacefully asleep.

I wander around the island where the small Japanese houses provide little shade from the scorching summer sun. Today marks the hottest day of the year. I spot numerous cats, more than I care to photograph. Here are a few more:

There’s one cat that takes a shine to me. He follows me around the island as I walk, meowing or crying—I’m not sure which. I offer him some of my water, but he responds with ‘Nyaa nyaa’ (the typical cat noise here). Perhaps he’s just hungry. I assume tourists visit this island to come and feed the cats, but it’s merely a presumption.

I take the 4 p.m. ferry off the island. There are only three other people on the ferry and thirty-two empty seats. It seems like somewhat a waste of fuel, in my opinion. Sumo Wrestling is playing on the television.

There’s one last thing about Ainoshima Island not mentioned in any guidebooks: giant wasps that chase you. I managed to take a photograph of one that was idling, smaller in comparison to others. I’ll admit, though, most of my time on the island was spent either admiring the cats or running away from the wasps like a frightened rabbit.

As the ferry pulls away, Ainoshima Island becomes nothing more than a blur.

I leave Shima at twenty past four, sticking to main roads and following the signs for Fukuoka. As I depart, a bus marked Tenjin Station mocks me as it cruises by.

Canal City, a Wedding, a Japanese Massage

Posted on 23/07/2014 by Luke

Today is Marine Day, but nobody let me know. The purpose of this public holiday is to thank the ocean for all the fish. Stock markets are closed, as are some shops. The weather is nice, and everyone has taken a day off for a trip to the beach.

I spend two hours of my Marine Day celebrations cycling between closed post offices. I wonder why they are all closed? After finding the fourth post office open, I conclude my business and leave with great dissatisfaction. These three police officers on one-speed bicycles soon cheer me up as they chase after a fugitive.

My legs are starting to ache after days of excessive exercise. I’ve established an eight-kilometre cycling routine that I follow every morning and evening for the past four days. I’ve managed to trim it down to about forty minutes, which is good by my standards, considering I’m on a one-speed bike and often encounter crowds of pedestrians that slow me down.

I head to Hakata on foot. Outside Hakata Station a stage has been erected and god knows what is going on. People on stage finish up singing, “We are the Bridge.” The theme song for the Asian Pacific Children’s Convention; a non-profit organisation that ‘connects dreams around the world’. I recognise the song, but I am not sure how or where from.

I head to a place called Canal City. This place is huge. 234,460 metres squaredof shops, restaurants, a theatre, a Taito Station video game arcade, a cinema, two hotels, and an indoor canal running through the middle. The nickname for Canal City is, ‘the city within the city’, and it certainly lives up to its name.

There is also a water jet show. The water sprays up into the air from the fountains below. There is a mat of synthetic grass where children can get absolutely soaked as they dodge the water as it falls toward them. A woman stands with a huge water pistol, shooting at the children, a grin on her face.

If you look closely, in the window beyond the water, a bride and groom are getting married.

Back at the hostel, the manager asks me if I ever eat. I was asked this question yesterday by another member of staff. It turns out none of the staff here have ever seen me eating. I try to explain to them that ten years of working nights have reduced me to just eating one meal a day, but they don’t seem to understand.

I head to the Nakagawa River. On the way, I stop and talk to Alan, the busker. He is taking a break, sipping on his Royal Milk Tea. He is from England and became homeless eight years ago. Singing with a banjo, he managed to earn enough money for a one-way ticket to Australia. For the past eight years, he has spent six months at a time in various countries. The money he makes busking every day covers the costs of his accommodation and meals.

As I walk across the river, my calf muscles are hurting. I decide to have my first Japanese massage, a type called Shiatsu, which focuses on finger pressure. I opt for a 50-minute full-body massage, emphasising my neck, back, legs, and Achilles. Afterward, I indulge in a ten-minute head and eye massage. The massage, performed fully clothed, is amazing. It costs me ¥4470.

