To steal from The Beatles: “Back in Hang-Hang-Hangzhou!” Yes, I was here almost exactly a year ago, except further out. On my previous edition there were faux-Eiffel towers and Trevi fountains. This time around, we’re downtown. It’s the difference, say, from being in St. Charles or St. Louis . . . Westchester vs. Manhattan. As financial institutions crash in your backyard, I find myself once again in the Middle Kingdom . . . which will eventually own them all. Move your accounts from Commerce and Wachovia to China Construction Bank while there’s still time.

But in the meantime, don’t drink the milk! Last year we had fears of antifreeze in the toothpaste. This time around it’s melamine in the milk. For the uninitiated, melamine is the substance out of which plastic dinnerware is made—the kind you find in Chinese restaurants. Apparently—and I don’t know when this began—they started adding melamine to powdered milk (and baby formula) because, when analyzed, it made it look like the milk had astronomically high levels of protein. Except that it’ll kill you. I have no idea how this affects liquid milk—or if it does at all—but for the moment I’m drinking my coffee (such that it is) black.

Actually the melamine isn’t my biggest worry. Sometime around three weeks ago I began getting sick. I appeared that I had an infection that wouldn’t go away, and yet Kari didn’t seem to catch it from me. Eventually I was persuaded to go to the doc-in-the-box in order to rule out walking pneumonia and other worst-case scenarios. The doc deduced that it was allergies and prescribed me a $100 inhaler and Claritin. No change. Still I coughed and hacked like a 2-pack-a-day smoker. Still nothing “productive” about the coughing. Finally, on the 14-hour plane ride to Shanghai the coughing reached a feverish pitch (much to the horror of everyone seated within a 10-row radius who must have thought I had typhoid). There’s no delicate way of putting this. During the flight I “recovered” a piece of food—a spinach crepe actually—that had been lodged in my throat since the US Open. It was a kind of victory, yet horribly disgusting and ultimately not the end of the line. There’s still more to cough up, and each day it gets more painful. Whether this will end with me getting x-rayed in the next 48 hours is anyone’s guess.

Anyway, last night was the formal dinner with the mayor—the kind of buffet with lots of slowly-translated speeches and food that that makes a less-than-adventurous eater (never mind the vegetarian) wince. There were jellyfish and the like. I stuck to the mashed potatoes. At the end of the post there are some amusing signs from the lunch buffet. Please let me know in the comments what you would’ve chosen based on the dish description alone.

Afterwards, Bam and Bouk went on an outing. We were the only clowns with any energy at all, and we were looking for trouble. We found it in the form of “Flower City.” For the record, Flower City is NOT a strip club. And yet, it could be something far more nefarious. It was hard for us to tell. When we entered this elaborate nightclub, a phalanx of identically-clad Chinese darlings bowed in our direction. We were then led to a banquette from which we were to watch the floor show, which consisted of trios of girls performing—one singing, the other two “dancing” with tambourines and looking extremely bored—Chinese pop songs in a kind of rotation. I can only describe their dress as provocative but not vulgar. As two bald westerners, we were clearly the oddities in the room. We drank our overpriced California Chardonnay and tried to deduce the situation. There was clearly more going on than met the eye. It appeared that there were 3 classes of girls: social hostesses, performers, and girls with whom you might disappear into a back room. Each table is assigned a hostess, but ours gave up on us quickly since there was no conversation to be made. In fact, our lack of language skills may have meant that we didn’t have to deal with the upsell. Thank god. All in all it was amusing. Flower City baby.

And now, bon appetit:

I rarely thumb through the Time Out listings for jazz clubs, but I had already read the rest of the magazine . . . and I had time to kill. To my astonishment and wonder I read that Bojan Zulfikarpasic was listed to play that night in New York. That’s when the aforementioned singularity occurred.

Let me start at the beginning. In 1986 I traveled abroad for the first time as part of the Blue Lake in Bavaria summer music tour. I was in the percussion section of a concert band made up of youth from the US and Europe (roughly 50/50 of each). In addition there was a jazz band that traveled with us. We rehearsed for 2 weeks near a town called Rottenbuch, then toured Germany and Denmark for another 2 weeks. (I suppose the use of the word ‘fortnight’ would have rendered the preceding sentence more artful, but I couldn’t bear it.) It was a transformative summer in many respects—there was a first kiss and the learning to drink coffee—but I never keep in touch with anyone from that group. Though we probably had a total of 2 conversations (if that) Bojan made an impression, and Zulfikarpasic is not a name one easily forgets.

