I’ll preface this entry by simply saying that I think I’m forgetting English, and the English that I can still speak properly is ten times as fast as it used to be (due, of course to the rate that Japanese is spken at). So, please pardon my lack of articulation.

I spent all day speaking Japanese. All day.

This place, this “bashyo,” is perhaps the most amazing, interesting, incredible, indescribable place—beyond my wildest dreams—something so hard to fantasize about even at my most lucid, that the word “real” has lost its meaning. This place isn’t real, is it? Can it possibly be real?

This morning’s test was grueling, true, but at its conclusion I had ample time to explore the center of Kawasaki City—an area called Mukougaoka-yuen, in reference to the train station nearby—while foraging for lunch.

(God dammit, I hate simply describing facts. I want to give you a colorful portrait of Japan, but my terse, chronological entries will have to do for now. This is some of the worst writing I’ve ever done.)

My lunch was some strange Japanese soup dish, though it barely deserves such a title. It was a gigantic bowl (imagine something about the size of a colander) and it was filled to the brim with soup broth, rice, carrots, onions, mushrooms and more. The bowl didn’t stop steaming, even after I was finished eating. They cook it hot here, I guess. Franc, Andrew and myself (all Nebraskans) were served at a bar, basically, though I don’t think alcohol was available.

Pause for a moment.

I need to explain something. In Japan, the streets are close. The buildings are tall. There are bikes everywhere. There is concrete abound. People are everywhere. If you blink, you’ll miss something, including a restaurant.

Ask me to find where I ate yesterday. I can’t tell you.

Even though it is within one mile of my dormitory, it’s lost to my mind.

But allow me to paint something for you. The area near Mukougaoka-yuen Station is a cul de sac, surrounded by 10 story buildings, pavement everywhere, indecipherable signs everywhere, people everywhere. Okay, I can’t paint, really. You just have to see it with your own eyes.

We ate our respective meals, stopped by “Life,” one of the nearby supermarkets, and headed back to the dorm to change for our welcome party.

I was, of course, sporting black pants, a freshly pressed pink shirt, and a beautiful striped tie (picked out by Anna). It was gorgeous, a truly beautiful sight. I was a foreigner, with dreadlocks, and I decided to make myself stick out even more. It’s exhilarating, really.

(I just realized how much there is to say, how much I’m leaving out! I’m “Toteme baka ni naru!!” [which means becoming very stupid.] I guess it’s ok)

The welcome party was in the beautiful, brand new cafeteria of building number 9, and we were treated to Japanese food, Japanese people (eager to meet us all) and Japanese music.

This is where things really begin to get fun.

I was at the back of the crowd, listening to the music in silence, as was the 100 or so people around me. The only thing on my mind was, “Where the hell is Masashi and Takayuki?” Granted, the Japanese people who had ventured to the welcome party in order to talk to us were nice, they were lovely, but they weren’t my friends. There was something about those that I talked to that just didn’t seem to click.

I didn’t have a bad attitude; things were just amiss, though I thought they would be great.

I spotted a young Japanese with dreadlocks, baby dreadlocks. He spotted me soon after and made his way over to begin a conversation… though it started off okay, I had trouble comprehending him as we raced through the standard foreigner topics: major, hobbies, favorite sports, music, etc, etc, etc. There was nothing wrong with it, though it just didn’t seem to fit. The long, awkward pauses were something I hated.

So at the back of the crowd, during some of the most creative and beautiful music I had ever heard (the guitarist was playing some bizarre instrument with a pic that was the size of a fan) all I really wanted was to see my good friends, Masashi and Takayuki again. But before I saw them, I heard them.

“Jack off jack off jack off jack off” came a heavily accented whisper in my ear.

Please picture this scene.

Please understand how hard it was to stifle my laugh (don’t worry, I stifled it. I didn’t spit my drink out or anything).

Reunited.

We went out to the 7th story balcony to enjoy drinks while looking out over Kawasaki City. Our conversation flowed, it was easy, it was free, topics wandered…

…I can’t even describe my elation properly, how picture perfect, how “kanpiki” it is to be able to share an inside joke with someone so different, so strange, so foreign yet so much like me.

Masahi and Takyuki brought along Kyohei, the other tour guide from the previous evening.

Franc and I spent 3 or 4 hours talking to them, we watched the sun set and let conversation roam, though they loved to dwell on American “zokugo” (slang). I didn’t really mind. They were cute and funny.

One of their favorite topics, as I mentioned was non-Japanese girls, and we talked much about the Irish group—full of beautiful women. The only problem, for Takayuki, Masashi and Kyohei was that the Irish girls had no prior Japanese.

They decided I would be their translator, and so Franc, myself and the Nihonjin (Japanese people) devised a plan to wrangle the Irish into hanging out with us. It was simple, really. Invite them to Shinjuku (an amazing downtown Tokyo district.) Wait, did I say amazing? Wrong word. Wait, again. Is there even a word to describe Shinjuku? Nope. Nevermind.

So Franc and I talked to the Irish girls, but they had started class today (we hadn’t) and they insisted that they had too much homework.

What I don’t think they understood was that the most valuable thing to proficient conversational Japanese is not found in any book; it’s found in experience. Which I had plenty of, tonight.

Franc, myself and Jerry, an African-American UNO students, and the Nihonjin decided to head to Shinjuku.

