Upon hearing a scratchy, incomprehensible boarding announcement for the last flight, I turned my attention to the monitors above the departure gate.  The text ?eboarding now?f, rather than a voice crying ?gthis is blats blall for blall bligh ss to Blebleh?h seemed a far more reliable signal to begin my long journey toJapan.   

A few minutes later, just as the stifled voice rang out again asking for passengers for the mysterious city of Blebleh to go to gate blate, a tall attractive woman with golden brown hair caught my eye.  She had wandered past the monitors, stopping just in front of the ticketing machine.  Two tall men, dressed in black suits, shuffled alongside her.  I was right then to assume that this person was none other than the infamous ?eJ-Lo?f.  With her long green, tight fitting evening dress, she looked as if she came straight from the Opera, or perhaps even the Oscars.  Naturally her skin was tanned and flawless.  Though the way her eyes stretched up towards her brow told me she had recently had a facelift.  Her button nose, turned up just a fraction, looked from this angle, to have had some serious work done on it too. 

I hope she is catching the same flight as me, I thought.  In my home town Adelaide in South Australia, a place where we joke there are only 2 degrees of separation, instead of the usual seven, it was unavoidable that I would see familiar faces at the airport.  But never, not in all my days, did I expect to run into such a famous person, especially one I whom I had admired for so long.  Smiling, she turned to the tall man on her right.  Perhaps he is her minder?  In this graceful movement, J-Lo?fs hair had fallen forward over her cheek, but it didn?ft hang there long; curling her fingers, she quickly whipped her straight hair back behind her ear again. 

Should I get J-Lo?fs autograph?  Should I introduce myself to her?  Should I take a photograph?  The next moment, I almost frothed at the mouth when she leant over a little further to smack a kiss on her minder?fs right cheek.  I zoomed in for a close up on this lucky bastard?fs face.  Strangely enough, this minder looked a lot like J-Lo.  Then, when I had a good look at the other minder too, I gathered these people were probably not J-Lo?fs minders, but instead her relatives. 

Come to think of it who would want to do anything to harm our local parliamentarian anyway?  Of course J-Lo is the nickname for Jane Lomax, a local Parliamentarian.

At last my flights boarding call was announced.   As I waited in line at the customs desk, I recognized another person I knew.  This time, however, it was no one exciting-it was just Kevin, an old friend from University.  Though Kevin and I were close friends at University 7 years ago, our friendship, like so many others from University, gradually washed out like a grass stain in your old white cricket pants.  It had been nearly 3 years since I had last seen him.  He had lost some weight.  At University, Kevin and I spent most of our days at the bar, drinking.  Unlike me, Kevin made it out of the bar and went on to pass the Geology degree.  As I gazed at Kevin, standing upright, proud and distinguished in his well-pressed uniform, it seemed that a job at customs searching people?fs bags, was far more exciting for him than searching the world over for precious metals and minerals.

When I stepped forward to the custom?fs desk, Kevin spotted me and came running over.   

?gDont let this guy through!" Kevin joked as I dropped my passport and ticket onto the customs officer?fs desk.

?gHow are you Kevin, you?fre looking smart?h I said.

?gCheers mate, so where you off to??h he said extending his long neck over his colleagues shoulder, ?gahh Japan hey??h

?gYeah I?fm going to teach there for a year?h

?gWell I?fll probably see you back here in a year?h

All this while I felt the customs officer looking me up and down.  Then he held this long squint at me as if he thought he was Clint Eastwood in a western movie before a shootout. 

?eDon?ft let this guy through?f-did this customs officer take Kevin?fs joke seriously?  I recalled the sign on the desk when I checked in my luggage ?ewe take jokes about your safety seriously?f.  I let my eyes dart around at the other customs officials, worried they would all storm over, seize me, and take me away for interrogation.  Maybe Kevin had told his collegues how drunk we used to get at University.  Perhaps they suspected that I was attempting to smuggle more than my allowed two bottles of alcohol into Japan. 

At last, handing my passport and ticket back to me with a placid tilt of his head, the customs officer allowed me to pass.  I waved goodbye to Kevin, wondering if he had played a little practical joke on me, and walked onto the plane.  Peering out the window for one last look at my town from the ground level, I mumbled to myself  ?gWell this is it. Goodbye Adelaide?h

Then, when we slowly rolled towards the runway, the engine noise building to a crescendo, feelings of excitement and anticipation overcome me.  My dream, since I was a little boy playing in the backyard in our outer suburban house, staring up at the planes flying over, was to one-day fly to another country.  I had waited 27 years for this wondrous moment. 

Suddenly the plane stalled.  All the lights in the cabin were out. 

?eWhat the!?f I shouted.

My old 1972 Nissan Sunny stalls, not jumbo jets that are supposed to fly halfway around the world! 

?gHello this is your captain speaking?h said a calm voice from the speakers above my head.  At least the loudspeakers work here, ?gwe are unfortunately experiencing some minor engine problems, but, hopefully our engineer can fix the problem soon and we will be on our way?h said the captain.

