travel – Adrian's Got The Moose

Alluring Alexandria

The first thing I noticed on the Uber ride from the bus station to my hotel was the considerable number of medical supply shops. The next was the women. I had gotten used to 99% of Egyptian women wearing headscarves, and often the full hijab, with some covering even their eyes with black cloth, leading to them walking into the kind of people they wanted to be isolated from. Now, I was seeing at least half the women with fully exposed heads of perfect hair. If I were a poet, this would have caused me to write pages and pages of overwrought, terrible verses.

As it was, I almost gave myself whiplash. My tired brain finally put it all together after a quick Google search; Alexandria is host to numerous universities, including at least one exclusively for both medicine and dentistry. I suspect that very few women embarking on such studies were willing to submit to society and religious pressure. Later, while walking towards the ocean, I discovered the Egyptian version of punks in a small group of mixed sex youths (itself unusual), which also made me very happy.

Alexandria, founded by its namesake Alexander the Great in 331 BCE, is famous for two great structures- The Lighthouse of Alexandria and the Great Library of Alexandria. I was, of course, centuries too late to visit either of them. Screwed by my birthday again.

The Lighthouse of Alexandria was built in the third century BCE and was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was damaged by a series of earthquakes a thousand years ago, with much of the lighthouse ending up in the Mediterranean Sea.

By Philip Galle – https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/vuurtoren-van-alexandri%C3%AB-galle-philips/xQG_r1IGU9hKEw, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=116950381

In 1480, the remainder of the lighthouse was used to build the Qaitbay Citadel, on the same site. Qaitbay Citadel was built by the Sultan of Egypt by the same name to defend the harbour of Alexandria, at the time having extreme military importance. It changed hands a number of times, and left in ruins after the British made a pointless and misguided attack.

The Citadel has been rebuilt, renovated and then restored, with 1984 being the restoration to its current state.

Qaitbay Citadel, from the main car park.

My camera took this oportunity to die entirely here, so all my photos here on in are from my phone. While I have no idea how historically accurate the restoration was, I was impressed how light and airy much of the fort was on the inside.

In one second floor corner, a monitor is set up playing footage about the Lighthouse of Alexandria, and efforts to document the remains.

Cleaning ladies pointed me towards good areas to take photos, in an effort to get baksheesh from me, which I have to say was successful as at least they were pleasant about it.

From the highest points I could not help but try to imagine how incredible it would have been from the top of the Lighthouse, and the sheer majesty of such an endeavor. Now when we conduct public works they tend to feel sterile, replaceable and generic, instead of the stuff of legends.

Things to do in Siwa when you are Sober part II

The next day, I made the mistake of spending ten minutes arguing with a tuk-tuk driver to take me to the actual oasis of Siwa. Note to self, never engage the services of anyone wearing Tommy Hilfiger, they have an excessively high opinion of the value of their services. The driver dropped me off near a closed cafe on a causeway through the oasis, and while the landscape had an undeniable desolate beauty, the oasis is huge, and any plan to walk around it was pointless.

I half expected to see human bones roadside.

There was no vegetation to offer shelter from the sun anywhere in sight, and very little of anything else. I suddenly felt very foolish as I took a few photos and started walking back towards town. Luckily ten minutes later, a couple in a late-model Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up, and I managed to bag a lift. I jumped in the backseat, and while the couple, several social and economic levels above anyone I had interacted with in Egypt so far, chatted to themselves in Arabic that seemed more melodic than the Egyptian dialect, I tried to look non-threatening and not sweat on their leather seats. They dropped me off in town near the mosque, and I didn’t insult them by offering payment, but did thank them profusely and shake hands with them before we went our separate ways.

After a few iced coffees and a light lunch at a nearby cafe, I realised there was only one thing I really needed to see in Siwa before moving on.

Shortly after I arrived at Siwa, I spotted a partially ruined fort on the hill overlooking the mosque, and I was immediately intrigued.

From where I started, Google Maps led me through a rubbish-strewn alley, along a loose wall of bricks, then advice from a traditionally-garbed man led me through an abandoned home and another alley. I squeezed past some parked motorbikes and unceremoniously dumped myself in an alleyway I was in on my first night in Siwa, which I could have simply walked to from where I had dinner the night before. Stairs hewn into the bedrock led me uphill, and to the ancient mosque, the only part of the fort still in official use.

