We left Tokyo and bullet trained it to Kanazawa. I wrote to tell you, then, because sleeping at nighttime seems to be a problem here, I collapsed in a heap of deep sleep. Neat.

Mel, who’d also been asleep for a bit, woke me up with ‘we’re there!’ The train was slowing down, coming into a city. I groggily roused myself (no coffee, no shower, no drugs), pulled the carry on bags from the overheads, gathered myself and left the train. With Mel but without my sweatshirt. Left as my gift to the lovely people of Japan. All 160 million of them, they can share it.

The station was fantastic and we got stuck in a food shop that was wonderful. We bought stuff, drifted outside into a sweet little market in the forecourt of the station. Wandered round, then finally got in a taxi and gave him the name of our hotel. Which we knew to be (according to Mr Google) 5 minutes away or a 30 minute walk. The taxi driver looked puzzled but eventually we got the name of the hotel to him. And he still looked puzzled. Plugged it into his phone and showed us that the hotel was in fact 65kms away. Lot of taxi fare.

The penny dropped. Or the yen. We’d got off at the wrong fucking station. We weren’t in Kanazawa but in Toyama. I’m guessing, about 65km away. We had UNDER MEL’S GUIDANCE!!!! got off at the wrong place, a station too soon. but I place no blame, no accusations, no… ok, I reserve the right to laugh about this each and every day as long as I should be breathing air.

Because it was just so funny. We took the next train, 15 minutes later, at no cost (we have ‘all you can eat’ rail cards) and I get to take the piss out of my wife for the next 47 dinner parties we attend. It was a win-win.

Kanazawa was fabulous too. And we went to the most amazing sushi place in the entire world. And this is from the least sushi-loving person on the planet.

We found this place on tripadvisor, on the basis of amazing reviews and that it was a 10 minute walk from the hotel. But it was a bit ‘off the beaten track’. And furthermore, the name I was looking for was no-where. There was a sign in Japanese but who the fuck knows what that said. No windows, closed door. Could have been a vet. A brothel. Massage parlour. But I pushed the door and saw people eating and a man in a chef’s hat. So figured this might be right. But it was tiny. Just a lovely old man, about 70, behind the counter, 10 people sitting all around, two little tables behind, 4 people each max, and the man’s wife bringing tea and sake.

You pointed on the vast menu (nigiri, nigiri, nigiri or, otherwise, 97 different nigiris) of a vast array of fish and ‘other seagoing things’, that we sometimes eat and sometimes just tread on and scream, and he made it, slapped it on the desk in front of you, and you just carried on talking, drinking. It’s leisurely. There’s no rush (you fucking, in a hurry, western bastard) that’s not how its done ‘here’. WE eat slowly and drink quickly and take hours.

The man was funny, even with the amazing gulf in language, the woman charming, the sushi the bestest, freshest, most everything-est you could ever eat anywhere in the entire world. Quite literally. And the experience quite magical. As are most things with enough sake.

And yet it convinced me yet further that although sushi is lovely, it is just not my favourite food. Not even close. Because it is essentially bland and tasteless, other than the soya sauce and wasabi, at which point it all tastes the same. If the fish has too much taste, its generally not fresh enough and rice is rice. I’ve had the absolute best, enjoyed it immensely. So I don’t need to do it again. You can keep your Nobu, I’ll take Dirty Burger instead. (HE’S SO UNSOPHISTICATED!!!)

Happy Saturday. On another train to Kyoto. I’ll decide when we get off this time.

A xxxx