Though I tried to read the inflight magazine, the light outside was fading fast and, with no power inside the cabin, reading quickly became an impossible task.  Dumping the magazine back in its pouch, I turned to the dark figure next to me, intent on beginning a conversation, ?gI sure hope they can fix the problem soon?h I said.

There was no answer.

Without power in the cabin I couldn?ft read, I couldn?ft listen to music, I couldn?ft write, I couldn?ft watch TV, I was far too frustrated to mediate, and my last hope at shunning boredom, a conversation with the passenger sitting alongside me, had just failed. 

A few seconds later, there was a glimmer of hope.  A head slowly strained forward out of the darkness.  The last rays of dull orange light whimpering through the tiny aircraft window, fell onto a thick pair of glasses set high on a wrinkled face, ?gI really do hope its sooner rather than later?h said the old lady next to me in a posh tone, ?gI have a connecting flight to get in Kaula Lumper?h she added.  I had a good look at her now.  This lady was late 50?fs, she had curly grey hair, and wore a flowery headband, obviously left over from her hippy days.  Conveniently this headband matched her silk flowery top.

?gWhere are you transferring to??h I asked

?gSwitzerland?h she said as this was the most obvious thing in the world, ?gmy family are from Switzerland. Where are you flying too??h she asked in an accent that now sounded German.

?gJapan?h I said.

?gWhy are you going to Japan??h

?gTo teach English?h

Then, just as the conversation was starting to take off to a new level, the lights flickered on, and engine noise once again echoed throughout the cabin. 

?gOh how sweet the engine sounds?h I said. 

For the last ten years I had lived under the flight path in Adelaide, rudely awoken at 5:25am every morning by the Boeing 707 flight from Melbourne, so I never thought the words ?ehow sweet an airplane engine sounds?h would ever leave my mouth. 

?gYes?h said the old lady, lifting the headphones off her lap and releasing them amongst her mop of untamed hair.  I pushed back into my seat adjusting the headphones on my head too.  Now the aircraft was rolling, our brief conversation had came to a sudden halt. 

The next 5 hours passed slowly-very slowly.  I read Time magazine, Fortune 500 magazine, the inflight magazine, the local paper, and I studied the map of the world for about an hour.  So after Japan, I?fll go to Europe, or China, or America, or South East Asia, or maybe even the Carribean, I thought.  Then, as the view out the window below changed from a red brown color-the scorched Australia desert; to a green color- the tropical forests by the coast; and then a thin strip of yellow- the beaches around Broome, then a vast boundless blue color- the Timor Sea, I experienced a gamut of emotions.  As I have spoken I had never left Australia before.  At first I held my face up the window like a wound up, salivating dog on a warm summer?fs day.  Then I felt relief.  I had finally done it-I had left Australia.  These feelings, however, soon grew to anxiety.  What have I done?  Life back home was simple and uncomplicated.  I am leaving all of this for a strange, new life in a foreign country, where I don?ft know the language; I don?ft know the geography, the history or the culture.  I know nobody in this island country either.  But what I do know is that the Japanese cuisine is good-damn good.  I ate sushi about once a week back home.  If the sushi is that good outside of Japan, imagine how good it will be inside of Japan, I thought.  ?eAnd you learnt some Japanese words on the Internet last night, you?fll be right?f I mumbled to myself, realizing too late, that, with my headphones on, I may have said this last remark a little too loud.  I repeated the words I learnt last night ?eKonichiwa, Sayounara, tasukete-Hello, goodbye, help me?f.  I figured if I was ever lost, homesick, confused, wedged amongst masses of people in the middle of peak hour on the streets of downtown Tokyo, I could simply shout ?gtasukete?h and someone would point me in the direction of the Australian Embassy.

My gentle reassurances calmed me a little.  But my feelings quickly grew to delight as the Tom Jone?fs song, ?eWhat?fs new pussycat?f played on Channel 4- Classic Hits.  I just love Tom Jones.  How nice of Tom Jones to join me in this significant moment in my life- the realization of my dream to leave Australia.  All of a sudden I felt so happy now, that I wanted to take my underpants off, throw them into the air and begin dancing in the aisle.  Well, this is what most people do when they hear Tom Jones voice at his concerts isn?ft it?  Old ladies take off their bras and throw them at Tom on stage don?ft they?  Then, when I looked over at the middle-aged, hippy, Swiss Lady sitting next to me, still wearing her headphones, I grew worried.  Her mouth upturned a fraction, and I peered over her legs, trying to see the little dial on the arm of her chair.  Was she also tuned into Channel 4? I wondered.  She shot me a puzzling look, and I settled back into my chair, hoping she wasn?ft a big fan of Tom Jones-and if she was a fan of Tom, I was praying that she wasn?ft tuned into Channel 4 classic hits. 

