So what I failed to accomplish the day before, I had to do it on the last day. By hook or by crook.
Even if it meant sacrificing sleep. Well, I did lie in bed for forty-five minutes, but got zero snooze before the alarm rang at half-past-four in the morning.
My last day would eventually turned out the longest one, and probably one of the most memorable ones.
The sky in summery Tokyo was almost bright at five. The sun was not up yet, thankfully, and the cool breeze (which actually made me shiver) made it such a beautiful morning I forgot I was supposed to be dead tired.
The beautiful moment turned out to be brief, unfortunately. I'd hoped the streets would be quiet, the short stroll to the subway would be energizing. I'd thought, at five in the morning, I would be riding the subway with the early working birds.
But have I mentioned anything about the seedy area where I stayed? It is very seedy.
Brown-skinned chicks with golden hair and lashes thicker than their thighs, in short-short shorts and high-high heels, laughing and stumbling with their ah-beng companions (got, Japan got ah bengs one) toward the same subway. Gangs of dudes with golden spiky hair, and their black suits and black sedans parked along the street.
They all scared the hell outta me.
I'd never expected I would be riding the early train with the early drunk birds instead. Not one, not two, but a flock.
So the Tokyo subway does not just reek of that stale alcoholic breath at 10 in the pm.
I must've been really tired. I went all of thirty minutes up the wrong track.
In the right direction, but just the wrong track. Nothing a short cab ride couldn't fix.
The minute I got off the cab, I got lost, simply just staring at the world's largest fish market in front of me. I am totally zonked and absolutely famished. I don't know where to start, and I don't know when I'll actually get to taste the fish.
When in doubt, always follow the crowd in Japan.
So far, so good. Seems like I'm on the right track. I'm beginning to see the shops outside the market, selling everything from knives to tee shirts. The fish must be somewhere nearby. I don't know how I derive that, but that must be it.
Tsukiji's full of buzz. It is not at all one of those tiny, smelly wet markets where fishmongers shout/chat/flirt with your mom or mine. In fact, not only is it not tiny, it is surprisingly not smelly. Well, at least to me, because I have smelt the worst. Trust me.
Tsukiji's full of important people who go about their work with utmost seriousness. After all, they must be very important people, if they run the most important wholesale fish business in the world. I actually feel odd, like a fish out of waters (no pun intended). I don't know where to take my next step. I don't want to get in the way of the important people striding around from stall to stall. More importantly, I don't want to get knocked down by the various vehicles zipping around and inside the market.
Seriously, if I was one of them important fishmongers in Tsukiji, I would get very irritated by all these stupid tourists with their cameras, crowding around my tiny stall, getting in my way, making all kinds of nonsensical squeals in excitement. What am I? A fish in an aquarium?
Anyway, so far, so good. Until I decided to follow the wrong crowd: the other silly tourists.
So I found myself in middle of it all. The auction was over by the time I got to the main selling square. All I saw were some leftovers getting hauled to their final destinations.
I am ignorant; I have never seen fish this huge, other than the ones on the pages of National Geographic.
The market is huge. I still had no idea where the sushi shops were, and they didn't seem anywhere in sight. So I literally walked through almost all the fish (and oysters and mussels and prawns and octopus and squid and...) in that entire market, in search of the ones that were ready for my stomach.
I wanted to stop and take a picture of a man cutting up a huge fish, but I decided against it. I didn't want to be that silly tourist.
I was getting really upset. So upset, I started to wonder if I'd been cheated. Maybe there are no sushi shops here! Bloody hell.
Then, somehow - I can't remember how - I found them. The tiny row of sushi shops all tucked away at one end of the entire marketplace.
No, wait, let me rephrase. I finally found those few sushi shops hidden amongst others selling toast (yes, toast?!) and noodles and more knives and more tee shirts, all tucked away at one end of the entire marketplace.
Just as it had been with all other adventures, getting started was the tricky bit. Which shop should I try first?
And especially on days when you don't feel like you have a big stomach, the first one becomes crucial. As well as my philosophy too.
When in doubt, always follow the queues (which really are organized non-moving crowds) in Japan. Especially when it obviously is the only queue around.
I queued for about ten minutes, before I got to the front of the line (incidentally, there was no line that formed after me... ) and found out what I'd been queueing for.
Ah so, this place is famous for its maguro, and its maguro. It even specifically states that it does not serve sake (the fish, not the drink, and it should be read: if you're a silly sake-eater, please go somewhere else).
It was one of those moments where, for whatever little Japanese I can read, I was grateful for being able to figure out the most important ones: まぐろ and とろ. Tuna and its fat belly.
It didn't really turn out to be a sushi meal, not the kind of sushi I expected anyway. The sushi came in a huge bowl - the toro, all six fat slices of it, topping a huge serving of rice. A big breakfast meal complete with a bowl of miso soup.
Damn. How am I ever going to do my restaurant-hopping now? I have massive plans for the rest of the morning before I have to hop on the express to the airport at 2.
I walked out of the shop, completely satisfied, almost bloated. Becoming really sleepy too. The breakfast took a while, the bowl was simply too huge. It was strange as well, that the shop full of breakfast patrons was absolutely silent as everyone else went about their meals.
