4 - Departures

Bidding farewell to my brief travel chums at the hotel, as well as my luggage (it was making its own "Littlest Hobo" journey south alone - good luck luggage!), I set off bright and early to my new flat. Well, it was early, sure, but torrential rain meant that "bright" was something of a struggle. For those who haven't experienced the heady delights of an Asian summer, it's much like walking everywhere with a hot towel continually flapped in your face. You know when you open the oven to peek at dinner, only to recoil with a big "fwooofth" as a blast of hot air attempts to remove your skin through sheer force of will? Yeah, it's like that, only wetter and more persistent. The now easing rain was, to the humidity level, the equivalent of water on a chip pan fire, so it was with a delicate waddle I set off towards the station.

However, the good thing about hot summers in a technologically savvy country is that everything is air conditioned. Everything - whether it's the subway or your grandmother. You can't go far without feeling an enticing breeze of icy wonderment wafting from somewhere nearby. The brightest commuters zig-zag their way to work from air conditioned pocket to air conditioned pocket, but not even their best efforts can save them from the rush hour squeeze.

It was just past 9, so we must have missed the worst of it, but wow, I still don't know how those people managed to fit in that train. We were five westerners plus one Japanese guy, all with enthusiastically full rucksacks. It was a commuter train so full that as the doors opened you could hear a relieved sigh escape. As we stood back, having decided to wait for the next one, a troupe of determined businessmen pressed themselves into the throng like jelly-babies into firm margerine. The train made a resigned groan. As the doors shut, I was left with the enduring image of a woman, face pressed against the glass, lips squished fish-like, mouthing the words, "I must remember to ask for a raise..."

We crossed town to Tokyo station, departure point of the magical Shinkansen. The Shink is Japan's bullet train, gleaming missile of high-speed wonder - hypnotic tube of polished magnificence. Had Michaelangelo not been preoccupied with athletic young boys, the Shinkansen could have been his gift to the world in monumental alabaster. It is beautiful.

For a handsome fee you can climb aboard these attractive beasts and speed across the country at 300km/h. I've ridden them a couple of times now and they're an event in themselves. Arriving with a hum and a hiss, it's like having a rollercoaster car pull up alongside. Barriers separate you from the track and snap open authoritatively as the train's doors slide back. You can't help but wonder whether they're there to stop people from falling onto the track or to prevent passengers flinging themselves at the approaching machine out of sheer lust.






















I was heading south to Mie prefecture, nestled by the Pacific coast and bordered by Nara, home of some of the world's most staggeringly huge Buddhist shrines (but more on that later). The Shinkansen runs the length of Japan's main island, Honshu, and only stops at the stations it deems worthy. So, as we pulled into Nagoya after barely an hour and three quarters, we had to hop off and join a train willing to visit more humble locations.

The Shink is owned by JR (or Japan Rail to those with a dislike for acronyms - good for you), a huge nationalised train network that runs the country. But this wouldn't be a booming capitalist economy without a few pretenders to the throne, so JR grudgingly shares space with independent companies like Kintetsu, soon to become my pal and only means of getting about. Unlike Britain where all and sundry share the same lines, JR and Kintetsu eye each other suspiciously from afar, and their trains run on completely separate tracks, sometimes with completely separate stations. Travelling to a major city can be a bit confusing as you've got to pick your entry point carefully, lest you choose the wrong train company and end up on the other side of town. In Nagoya the Kintetsu station actually sat beneath the main JR one, but finding it was a game in itself...

Following giant signs proudly proclaiming all of the station's many features, a careful look showed smaller, hidden directions quietly ushering Kintetsu customers off through a side passage as quickly as possible. Down a corridor we were led, then a set of small stairs tucked around a corner. It was the equivalent of being hastily shown the back door in McDonald's in case the other punters catch wind of you asking for a Whopper for the ninth time. In fact it's not such a trite analagy, seeing as, like the Whopper to the Big-Mac, Kintetsu trains are nicer than JR. There are tables that slide out and do this clickity-clack thing, and some carriages are double-decker, and the doors go... oh, you get the point.

And so we neared my stop, the nerves really starting to take hold. People in our small group started to leave one by one, collected at the station by their new supervisors and led off in a daze as we gazed back through the departing train's windows. We rolled into Tsu and I waved goodbye to my recent, even briefer travelling companions. As I sidled towards the ticket barrier feigning confidence, I spied a man and a woman waiting for me: my new cultural mentors in this bewildering country. In their hands was a brightly coloured, handwritten sign saying, "Edward!"

"Oh wow! That's wonderful, thanks so much! Very pleased to meet you!" I beamed as my stomach did a couple of anxious flips.

"Oh, very sorry," said the lady. "Don't speak English."

Ah.