Flying Solo

Ah, the now-customary day-of-travel blog entry. Habitually consisting of little else other than sitting still and waiting to move, then sitting still and waiting whilst being moved, then finally making a move once the thing that was moving you whilst you sat sits still, I ordinarily still manage to make a meal out of it.

Neatly, and also customarily, this one begins with a meal. Departing from Manchester Terminal 1 and not finding the expected Wetherspoons (which is either in Terminal 2, a totally different airport or possibly don't exist in airports and I imagined the whole thing) I went to Giraffe for breakfast because I remember hearing in the news that the chain that operates them isn't doing too well and wanted to support them (and also, bearing this news out, there were plenty of available tables). I had the standard-size English breakfast, foregoing the double-sized version for a couple of quid extra because since my last Bupa medical I've been trying to eat less sat-fats, since spending most of my variable pay award on this trip been trying to spend a little less cash and since my last girlfriend trying to consume less meat. Lower-calories, cheaper price, ever-so-slightly-less dead pigs; Win / Win / Mitigated Loss.

But I had to eat it with one of those damn silly knives that barely cut anything, all for fear that if they provided effective slicing implements somebody might smuggle one aboard an aircraft and threaten to cut something they shouldn't. This is exactly what the terrorists want. If we allow fear to mildly inconvenience our breakfast experience then they've won. How about instead you just embed microchips within your normal, sharp knives and persistently track them throughout the eating experience via a high-tec sensor array that monitors their positioning, incline and activity and ensures none leave the premises with an alarm system to alert should one pass the perimeter. Simple and practical. C'mon Giraffe ; this is why you're losing market-share to Nandos.

Even with the delay imposed by ineffective eating apparatus, I still had time to kill so wandered around the shops. I bought a travel pillow, which I'd been meaning to buy anyway but had forgotten to, although once I realised I could deduct VAT from the purchase as I was heading outside of the EU I retroactively decided I'd made a savvy decision to delay my purchase till this moment.

Then came the flight(s). Due to a computer error I'd been unable to check-in online so had to take the seat they allocated to me. On my first flight, Manchester to Abu-Dhabi, I was given an aisle seat, which would have been my first choice anyway.

Now then, it was of course omnipresent in my mind that I'd never before flown without somebody I know being also aboard. Those that know me, plus now those that don't strangely enough reading this blog, will know I'm not the biggest fan of flying. In fact, to express as an equally abbreviated version of the natural antonym of the most likely etymological origin of 'fan', you might say I am a 'mod' of flying. As such, presuming that last bit made any sense to you at all, you can imagine there may have been a degree of trepidation and nervousness on my part as the plane broke away from the gate, sped down the runway and lifted itself up into the gloomy Manchester air.

I was fine. Like, honestly, the most relaxed I've ever felt on a plane. I don't myself understand the derivation of my fear of flying but it seems it might be heightened, not soothed, by having people around me. Hear that, everybody who's ever flown with me(?) ; it's YOUR fault.

Anyway I watched Glass first of all, the fittingly average conclusion to the generally-okay Shyamalan 'twisty-ending' trilogy. Then I watched 'Bad Times at El Royale' because I knew it was written and directed by somebody who worked on Buffy who apparently now, having seen this film, dreams at night of being Quentin Tarantino. And actually, he did a bang up job at the attempt. It had a bit of a 'Can't Believe it's not Butter' vibe, but was far better than The Hateful Eight. Next I watched an American Dad and a Family Guy, leaving me only enough time for the first two thirds of 'Johnny English : The Third One' before landing at Abu-Dhabi for a transfer.

Much like my experience with Emirates/Dubai, transferring was a painless affair and the luggage passed straight through. I activated my new Revolut card, quickly converted some Pound Sterling to Dirham and bought a tube of M&Ms minis (which, tragically, they seem to have stopped selling in the UK) and then bought a turkey & cheese toastie with the contactless functionality. Seriously, for precisely this purpose, Revolut knocks out of the park anything that we (ie. who I work for) has to offer. For travelling to foreign destinations with pre-loaded, instantly convertible currency then get a Revolut account. For literally anything else, go HSBC. Or, you know, whoever you currently bank with.

