A lot of my favorite movies are in a category at the Shibuya chain of Tsutaya mega-rental store called Serious (シリアス).

Osaka is much nicer than I remember. I regret that I may have fallen prey to the stereotypes of gaudy excess and tacky foods. But within the gravity of the exquisite graf gallery, everything is pleasant and romantic. Although the “Osaka = Chicago” parallel always struck me as forced — basically a way of finding Osaka an American city of its own after Tokyo automatically takes NYC, LA, and DC — the strong stone buildings and patina roofs of the business area around the Tosabori River reminds me of my vague memories of the area of Chicago near the art museum.

Osaka fashion is supposed to be more “individualistic” than Tokyo, but it just seems to be less obsessive and more subdued than what you see in Edo.

Visited a very neighborhood-y sento (public bathhouse) in Fukushima on Sunday night and was worried that perhaps there was going to be some odd resistance to my foreignness — perhaps enforced discretely in an anti-tattoo policy or something. (I do not have a tattoo. Big surprise.) I found myself, however, bathing with four enormously-fat yakuza thugs who sported massive tats of ghost warriors on the entire expanse of their backs. They hogged the baths. I kept clear, but once they went off to the faucets to soap it up (no, they didn’t properly clean themselves before getting into the baths — see, “rules” only apply to us katagi), I finally took to the shared facilities. There was a bath with some kind of mild electric current. Unless you like the sensation of your alarm clock falling into the tub, I do not recommend it. This particular sento’s proud feature was a “Radon steam bath” which I entered for a few minutes and will regret when I die of some terrible cancer in a few weeks time.

Kobe is fantastic. The “Ijinkan” foreigner district up at the top of the mountain is quite nice. There is an outstanding mosque down the hill a bit, and in its orbit, there are three or four import food stores featuring products that I had long assumed could never be smuggled into Japan. At one location, we wanted to buy a ¥100 pack of coriander, a ¥90 pack of fennel seeds, and a ¥80 pack of Juicy Fruit gum, but the store was completely abandoned for at least ten minutes. Finally, an Arab gentleman came in and helped us complete our big purchase of the day. When we left, he too walked down the street, again abandoning the store to fate and patient customers.

Down by the river, there was some kind of festival with food stalls from around the world. Not always accurate, but delicious nonetheless. (My “tacos” contained hot dogs, and my “gyro” sandwich was at least 1/2 french fries).

Under the train tracks from Sannomiya to Kobe Station, there are hundreds of little stores and stalls selling various items. The first two or three of these arcades have streetwear stores, respectable eyeglass vendors, leather shoes for men, pet stores, waffle cafes, etc. As you start hitting Arcade #3, however, things get a little more interesting: stores dedicated to old Famicon games, purveyors of ¥100 yen 邦楽 7″s, booksellers who have accumulated just enough literature in the front to justify the thousands of old pornographic magazines in the back. Arcade #5 & #6 are a descent into the debris of the 20th century — a cruel junkyard parody of commercial endeavor — tired old hags selling broken Betamaxes, ribbon-less typewriters, imperial military garb, grab bags of unloved old vinyl. Some of the last stores in this arcade can be hardly distinguished from the storage facilities of refugee communities, piles of extension cords, soiled and crumpled papers, vibrators piled up to the top. If you want to buy a full-size towel with an image of Iijima Naoko from the early ’90s for ¥240, this is your place.

Nara is always fun. The deer are just so adorable. The female deer very literally bow to you, and the male deer will put you between their antlers in a slightly frightening, yet overall endearing way. Everyone tends to buy the deer senbei thinking that this is the way to deer friendship. Not the case. When you have food in your hands, you are just another mark in their con games. When you go to them sans snacks, you go on an equal level and they respect that. A nice site: a family of deer galloping away, followed by a chihuahua in hot pursuit, followed by a bumbling old Japanese man with a leash, followed by his resigned family in slow paces.