While I didn’t see anyone around, it didn’t seem like the kind of place people would have liked me poking around, especially considering my complete lack of Arabic, so I continued uphill.

Amongst the ruins, I spotted walled sections that seemed to feature either toilets or small wells, along with a small handful of buildings that were either very small homes or storage rooms, which showed signs of use and upkeep.

But who would bother with plants in a place they were using for storage?

Finally, after scrabbling up worn steps and avoiding an incredibly attractive couple making out while taking selfies, I reached the top.

Shali Fortress was built in the twelfth century by Siwi Berbers to defend against the Bedouins. It was constructed from kercheif, a mixture of rock salt and clay. The walls survived many attacks and the passage of time until three days of rain in 1926 caused considerable damage. In 2018, locals, many of the descendants of the original Berbers, partially rebuilt the fortress.

By the time I reached the top, my camera was starting to have issues, so I only have a few phone pics to show for my trouble. I could not help but think about how many people lived and died defending this fort. I suspect I only scratched the surface of the history of this place, and would dearly love to find some books written on the subject. Sadly, I struggled to find a path down to what I thought of as the town square of the fort. I could have done with a guide.

Things to do in Siwa when you are Sober Part I

After a short stay in the seaside town of Marsa Maturah, notable only by a dip in the Red Sea at a rather ordinary beach, I headed to Siwa, near the Liberian border. I booked three nights in a place simply known as Forrest Camp, five minutes’ walk from the main street. My “tent” was a small limestone hut, a ten-second walk from the shared bathroom.

It was comfortable enough, but I was disappointed that the pool featured in the listing had not been functional for months. I also had to choose between plugging in my phone or the fan, which seemed incredibly unfair.

Another view, handy having an extra bed to keep your stuff on.

However, all things considered, after spending so much time in crumbling high-rises, the natural and low-lying surroundings were welcome. That night my pay hit my account, and I decided to live it up with a fancy dinner. I walked to the main street and to one of the highest rated resturants in town that was not in a hotel.

I ordered Tagine el Amir, a vegetable stew topped with cheese, and it came with rice, lentil soup, and a small salad, and was delicious.

With two mango smoothies, coffee, and water, the bill was less than I would pay in Australia for an upgraded KFC meal, and I happily tipped the very attentive wait staff.

I walked into what I thought of as the downtown area after dinner, and ended up in an alley focused on selling handicrafts, which was more picturesque than tempting.

The next morning, after a coffee that was supposedly the best in Siwa, I flagged down a Tuk-tuk and, after a long and complicated negotiation, I headed to Cleopatra’s Pool. A hot spring feeds a man-made circular pool, with a constant temperature of 29°C. It’s definitely a tourist trap, surrounded by cafes and souvenir shops, and it cost me 100 EGP before I even got my toes wet.

According to legend, Cleopatra once swam here, and locals believe the water has beautifying effects. Interestingly, the most attractive person around was a long-skirted European woman, who stared at the pool longingly but never got in. Perhaps she was concerned that increasing her already considerable beauty would be more trouble than it was worth. I, however, had no such issues and quickly stripped and spent a quarter of an hour paddling around, dodging the Spanish. Drying off and enjoying my second coffee for the day, I did feel more beautiful than before, but I am unsure if that was simply the power of suggestion. After declining offers of ice cream, tours, and transport, I exited the enclosure around the pool, walked a hundred metres before realising I was going in the wrong direction, and walked back through the pool towards the Temple of Unn Ubayd.

Built for the worship of Amun around 340BCE, it’s now one restored wall and a lot of rubble. It was also blessedly free of other humans. On closer examination, the restored wall features carvings typical of Ancient Egypt.

From the road, I could see on a nearby hill the main purpose of this walk in the desert sun, another temple of Amun, but more commonly known as the Oracle Temple. Now I put my phone away and relied on my somewhat dubious sense of direction. This caused me to walk through what I suspect was backyards, luckily the owners were too busy elsewhere to complain about this casual trespassing, and I made my way to the trail leading up to the temple, where small children tried to sell me toys, but also pointed me towards the ticket office, where a sleepy man hit me up for 120 EGP.

