A version of the following story appears, with fewer grammatical errors, in my book, 'A Nomad Goes East' that is searching for an agent or publisher.  Read an excerpt and, if you fancy, provide feedback.  If you are interested in representing or publishing the book, please contact me.

No Tokyo Bob, Your Singing isn't that Bad

I'm a hand model, just like George Castanza!  Well, sort of.  As a white man in an Asian country, I was asked to be an extra in a television commercial.  The idea was to have a group of Australians hanging out in a bar with a Filipino guy.  I couldn't do an Australian accent, so I was relegated to bartending duties.  My hands, however, must have looked real Australian because they made two quick appearances in the commercial; one when I serve the Filipino a beer and another time when I serve him a large plate of potato wedges.  The commercial however, won't air.  A competitor came out with virtually the same commercial before ours was ready to air.  Oh well, I'm going to be an extra in another commercial the first weekend of August.  My goals are to get a whole arm in that one, and for it to run.

 I thought the money that I made doing the first commercial would come in handy during my trip to Japan.  That U.S. $60 barely paid for one night in a Tokyo hotel.  A hotel room that was tiny, had a trundle bed to make it a double and a bathroom so small that my man parts were literally hanging over the sink as I showered.  I would have scooted to the side of the sink while showering, but one false step and I was in danger of flushing my foot down the toilet.  That we were even able to get a hotel, for less than U.S. $100 per night in the most expensive city in the world, made us happy enough not to complain that we were dripping from our nether regions into a sink in which we would later brush our teeth. 

Getting a hotel at all was cause for celebration.  My friend Scott and I arrived at Tokyo station around 3:30 P.M. without a hotel reservation and armed only with the information that we had picked up one hour earlier at the airport.  We were relegated to such scrambling because we were too lazy to do any internet research prior to arriving in Japan and, most importantly, because all of Manila is devoid of even one useful Japan guidebook.  If you're going to Japan and contemplating getting the Globetrotter book, stop contemplating.  Buying a folder to hold all of the information that you will need to collect at tourist information centers would be more cost effective and more beneficial.

 The plan, upon arriving at Tokyo station, was to immediately find a business that we had seen advertised in one of the brochures we collected at the airport.  The company would book a hotel room for us.  A service, thanks to their affiliation with the bureau of tourism, they provided free of charge.  We were in a bit of hurry because their office closed at 4:30 and we weren't sure how to get there.  A decent map of Tokyo would have been nice, but we would never be in possession of one of those.  A decent map would have been very nice.  We got lost, twice, and never found the office.

We may have been in for a very tough time, considering our inability to speak Japanese and the difficulties the Japanese have with English, had it not been for the help of a kind stranger.  After seeing us on the sidewalk, staring blankly at our horrible map and pointing in every conceivable direction, she stopped to help.  She placed several calls for us from a nearby payphone, even paying for one call, until she had secured us a hotel, the hotel of the startlingly small toilet/shower.

 The nice lady, whose name we never got, also told us which train we needed to get to the hotel.  That was a big help as Tokyo has about 50 train lines.  The Japan Rail (JR) 'suburban' system alone has 32 tracks in Tokyo, and that number doesn't include the Tokyo subway system that is every bit as complex, and complete, as the New York subway.  Due to the size and the language, Tokyo's was the most difficult train system that I have had to decipher.  To compound the problem, Scott and I had come from Manila, which has almost as many people (10 million in Manila to 12.3 million in Tokyo) and exactly two train lines.  Sorting out the proper way to get around Tokyo was a constant battle for us, but after coming from the traffic chaos of Manila, a welcome battle.  It was like struggling to choose between a sweet or salty dessert after months of being on a diet.