I don’t have any photographs from the massage, as I didn’t have my camera with me. Instead, lazily, here’s a photograph I took of televisions earlier today:

I leave the massage feeling great, but darkness has fallen on Fukuoka, and I don’t know where I am. I buy a bottle of green tea and walk for a while in the vague direction of Hakata Station before giving up and asking a young Japanese man which direction it is.

He says to me, ‘I am going to Hakata, come with me.’ I follow him until Japan turns into a Monty Python sketch. ‘Come along, come along,’ he tells me, ‘over here.’ I follow him for ten minutes; at each intersection, he checks to see that I am still following him. ‘This way, come on,’ he says, ‘nearly there now.’ We do indeed arrive at Hakata Station. I thank him, and we go our separate ways.

I haven’t eaten anything today, just water and green tea, and it’s 9 p.m. It’s been thirty hours without food, but I don’t feel hungry. I force down a Family Mart dinner before heading out to do my laundry.

As I open the dryer door, a voice inside greets me with, ‘Irasshaimase!’ I sit in the Coin Laundry, reading, and every now and then, I glance up to watch my clothes spinning. I’m only writing about my laundry experience because I found the orange sign above the dryer amusing. ‘Help!’ shouts the shirt, as if about to be gobbled up. After the drying cycle is finished, the machine cleverly switches to ‘Cool Down Mode.’ Five minutes later, my laundry is at room temperature—fascinating. The dryer door thanks me as it opens, ‘Arigatou gozaimasu.’

Back at the hostel, I strike up a conversation with an Italian girl. She left Italy without money or a job and used whatever she had to fly to South Korea. Swiftly, she found a job and established a new life for herself. As we talk, I mention Alan, the busker; his story seems to have some parallels. Surprisingly, she knows Alan—around four months ago, she met him in Seoul. ‘An Englishman with a banjo, right!’ she exclaims.

Many of the people I’ve met at this hostel are residing in South Korea and are currently here on a visa run. Their visas expire, prompting them to fly to Japan, stay for a day, then fly back out, earning another three-month tourist visa. Interestingly, as tourists, they legally trade work in hostels for free accommodation without exchanging money. This way, they can keep traveling indefinitely, and some have been doing just that.

A guy from Canada has a big carrier bag full of jet black volcanic ash. “A souvenir from Kagoshima,” he proudly tells me. It weighs a tonne.

Udon in (three-hundred and) Sixty Seconds

Posted on 22/07/2014 by Luke

With the sun directly above me, there’s nowhere to hide from the heat. I anticipated the scorching conditions; the seat on my bright yellow bicycle was already burning when I first set off. I had to pour a bottle of water over it to cool it down; the water began to boil on the pavement. The tarmac here blisters and broils.

As I head toward Tenjin, I realise I’ve inadvertently chosen to wear a bright yellow shirt. I must look rather peculiar: a foreigner on a yellow bike, clad in yellow. Fortunately, I find a nice cycle path with newly laid tarmac, and my destination seems to have chosen itself.

Inconsiderate pedestrians often walk on the cycle path, obstructing me without a care. I make a stop to let a taxi pass, as I usually do, and the driver nods in acknowledgement, as they typically do. Interestingly, here, even when the crossing light is on a pedestrian green, motorists can still turn left, but they must yield to pedestrians first. I’ve made it a habit to let taxis turn before me, especially when they have a passenger. I like to think I’m doing everyone a favour.

I cycle for what feels like an eternity until I reach a place called Ohahsi. Not much happening in Ohashi, so I spot a sign for Hakata Station and decide to head back. On my way, I come across a woman holding a sign that says, ‘Time Sale.’ I humorously decide to ‘buy’ five minutes. Additionally, I encounter an army of crossing guards—three people directing one vehicle. Absolutely insane.

Attempting to find some eccentric Japanese electronics to write about, I discover that everything seems rather ordinary. Instead, I end up in a music shop on the seventh floor of Hakata Station. I spend about ten minutes practicing the piano, drifting away as I try to recall how to play the only song I can fully remember: ‘To Zanarkand’ by Nobuo Uematsu. It eventually comes back to me, but it was mentally challenging. The thought crosses my mind that I might have forgotten how to play the guitar by now.