Dedicated to the sun god, the temple housed a divine oracle of impeccable pedigree. The most famous of its supplicants was Alexander the Great. What the great man was told here is now lost. Whatever the truth, its importance is undeniable, and it’s impressive in its semi-restored state.

It’s also worth noting that the site is very understated compared to many historical sites in Egypt, with no surrounding tourist trap infrastructure, not counting the persistent but good-natured children. It seemed people were getting here via tour groups or hire cars, rather than walking in the sun like idiots. I couldn’t find any tuk-tuks, and, giving up, I flagged down a man on a motorbike and trailer carting dates, and managed to convince him to take me into town. Back in the main street, I handed him 100 EGP, the same amount I paid the tuk tuk driver to get to Cleopatra’s Pool, which made him very happy, making me wonder how long it would take him to earn that transporting dates around.

Travellers Tales: The Sphinx

I left my home during a solar eclipse. I crossed forests and rivers, mountain passes and glaciers. I shared meals with princes and beggars, shared fires with soldiers and priestesses. When I reached a great desert, I drank tea with a Bedouin and traded my watch for his camel. He had no need to know the time, but he liked the way it caught the desert sun on his wrist.

I named the camel Daisy and rode him for countless days, until he expired on the edge of an oasis. I buried him and drank my fill, then continued on for countless more days.

When I knew I could walk no more, I looked up and saw the Sphinx, and fell to my knees.

“Oh Great Sphinx, which way should I go?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, cracking with thirst.

The Sphinx yawned, stretched his great paws, and looked down at me balefully and spoke.”Where do you want to go?” His voice was like granite boulders rolling down a mountain, in no particular hurry.

“I don’t know,” I said, knowing I would be crying if I had the water to spare.

“Then it doesn’t matter.” The Sphinx replied.

Confused, I asked, “Wait, didn’t you steal that straight from Alice in Wonderland? “

The Sphinx yawned again and stated, “You try being original for five millennia, then we can talk about plagiarism.” The Sphinx closed his eyes and began gently snoring.

“You were a big help,” I muttered darkly. I stood up, swaying in the desert wind, turned around, and started for home.

Pyramids and Poop

There are three things I need you to understand about the Pyramids of Giza.

It doesn’t matter how many photos, videos, blog posts, articles, and documentaries you have consumed about this place; nothing will prepare you for just how impressive they are in person.
Every bit of statue, carving, every sarcophagus, every column, every obelisk that can be dragged away and taken to a museum or private collection has been. This leads to visiting the Pyramids to be a stark experience, devoid of context.
You cannot escape the overwhelming miasma of horse and camel shit.

After managing to avoid my Uber driver’s efforts to have a tour through his brother-in-law’s, fighting my way through the touts, and paying the exorbitant entry fee, I passed through the security as if I was some dubious English lord looking for a nice piece to hang over his mantle, and was let loose inside the Giza Necropolis.

Just past the gate was a modest pavilion, and I stopped there to apply sunscreen to my delicate skin. This is where I saw my first glimpse of the Sphinx.

You kind of have to squint to see it, unlike the sunscreen on my nose.

The way to the Sphinx was unclear, which I suspect was on purpose, so I walked uphill to the tomb of Meresankh III, Queen and wife of Khafre.

It was a comparatively modest structure that I enjoyed exploring despite various touts yelling at me at all times.

I moved on to the Great Pyramid of Giza.

Correctly known as the Pyramid of Khufu, it has lost eight metres of its height due to the pillaging of its limestone shell, but the one hundred and thirty-eight metres left was still enough to leave me dumbfounded. This colossal structure was the largest man-made building for three and a half millennia. Even with access to modern trucks, cranes, loaders, and diamond-tipped saws, the logistics to recreate it today would be staggering. It’s also the only one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World still standing to this day. After walking around the pyramid and taking in its majesty, I moved on to the Pyramid of Khafre.

The middle-sized of the Great Pyramids, it’s perhaps the most striking of the three due to the limestone cap that still remains to this day. Here I could have paid extra to go inside, but my claustrophobia and early-trip cheapness prevented me from taking advantage of this.

The third of the Great Pyramids is the very much reduced Pyramid of Menkaure.