Bojan was from Yugoslavia (a country I hadn’t even heard of at the time), and was not demonstrative. I don’t remember him speaking much. But I remember him playing piano. He played piano in a way that was entirely foreign to me. I’d taken lessons for 10 years by that time and could get by, but Bojan was playing something I’d never heard before: jazz. I don’t mean that I’d never heard a ‘jazz’ piano before, but this was different. He was composing on the spot. He knew every standard in every key. I could sit and watch him for hours (and did).

When I got back to the states I told my mom about it, and she made some phone calls. If this was my new passion, then she was going to get me lessons. It was probably a year later before I started in earnest, but the memory didn’t wane: it waxed. I tried to buy records that could bring me back to that place, but it all sounded either overproduced or sterile. One thing led to another and I slowly learned to re-learn my instrument. Slowly and arduously. I was clearly not a natural. Even so, I chose jazz as my major and studied it as best I could.

I began listening to Oscar Peterson, Bud Powell, McCoy Tyner . . . but Bojan had a special place. I wondered how he had been essentially my age and yet playing like he’d lived several lifetimes. I wondered if my mind had been playing tricks on me, and maybe he wasn’t really what I’d remembered. I remember thinking about him again around the time of Bosnian war. He was the only thing I new about Yugoslavia, so I wondered if he survived.

Then yesterday. Apparently he was alive. And well. And playing in New York. I went to see him and, I am happy to report, he plays with the same consummate energy I’d remembered. He’s recorded several CDs (available on itunes) and has a thriving career in Europe. He lives in Paris. To call him ‘good’ is an understatement. He recently won an award the claims to be for ‘the best jazz musician in Europe’, which is pretty broad. As a jazz musician, there are really only two challenges: 1) can you play what you hear; and 2) do you hear something interesting? This guy hears things that fall in the cracks, and he uses his technique to dig them out. Never flashy for its own sake, I witnessed a left hand that was frightening.

Yes, I said ‘hello’ and gave him a much-abbreviated version of this anecdote. He was freaked out, of course, and totally affable. Perhaps we’ll try to keep in touch. After all, once you’ve traveled Germany in a matching baby-blue polo shirt with someone, there’s a kind of a bond.

They say there’s an equation in Kodiak that goes like this: 1 sunny day erases 3 days of rain (in one’s memory). This may be true, but it hasn’t stopped raining since I arrived here 5 days ago. So, I can’t yet vouch for the theory. By all accounts, though, we’re supposed to have sun this weekend, so at least there’s that.

Not much to report when things are running smoothly. Campers seem happy; counselors seem happy; and this coach is doing much better physically than he was just a few days ago. Peter keeps offering the kids bribes to do impossible tricks. He almost had to buy a cake for a group yesterday, but he lucked out at the last minute.

What else? The daily newspaper seems to always feature some wildlife photo on the front page. Yesterday it was otters. This in spite of the recent appearance of trio of bears in town. I guess no one got their pictures, but apparently one had his way with a car last night. Keep in mind that when I say “bears”, I don’t mean your average black bear from the Midwest. I mean BEARS. BIG bears. “Monsters that eat your head” kind of bears. People can pay hundreds of dollars to take sea planes out into the wilderness to see Kodiak bears, so I’m choosing to regard the visitors as a cost-saving measure. I’ve been here twice, and I’ve yet to see one. I’ll keep you posted.

Speaking of bears, the subject of polar bears came up again the other day. Sandy—the camp organizer—has moved to the end of the Earth (Barrow, AK), where no humans were ever meant to live. It’s polar bear country up there, and she enlightened me on something we “outsiders” (that is, residents of the lower 48) don’t understand. Here’s the thing: despite global warming and the polar bear’s recent endangered status, there are more polar bears than there ever have been. Really. You see it’s easier to generate sympathy for polar bears than protect their environment through other measures. They're political pawns really. Do the ends justify the means? Well, maybe.

If I don’t write again after this weekend, you’ll know what happened. Hint: rent “Grizzly Man.”

Miss me?

Yeah, I know. If any of the bloggers I read were to go this long between posts, I’d stop checking. What follows is a very abbreviated accounting of what went on during the interval and the occasion of my return.