I spend a while restaurant window shopping, stopping to admire the models of plastic food. A sign outside a Chinese restaurant catches my eye.

Instead of dining in Hakata, I opt for Tenjin, thinking it would be a better choice. With tired legs, I decide to hop on a subway train for the first time in nearly a month. I’m surprised by how soft and springy the seats on the train are, probably because the bicycle seat is hard and uncomfortable.

I disembark at the last stop, Fukuoka Airport, realising I’ve taken the wrong train. Not to worry, it was just a two-stop ride, and I won’t be charged for my mistake. As everyone exits the train, I wait a moment while it’s cleaned, and then I board the same train heading back to Tenjin. Surprisingly, many others do the same, presumably having made the same mistake as me. One of the things I enjoy about subway trains here is that since the tracks are separate from the ticket gates, you can effectively ride the train all day, getting on and off as many times as you like. There’s not much purpose in doing so except to rectify errors.

Ultimately, I spend a full thirty minutes on the train, the same amount of time it would have taken me to walk. The fare for this brief trip amounts to ¥200.

In Tenjin Station, there is a train made out of cardboard. The detail incredible. The photograph doesn’t do the quality of this cardboard art justice though:

I explore the thirteen floors of the train station, the overwhelming feeling I experienced on my first day in Fukuoka now just a fleeting thought.

I leave the train station and make my way to an indoor shopping arcade near the much-loved Reisen Park. There, I spot an udon restaurant—a Japanese dish I’ve yet to try. I opt for a mix of healthy and slightly indulgent choices by ordering a big set meal of udon served with vegetable and seafood tempura, on rice.

After placing my order, I notice I’m not offered a towel, something I’ve grown accustomed to in Japan. Typically, when dining at a restaurant, you’re almost always handed an ‘o-shibori,’ a wet hand towel to clean your hands before eating. Surprisingly, I’m also not given any water, and I sit waiting, feeling quite thirsty.

The drink I order takes five minutes to arrive, the food takes six.

The food turns out to be a bit of a puzzle; I have to assemble it myself. I pour the jug of sauce onto the tempura and then crack the egg on top, just for good measure. As I start sprinkling sesame seeds over the lightly battered vegetables and seafood, a Japanese man eating nearby tells me to stop.

He lifts the tray of sesame and wasabi to reveal a dip hidden underneath. ‘This,’ he points out, ‘is for udon.’ I express my gratitude for his guidance. Hopefully, I managed the tempura correctly. Once I finish my cold tempura served on warm rice, I move on to the ice-cold udon. Interestingly, the dip meant for the udon is warm, making everything seem quite backwards.

I find these thick wheat flour noodles a bit dull. I dip them, slurping and chewing at the seemingly endless strands. As I eat, my reflection stares back at me from the sauce. Hoping for a change, I mix some wasabi into the dipping sauce for a kick, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference to the dullness.

The food didn’t quite meet the usual standards I’ve come to expect in Japan. Perhaps my expectations were too high. The total cost of ¥1060, including a drink, offers good value for what was an average meal.

As I step outside the shopping arcade, the evening has settled in, casting a dark, starless sky. Walking along the river, I’m surrounded by crowds and vibrant bars. I pause to admire the numerous izakayas lining the riverbanks, each offering its own specialty food. It seems like an ideal place to unwind after a hectic workday or a leisurely Sunday afternoon spent in the sun.

Returning to Hakata Station to retrieve my bicycle, I encounter the same busker for the third consecutive day, stationed along my familiar path. Today, we exchange pleasantries. Judging by his accent, he’s a fellow Englishman. Our interaction has been evolving: yesterday, we greeted each other with a ‘hello,’ and the day before, it was a mere nod.

Back at the hostel, I make new friends. An Australian guy tells me that he went for a walk on the beach today and the sand was so hot that it burnt the soles of his feet. Blisters and broils.

Bike to the Fuchsia

Posted on 19/07/2014 by Luke

A cloudy yet hot day, with a cool breeze—a perfect setting for cycling. Today, I’m filled with motivation. My first stop is a small park along the way to yesterday’s failed destination, Dazaifu.