 Regardless of how complicated the train system was, and how much we had to drink, we always tried to catch the last train back to our hotel.  One night we made the mistake of missing the last train and were forced to take a taxi.  A taxi in Tokyo charges over $5 for the privilege of sitting in the vehicle and the cost skyrockets with each passing kilometer.  Our trip cost us over $30 and we were still left with a ten-minute walk back to our hotel.  The walk was necessary because the taxi driver had no idea where was our hotel.  One of the pamphlets we had acquired warned to always take the address of where you wanted to go with you, written in Japanese, because the taxi drives rarely spoke English--which put them in league with 99% of Japan.  We had the address with us, but he had no idea where we needed to be.  This he communicated through a long series of sentences, punctuated by shoulder shrugs.  The shoulder shrugs being the only thing we understood.  After driving around for twenty minutes, we recognized that we were in the correct neighborhood and somehow let him know that we could be let out.  It was much cheaper, and probably much faster, to walk from there.

 At least the taxi drivers look nice while performing their extortion.  They all wear suit, tie and white gloves while on duty.  To complete the luxurious affect, the doors automatically open and close for you.  But then, finding any door in Japan that doesn't automatically open and close is a difficult chore. 

 In the diner that first night, we conquered the problem of ordering a beer without speaking Japanese by pointing to a beer advertisement and holding up two fingers.  The problem of how to cure our late-night food craving was a little more difficult.  Unlike most Japanese restaurants we would eat at, there was no display of lacquered food items for us to point at, or no sushi on a conveyor belt for us to grab; we needed to sort this one out verbally.  Assuming that the greasy spoon type diner wouldn't have sushi or tuna maki, I blurted out the only item that I could think of that fit the environment.  'Gyouza' I said.  'Hai' (yes), the waitress said as she bowed.  I held up two fingers again.  'Hai,' she confirmed, and we were on our way to drinking and eating.  I was also well on my way to a huge hangover.  I didn't leave the hotel until dinner the following evening.

 Scott likes to take package tours--to let others handle the details--and I despise them because I don't like traveling on someone else's itinerary.  Having wasted our second day, I was in no position to argue when Scott requested that we spend the third day on a package tour of Mt. Fuji. 

  Upon returning from the Mt. Fuji sprint, we had dinner in the Shinjuku neighborhood of Tokyo and, after dinner, stopped into a tiny bar in the area.  The bar was, under normal circumstances, barely big enough to hold Scott, me and the only other customer in the establishment.  It was full to bursting, however, at the moment Scott and I walked in because the lady bartender's eyes grew to the size of trampolines when we entered the place.  She was unaccustomed, apparently, to foreign patrons.

 After the bartenders eyes returned to normal size, we ordered two Sapporo beers and had a very extensive conversation with her, our inability to understand Japanese and her inability to understand English not getting in the way of a pleasant talk.  By the end of the night, we managed to sort out that she was from the island of Hokkaido, where the city of Sapporo is located, and that we were in danger of missing the last train.  We paid for the beers, thanked her and rushed to the already closed train station.  That was the night of our only taxi ride in Japan. 

Arranging for our overnight bus to Hiroshima and seeing the great Buddha at Kamakura were the goals for the following day.   Getting the tickets for Hiroshima, thanks to a JR Bus worker who spoke enough English to make us comfortable that we had purchased the correct tickets, but not enough to make us comfortable about where to catch the bus later that evening, was easy enough.  Getting the train ticket for Kamakura wasn't so easy.

Until the time we needed to buy tickets to Kamakura, we had always been able to use the ticket machines, with their handy little 'English' button, to buy our train tickets.  Intercity trains, however, required that we speak to a person.  During that conversation with the ticket salesperson, primarily consisting of gestures and 'hai,' it was obvious that Scott and I were incapable of speaking Japanese.  That didn't stop him, though, from pulling out an abacus, moving the beads this way and that as he figured out the train fare, looking me straight in the eye and telling me, in perfect Japanese, how much the tickets to Kamakura would cost us.  The perfectly dumbfounded look on my face must have told him that I didn't understand the language or his abacus, because he punched the price into the cash register and pointed at the display soon after my brow furled in confusion.