First and foremost, this blog was created in order to chronicle the adventures of a working clown on the road. Unfortunately, the last 6-months haven’t involved much traveling to bring comedy to the masses. In fact—thanks I suppose to the current recession—there hasn’t been nearly enough work at all. Two different trips to China (about which I had hoped to blog) were cancelled due to acts of God, and what few gigs I managed to pick up would hardly elicit much excitement. It’s true, there was the drama of bringing every piece of gear I own except my stilts to a gig where I needed ONLY my stilts. But I doubt most of you would be too interested in how Cheryl Shruffer rode in on horseback, wearing a cape, and saved me from professional black-listing with a loan of the missing item.

The notable exception to this artistic drought was the two-week off-Broadway run of Bambouk: bald comedy, in tails. that took place in late April and early May. While hugely important in the arc of my professional career, it doesn’t—properly speaking—belong in a travel blog, as it went down less than 10 miles from my apartment. Still, there were enough peaks and valleys in the course of putting up the production to justify its own blog. There was the drama of booking a theatre and later having our contract cancelled (in favor of a bigger show) and the subsequent move to a larger space. There was the fiasco of misprinted t-shirts and a stolen camera. Over the course of two weeks we learned a lot about our show, New York audiences, and how we are not the marketing geniuses we had hoped to be. Much good came from the experience, none of it financial. Video from the show is currently being compiled into promotional material. A rough draft of it can be seen here:

I would be remiss in not pointing out the dramatic changes in my personal life that occurred in the past 6-months. Over the Christmas holidays I managed to secure the lease on a studio apartment in the Bronx. This is remarkable because I hadn’t been on a lease since ’03, and my rental history had more-or-less evaporated. I had lived there nary 3 months when Kari agreed to move in with me. The gods had somehow conspired to stabilize both my love life and living situation in one fell swoop.

That said, perhaps you’re wondering what finally got me off my duff and back to this blog. It’s simple: I’m writing this from a plane en route to Kodiak, Alaska where I’m going to spend the next two weeks working with my old friend Peter at a circus camp; and, so, as this constitutes travel for the purposes of art/work/education/commerce I felt remiss in not keeping you posted. For the record, I taught here last year with Brian, before this blog began. With any luck, these kids will provide fodder for stories. Or perhaps I’ll be attacked by a bear . . . though you’d probably hear about that on the news and not here.

In completely unrelated news, I’ve been listening to Stravinksy’s “L’histoire du soldat” after hearing it on the radio for the first time the other day. I don’t know how I got to be this old without discovering it before now, but it’s awesome. If you find you’re similarly unaware of it, I recommend downloading it.

As Friday wore on and the last shows were in the bag, the pace of life began to accelerate exponentially. Suddenly everyone’s agendas were at odds. Some wanted to bar-b-que; others wanted to cruise on a boat through the park; and more than a few wanted to hook-up with that special someone they’d been crushing on for weeks. What we all had in common was we needed to pack our heaps of crap into far too few bags and clear out of our rooms. And we had to do this by 4:00 AM when the bus was to pick us up and drive us to the airport.

It was a day of minor catastrophes for me. On the last trick of the last show I dismounted my unicycle for the 42nd time on the World Bazaar stage and it came crashing down behind me just as it always does. This time, however, the pedal hit the stage in such a way as to crack it completely in two. I packed it away as is, just being glad I wouldn’t have to worry about repairs before I was back in NYC. Then my bowler hat went missing. It was at large for several hours until one of the staff found it in the back of a van. (Not my fault.) Finally, I managed to overturn a bottle of latex nose-glue causing an awful mess before going out to do my last set. (My fault entirely.) All these things sound pretty minor a day (or even several hours) ex post facto, but at the time they were occurring they stressed me out considerably.

Somehow in the middle of this Jessie (a clown from CA, my replacement) convinced me to give up 40 minutes to ride one of the rides I’d not yet ridden. We had our faces scanned with clown noses and got to see ourselves in an animated space movie.

The B-B-Q was a cold and dark affair. The remainder of a bottle of Johnny Walker was my substitute for both food and mittens. My intention to sleep as much as possible was thwarted by the aforementioned Hungarian Lotharios and other inconsiderates who slammed doors until the bus arrived. At the airport Taiko again informed me that the adventure I was about to embark upon was highly irregular and against her better judgment. I thanked her and hugged her awkwardly before leaving the pack and descending into the bowels of the Fukuoka subway system with suitcase and accordion in tow.