Inside this lovely park, three old ladies play bowls on a synthetic lawn while beautiful fuchsias wave in the wind near a natural stream. Japan currently recognises almost 110 species of fuchsia. These particular flowers boast the classic blend of purple and red hues.

As I arrive at Dazaifu around 3 p.m., the first thing catching my eye is a hill crowned with ruins. Parking my bicycle, I decide to climb it. From the hilltop, I’m greeted with a view of traditional Japanese houses in the distance. At the bottom of the hill lies Gakugyouin Temple.

I cycle around, admiring the greenery and scenery. In Tokyo, the greenery was often overshadowed by the buildings, but here, the mountains seem adorned with temples. A swarm of dragonflies gracefully drifts above an open allotment. This place exudes tranquillity, likely absent from any guidebooks. This is precisely the Japan I’ve yearned for since my arrival—a serene experience I hadn’t yet encountered.

Kanzeon-ji is a seventh-century temple, once the chief Buddhist temple in Kyushu. It houses a multitude of historical, artistic, and religious treasures. Beside it lies the ruins of the once-marvellous seven-story high pagoda.

Dazaifu is starting to remind me a lot of Kyoto. In eight days, I’ll be heading to Kyoto for one week. Then, I have two weeks without plans before I head back to Tokyo. The thought has crossed my mind to cycle back to Tokyo from Kyoto, stopping off at interesting places along the way. The two cities are only 367 kilometres apart.

The sign next to the temple mentions that the pagoda was restored in 741 A.D. at a scale of 1/10. Conveniently, that’s available to see outside the Dazaifu City Fureai Cultural Hall. That’s my next stop.

I enter the cultural hall, and the woman at the desk seems startled by my presence. Politely, I ask if I can look around, and she agrees—it’s also free. Inside, there are various objects encased in glass, mostly old roof tiles. After a brief tour of the building, I take my leave.

Next, I cycle to Komyoten-ji Garden to see the Government Ruins—the remnants of the medieval Dazaifu Administrative Buildings. They rest within a vast public park at the foot of Mount Ono. As I arrive, I notice some boys playing football, using jumpers for goalposts. The goalkeeper rushes forward, expertly dribbling the ball past six players before scoring an excellent goal. Applause erupts from everyone watching.

All the children in Dazaifu say ‘Hello’ to me. Surprisingly, there’s a distinct lack of tourists for such a historic place. Maybe I’m the first Westerner they’ve ever seen. With a wry smile, I reply to them, ‘Konnichiwa.’

As I cycle by, insects chirp loudly near one of the men employed to direct traffic. However, there’s no traffic on this road; I don’t sense a car has come this way for hours. He smiles warmly at me, signalling with a wave of his hand and a deep nod for me to continue.

As I pass Kaidan-in Temple, I see a sign for an Exhibition Hall. Carnival Cutouts wait for me outside. Inside, there’s no one present—no tourists, no staff members, no one to take my money. It’s just more objects enclosed in glass. A sign prohibits photography, but I snap a cheeky shot; no one will ever know.

My final stop in Dazaifu is the Kyushu National Museum, seemingly tucked away in the woods. I leave my bike; I really should lock it up, but I don’t bother. There are more temples around here too.

A sign simply saying ‘Museum’ points up a mountain path. I follow the path for a good ten minutes before encountering a new sign, indicating that the museum is 2.1 kilometres away. Quite odd. I retrace my steps to my bicycle and head off in the new direction.

I cycle up into the mountain and reach the museum car park; a sign indicates ‘last entry 4:30 p.m., exhibitions open until five.’ Glancing at my watch, it reads 4:28 p.m. Swiftly, I park my bicycle in one of the bays intended for cars and start running up the many steps to the museum.

A man with a red lightsaber appears out of nowhere. He insists that I must cycle all the way to the top and park my bike in the designated parking area. I protest, saying, “But the museum closes in two minutes, and I came all the way from Hakata!”