A couple of hours later, on our descent into Kaula Lumper, the music was replaced by the captain?fs gentle voice, ?gHello this is your captain speaking?h he began in just the right calming tone, ?gwe would like to thankyou for flying Malyasian Airlines.   For those people transferring flights you will find details on the electronic boards in the departure lounges.  It is a warm sunny 29 degrees in KL at the moment and we would like to remind you that carrying drugs into Malaysia carries the mandatory death sentence.  Thankyou once again for flying Malaysian Airlines.?h

Well, mandatory death sentence-this was my first reminder that I?fd left my comfort zone of back home.  In my home town, Adelaide, a city famous for its liberal Marijuana laws(you can legally grow up to three plants for your own use), it?fs accepted to partake in the occasional spliff or two.  I quickly emptied the pockets of my jackets and pants, just in case I?fd left half a finished spliff in there. ?eSteve the Jury finds you guilty of smuggling 000.1 g of marijuana in to Malaysia so you will hang by the neck until you are dead dead dead!?h, I imagined a judge announcing this in a sweaty, overcrowded Kuala Lumpan Courtroom.

I killed the two hours stopover time browsing the alcohol duty free shop, in KL airport.  With the excitement of the first flight now over, I tried to get some sleep on the next leg of my journey from KL to Osaka- nice thought that.  Over the 7 hour flight I tried around 50 different sleeping positions for about 50 minutes sleep. 

Finally, in the soft morning light, the mountains of Japan come into view through a break in the clouds.  About 10 minutes later, as the plane descended through the thick bellowing clouds, the view below consisted only of blue seas.  ?eWhat the hell happened to the land?f I mumbled desperately looking out the windows on the other side of the plane for that elusive land. 

Then suddenly, only a few hundred metres above the ocean, and just as I was reaching down for my lifejacket in a state of panic, a rectangular island appeared out of the ocean, and we touched down on it. 

I had completely forgotten what I had read on the Internet last night about the Kansai International Airport.  Japan, an archipelago of Islands-over 70% mountainous, built the Kansai International Airport in the 1980?fs on a man made, perfectly rectangular island in the middle of the bay of Osaka.

After exiting the plane, I followed the other passengers into the terminal, and then onto a shuttle bus that delivered us to the customs area.  I retrieved my luggage and made my way to customs.  The red line was for foreigners, the green for Japanese only.  I joined the back of a long queue and let my eyes wander around the large open spaced airport.  With shiny, gray paneled walls, exposed metal beams in a 10-floor high glass ceiling, sparkling clean polished white floors, and lack of color, this place felt more like the set of a futuristic movie, rather than an airport.  I stole a glance back at the other foreigners who had just shuffled into line behind me, and wondered if they would work for the same teaching company as me.  The line moved slowly.  Finally, I stepped up to the customs desk.  The custom?fs officer looked me up and down a few times, thumped a few stamps in my passport and then flicked his right hand high into the air, rather rigidly as if in the style of ?eHail Hitler?f, and I was allowed to pass.

My dream to go to another country, though I had just landed in two foreign countries, Malaysia and now Japan, was not yet fully realized-in my opinion anyway.  You might say it?fs pedantic, but, until I can get outside and breathe in the air of this foreign country, instead of the terminal air-conditioning, then I may as well still be in Australia. 

With a soft ?ebzzz?f, just like the sound of the sliding doors in Star Trek, the customs doors parted.  I had reached the final stage in my dream.  I set my eyes on the nearest exit, around 10 metres away.  Then, as I pushed forwards for that exit, my path was suddenly blocked by a large huddle of young people all wearing looks of extreme bewilderment.

I tried to wheel my trolley with my two heavy bags around the group, but it was all in vain, "Where?fs the guy that?fs supposed to meet us?" A young girl said, her voice wavering as she pulled up alongside me.

?gAre you going to teach English too??h another young girl said turning to face me. She looked panic stricken like she was just about to throw up on her 18^th birthday in front of her entire family.  She was probably lucky to be 17 actually.  She had big googly eyes set behind a large hooknose, and an olive complexion.  Her accent was undoubtedly Greek.

They say ?esafety is in numbers?f, but this was ridiculous.  Around 20 young people had now gathered directly in front of the customs doors, blocking anyone from passing.  The large pack, as more and more soon-to-be English teachers crept through the customs doors, grew bigger by the second.   At first I thought about leaving my heavy trolley and pushing through the pack, but as the saying goes, ?eif you can?ft beat them join them?f. 

So that?fs what I did.

?gYes I am going to teach English?h I said to the Greek girl trying hard to hide my frustration.

?gSo where you from??h she asked forcing a smile.

?gAdelaide, how about you??h

?gMelbourne?h.

There was a long, silent pause.

?gYou?fre from Adelaide hey??h A young chubby man said looking at me.

?gyeah you??h I asked

?gBrisbane?h

Again a long silent pause.  This was pathetic.  Holding a conversation here, amongst these young, frightened soon-to-be English teachers seemed downright impossible.  As I have spoken I hadn?ft slept much on the long flight.  The other teachers had been in the same boat as me, both proverbially and physically; they probably hadn?ft slept much either.  At first I thought our lack of sleep had caused our conversations to dry up quickly, but, as I later discovered, I was actually in the first stages of culture shock.  And I hadn?ft even made it out the airport yet.  Indeed this year in Japan was going to be a very, very, long one.