 We found the overnight bus to Hiroshima with little incident.  The bus, complete with a clothes hanger at each seat for the ever smartly dressed Japanese, was first world in every way, a nice change of pace from the Filipino buses I've been bounced around in for the past four and a half months.  The bus trip also included an onboard toilet and several stops at rest areas along the highways so that a person could relieve his or her bladder in more comfort, if the person was disinclined to use the onboard facility.   Stops during an extended bus trip in the Philippines occur only to pick up vegetables or passengers alongside the road or, if necessitated, by a flat tire.  The pause in travel to change a tire being the only one long enough to take a nature break--using, of course, nature's restroom.

 As an American visiting both the Atomic Bomb Dome and the Peace Museum in Hiroshima, I had many mixed feelings.  A nagging question about whether the atomic bombs were justified being chief among them.  The curators at the Peace Museum were anything but ambivalent in expressing their opinion on that topic.  The museum's artifacts collection was ninety percent clothes and other paraphernalia of children who died on 6 August 1945--the day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.  The majority of the clothing belonging to schoolgirls on their way to class when the bomb exploded.  No mention is made of the millions of innocent civilians suffering atrocities at the hands of the occupational Japanese army in the Philippines, and other countries, the numerous bombs the Japanese had dropped on innocent civilians during the war, or any other factor that was taken into consideration by President Truman when he authorized the use of the bombs.  That Hiroshima served as the headquarters of the Japanese Army at the time was only brushed over in one of the early rooms of the museum.  Justified or not, I left the museum with a nauseous feeling from overexposure to propaganda.  It was a horrific event that the museum, in my mind, only served to trivialize.

 Hiroshima Castle, which served as the home of military headquarters during WWII and has been rebuilt after being completely destroyed by the atomic bomb, was the first place in Japan that Scott and I were asked to remove our shoes.  The slippers provided for us were tiny and a great source of amusement for the guard who laughed heartily every time I came into his view.  With half of each foot hanging over the back of the slippers, I had to laugh also.

 As we boarded a bullet train for Kyoto that night, I was excited to finally get a chance to ride the famous Japanese bullet trains that I had seen on television since I was a small child.  I rode a few high-speed trains in Spain, but they aren't as famous, or as fast, as the ones in Japan.  They don't go through near as many tunnels either.  Our train left at dusk, so I thought I would be able to enjoy half-an-hour or so of watching the blurred Japanese countryside as our train zipped between Hiroshima and Kyoto.  Instead, I got to stare at darkness as our train zipped through one mountain tunnel after another.  That Japan is seventy five percent mountainous should have been a clue for me that I wouldn't have many scenic views from the interior of a high-speed train.  Bullet trains go through mountains, not over them.  At least the food and drink vendors had the courtesy to bow upon entering and exiting each car.  That show of politeness, and the drinks that they were serving, made the trip more enjoyable.  

 Scott, undeterred by the deer's aggressive behavior in Myajima, decided to feed the deer in Nara Park.  Nara Park, also known as deer park, is located in Nara, which is a one-hour train ride from Kyoto.  The largest Buddha statue in Japan, protected by the largest wooden structure in the world, had brought us to Nara.  On the way to visit Buddha, Scott bought some graham crackers, labeled as 'deer food,' from a park vendor and proceeded to be chased all over the park by the hyper-aggressive deer.  Although he didn't suffer any serious harm, he did have his bum, and other more sensitive body parts, nibbled on by the hungry animals.

 Back in Kyoto, it was time to prepare for the overnight bus to Tokyo.  I was determined not to repeat my mistakes from the overnight to Hiroshima.  My preparation for that trip had been to ensure that I had a book to read on the bus.  The full realization that I hadn't prepared properly came less than one minute after closing the locker, holding our luggage in the Hiroshima bus station.  My teeth, not brushed in twenty-four hours, felt so thick I wondered if my lips would be able to touch over them.  My face felt like it had been soaked in olive oil and my body odor was so strong that small children were giving me a wide berth as they passed.  I didn't want to spend the day having children point at me, so I paid the locker rental fee a second time to retrieve my toiletry bag. 

 After raking my teeth and applying a coat of deodorant, I felt better.  I washed my face but there was nothing I could use to dry it, so the oil was displaced, rather than removed.  In all the time I was in Japan, I never saw a Japanese man use the restroom and not wash his hands.  That amazing feat was made more incredible because I found only two restrooms where I could dry my hands.  Every man in Japan walked out of the bathroom shaking water on the floor and rubbing his hands on his pants.