He makes a phone call and speaks in Japanese for a few minutes. Afterward, he tells me they can still let me in. Lucky me. As I make the final approach to the Kyushu National Museum, its sheer size almost knocks me off my bike.

Opened in 2005, it stands as the first new National Museum to open in Japan in over 108 years. It’s also the first to emphasise history over art and boasts an on-site conservation centre, the largest in Kyushu. The museum primarily focuses on prehistory to the Meiji era.

Once inside, I ride the escalator to the 4th floor and pay a ¥420 entry fee. The rooms are impeccably clean; the glass seems polished on the hour. The museum is enormous. Separate rooms display various collections of historic artwork or fossilised ruins. Photography isn’t allowed here—not even an opportunity for a quick shot; two staff members stand guard in every section. With just twenty-five minutes to look around, I leave dead on closing time.

After the museum, I cycle 18.2 kilometres back to the hostel. It takes me an hour, stopping once for a bottle of Pocari Sweat, and a second time to photograph this building:

At the hostel, I realise that I’m starving. I decide to keep my stomach empty and write up some of the day’s events. At 8 p.m., I head back outside and run on my empty stomach, finding the red lights of traffic intersections providing nice little rest stops from time to time.

I run for almost fifty minutes, passing packed restaurants offering any choice of cuisine imaginable. Even though it’s been twenty-three hours since I had any food, nothing really draws me in; my appetite is oddly missing.

I see a random square:

As I run, I notice some red lights in the sky that resemble a tower. Intrigued, I head in that direction. As I get closer, I spot planes floating by in the distance. A sinking feeling hits me; I might have circled back to Fukuoka Airport, recognising the tower used for Air Traffic Control. Oddly, I didn’t see any signs indicating the airport, though.

To my relief, my assumptions were false. I arrive at Hakata Pier, realising that the tower I saw was Hakata Port Tower. Calculating the distance, I note I ran for 5.7 kilometres to get here. Earlier today, I cycled at least forty kilometres. It’s surprising—I’ve never had so much energy.

Fishermen line up along the pier, and finally, my appetite for food returns, specifically for fish. However, the only fish I find here are sandwiched between glass in another small, free aquarium. I scout out the area and stumble upon another temple—I seem to have come across quite a few of these today.

The pier looks picturesque at night, adorned with its myriad of lights. Entering the food court, I find that the only place with any appeal is a French restaurant. However, as I approach, the lights suddenly go out. Closed at nine o’clock sharp.

I head back to Hakata and unexpectedly stumble upon the all too familiar Reisen Park. Spotting other runners doing laps around the park, I decide to join them for a while. When I finally locate the camera shop, I get my bearings.

The area around the park is bustling at night, with outdoor izakayas lining the streets. The enticing aroma of barbecued meats fills the air. I’m rather fond of the monument in the park, so I try to take a photograph, but unfortunately, it doesn’t turn out so well. Quickly, I make my way back to Hakata Station.

I undo all the hard work of the day and opt for McDonald’s. It feels like I’m a death-row inmate having his last meal, as I’ve decided this will be my final indulgence in junk food for a while. It costs me ¥986, effectively for fish and chips.

As I walk back from the station to the hostel, it unexpectedly starts to rain—for a grand total of exactly five seconds. Umbrellas shoot up, and just as quickly, they come down. Since I don’t usually carry an umbrella on hot days, I get ever so slightly wet.

Back at the hostel, I find I still have an abundance of energy. It’s been a remarkably productive day. I spend a few more hours writing, followed by some reading. Then, I head to bed—stone cold sober.

Rice and Shime

Posted on 18/07/2014 by Luke

I wake up at 11 a.m. Today, I’m heading to a place called Dazaifu, roughly fifteen kilometres away. Cycling on my one-speed bike in a straight line towards it, it should take me about an hour. Last night, the girl I met suggested I visit there—a kind suggestion.

As I set out, I discover a Domino’s Pizza just five minutes away from the hostel on the same road. I haven’t had one since arriving here—fifty days in Japan, only four pizzas so far. Tomorrow, it’ll probably become five.