Second flight I watched the final third of Johnny English the Third or whatever, then the Jason Bateman-led dark-lite comedy 'Game Night', which was on par with all Jason Bateman's other dark-lite comedies; gently amusing but afraid to truly commit to the bit. I then had a bit of a kip.

And what an epic kip it was. Not normally one to sleep on a plane, being generally preoccupied with the concept of being on a plane, I'd considered the prospect of sleep unlikely. But it transpires that the secret to getting some decent sleep on a plane is to have three whole seats, plus accompanying pillows and blankets, all to yourself. If only I'd known this earlier...

After a little fiddling about I achieved the ideal configuration. Folding down all of the tray-tables halfway and covering with a blanket created a soft boundary to keep me from rolling onto the floor, with the one closest to the window doubling-up as a convenient bedside table. Strategic organisation of the remaining blankets provided both coverage and surface-friction to prevent slippage whilst stacking the pillows up against the window, coupled with my purchased neck-pillow, provided cushioned comfort for a soft spot to rest my head.

Reasonably well-rested, I arrived at Narita airport and passed effortlessly through immigration to find my bag waiting for me on the carousel. Score one for the fabled Japanese efficiency. Following the directions given to me by the tour company I located the 'Skyliner' ticket desk and mentally rehearsed the Japanese phrase for requesting a ticket, but when my turn came decided instead to awkwardly point at a nearby sign instead. I was understood, and reassured by this first demonstration of tolerance for ignorant foreigners.

The train was due in a short five minutes, but all passengers were allocated an individual, and spacious, seat with ample room for my ample legs and excessively-ample luggage. The seats were mechanical; insomuch as they spin around at the conclusion of an A to B journey so as to be always facing forwards. As somebody who oddly prefers to travel backwards on trains I was largely indifferent to this functionality, though still impressed by the ingenuity.

Reaching Tokyo city I transferred to a busy overground commuter train, eventually reaching Shin-Okubu station. I quickly located the Premier Cabin Hotel where I'd be spending my first night and checked into my teeny-tiny room, cleverly designed to contain precisely the furniture and amenities you require with just enough floor-space to move between them. I had a brief lie-down, then ate a couple of the Graze bars I'd brought with me so as to provide the necessary sustainance to later tinker about with the electronic lavatory apparatus. Equipped with a seat-warmer, multi-directional and pressure-adjustable cleansing nozzles and a deoderiser, it was an all-round superior shitting experience.

I showered and changed then went out to explore. Dusk was approaching so I wandered where the lights were brightest, travelling south into northern Shinjuku. As the daylight fully faded and the neon signage activated my surroundings transformed into a sensory overload of colour, sound and smells. Small restaurants lined the streets, alongside a smattering of gaming arcades, pachinko halls and other, seedier-looking establishments to be expected of an area I later learned was Tokyo's red light district. However, even more so than Amsterdam, the area is considered a respectable location for an evening out and the patrons at the non strictly-adult-oriented establishments appeared well-dressed, of seemingly high social calibre and the prices set to match.

After some brief meandering through the main and side-streets I experienced a slow, dawning realisation that I sort-of, kinda knew where I was. Tall buildings, open spaces and weirdly particularly a parking-lot all felt to be laid-out in a strangely familiar arrangement. I then realised, and confirmed later with a Google-check, that this is one of the areas one of the hub-zones of the Yakuza video games are based upon, and I'd therefore spent many digital hours running around a fictionalised recreation of this exact place. They give the place a different name in the game (naming it Kamurocho instead of Kabukichō), but it's so similar I can only imagine this is done so as to avoid the implication that the area is riddled with organised crime. Given, as I say, the service some of these places provide I'd be unsurprised to discover some legally-dubious administration underpinning much of it.

Whilst there were many eating establishments to choose from, I eventually opted for a place recommended to me by the hotel. I'd presumed they would be therefore somewhat foreigner-oriented, but they only had one staff member who knew any English, and her mastery was only that of a parlour trick. Like that video of a horse that can count, there was rhythmic emulation of the basic concept but minimal interpretation of its meaning. The point-at-picture method prevailed and I thoroughly enjoyed my meal of fried chicken and gyoza.

Returned to my 'cabin' to get some sleep. But, because jet-lag, didn't really happen.Read more