It stands at sixty-one metres high today. The large vertical gash is the result of the Sultan of Egypt’s efforts to demolish it; luckily, after eight months, this act of vandalism was abandoned.

By now, I was getting worn out and baked in the sun, and I followed a group of tourists who seemed to be walking with confidence, hoping they would lead me to the Sphinx.

Too many horses, not enough people willing to ignore their condition.

This area seemed to be where the freelance horse carriage operators congregate, away from the Great Pyramid scammer bros. I managed to find the entrance to the Sphinx, which was through the Valley Temple of Khafre, who was also one of the suspected builders of the Sphinx.

Once I made my way through the temple, I climbed a causeway with a view of the Sphinx, which is the closest one can get without bribing a guard or jumping a fence.

Standing taller than the nearby Pyramid of Menkaure, the Great Sphinx of Giza (It’s certainly not the only one; it’s a common motif) has been the stuff of legends since it was carved from the bedrock over four thousand years ago. I grew up reading fairy tales featuring this enigmatic statue. Including ones where the statue is alive and poses riddles to weary supplicants.

I managed to hold off on taking a selfie snogging this ancient monument, which at least placed me in the minority of the crowd on that day. He or she deserves more respect than that. I sat on the stone wall lining the causeway for a few minutes, simply soaking up the view as much as I could while tourists milled around me, taking photos from every available angle.

Great Spinx of Giza, with the Great Pyramid of Giza in the background.

Chaotic Cairo Part II

After Tokyo, Cairo was a shock. No matter how crowded the train, street or shop, there was a certain minimal elegance to the behaviour of the crowd. If someone had to step on your toes, there would at least be an apologetic shrug. In Cairo, it was a much more dog-eat-dog attitude. An Egyptian will think nothing of stopping in the middle of the street to chat to a friend who is already half blocking all the pedestrian traffic. Foot traffic is often already being made harder by street vendors setting out their goods on the ground. A four-lane road will often be reduced to a single lane due to people parking on the road, usually blocking other cars in. Queuing for a toilet or to be served at a corner store, I would have people step right in front of me as if I had suddenly been rendered invisible. I made the mistake of visiting the largest and most famous market in Cairo, Khan el Khalili, and was almost injured numerous times as large motorbikes rode down tiny lanes as fast as possible. After walking around like that for an hour, I never even came close to starting to buy anything, which seemed to be a common theme. Silence is entirely unknown here, with constant car horns, constant yelling, and constant loud music. At some point, I gave up buying goods from corner stores, as the prices for my goods seemed to be twice or three times what they should be.

This is not to say I didn’t have pleasant moments. A perfume seller on the street gave me excellent directions to my hotel when I first landed. A head-scarved lady with startling blue eyes offered me some confectionery while she waited for her friend buying some costume jewellery from a street vendor. A dark-skinned lady told me I “said no beautifully” when I declined her offer of a henna tattoo before continuing on her way.

At least they are not selling sushi, which I did not trust.

Chaotic Cairo Part I

Cairo, the city of a thousand minarets. A city with both feet firmly in the past, trying to sway into the future.

I would love to claim that I booked my hotel in Cairo with deliberate care, with consideration for location, amenities, and reviews. In fact, I booked it after ten seconds of thought, based on price, while frustrated about my lack of progress on planning this part of my trip. My hotel was five stories above an alley dedicated to selling car parts. The staircase wrapped around the old elevator shaft, which had stopped working decades ago.

Would you believe it looks even worse in reality?

The handrails may have once been quite ornate, but any pretense of grandeur had long ago been given up. My room was small, being divided up from a larger suite, two walls made up of unpainted plasterboard, the ceiling peeling paint, and plaster dropping away from the wooden beams. I had to provide my own soap and toilet paper; the shared bathroom did not even feature a bum gun or bucket and jug. It was clean and safe enough, but I took care not to leave anything in my room worth stealing.

In the morning, I walked a short distance from my hotel and found a traditional cafe in an alleyway. There, I enjoyed my first Arabic coffee since COVID.