5 hours on the shinkansen (bullet train) took me halfway across the country. I saw Mt. Fuji at 200 mph, and listened to French pop music. Officially—at least according to me—the last line of any haiku needs must be “I see Mount Fuji”, so I was glad to be able to check it off the list, even if it is really no different than another snow-capped peak when whizzing-by at light speed.

As a clown, one of my strengths is showing pain. Well, not so much pain as struggle and desperation. I discovered looking calm and collected gets you no help when you need it, so I grimaced wildly as I tried to manage my oversized suitcase, accordion and backpack against the throng in the Tokyo train station. What I had been trying to do, unsuccessfully, was to purchase a subway ticket to get me to the inn. As previously mentioned, I was doing this on almost no sleep. I had eaten nothing but a couple rice cakes and “Amino Value” drink in close to 16 hours. Finally, after about 45 minutes of trying, someone approached me and asked me if I was going to die. Well, not actually that, but I imagine that was the subtext of “can I help you?” in this particular circumstance. She was my first angel of the day, but she wouldn’t be my last. She managed to get me to the train I’d been seeking so desperately.

A short ride later the situation repeated itself as I tried to find the inn. For those of you who’ve never traveled in Asia, let’s just say that it’s entirely different than traveling in America or Europe in that street names are almost irrelevant and decidedly not marked. Any map or set of directions is open to wide interpretation. There is no “turn left on MAIN, go two blocks and make a right on 2nd Ave.” My directions to the hotel were as follows (compliments of Let’s Go Japan): “From the west exit head towards the police box and cross to KFC. Turn left, continue 3 blocks, and go right at Sumitomo-Mitsui bank. Take the 4th left at the major intersection, 3rd right before the pharmacy, and 1st left. It’s on the left in illegible kanji (Japanese characters).” Let’s just say that the “sumitomo-Mitsui bank” must have closed since the publication of this book. I pushed my load through the hoards of people for a long while when I decided I’d gone too far and turned around.

About then I met my 2nd angel. She was on a bicycle and probably all of 19. “Excuse me, are you looking for Kimi Ryokan?” Indeed I was. How did she know? She declared that she often saw Westerners with suitcases looking confused. She turned me around, and proceeded to escort me through a series of winding streets with no markings to the very non-descript building that I certainly would have never found. “Here you are,” she said, and spun around on her bicycle and disappeared as I shouted hearty thanks.

Once unloaded and checked in, I chose the path of least resistance—Subway. A foot-long sandwich with guacamole was something I hadn’t even contemplated in 2 months, but in Tokyo you can get anything. I took a walk and eventually ended up at the National Theatre. I considered seeing some kabuki, but then realized I was dying of fatigue. My head was splitting open. Here I was on vacation and I hadn’t slept in almost 24 hours, maybe more. I reasoned that if I went to bed at 6:00 PM I could stave off the jet lag when I got back to New York AND get to be a party animal by closing down dance clubs at 5:00 AM. (What WAS I thinking, honestly?) Let’s just say that getting back to the inn was less simple without my bicycle girl, but eventually I did. I went to bed for what I thought would be a long winter’s nap. An hour later the phone rang. I rolled over and ignored it. 2 hours later it rang again. I picked up. There was a message from the front desk. Sara had been by to see me and had left a message. She was available to hang-out tonight. When the room stopped spinning I realized that it would be rude for me to blow off my 3rd angel of the day. After my nap I was feeling a bit refreshed anyway.

What followed was a rendezvous for pizza, coffee, and conversation. Nothing remarkable to blog about, but it was good to not be alone in the big city. We have plans for tomorrow, but I’ll close this out because this time I really AM going to bed. I’m not kidding.

Of the three Santas here for the holidays, two are from the Netherlands, one is from San Francisco. The oldest of the Dutch Santas has been coming here for fifteen years or more. His likeness is on the house wine and beer logos, and with good reason: he looks—in so much as this can be achieved—EXACTLY like Santa. No make-up or fat suit necessary. Today he decided to come to my show.