A bit further along the road, near the Mikasagawa River, the skyscrapers start to disappear, and the sight of rice growing underwater becomes commonplace. Paddy fields full of semi-aquatic rice—it’s a picturesque sight, deserving a photograph.

Amidst the distraction of the rice fields, I suddenly realise that I am completely lost. In typical Fukuoka fashion, I see no maps, and signs pointing to Dazaifu have ceased to appear. Eventually, after cycling for about an hour, I find myself somehow at the base of a mountain.

For about ten minutes, I cycle without seeing another pedestrian. Eventually, a sign for a place called Shime catches my eye. My brain pauses for a second before a pun crashes into my consciousness. I decide to head there if only to make use of the pun: Rice and Shime.

It turns out Shime is up a hill—likely the same mountain I spotted earlier. I haven’t done much uphill cycling since Beppu, so my knees aren’t quite prepared for it. The footpath leading into Shime is in a state of disarray. Eventually, the incline transforms into a decline, and I find myself in a free fall into Shime. The wind is refreshingly cool on what is otherwise an alarmingly hot day.

If you thought my post about Nishioita Station was exciting, wait until you hear about what Shime has to offer. Low-flying planes drift over and hang gracefully in the sky. At least I can follow the planes and track back to Fukuoka Airport; I know this isn’t far from Hakata, where I am staying.

I cycle around Shime, searching for anything of interest, but find nothing. Wikipedia confirmed it: ‘Although the town still has a railway station, the line is no longer used.’ Seems there’s no escaping Shime. Just as I decide to leave, I finally spot something noteworthy: a chicken wandering around in some mud.

“Koke-kokko,” says the chicken in Japanese.
“Cluck-cluck,” I correct in English.

As I leave Shime, I find myself on the urban expressway, where all of the signs point to unfamiliar place names. I give in and revert to my plan of following the planes, soon arriving at the not very well-signed Fukuoka Airport.

I see the same Chinook I saw yesterday, just landed. How very odd—I haven’t seen a Chinook in over fifteen years, and yet this week, I’ve seen the same one twice.

After cycling for a total of three hours, I arrive back at the hostel and indulge in a Seven Eleven lunch: a bottle of Pocari Sweat, a fruit salad, and, as usual, egg sandwiches.

After lunch, I do my laundry. In the Coin Laundry waiting area, there’s a rather odd set of photographs. I have no idea what they are showing. Alongside the images are some Japanese notices.

I translate the notices back at the hostel. They read, ‘To prevent theft: if you notice any suspicious individuals, please contact the barnyard alternating Hakata police station if it was a robbery.’ There are also references to a theft in February, and still images captured by the 24-hour CCTV camera showing the criminal’s face. Named and shamed in a Coin Laundry.

After doing laundry and spending some time on Skype, I head to Hakata Station. Instead of taking the lift, I monotonously explore each of the ten floors. Hakata Station is a massive shopping centre with all sorts of shops, including the biggest bookstore I have ever seen.

There’s a record shop selling rare Japanese versions of classic albums. Perhaps there’s a profit to be made in reselling, but I don’t have the patience for that. I check for ‘Com Lag,’ but it’s the only Radiohead album they don’t have. The record shop also dedicates three entire aisles to the music of everyone’s favourite J-pop idols, AKB48. Crazy.

On the roof of the train station, I sit for a few hours, finishing off 159 pages of a Murakami novel. Night quietly sweeps in. The view at night is okay, but devoid of any stars. I ponder for a moment, questioning reality.

The Murakami book somewhat inspires me to make some changes in my life, specifically to start running more often.

On the tenth floor of Hakata Station, a Spanish restaurant.

Paella and Rioja happen.

I jog back to the hostel, finding the late hours have already wrapped the city in silence, a stark contrast to the bustling streets earlier. Passing by the second Christmas tree I’ve seen since arriving in Japan, I can’t help but wonder why it’s there; it does seem a little early for such decorations.

The reflection of Lawson blue bounces off the glass beyond.

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Monthly Archives: July 2014