For a few more minutes, repeating the same conversational lines aforementioned, I hung with the teacher pack, but finally, it grew intolerable and I made the brave, seemingly outrageous decision to venture outside.  Leaving my trolley surrounded by teachers, I pushed around the outside of the large pack, skirted back inside in front of a square garden full of palms and ferns, and set my eyes on the sliding doors now only meters in front of me.  I could see a road, a few buses and beyond the road, a green hedge.  With each new step, time seemed to slow.  For a moment I was tempted to stop at the information booth by the door to grab some of the many brochures on display, but the glass doors, now sliding open, beckoned my name.

?gAt last I?fve done it?h I shouted punching my fist in the air triumphantly as I stepped onto the concrete path outside.

As the doors slid closed behind me, I took a big, deep breath up through my nose.  The tiny hairs in my nose tickled as the stiff warm air raced up my nostrils.  I don?ft think I have ever taken a deeper breath in my life.  My chest pushed out, my shoulders cocked backward, and I held the air in my lungs for a few seconds.  It felt like I had just been taught how to not bumsuck a cigarette back in high school for the very first time.  Then I let the air out through my open mouth.  The next moment I found myself coughing, frowning, trying to deduce what the strange air tasted like.  Taking a few extra sniffs it dawned on me, ?esoy sauce?f I said out loud.  Has soy sauce in Japan evolved into a bacterial viral gene, mutated and become airborne?  The signs I just read in customs shouldn?ft read ?eWelcome to Japan- Land of the Rising Sun?f, instead, they should read ?eWelcome to Japan-Land of the Rising Soy?f. 

Looking back on that very moment, it had seemed fitting that right alongside me, other than the road off this airport island, was a glowing white vending machine.  No other country in the world has more vending machines than Japan.  According to the statistics Japan has over 6 million vending machines.  In the residential areas, this equates to over 45 vending machines per square kilometer.  There are vending machines for cigarette?fs, soft drinks, hot and cold coffees, beer, cigarette?fs, noodles, chips, batteries, condoms, and underpants even.  Practically every item you can buy from a supermarket you can buy 24 hours a day in a vending machine on your nearest street corner.  Though I still haven?ft found the vending machine for vending machines just yet!

All of a sudden the sound of the doors sliding opening behind me, startled me somewhat.  I spun around to see a young, thin, trendy looking guy in his early twenties, with Buddy Holly style black rimmed glasses, step outside.  He lighted a cigarette.  A young woman followed closely behind and she wandered off in the opposite direction.

?gG?fday?h I nodded at the young guy with the glasses.

?gHey!?h he said drawing back on his cigarette. 

?gHey, have a look how cheap the cigarettes are in this vending machine over here?h I said.

Wow, I felt proud of myself-this conversation had already lasted longer than any of the other conversations inside the terminal. 

?gWhoa!?h he screeched straining his head towards the machine, ?goh my name?fs Dean, I?fm from Sydney how about you??h he said extending his arm.

I told him.  Just as Dean opened his mouth to add something to the conversation, the glass doors slid open again and a tall young man with a bright blue shirt wandered out.  Dean spun towards the tall man, ?gAny sign of the guy that?fs supposed to meet us yet??h Dean asked.

?gYeah he just rolled up?h said the tall man flatly, ?gbut he?fs waiting on a few more people to come through customs before he begins organizing the bus trops to our homes?h the way this man said ?etrop?f instead of ?etrip?f told me he was a New Zealander.

I turned to Dean, our eyes met, and in an instant with an enigmatic, only half conscious rush of emotion, we were in perfect communion.  Our teaching company, as in accordance with their policy, only notifies the teachers where they will be living when they arrive at the airport.  So all we knew was that we would be living somewhere in the West of Japan.  Dean and I, desperate to discover where we would live, turned so quickly that the sensors of the automatic sliding doors were too slow to react.  Dean used this slight pause to drop his cigarette on the pavement, before we both pushed inside.

Inside the terminal, spread around the planter boxes, in seats or atop of their suitcases, the teachers, had now dispersed.  They seemed calm as they read through, what I later discovered, was their Japan welcome information packs.  These packs contained the all-important details about the locations of our new homes.  

A large fat man with a beard, a suit stretched over his stomach like a tied handkerchief around a balloon, stepped towards me.  He had an envelope in his hand, ?gyou must be Steve?h he said smiling.

?gYeah that?fs right?h I said with an air of suspicion in my voice. 

?gYes.  You look just like your photo I have here?h he held out the envelope towards me.

?gOh ok.  That?fs a good thing I suppose?h I said accepting the envelope.

I dropped onto the edge of a planter box, and began tearing through the envelope with the vigor of a child ripping open their presents on Christmas morning. 

Here are the keys to your new house

107 3, Urbanty Hide, Kutsukake Omihachiman

JR line 40 minutes from Kyoto station.