I can only think that everyone else was probably experiencing multiple orgasms like I was.
I refused to leave the market. I couldn't have sacrificed my sleep, ridden on a train full of drunk zombies, gotten my legs all splattered with dirty spots, endured an excruciating hunger for almost an hour - for just six pieces of fish.
It didn't take me many more steps before I stopped in my tracks again.
Unagi shop!
The shop was totally empty. The boss was sitting at the counter by himself, reading his papers. Hmm, not a promising sign. Should I should I should I?
Then I noticed the magazine and newspaper cuttings plastered outside the shop. I walked in.
The boss, a happy dude by the name of JJ (yes, as in roman letters 'J' and 'J'), stood up immediately, put aside his papers and greeted me with the loudest squeal that I couldn't understand.
The next was a question: "Chinese? China?" "No, Sin-ga-po-ru!"
For the rest of the morning, he squealed to me only in English that I had to strain my ears very hard to comprehend.
JJ is a happy little dude who didn't look like he came from Japan. He spoke English, Mandarin, amongst other languages, all of which sounded incomprehensible at first. Immediately after sending my grilled unagi order to his kitchen, he set about a series of tasks, all of which seemed to be SOP to me.
First, he handed me this photocopied A3-sized piece of paper. On it, I realized were some handwritten "common Japanese phrases" a tourist could usually do with - complete with the relevant English translation. Most of them were related to food ordering. He taught me how to order a set of anything, from tempura to tonkatsu to unagi, of course.
He got impressed when I said, "Itadakimasu!" He said I was very polite, said I knew my manners. Then he taught me what to say at the end of a meal.
Next, he brought out this huge book. A guestbook! Complete with greetings and photographs of patrons - mostly silly tourists like me. He handed me a pen, and I knew what I had to do.
He then pointed to the wall next to him. A wall I'd already noticed the moment I walked into the stall. A wall full of pictures. Of silly tourists like me of course. And then, he said...
"Oh, you know Jay Chou? He came here twice. See his picture there?"
My heart stopped.
My pulse raced. Is it the summer heat that's making me sweat?
I stood up, walked to the wall, stared right at the corner where he was pointing toward. It was Jay, alright. But a cut-out picture from a magazine.
...
The next move was predictable: he whipped out his digital camera. Snap! I would soon be part of the wall. Nice.
Okay, I don't think there's nothing more he could possibly do. I can enjoy my unagi in peace now. But he kept himself busy still. He pulled out a piece of writing paper and set it upon the counter. Then he took out a brush and some ink - wait a minute, a brush?
He started mumbling about something, as he started to draw. I had no idea what he was up to, so I went back to my unagi. When he was finally done, he beamed as he held up his work in front of me.
It was a calligraphed name. He had made a self-painted advertisement for his unagi. He wrote his address at the bottom of the drawing, so I would either remember where to find him or tell the whole world about his unagi.
How smart is that?
And the unagi? It was so fat, so soft, so tender, it literally melted in my mouth. Another new standard set.
Ok. I'm done for the day. Plans might be a little screwed now, I cannot imagine stuffing any more food inside me. I am really in need of some snooze, but I have to pack and get out of the hotel by 10.
Now I have four hours to do nothing. I cannot eat, I shouldn't shop, so I think I will hang out in Shibuya, find a cafe and crash in there.
But another name had to be dropped on me again.
"Okay you should try UORIKI in Shibuya."
Now, when it is a "you-should" kind of advice, and the name is spelt in BLOCK LETTERS, there is no way I can just let it go.
But if it's really something that good, it must also be something very hard to find.
And am I really hungry?
I am a sucker. I couldn't resist the mystery and the temptation - the calling of another adventure.
This would be my final meal and I would stuff it down my throat no matter how or what.
With only one English address I managed to google on my berry, I sought the help at the city police kiosk like a real damsel-in-distress. I looked very insistent and they looked very puzzled why I would want to go through all these trouble just to find a fish shop.
Looking for something in Tokyo is a very stressful thing to do. The address you have in your hands will probably not help you much.
But I actually did it.
Again, I ordered the first thing on the menu I could read: miso saba. The shop is tiny, the menu hangs on the wall at the front, I don't want to hold up the others trying to figure out the rest of the menu.
It was nothing I'd thought about this entire trip, but miso saba doesn't sound bad at all, though while waiting for my food at the counter and sneaking peeks at the other patrons around me, I realized shio saba was what I'd really wanted.
I forgot I wasn't supposed to be hungry. There was nothing that needed to be stuffed.
The miso was a good idea after all, I finished the entire huge bowl of rice. I've always liked my saba grilled, but this one was awesome. The oily taste of saba was more subdued but well complemented with the miso. Best of all, it was huge and meaty.
And I think I helped myself to five servings of the pickles.
I think I am really, really done for the day.
I really wish I don't have to go, but at least now I think I can leave in peace.
*****
There was no way I was going to end my wonderful eating trip by ruining it with lousy airplane food.
I skipped dinner on the way back, and had two Asahis instead.
And I fell deeply asleep for the next two hours before I awoke to realities again.
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