I think what draws me to these sorts of places is that in a world where you are never far away from a Starbucks, these cafes are largely doing business in the same way for the last hundred years. Cash only, coffee brewed by hand above flames, and barely any English spoken. Fully caffeinated, I completed my efforts in returning to full human status by getting a shave and a haircut at a tiny barber shop I passed earlier. I was, however, not feeling up to any serious sightseeing, so I continued walking aimlessly. I got lost in a series of streets lined with shops selling name plaques, name stamps and similar office supplies. When I managed to escape this enclave, I got lost in a series of streets focused on selling lighting fixtures and other electrical parts. Eventually I found myself in an alleyway where the focus was more useful to me; coffee and shisha. I spent a few hours here, drinking coffee, reading, and watching the tide of humanity, which seemed to be darker-skinned than what I expected to see in Egypt, which I assumed to be Nubian.

There was a lot of traditional dress, traditional three-kisses greetings between men, and, of course, mobile phone use, which was the single sign of modernity, apart from the noise of traffic.

Early evening, I found myself in a pedestrian boulevard, having eaten nothing in Cairo yet, I discovered a no-frills restaurant, which was something of a local favourite.

I wandered some more after my early dinner, finding some nice, more modern cafes down alleyways closed off to traffic.

Later, I was craving air-con and a place where I could do some writing unmolested. I walked to a nearby McDonald’s and ordered a tea from the kiosk before heading upstairs. After waiting half an hour, another patron took pity on me and sent a staff member to find out what was going on. Sarah appeared and commented on my handwriting being much like hers, then proved herself wrong by writing her name in my notebook much neater than I could ever manage.

When Sarah returned to me with my tea, I handed her one of my mini business cards, which delighted her, but she seemed to make a point in accepting it as a souvenir rather than any interest in contacting me. My hopes of gaining a beautiful Egyptian girlfriend dashed, I drank my tea and returned to my hotel to climb the stairs, alone and rejected.

Kabukicho

It’s long been my habit to book accommodation close to places I can eat and drink. It doesn’t worry me much if I have to take public transport or a taxi to get to a historical site or a famous market, as long as I can chill at the end of the day without trying to negotiate with a taxi driver while half-cut. For Tokyo, I was staying within the confines of Kabukicho, Japan’s most infamous red-light district. Now that I have typed that, I have to wonder if calling a red-light district infamous is redundant, but I’ll leave that kind of argument for when I am not sober.

Kabukicho is full of host and hostess clubs, soaplands, love hotels, girl bars, pickacho palours, claw game arcades, plus regular bars and restaurants. Traditionally, the Yakuza held massive influence here, and while the Yakuza have been diminishing in both numbers and influence in the last ten years, their impact here is supposedly still strong in Kabukicho. While I enjoyed wandering around, I didn’t linger, except for a meal at the world’s narrowest KFC while feeling despondent. At street corners in the larger ward of Shinjuku, loudspeakers warn of touts inviting you to bars that overcharge by factors of a hundred. I soon learned that these touts were exclusively Nigerian, well-dressed and friendly, but informed by the loudspeaker warnings and my own research, this was easily ignored. Stereotypically, the touts are working illegally after overstaying their visas, yet operate so openly that I can’t work out why the authorities are not rounding them up.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Basile_Morin

Host and Hostess clubs are nightclubs, where you have your drinks poured and cigarettes lit by incredibly attractive, attentive, and charming members of the opposite sex. While that does sound lovely to a lonely person, and there are many of those in Japan, the price is exorbitant, and the host/hostesses are incentivized to make their guests order more and more. This is not a scam, but one certainly should be very aware of the underlying principles. As much as I would have liked a woman hanging on my every word, I didn’t want to spend my entire Tokyo budget on a few hours. I have been told that it can become very addictive, and in some less reputable host clubs, women can rack up such bills that the Yakuza step in and the women are forced into sex work to settle their bills. Also, some of the hostesses are working illegally, or are victims of exploitation (such as passports being taken from them) and trafficking, so that’s another aspect a guest would need to be aware of.

Japan has very different ideas about ideal male beauty than the West.

Brothels in Japan are usually called Soaplands, which used to be called Turkish baths before the son of a Turkish ambassador took offence. From what I read, it’s a very ritualistic way of conducting sex work, similar to the soapy massages one can get in Thailand. Actual sex is negotiated after the bath. If one is not aware of the meaning of Soaplands, a person could walk past them and have no idea what is going on behind the door, which I guess is the way the Japanese like it.