The fat bearded man, shuffling in front of me, cleared his throat with a little cough, ?gHello everyone, can you all gather around me for a few minutes?h he shouted in a confident tone. 

So the teachers did as he said.

?gHi everyone my name is Bob?h he smiled and peered out at the anxious faces before him, ?gwelcome to Japan. This morning we?fve made arrangements for you all to get to your new homes.  Now the following people will catch a train with me, and the others will catch a bus.  Another company representative will meet those on the bus, when it stops in Kyoto?h  

He flicked through his documents and reeled off a list of names.

?gWe have about 15 minutes to wait before we head off, so can you organize clothes and anything you need for tomorrow, and put them into an overnight bag, as your suitcases will be delivered to your door by a courier tomorrow evening.  When you?fre ready please take your suitcases to the courier desk over there, where I?fll be waiting?h Bob said pointing towards a corner in the far end of the terminal.  We followed Bob?fs instructions.  Some teachers, scattered here and there, ripped through their suitcases for summer attire, as others exchanged email addresses. 

Now was the perfect opportunity to relieve myself.  I needed a toilet-or I should say I needed a Western toilet.  What followed was my first horrific experience with the exotic Japanese toilet.  At first I thought I was all a terrible nightmare; a little bath shaped bowl sunken in the ground, about 1 metre long and 30 centimetre?fs wide, stared up at me.  My feelings of panic, soon turned to desperation as I negotiated the right angles to attack this sucker from.  Lets just say that this experience with the Japanese toilet left me somewhat traumatized.  As I departed I saw Dean the guy with the buddy holly glasses, coming my way. For a moment I considered warning him about the horrors that lay ahead, but maybe he only needed the urinals. 

?gThere?fs a computer over there?h Dean said pointing over is right shoulder from whence he had just come, ?gand its only 100 yen for 15 minutes to access the net?h he added brushing past me.

A few minutes later I found the computers behind an escalator.  I dropped a one hundred yen coin into the slot, (about a dollar), and set about getting into my hotmail to email my parents that I had arrived safely.  After typing the following sentence to my parents, ?e I have just arr ?e I accidentally hit a key which set the keyboard on Japanese Characters.  Suddenly my sentence read ?eI just arr???u?c?e?f  As the clock ticked down I hit every key on that blasted keyboard, trying in desperation to get Roman Characters back, but it was all in vain.  The clock soon expired and, my patience, already on the verge of running out after the Japanese toilet incident, was very, very close to expiration point too.

I packed a few things in an overnight bag and checked in my luggage at the courier desk with Bob.  A couple minutes later Bob, with a strong voice, announced it was time to depart, ?gcan the people going to Kyoto, come with me now. You?fre bus is about to leave in a few minutes.  If the rest of you could wait here, I?fll be back in a minute to catch the train with you?h.

To any onlookers, 10 frightened young people scurrying off after a big fat man in a suit, trailing as closely behind as if we were ducklings trying to keep up with mother duck exiting the pond, may have appeared rather amusing.

As I dropped into a seat at the back of the airport shuttle bus, we accelerated onto a bridge, immense and long, in imitation to the Golden Gate Bridge, but without the arches, and it spanned on as far as my eye could see.  In Japan-a country with over 128 million, land is rare, so 25 years ago, when the Government officials, in all their infinite wisdom, decided to build a new airport, the most logical place for it, of course, was the middle of the bay of Osaka.

After the bridge came the solitary tall glass skyscraper, built just before the Japanese bubble economy burst, and poking out of the ground like a giant popsicle stick, followed closely by the large apartment buildings. With the first rays of sunshine in over a week, these buildings were adorned with futons, sheets and clothing, spewing out of windows and hanging from balconies. The continuity of these apartment buildings was broken by the quant two storey wooden houses, which, without any setbacks, were only separated by a few metres of bitumen at the front and only a few centimeters of air at the rear.  

Hanwa Expressway ran along the Pacific Ocean towards Kyoto, but, you wouldn't have known it today, as a hazy mist of pollution, still lingering under the midday sun, spoiled the view of water you'd normally get between the factories and quarries.  Beyond the first 5 kilometres came a small beach- narrow, with grey coloured sand and a few dozen souls stretched out on it.

This combination of tall apartment buildings, factories, similar looking two storey wooden houses, and occasional beaches rushed past the bus for a succession of minutes, and you could easily be mistaken for going around in circles- there doesn?ft seem to be much variety in housing or apartment architecture here in Japan.  Only the occasional ten story high enclosed fence, with green netting draped between large poles, and in the shape of a giant icecream cone, broke the repetitive landscape.  A hook or a slice, meant these fences came into play- they're actually golf driving ranges.  

After a short while, the bus turned off the Highway, and into one of the busy, yet narrow Kyoto streets. On a few occasions, the bus had to swerve around a number of cylists, and pedestrians pushing their market trolleys-most roads in Japan don't have sidewalks.  Finally the bus stopped in front of a large modern Hotel in the heart of Kyoto , and I alighted.