 Thanks to the Japanese compulsion for cleanliness, I had no trouble finding wet napkins I could use to clean my face and body that night.  After ensuring that I had my toiletry bag, complete with toothbrush and deodorant, as part of my carry-on luggage, my preparation for the overnight bus was complete.

 With a couple of hours to kill before the bus left, we decided to search for the geishas that were reputed to be prevalent in two Kyoto districts.  We found a concrete children's slide, a health food bar--where we had a couple of beers while waiting for a squall to pass--a hole in the wall bar complimenting their Lowenbrau on tap with paper-thin tapas of stove-top grilled squid and a Betty Boop dressed in a kimono, but we found no geishas.  The pain of our unsuccessful search was dulled by the beers we purchased from an outdoor vending machine as we walked--virtually everything in Japan can be bought from one of the ubiquitous outdoor vending machines.

 Being careful not to miss the final train to the hotel on our last night in Tokyo, Scott and I returned to the neighborhood near the hotel early around 10:00 PM, and began to search, again, for a bar that wasn't affiliated with the sex industry.  We combed the area for twenty minutes before finding a place that appeared to be our kind of place.  It was quiet, Japanese and no one was out front offering blowjobs.  I began to walk in.

 'Isn't this the place we weren't allowed into the other night?' Scott asked.

'No, that was in the Shinjuku district,' I assured him.

'O.K.' he said, obviously not convinced. 

I opened the first door without incident.  The second door opened to a young Japanese lady, dressed normally, seated at the bar.  The carpet beside the bar was red, as was most of the décor.  I didn't get a chance to see much more.  An older gentleman began walking towards me, and then into me, to encourage me not to enter.  I capitulated and walked backwards out the doors as he followed.

 'You not allowed here,' he said, shaking his right hand, with his palm pointed towards us and all five digits extended.

'Oh,' I said, 'no foreigners allowed?'

'You not allowed here,' he repeated. His full head of gray hair swayed more vigorously with the second pronouncement.

'O.K., thank you, goodbye' Scott and I said, almost in unison.

'Thank you, bye-bye.'

 We did, eventually, find a bar, a Texas bar proudly advertising that they played American music.  I don't think Scott was any more pleased than I to be in the heart of Tokyo, Japan, hanging out in an Texas bar, but we were desperate.

We took a seat at the bar, ordered two English beers--it was that or Miller-- and began reviewing the vinyl records that were on a shelf behind the bar.  The bartender, who was also the owner, came over when he saw that we were discussing his extensive record collection.  He was an avid fan of American music, especially '70's music, he told us.  We found out later that he didn't actually differentiate between American and English '70's bands, but he was happy to play all of our requests.  

After an hour or more of his impressing us by having virtually every song we requested, I noticed that he also had a nice CD collection, located on a handmade shelf high above the record player.  As I scanned the disks, one in particular caught my eye.

 'What is that CD there, the red one?'

'Oh, that's WILCO, A.M.' he said.

'It can't be, WILCO isn't even popular in the States.  How can you have one of their CDs at this little bar in Tokyo?'

'It is,' he said handing me the case.  WILCO was written in Japanese, but the title of the disk, A.M., was in English.

'Who is WILCO?' Scott asked.

'Most of the group used to be in a band called Uncle Tupelo.'

'Ah yea, Uncle Tupelo,' Scott said.  'I used to go to their concerts in St. Louis.' 

As Scott and I were talking, the bartender grabbed a CD from his collection.  Placing it on the bar, he said, 'Here, look.'  It was an Uncle Tupelo CD.

 'Where did you get this?  I have trouble finding these in the states.'

'I got it in the Tower Records here, it very close to the bar.  I have every Uncle Tupelo CD.'

'If I go there tomorrow, do you think they'll still have them?'

'Of course.'

