and we land in Tokyo. As luck would have it, we ended our last trip to Belize with a rainy day and begin our latest joint with a heavy downpour. Somehow the 14 hour flight felt longer than what a 14 hour flight should be. Maybe it was because I expected better in flight entertainment or that I would’ve just conked out and fell asleep the whole way.
We got through passport contol and picked up our backpacks quickly and with Japanese efficiency. As we approached the customs door, we were stopped and questioned about what we were bringing into the country. The agent showed us a binder of pictures of guns, weed, cocaine, porno (mayfair and club), bootleg louis vuitton, animals, syringes, and pirated dvds. We both said no we don’t have this stuff, so of course they took us in for a thorough search through our stuff and body pat downs.
As they sifted through my socks and underwear, the searchers were asking us if we plan on smoking weed in Japan, do we do drugs, and if we do drugs back in our home country. Now, do they really expect someone to say yes to any of those questions? They were really nice and polite throughout the search and asking me about where we’ve traveled to.
After that episode was over, we hit the DoCoMo desk to pick up my fabulous 3G Japan phone, and hit the tokyo metro. I know the Japanese are known for their efficiency and willingness to help, but seeing it in person is something else. If the person helping you cannot speak English, he will run, yes run, to go find someone who does. And they do it politely and with a smile on. That stuff would never fly back home. Imagine an MTA token booth clerk running to find someone to assist a person who didn’t speak any English?? That’s just ludicrous.
About an hour later, we arrived in Asakusa station, and saw the golden turd above the Asahi beer office. Ah yes, it is one of the symbols to look for while going to the hidden hostel. The place came complete with backpackers who have been staying here too long, middle aged folks, and some wacky Germans dressed in polka gear. What’s the deal with packs of Germans at hostels?