Immediately I detected, amongst the large crowd gathered around the Hotel?fs door, a tall blonde headed man in a suit marching directly towards me.  With a steely determination he weaved his way around the other passengers exiting the bus, and then he came to a screeching halt a metre in front of me.  He raced through an introduction of himself so quickly that I couldn?ft get his name, and the next moment I saw only his broad shouldered back melting into the crowds ahead.

I stood bewildered.  Who is this man?, where is he going now?, what am I supposed to do next?  Then I remembered what Bob had told me at the airport ?eanother company representative will be waiting for you in Kyoto and they will take you to your house?f.  As I looked on at the blonde headed man, now sinking out of view inside a large concrete box, about the size and shape of a semitrailor with the sign ?eSubway?f above it, I realized this man was in fact the ?ecompany representative?f that Bob had mentioned earlier.  This ?erep?f, must be here to lead me to my new house, via the subway.  I sprinted for the subway entrance.   Here I caught a glimpse of ?ethe rep?f at the base of the long staircase before me.  He turned and disappeared again.  Trotting down the stairs as quickly as humanly possible, I began to worry that I had lost him.  What would I do if I can?ft find him?  I don?ft know my way around here-I could be stranded.  What was the Japanese word for help again? When I hit the base of the stairs, I turned left and raced up a wide, brightly lit, white tiled corridor.  Dodging this way and that, I pushed my way through the crowds.  The crowds coming at me were so jam packed it was if I was entering the stadium moments after the AFL Grand Final had just finished. 

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a blonde head bopping up and down above the thick crowd of black heads like a small bright orange lifeboat lost in a dark sea.  At last I caught up to the rep., ?gSorry I missed your name, what was it again??h I asked puffing. 

?gIt doesn?ft matter, you will just forget it anyway?h he answered shortly, ?gyou are not going to remember anything over the next couple of hours, so there?fs not much point repeating it?h he added without breaking pace, focused dead ahead.  The dense crowds, effortlessly and naturally, seemed to flow around ?ethe rep?f like hot knife through butter. .

After the short sprint to catch up ?ethe rep?f I had to wipe a layer of sweat off my brow.  I had later learned that today was the end of the Japanese wet season.  Indeed the humidity here was thick here inside this subway tunnel;so thick in fact, it felt as if I needed a machete not only to chop my way through the crowds, but also to get through the air too

What a cold, aloof, and insensitive person this company representative is, I thought.  Perhaps you could call him my detached escort.  He hadn?ft even bothered to look at me when he spoke.  Just then, with a quick sidestep, I narrowly avoided two businessman walking straight at me.  Then a group of young men in Hip Hop hats and singlets nearly hit me.  Following this a young girl in high heels almost knocked me over.  Suddenly, within a couple of seconds, ducking and weaving this way and that, the masses of small black haired people marching at me, had set me a back a distance from my escort once again.  Then a collision stopped me dead in my tracks.   The head of a young Japanese schoolgirl, dressed in her neat sailor type uniform, met my right shoulder.  She reached for her head.  I began with an apology, ?gOh shit, are you ok, sorry, ohh?h.  This girl?fs friends burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.  For a moment, I stood still, staring at the girl, her hand gripping the right part of her face, and I wondered if she was ok.  The crowds filtered around us.  Then one of the girl?fs friends stepped forward, and, uttering something in Japanese, she pulled the injured girl away by her uniforms sleeve.  The next moment the pack of cute schoolgirls had melted into the crowds once again.  I spun back around to see my escort a long way ahead of me now.  This time, with more determination, my chest poking out, I pushed on through the crowds.  I?fm bigger than they are, I thought, they can move for me!

At last the blonde head stopped moving.  When I finally caught up to my escort, he held his right hand out towards me, revealing a small piece of paper, ?gright here is your train ticket?h he said, ?gwe are catching the train to your house and it departs in 6 minutes from Platform 3?h.

?gThanks?h I said puffing again, ?gis it always this crowded here??h I asked.