'You know, if I stopped one hundred people on the streets of Chicago and asked them who is Uncle Tupelo, I bet I'd be lucky to find one person who had even heard of them,' I told him, still amazed that he would have such obscure music in his Tokyo bar.

 As we were having this conversation, the bartender would occasionally speak with two of his friends who had come into the bar shortly after Scott and I.  They were seated on the barstools to our left, at the end of the bar.  He would talk to them in Japanese, point at the WILCO and Uncle Tupelo disks, and then point to us.

 Scott begged off, drunk and tired, a short time later.

 'So, do you like Bob Dylan?' the bartender's friend, the one nearest me, asked a few minutes after Scott left.

'Yea sure, I mean, I only know a few of his songs, but I like what I know.  I like them more when he's not singing.  His voice is horrible.'

'Really?  We're in a Bob Dylan cover band.  My friend here,' he said motioning to the guy directly to his left, 'is the lead singer.'

I moved to the empty barstool between us to make the conversation easier.

'We do all of the songs in English,' he continued.

'Wow, that's great,' I said, not sure what else to say.

'Yea, and he sings them all imitating Dylan's voice.'

'Hi, I'm Roger, 'I said, trying to avoid any further discussion about Dylan's voice.

'I'm Jinn,' said the one closest to me, 'and this is Tokyo Bob.'

 As Tokyo Bob and I exchanged greetings, I asked what was the name of their band.

'Tokyo Bob Dylan,' Jinn said as he rummaged around in a bag hanging from the back of his stool.

'Here, look,' he said as he produced a double CD of Bob Dylan cover songs.  The CD was produced by BMG and they sang song number ten on disc one.  They seemed very proud. 

Later in the evening, after we had the obligatory American politics discussion and my new friends warned me to steer clear of the sex bars--they were only able to provide cryptic confirmation that the bar we had been so unceremoniously removed from earlier was in the sex trade.  They seemed apprehensive to expand on the subject so I let it drop--Jinn asked me what was my favorite Dylan song.  I didn't really know but I felt pressured to name a song, and quickly.  'Mississippi,' I said.  The Sheryl Crow version of that song had been stuck in mind since they introduced themselves, so I blurted it out almost unconsciously. 

'Do you know that Sheryl Crow covered that recently?' Jinn asked me.

'Yea, I've heard that version.'  The truth was that it was the only version I had heard.

 Jinn then told me that Tokyo Bob Dylan also performed that song.  The bartender had a copy of their album behind the bar and, on cue, started playing the song.  During the course of the evening, we had listened to several of their songs on the album, and Tokyo Bob did a good job of singing in English.  This song, however, was indecipherable.

 'Oh, but you did this one in Japanese,' I said.

'My English isn't very good,' Tokyo Bob said. 

 It wasn't the first time Tokyo Bob had uttered that phrase.  He had said it several times throughout the night, usually after speaking impeccable English for five minutes but suddenly struggling to remember a needed word.  Given his obvious insecurity about the language, I was embarrassed that I hadn't approached the subject with more caution.  The drink had impaired my sense of tact.  I fumbled through an apology and several attempts to make Tokyo Bob feel better about his version of the song, including asking for it to be played twice more to see if that made it better, it didn't.  Thankfully the bar closed as I was making my final attempt to mend any fences I had broken with Tokyo Bob and his bass player.  If they were offended by my clumsy efforts, they didn't let on and even gave me a free CD that Jinn called a gift of friendship.

 I shook hands with my new friends, gave a polite bow of thanks for the gift of friendship, and went to feed my late night craving.  My last night in Tokyo wouldn't be complete, I reasoned, without a final trip to the greasy spoon restaurant for an order of gyouza.  I stumbled to the restaurant, waving off several 'fuckie' offers on the way, and took a seat at the counter.  The same waitress who had been on duty the previous two times I was there approached me.

 'Gyouza,' she said, holding up a finger to indicate one order.

'Hai, ichi, (yes, one)'

'Beer, ichi,' she said.

'Hai.'

 She walked away, shouting my order to the cook, and I smiled.  She knew my order before I even told her.  I was a regular at a Tokyo greasy spoon.