It shouldn’t have been a good show. It was a cold, cloudy Tuesday. Almost no one was in the park. And yet somehow an audience materialized just moments before I needed them to. And what an audience they were. Small but mighty, as we say. Technically, things that couldn’t have been planned happened flawlessly. For example, after I take the stage I have someone from the audience throw the hat to my head. Sometimes—when they throw it well and I don’t suck—I catch it on my head. THIS time, I caught it on the last beat of the music. And so went the show from top to bottom. And apparently my antics made boss Santa laugh till he cried. I don’t know if that will translate into something extra in my stocking this year. (I hope, at least, he won’t [as per Dutch tradition] kidnap me and take me back to Spain with his “6 to 8 black men” as he does with bad girls and boys. [For more on this, see David Sedaris’ piece of the same title.]) Anyway, it was a surprisingly good set that yielded a nice quote for the press kit.

By contrast, the Santa from San Francisco is one of those cloying individuals that would make even Norman Rockwell want to commit hari-kari. He uses at least 6 puns per sentence and then questions your sense of humor when you don’t acknowledge every one. (“C’mon, not even a courtesy laugh?”) I’ve spent time in some meditation halls over the years, but it is all I can do focus on my breathing when he comes at me with a frontal assault. He often tries to finish your sentences for you before you’re halfway through. I try to play the diplomat, but it is hard sometimes.

Others in our dressing room don’t even try. Yesterday a particularly blunt co-worker said to him: “I looked at your website. You need to change your make-up. It looks like it was applied by a retarded kids’ elbow.” It was hard for me not to laugh. The situation escalated. Bad Santa then retorted—inexplicably: “You know what? I’m not a circus clown. I’m a PARTY clown. I actually make people laugh!”

“Prove it”, was what I wanted to say, but I held my tongue. (I didn’t want to make two Santas cry in one day.)

I have nothing against party clowns. Live and let live. Hell, I’ve done parties, and I’ve never performed in what could properly be called a circus. Still, what I found astounding was his inversion of a kind of tacit hierarchy. I’m not suggesting that everyone in a circus ring is a comedic genius; but, at the margins, would you really want to place bets on the guy who did your kid’s 3rd birthday party to be funnier than, say, Buster Keaton? Or Grock? And that was his defense: clowns that perform at kids’ parties are inherently funnier than clowns in circuses. Oy veh.

Speaking of which, didn’t John Wayne Gacy do birthday parties? A real hoot that guy.

2. Do not be surprised that the head of a toothbrush is about half the size of the one you’re used to. You’ll just have to get used to brushing one tooth at a time.

3. The numbers on the packages of white bread indicate the number of slices in the package. The highest number I’ve seen is 10, the lowest is 3. Those 3 slices were thicker than the thickest Texas toast I’ve ever seen.

4. Juice math. Bottles of juice have addition problems on them. You may see “21 +3” or “15+9” or any other possible combination. The first number represents how many different kinds of vegetables were used; the second is the number of fruits. Looking for pure orange juice? Good luck.

5. Two bag maximum. Whether you buy 25 items or 50 items, you will get 2 plastic bags in which to carry home your groceries . . . and you’ll bag it yourself. Good luck trying to fit all that in there.

6. Size matters. I personally have never bought condoms in Japan—and I hate to indulge racial stereotypes—but I have it on good authority that anyone of European heritage gets immediately promoted to Magnum. Even if you weren’t “the man” before, you are now. Enjoy it.

7. Yes, that cantaloupe is $18.

8. You know those universals truths that seem so self-evident that you wouldn’t even think to question them? Like the fact that eggs are sold by the dozen? It took me at least two weeks to realize I hadn’t already eaten two. They come in packages of 10.

This list is not definitive.

It was one of those technically flawless days that I get only once in a while. I missed no trains, forgot no tickets, didn’t get lost, and got to eat my favorite sugar dipped croissants. Yes, today was the day I’d been anticipating for at least 3 weeks. SUMO DAY!

I love ritual, especially national sport. The more ridiculous the better. Bullfighting, caber tossing, and that Mongolian race where the guy is trying to kiss a girl on horseback—all have a strange allure for me. I didn’t know anything about Sumo before I came here, but I’ve been doing a little bit of studying recently. I won’t bore you with how an Ozeki is promoted to a Yakuzuno, but I’ll give you basics. The objective is to push your opponent out of the ring or make him touch the ground with something other than the soles of his feet. In pursuit of the this objective you may do anything at all except a) gouge his eyes, b) hit him with a closed fist, c) kick him in the testicles (though I’m not sure that this last one is actually a rule). Yes, they bitch-slap each other. Yes, they lift each other up by their diapers. Yes, they often land on audience members who’ve paid for the nice seats.