?gThere is a special Festival on in town at the moment?h he began seriously, ?ghe biggest Festival in Kyoto, so there are more crowds than usual-200 000 actually people come into the city just for this Festival?h he stopped to flick his head towards a nearby clock hanging from the ceiling, ?gnow follow me and try to keep up this time please?h he said setting off towards the ticket gates, ?gyou put your ticket in here, and you grab it again, when it comes out in front of you right?c.here!?h he said putting his ticket into one side of a gate and whipping it out again when it popped up at the other end.  I followed his instructions.  This time, I kept close to my escort?fs side when we trotted up a flight of stairs and onto a crowded platform.  We joined the end of a long queue.  Then, despite telling me a few minutes earlier that ?eI?fm not going to remember anything?f my escort went right ahead and explained what the symbols on the digital display board above my head meant.  Then he told me where I should stand for a specific type of train; how often the trains run on weekends and weekdays; why they don?ft run at night; where I should transfer for a train to the main shopping district in Kyoto; how to get back to the subway station from here and where the trains for each of the 10 different platforms run to.  And then he went right ahead and rattled off all these statistics about the number of people who rely on the public transportation system everyday in Japan, how often the trains are late and how many days it had been since an accident-I found it all very overwhelming.  After the first minute of my escort?fs superfluous speil, I couldn?ft focus any longer.  I let my eyes wander around the ultramodern Kyoto train station.  Though I could only see a small part of the station from platform number 3, Kyoto station looked huge, clean and impressive.  The thundering of our train pulling into the platform, finally put an end to my escorts dribble.  At first I thought the train had approached the platform too fast, but a whole 10 carriages later it slowed, and we boarded.  My escort, in all his experience of train traveling in Japan, which he?fd of course he tried to demonstrate to me a few moments ago, had moved so quickly that he was blessed with two seats.  Of course a seat on a Japanese train, almost any Japanese train, at any time of any day, in any of the big Japanese cities, is a rare commodity. 

My escort presented me with the window seat.  Obligingly, I was only too happy to climb over my escorts nobly knees and into position for another captivating observation of the Japanese landscape.  Within about the next2-3 seconds our carriage filled, and people began cramping together, shoulder to shoulder in the aisles.  As the train accelerated out of the station, my escort finally took of his suit jacket, placed it over his knees, and closed his eyes.  In the meantime a loud high-pitched male voice, speaking in Japanese of course, had started on the loudspeakers above my head.  The blank, expressionless face?fs of the businessman that mostly filled this carriage, contrasted sharply with the colorful posters hanging from the ceilings above their heads.  These bright, wacky posters, often featuring amusing cartoon characters, hung in one metre intervals, adorned the walls in between the windows, and some smaller posters even filled the narrow space above the doors.  And it was around midday, I would hate to see how packed these trains get in peak hour.  Here and there sat a Japanese schoolboy, a fresh, innocent face, perhaps dreading the day when he too will dress in a suit, become a well respected salary-man, and work the long, draining, 10-12 hour days which is so typical of the average Japanese worker. 

?eWhy are there so many of these salary men on the trains, when they?fre supposed to be working?f I thought, but I didn?ft dwell on this thought, for when the train accelerated out of the station, I was presented with yet another entrancing view.  But after about 5 minutes, my feelings soon turned to disappointment- the landscape took on a similar shape and appearance to what I had already seen on the bus trip earlier- the same large apartment buildings, the same quaint wooden Japanese houses and the occasional driving ranges.  I soon discovered, however, that this view from the train, instead of from a speeding bus on a raised highway hundreds of metres away from the nearest buildings, was up close and personal.  Some houses, so close to the train line, offered a view directly into people?fs bedrooms.  Though all the bedrooms were deserted at this time of the day, I could clearly see the patterns of the futons, the tatami mat floors, and the plain cupboards.  Maybe that?fs why the trains don?ft run at night-the tracks are just far too close to houses and apartment buildings, I thought.

I turned back to my escort, ?gHow soon will we get to my place??h I asked waking him from his meditative state.

?gWe have to change trains in Yasu?h his eyes flung towards the window, ?gwhich is in 4 stops from here, so, we are approximately 22 minutes away?h said my escort.

At this time my curiosity got the better of me.  Who is this man next to me?  How on earth did he get the job of welcoming new English teachers to Japan?  He would have to be the most unwelcoming person I had ever met in my life.

?gYou seem to know the train system quite well here?h I said cautiously, ?ghow long have you been living in Japan??h I smiled.

He took a moment to consider his answer. 

?g6 years?h he said shortly.

?gAnd what do you think of Japan?h

?gYeah, it?fs a very interesting place?h

?gReally!?h

?gYes?h

?gWhy did you come here??h I asked stubbornly now.

?gI?fm a teacher and I studied Japanese at University?h he volunteered.

?gSo you can speak Japanese?h

?gYes, a little?h

There was a long pause.  Frowning I turned back to the window.  I gathered, from his short responses, and displeasing looks, I would be unable to withdraw any more conversation from my nameless escort.   A few minutes later the train pulled into it terminus, and we exited into the blinding sun.  Sweaty Japanese faces quickly shuffled into orderly queues at 3 metre intervals along the platform.   Then, after a couple of minutes of silence, another train pulled into the platform and we boarded.  For the next 10 or so minutes, standing in the aisle of the crowded train, I endured a young Japanese Boy elbowing me in the stomach as he played his Nintendo handheld video game.  Finally the train arrived at the station called Omihachiman-my new town.  A large shopping center engulfed the platform, and, as soon as we had exited the ticket gates, I found myself inside a supermarket. 

?gOk, so you might want to buy a few things?h said my escort, his face now wearing an expression of urgency, ?gJuice, bread, milk, dinner for tonight, do you drink coffee??h he asked.