Nothing to see here, no, totally not brothels back to back.

In the heart of Kabukicho, right next to the KFC I previously mentioned and the neon signs of the Toyo Building (Mostly a cinema featuring the famous Godzilla Head, was the messiest sight I saw in my time in Tokyo. Numerous youths, and some older Westerners, sitting on the ground or on folding chairs, surrounded by rubbish and uniformed security staff who were attempting to look nonchalant. These are the Toyoko kids, runaways, marginalized youths and their hangers-on. Homeless and largely ignored by society at large, they have formed their own subculture based on their situation and fashion choices. It’s important as an onlooker not to romanticize their existence, they are mostly homeless and highly susceptible to exploitation by others.

Another thing in Japan that is considered normal, but also ignored.

Moving further through Kabukicho, I discovered two lines of young women, many dressed in Cosplay or school uniforms, kept in order by security guards. They were handing out flyers to hostess clubs, girl bars, and similar establishments. Mostly, they appeared bored and disinterested, although I did get a smile back from one of them as I danced around a group of gawking Germans. I suspect they share some membership with the Toyoko kids, and do not get paid more than a few yen an hour unless they walk someone into an establishment, or their flyers have an identifier that is taken into the bar.

Also in Kabukicho are Pachinko Parlors, which are confusing, pinball-like games that skirt the gambling laws by not having payouts issued from the same building. Love hotels are also common, where couples, Johns and their new lady-friends, can rent a room for a few hours to watch TV and nap. This offers a place for many couples who still live with their parents (paper-thin walls, etc) to get some privacy. There are also bars high in skyscrapers, where, for a modest cash fee, one can receive a much higher invoice for tax or reimbursement purposes.

I suspect that William Gibson’s Night City was directly inspired by Kabukicho, as it also appears to be a barely lawful zone that keeps the rest of Tokyo orderly, safe, and child-friendly. It was also the only place in Tokyo I saw rats. For all that, its probably the most exciting place at night to see in Tokyo, and visually spectacular; on the first night I visited I wished I had a D-SLR and tripod with me, to do super-long exposures.

I know how you feel, random red-shirted guy.

If you, dear reader, are interested in this aspect of Japan, I suggest you watch this video, which does a more reporting-style take on the scene and other aspects of Tokyo.

Tipsy Tokyo

Drinkers are spoiled for choice in Tokyo, the drinking culture being well established before it ever became a tourist hotspot. My capsule hotel is a two-minute walk from the famous Golden Gai. Golden Gai is a small collection of alleyways, full of tiny bars, some seating no more than five people. Before being mentioned in every travel guide, BuzzFeed article, and blog post about Tokyo, locals flocked to it, often choosing their own favourite bar. Some functioned as private clubs, with entry only permitted for members. It was especially known as a haunt for writers, which, of course, helps my fascination.

Apparently I only took a single photo — Golden Gai

Many of the bars have their own themes and have become famous in their own right, such as Open Book, filled with bookshelves and noted for its excellent lemon sours, and Deathmatch in Hell, a heavy metal-themed bar. Due to the popularity of many of these famous bars, I only ended up drinking in Golden Gai once, at a place whose name I never quite caught, hosted by the vivacious Suki. I drank alone until a group of beautiful Dutch youths showed up. On asking for the bill and finding it less than I expected due to the absence of a cover charge (very common in Tokyo, and sometimes described unfairly as a scam), Suki asked if I could shout her a shot, and of course I could not let her drink alone, and thus I had my first Tequila since the exit of a certain South African from my life.

It was the logical thing to do. — To be fair, I was a little besotted by Suki.

I found my regular drinking hole a little further away from my hotel, past the touts of Kabukicko, the holographic cat, and past a common spot where buskers plied their trade.

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Omoide Yokocho, which translates to Memory Lane, is another collection of small alleyways, better known by its earlier nickname, the less salubrious Piss Alley. When the bars here were not entirely legal post-war, there were no bathroom facilities, and punters would simply relieve themselves on the nearby train tracks. Since then, the alley has been largely gentrified, with very nice toilets hidden in between the bars, but it’s still a lot of fun. The atmosphere is great, with the smoke from the cooking meat, the hanging lanterns, and fake tree decorations; it’s a great, if difficult, place to photograph.