A sumo basho is a lot like a band festival in that it goes on all day. From 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM there’s a steady progression of beginners to world champions. Each fight lasts anywhere from 2 to 30 seconds. I’ve never seen it go longer. There is a guy with a fan who acts as a kind of cantor at the beginning of each fight, singing the names of the competitors. There is much ritual throwing of salt. Not everyone is 300 lbs., but little guys don’t last long.

Tomorrow begins my last full week of work. 32 shows left . . .

“Serbia”, “Serbia”, “Serbia”, “Santa.”
(I can’t tell you how funny that looks.)

Yes, a troupe of 6 Serbian dancers and 3 Dutch Santa Clauses are replacing us. In addition to that, there is a Hungarian classical singer and a gospel group from New York.

As Niels, Marky, and I have only had each other to talk to for several weeks, we were pretty excited. So when we saw one of the gospel singers in the hallway of the dorm, we introduced ourselves. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a chillier response. Suffice it to say that this guy was not interested in making friends. The fact that we both pay rent in the same city was of no interest to him. Well, ok . . . fine. Later that night we ran into the female auxiliary of the gospel group. Ditto. They actually didn’t stop walking as we said hello.

Niels asks me, “is it some New York thing?” and I tell him that all the entertainers I know are perfectly friendly. Apparently these guys didn’t get the memo. I guess they have each other, and that makes their situation decidedly different from ours. Not much we can do. Hey, it’s only ten more days.

On a positive note, the lead Santa (he’s been coming here for almost 20 years) seems nice. So does the Hungarian singer. We’ll see how the Serbians turn out. Now if it wasn’t for those ugly Americans.

My exit strategy has been up in the air for some time and has involved a good deal of frustration and anxiety on my part. Things seem to be resolved, but here’s a brief account of the story.

Prior to accepting the contract to come to Huis Ten Bosch I exchanged several emails with the performer who recommended me for the job, getting his inside scoop on the place. I wanted to know the pros and cons so I wouldn’t be surprised. The largest of the cons was that, according to him, no travel was permitted after the contract ended. Given that I was going to working 6 days a week in Japan, I was vexed that I wouldn’t actually get to SEE any of Japan. So I decided then and there that I wouldn’t accept the contract under these terms and put the matter front and center.

“Please understand that I plan to travel throughout Japan at the completion of my contract, and this is critical to my accepting.” Or something. It’s not an exact quote but the word “critical” was used. I expected to be denied outright and then be forced to turn it down. Instead I got an email that said “we can give you 2-4 days for packing when you’re finished.” Ok, then. Workable. I didn’t reason I could afford more than a 4-day vacation anyway. And so I accepted.

Everyone who ever worked here was shocked. There is a 15-year history of them NOT allowing performers to do what I had apparently negotiated. Why this is so isn’t entirely clear to me. Anyway, I had been here 3 weeks when I told Taiko I wanted to leave on December 4th from Tokyo. (My delay was due in part to figuring the finances and weighing Tokyo vs. Kyoto and other things.) There was no response for several days. Finally, I get an answer.

I won’t try to write it as dialogue, but suffice it to say that their primary concern was that I might not actually leave Japan and overstay my visa. When I brought up the email with the promise of the 4 days, Taiko denied it saying that she’d only promised 2. She then explained that this wasn’t policy, and that no one had ever done this. I politely but firmly told her that my accepting this contract was contingent on this travel time and, furthermore, should they try to deny this to me I would want to renegotiate my contract. In essence I wanted to be on the first plane out of here. She blanched. The next day when I asked her again about the email, she said she’d found it and that I’d been correct. Honor being what it is here, she couldn’t deny me the dates. However, then began an attempt on her part to try and persuade me that visiting Kyoto would be better. She even went through the trouble of preparing a travel package complete with airfare and hotel. What she apparently got out of it was that I’d be returning here so that she could see me off at the airport.

I thought about it.

And rejected it. It would mean using 2 of my days for travel instead of one. Besides, Tokyo is the largest city in the world, and I just wanted to see its funkiness. There’s also a chance that I could stay for free at the apartment of Sara, one of the town criers whom I’d met during the first couple weeks.

Taiko conceded and I now have a ticket on JAL from Tokyo to NYC on Dec. 4th. Most of my gear will be shipped via transport company to Ray’s house in Massapequa (where my car has been living), and I’ll travel to Tokyo on the bullet train at mach 4 or something with only one suitcase and an accordion. Sweet.

What do I plan to do once I get there? Stay tuned.