Let's Japan.org Debunking Eikaiwa and Ramblings in Japan

If the title of this story is anything to go by then you'll probably think that what you're about to read is a tale of love, lust, excess, discover and the consumption of cured Albanian foodstuffs at a downtown yakitori bar. Please read on and make your own assumptions.

You may already know my story from an earlier tale entitled Vomiting over a guy in a bar in Roppongi. Just to reiterate, I've been in Japan for just over six months now and it's been great. I've discovered a side of myself that I never knew existed--one of mystique, confidence, eloquence, elegance and perversion.

So, where is all of this going you may think? Well, it has to do with my encounter with what is referred to here as inaka, or BumFuck as the Sensei likes to refer to it as. A small, isolated town or village in country Japan that no one would notice were gone if it happened to suddenly implode on itself and disappear one day. BumFuck. No, not BrownLove. BumFuck.

And it was on a crisp autumn morning that I suddenly found myself in BumFuck as art of my endeavour to thoroughly experience Japan and all that it has to offer. Why was I here? What would I gain from all of this? Where was the local bar? From this point begins the "pinnacle" of my story, one night of five spent in BumFuck, one night that would change my perception of Japan forever.

Evening drew nearer and my need for alcoholic sustenance grew ever stronger which led to the commencement of my journey. Stumbling out of my stuffy ryokan I headed for "down town", a three second journey that took me across the street from my lodgings. As you might imagine, the journey to the town centre resulted in my appetite becoming as big as Fuji-san, only without the snow on top. I entered the bar and immediately noticed that it was not unlike its city cousins, except slightly more void of human activity, the essence of what usually lures an individual such as myself into an establishment of this kind. But seeing as this was my first night here I thought, why make such a hasty judgement so early on. Give it time, Jazz. I mean, it can't get any worse than this right?

Time slowly passed by and I found myself sipping back my fourth brew. During that time little happened-- a few people came and went, a drunken old guy slipped and fell causing his elderly wife to hit him across the back of the head with here rather hefty hand bag, a tumbleweed rolled hastily along the floor, itself eager to leave the premises, perhaps signaling me to take heed and do likewise. But, I'm no tumbleweed. Tumbleweed are renown for their lack of creativity and insight to make a dull situation interesting. Tumbleweed have never been known for their innovation. I mean, when was the last time you saw a tumbleweed roll down a platform at Shinjuku station. That night my friends, I was no tumbleweed. Looking back, just for a moment, I wished that I were. I wished that I were.

Over three hours had passed. My only conversation was with myself, debating why I was here and not in Tokyo. As I sat on my stool, starring expressionless at the ever-so-cute waitress, following her every move, every glance, I warily stood up and stumbled towards the cigarette machine. I deposited a number of coins into the machine and placed my order. Three packets of Mild Sevens. I retrieved my purchase and proceeded to exit the empty bar, taking a last look at the waitress in the hope of a peek at some panty action as she proceeded to retrieve something from under a table.

After copping an eyeful of what I can only have imagined would be absolute bliss, I wish I hadn't, as the realisation of knowing that I would have no outlet to vent my increasing curiosity was sure to result in a sleepless night.

I exited the bar and stumbled across the ghostly, lifeless street. No tumbleweeds. No nothing. I entered the ryokan. And there I was. Standing in my cramped room. Stuck in BumFuck with a deck of Mild Sevens and a hard-on.

Jazza