Todaiji is big and all, but we went off the beaten track to check out a kofun which just looked like a chunk of forest that the Kunaicho doesn’t want you digging into.

Naporitan spaghetti may have began its existence as a distant relation to thick and hearty Neapolitan ragus from the Old Country, but in its contemporary Japanese form, the recipe calls for a vulgarity on par with the high crimes of American junk food. Pasta noodles are joined with slices of hot dog and drowned in an ocean of tomato ketchup. (Older recipes may call for catsup in place of the ketchup.) Upon hearing of this monstrous concoction, a good Italian would probably immediately saunter off to absolve himself at confessional; those who dare eat the dish risk a long term in purgatory.

Despite its culinary blasphemy, Naporitan perfectly represents a certain taste culture in Japan. All puns intentional here, because there is a general aesthetic surrounding the standard menu of Showa-era coffee shops. The proprietors of the trendy cafes that began to sprout up in the 1990s purged this pasta style from their menus to make room for the faux authentic sauces that go well with caffe lattes and caramel teas and bossa nova. The Naporitan only lives on at places like Kamiya Bar in Asakusa.

Some may assume the famous Kamiya Bar is nothing more than a tourist trap, but the drab interior quickly quiets any doubts about authenticity. There appears to be no functional windows, and bright lights give the middle finger to all designer theories of dim ambiance. Asakusa locals sit within the unremarkable infrastructure and down round after round of the in-house brandy-esque liquor Denki Bran at ¥260 a pop. Seating is family-style, making Kamiya Bar one of the rare places in Tokyo where you must sit next to strangers and make an effort to befriend them. In a city dominated by cliquish izakaya, clinical cafes, and gimmicky ice bars, Kamiya Bar gives Tokyo a Hofbrauhaus on the Sumida.

Although Kamiya Bar has roots in the late 19th century, the menu and atmosphere have not budged since 1970. This may reflect the fact that Asakusa seems incapable of possessing a young generation. Even if kids exist and tag along to local festivals, the spirit of the neighborhood resides on the side of the grey-haired. Asakusa is completely untouched by the Parco vs. Laforet Wars of Sophistication that changed the face of West Tokyo over the last two decades. meaning essentially that Kamiya Bar does not intentionally “preserve” a Showa aesthetic as much as the patrons seem incognizant of the major changes on the other side of town.

Without falling into the trap of declaring Kamiya Bar more “real” than someplace like Idée Cafe, I will say that Kamiya Bar offers something completely different than Tokyo’s normal mission of providing the world’s largest set of life-sized simulacra. A night at Kamiya Bar is an inimitable experience. You can drink a frothy cappuccino or a Glenlivet on the rocks anywhere in the world, but there is only one spot for chilled glasses of spicy Denki Bran.

After I passed out at my company physical (I suffer from serious low blood pressure problems when needles go into my arms), I went out to find nutrition (patty melt and milk tea) at the local Anna Miller’s. Oddly, this American style diner is the frequent meeting place for some yakuza or yakuza types (Akasaka is Sumiyoshi territory), and as I went in, there was a black stretch limo parked out front and a white Toyota with two sunglassed black suiters standing guard. Usual story. My guess is they go for the obscenely top-heavy waitress outfits and stay for the overpriced cafeteria pie. The two bosses left at the same time towards the end of my meal, although I did not see them go out — I just noticed the cars drift away.

When I left, however, a large-sized silver Rolls Royce (or perhaps, a Bentley) pulled around where the white car had been. Two drivers jumped out, pulled an umbrella out of the trunk (which was also filled with what looked like bags of DVDs and manga-sized books graced with a male celebrity’s face), and then ran to the back door. While covering the space outside of the door with the umbrella, the driver frantically explained positions to someone on his mobile phone: “We’re on the left directly after the intersection.”

The passenger finally got out, protected from the rain by the umbrella provided, which he took in his own hands. He was about 5’5″ or so, frail, 30—35 in a rather respectable tailored suit. Nothing too “organized” if you know what I mean (I mean organized crime). He walked to the other side of the car in a young, sheepish way, looked around, but appeared perfectly comfortable with the idea of holding his own umbrella.