You don’t understand. You can’t. I’m not a good enough writer to allow you to understand.

A 10 minute walk to the Mukogako-uen, a 20 minute train ride, and we had arrived in some kind of fluorescent, glowing, unstoppable, living and breathing district of Tokyo.

My head hurts. There’s so much I want to say but can’t because I’m not smart enough, I can’t concentrate enough, I can’t focus.

Let’s pause again.

Before I continue, you must understand the Japanese culture and their views of sex: specifically pornography. The fundamental thing to know is that it’s not taboo. Porno magazines, videos, toys, whatever—they are everywhere. There is nothing weird about an old man reading one next to a young girl on a train, there is nothing shameful about perusing the nearby “Con-Mini” (convenience store) for its porn selection.

I admit, the first time Masashi took me into a conmini to show me porn, my face was red. I didn’t want to stand there, I didn’t really care, first of all, but it just seemed strange to me. Then I realized: no one cares at all.

I’ve told you this, because Shinjuku is, considered the sex center of Japan. Of course, there is more there than sex shops, but if its pornography you want, Shinjuku is the place to go.

Kyohei understood how us Americans saw porn, and he found it hilarious.

He dragged us into ever curbside porn shop their was and had us look at videos, constantly asking us if we liked them.

Decadence, decadence, decadence.

Don’t worry, I didn’t buy anything.

But, between us we came up with some pretty funny inside jokes—the most humorous of which centers on the Japanese male anatomy. The three were quick to tell us that they have “tiny Johnson” and eager to ask us if ours were big. Anytime we went to the bathroom, one would follow in an attempt to get a look.

So where were we. Shinjuku.

We then went to what is known as a “Nomihodai,” essentially an alcohol buffet. Yes, yes. Decadence, decadence, decadence. No, I didn’t drink, but it’s going to be hard not to when it is such an integral part of the culture. Masashi, Takayuki and Kyohei respect me for my willpower, and have been more than accommodating in helping me find not only vegetarian cuisine, but tasty juice as an alternative to alcohol.

The nomihodai was on the fifth floor of some gigantic, colossal, towering, electric building in Shinjuku. Shoes off at the door, and for 1,800 yen you get all the beer you can drink for two hours (about 15 bucks).

This particular nomihodai was done in a traditional Japanese style, with sliding doors separating different rooms containing tables that sit just inches off the floor. We didn’t have to squat though, because the table is above a hole in the ground that accommodates one’s legs and feet. This place was amazing. I’m not doing it justice.

My brain hurts. I can’t think. I must type. I can’t forget.

So we spent the next two hours laughing and talking, chatting about everything from parents to jobs to my camera to hobbies to women to friends. Everything.

Perhaps the greatest moment was when I told the three that they were my “good friends,” and they bowed and bowed and thanked me in the most formal Japanese I had ever heard. They were honored, and they said the same to me. I have to say it felt good. Hearing their response was so, so amazing, such a sensational feeling, it made everything in my body light up like the lights outside. Making a connection like that across cultural lines is another thing that words simply cannot describe.

These three will probably be friends of mine for the rest of my life, if we can possibly stay in touch.

I want to tell you everything. I can’t. There isn’t enough time. I’m stupid. I can’t write.

I’m trying, for you.

Shinjuku is full of people. So many people, all Japanese yet so differently attired that it appears as some sort of futuristic circus where clothes are manufactured by the performers themselves. Thousands and thousands of people on foot, everywhere. It is so overwhelming that my mind just shut off completely and I sort of strolled along the asphalt jungle, glassy eyed and gazing at everything and nothing at all. It took too much energy to look up and examine the skyline.

This place looked like the sun was still up. It was that bright. I can’t do it justice.

After the night was over, and we headed back to the train, (which was situated at the end of an amazingly complex system of tunneled walkways) Masashi, Takayuki and Kyohei wanted to ensure we made it home safely.

Japanese trains are no easy beast to tame.

They ushered us on to the proper train (which was packed with people beyond what you can possibly imagine) and they stood inches from the door, talking to us, telling us: “It’s the 5th stop! Five! Five!” over and over again. They asking people on the train if they were getting off at the same station so they could help us.

No matter how many times I told them “Daijyoubu” (it’s ok, it’s ok) they still stood their. I repeated “Thank you” 15 or more times. They didn’t budge. They stood their, waving us goodbye as the doors closed, still chanting “5th stop.”

Let me try and express how phenomenal it is to have someone want to speak you language, to want to learn from you. These three wanted to spend all their time with us, they begged us to see them tomorrow, which I was grateful for. I wanted to beg them, but they beat me to it. They want to speak English, I want to speak Japanese. It is a perfect fit.

One last thing before I go, though I’m leaving off lots…

…the trains here roar by at what must be at least 45 m.p.h., and there are hundreds if not thousands of road crossings frequented by pedestrians. Earlier today I saw a group of students crossing one of these, and the crossing arms came down while many of the students were still on the tracks.

They had no teacher, of course.

Slowly the plodded across, doddling on the tracks, carefree. Their parents probably didn’t care. This was typical, it was fine. They played with the crossing arm and ducked out of the way 15 seconds before the train zipped by.

I didn’t describe that well.

I didn’t describe any of this well.

I didn’t even insert my thoughts.

I really, really need to take more time to write.

This was another hopeless exercise in futility.

Tomorrow I want to elaborate on trains. I’ll try. Remind me.