Also, crowded — Apparently, I didn’t take a photo of the entrance.

As well as copious draft beer and sake, the main focus here is meat skewers, cooked on a grill on the bar. The first bar I entered here became my regular place, and I became a big fan of their minced chicken skewers.

meat on a stick and beer, what more could I want? Apart from female company, of course.

The staff were fantastic and attentive, and took a genuine interest in their customers. And were happy to pose for some photos for customers.

At least I was wearing a different shirt than in my Golden Gai photos — And hamming it up!

I drank there for half an hour on my last night before catching my flight onwards to Cairo, and I felt sad that I wouldn’t see these guys again. Hopefully, I’ll get back to Tokyo sometime soon, as I found it almost as addictive as Istanbul.

A Tourist in Tokyo

Perhaps because I had trouble navigating the public transport system, I never felt like I was massively successful in visiting Tokyo’s historical sites.

The Meiji Shrine is surrounded by vegetation with minimal undergrowth. The shrine is dedicated to the spirits of Emperor Meiji and his wife, the Empress Shoken, who are most famous for the Meiji Restoration. They were both transformed into gods after their death.

At the time of my visit, the shrine was hosting a festival to honour dolls, which are often considered to have their own spirits. I couldn’t help but think sadly of my old teddy bear, stored away at my parents’ house.

I should not be shocked that there is an association.

I was definitely missing much context, as I know little about Japanese history and little about Shintoism. But at least I didn’t have to pay for the privilege, something I should have appreciated more at the time. The original complex was, as much of Tokyo, destroyed during Allied raids in World War II. It was rebuilt from publicly raised funds.

Much of the outer features of the shrine were either closed or not readily accessible, and having hiked to the Treasure Room, and finding it closed, I ended up swapping the change in my pocket for an iced tea and some chocolate from a conveniently nearby bank of vending machines, and sat under a tree and read for an hour, which seemed to be a popular choice. I lingered longer than I intended, as a group close to me seemed to be getting ready for some kind of photoshoot, but it took too long to get started, and I moved on.

Making my way back through the shrine grounds, a Canadian lady who gave her name as Mary thought I looked put together enough to ask me for directions. I walked her back to the main building before leaving her to it and making my way back to the train station.

Asakusa Shrine I found to be more interesting, perhaps because it was positioned in one of the older parts of Tokyo.

Thunder Gate, yes, it was that busy everywhere. Is that a Willow Tree to the left?

Between the main gate and the main shrine building are hundreds of small shops, selling tourist tat, traditional foods, and handicrafts, including hand-made Buddhist scrolls. I was tempted by a katana letter opener, but it seemed like the kind of thing that Customs back home would have questions about.

The Treasure House Gate is two stories high, with the upper story containing many of the shrine’s treasures. The entire area was packed with people, and I struggled to gain any type of understanding.

Some women, tourists and Japanese alike, choose this place to have photoshoots in traditional kimonos, accompanied by professional photographers or lucky boyfriends. The Japanese women here put most of the Western women to shame, perfectly poised and made up in their multitudes, like ordinary angels, routine and mobile works of art.

Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to view Tokyo as a whole rather than a bunch of train stations with their surroundings, or perhaps it was some monkey-brain need to find the tallest thing around and claim everything I could see as my own.

Whatever my motivations, I found myself waiting in line for half an hour, passing through a rigorous, but entirely polite security check, and rode in an elevator for fifty-five floors to get to the Southern Observation Deck of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. This proves that while close to a billion US dollars were spent building the skyscraper, they spent five minutes in a committee naming it before heading to an izakaya.

The view was impressive, and the gift shop was lovely. The cafe seemed delightful, but the price for a latte were as high as I was. This may be to compensate for the free entry to the observation deck, the Japanese being oddly principled and pragmatic in that way.

On my last day in Tokyo, I decided I should see the Imperial Palace. Unfortunately, I discovered that it was only open on seemingly random hour-and-a-half blocks, so I never ended up inside the walls. I did, however, take some nice photos in the nearby Hibiya Park, which had lakes, tennis courts, and scattered historical places of interest.