Then suddenly, a black luxury BMW sedan pulls up and stops basically in the middle of the road. The driver gets out, and opens the back door. The car is covered in all sorts of odd antennas. The small suited man gets in, the driver closes the door, and the car speeds off.

I stop pretending like I am waiting for someone outside and stumble back to work before realizing my loss of consciousness sucked the life out of me.

Last Sunday, the bride and I went down to Shimoda at the bottom of the Izu Peninsula to stay at a fancy old onsen for a brief mini-honeymoon. Upon first glance, Shimoda has a low-rent tacky charm common to all small beach towns, whether Cocoa Beach or Lagos in the Algarve. But what sets Shimoda apart is its place in history: It is the location upon which U.S. Commodore Matthew Perry landed his infamous “black ships” in 1853 and opened up Japan with a little so-called “gunboat diplomacy.” (Wait a minute — it’s not! It’s the location of a 1854 treaty that opened it as a port.)

Perry and his crew set up a consulate, opened up some ports, and forced Japan to sign what would become known as the “unfair treaties.” The shame of Perry’s strong-arm invasion helped to dissolve the remaining legitimacy of the Tokugawa government, and one could claim that the hang-ups about the treaties snowballed into the inferiority complex behind Japan’s 20th century imperial aggression. Looking back, the Perry episode could be viewed both as a cause for celebration — Japan was finally opened and started down the road towards modernity — or as the unwelcome entrance of arrogant, light-skinned cast members — things were a lot more “Japanese” before Perry barged in and ruined the party. Everything evens out at this point to something more “neutral” — a piece of colorful history and an excellent differentiating point (tourist-trap) for Shimoda. The greater conflict has nothing to do with interpreting history, but with challenging Kurihama for the title of the Most Important Perry-Related Town in Japan.

I ask the wife how the Japanese feel about Perry now: “He is just an interesting visitor to Japan — like Tama-chan.” Tama-chan, of course, is the seal who mysteriously showed up in the Tama River some years ago. Perry in his current super-deformed state is about as cute as a pinniped, and the mean ole’ black ships which once struck fear and terror in the hearts of 19th century Japanese have transformed into design patterns for leisure buses, cruise boats, and candy boxes. The great Commodore has gone from delivering stern letters from Millard Fillmore to delivering serious fun to the renkyu vacationers.

Shimoda’s high-point is “Perry Road” — a strip of land along an old canal preserved from the mid-19th century. The ten-minute walk to Perry-land from the station is uninspiring and forgettable, but the actual historical area is fantastic. Many South Izu buildings share an interesting design pattern of white diagonal lines on black, and some of the old buildings have unique Western-inspired stone frames topped with traditional Japanese roofs that you rarely see in other places. Perry Road feels a bit like a tropical Kyoto, with sea crabs in the narrow canals and white cranes upon telephone wires. The irony is that the Japanese only preserved the old “Japanese” part of town in order to remember the history of an American who lived there.

Later staying in a creaky second-floor room in the Kanaya Onsen, I could not help but think about the high price premium we pay to experience “Japan” in Japan. One night for two in these ancient wooden buildings — where you can hear every movement of every single person in the complex at all times — would get you a super-deluxe room at a first-rate hotel in Tokyo. Sure, they throw in a king’s feast of local seafood, but you are paying mostly for the ability to experience “the real Japan” — opposed to the soulless plastic of modern Japan and crisp bed sheets. As a pop culture fan, I always resented the automatic “Kyoto > Tokyo” logic of most tourists, but I have come around in recent years to enjoy a nice soak in a traditional onsen, comfortable slumber on the floor with simple futons, an afternoon nap on the tatami mats under the soft glow of natural daylight. We flock to Shimoda to experience the Japan that Perry encountered in 1853 and then head reluctantly back home to the Japan that Perry ended up creating in the years after his exit.