I had enough time to nod, before my escort had shot off, basket in hand, through the fresh fish section of the busy supermarket.  Early one Sunday morning when I was at High School, I visited the fresh fish markets at Port Adelaide and I was so plagued by the smell then, that I never bought fresh fish again in my adult life.  Don?ft get me wrong, I like fish, but it?fs just the smell of roar fish that turns me off.  So to avoid a repeat of the horrible feelings I had at the Port Adelaide Fish markets, I got Con, the kind Greek man at the local Fish and Chippery, to cook fish for me once a week.  I can give you no better idea about the smell of the fresh fish section in this supermarket, and any other fresh fish section of any Japanese supermarket, other than to say that it was about 10 times stronger than the Fresh Fish markets at Port Adelaide.  Ironically, as it later turned out, my diet now consists of about one dish of Sashimi(Fresh Fish) every week.  .

I raced after my escort through the Heiwado supermarket, up and down aisle?fs, slowing to a walking pace for my escort to grab at items off the shelf as if closing time was in a few seconds.  With the following remarks; ?gThis orange juice ok??h, and ?gthis is good coffee, you?fll like this coffee?h and ?gsome bread for you?h and, ?gthis is healthy, have you had this before?h my basket of groceries soon filled.  When I reached the checkout, a young Japanese girl, wearing a striped uniform and apron, her hair tied up under a beret style hat, mumbled away at me in Japanese as she scanned the items.  Then she stopped and stared vacantly at me.  Unsure of my next move, I turned to my escort and shrugged my shoulders.

?gCan?ft you see the price there on the little screen?h he said pointing to a small part of the cash register.

The green numbers 9872 (around A$10) appeared on a black strip of plastic above the cash register, about the size of a pack of chewing gum.  I pulled out a onethousander out of my wallet (in Australia we call 10 dollar notes, ?etenners?f, and this was a 1000 yen note).  I held out the note towards the cute checkout chick.  The girls thin eyebrows lifted into her forehead, to form perfectly rounded crescents and her black irises, nervously, darted to and fro.  What is she waiting for, I wondered.  A few more seconds passed.

?gHere!?h at last my escorts voice piped up from behind me.  The next moment he stepped forward, ripped the onethousander out of my hand, and, dumping it on a raised tray, connected by a long plastic arm to the cash register, he shook his head, ?gyou always put your money on the money tray?h he said in a tone as if he was my mother telling me off.  Then he took a few steps back. 

Having just dealt with the first confounding ordeal, another similar, rather problematic, situation soon developed.  Once again the checkout chick stood staring at me, this time, she held her gaze after she had carefully placed my items back into my basket.  And once again it may have appeared to the onlooker like yet another shootout in a Western movie.  Two opponents, staring each other down, each one waiting for the others first move.  Looking back on this incident, I believe my escort, either for his personal pleasure, or for the benefit of the company, uses seemingly trivial incidents such as this one, to form an opinion about the character of the new teacher.  Finally, after what felt like a minute or two, and in despite of the urgency that my escort had displayed earlier, he stepped forward, lifted my basket, and dumped it on a nearby bench behind me.

?gYou pack the groceries yourself into bags in Japan?h he said impatiently now, taking a step back.

Then suddenly, as I was stepping forward towards the basket, my escort, perhaps worried I would fail the task of packing my groceries into a bag too, reached into the basket and packed my groceries into a bag for me.  He whipped the bag off the bench, took a few quick steps towards the exit and then spun back to me, ?gRight I don?ft normally do this?h he forced a smile for the first time, and handed me my grocery bag, ?gbut we are going to catch a taxi to your house, and I will pay. I have three more people to meet on later flights this afternoon, so we don?ft have time to walk to your place?h.  At the time I thought, ?ewell this guy isn?ft so bad after all?f, but later, when I met the other English teachers in town at the local pub, I learned that our escort had used the exact same, seemingly generous line on them too.   

Within a fraction of a second, I found myself seated in the back seat of a taxicab.  With a white doily seat cover, just like my grandmothers tablecloth, a hi tech global positing system and fare meter, no seatbelts, automatic closing and locking doors, this Japanese taxi, looking back on it, is a classic example of Japanese culture; a bizarre mixture of the old and the new, and at times a contravention of International Occupational health and Safety laws and Human rights   Taking a walk down most Japanese streets is fraught with danger, even more so if you are a female in high heels.  Most Japanese streets don?ft have sidewalks, instead, the pedestrian must share the narrow roadscape with automobiles.  In addition to this danger, on the side of roads, deep concrete ?eU?f shaped drains, which carry away the heavy Japanese rainfall, are covered with treacherous metal grills, or concrete lids dotted with holes.  On some streets the grills or the concrete lids are missing, thus exposing the deep trench and catching the walker by surprise.  Its no wonder my girlfriend looks at me worriedly every time I say ?eI?fm going out for a walk?f.  As the taxi sped out of the waiting area in front of the station, we nearly collided with a young couple riding on the side of the road with no helmets.  Then, slowing to turn a corner, I saw a young kid purchasing a packet of cigarettes from a large vending machine.  Alongside this cigarette vending machine, sat a beer vending machine. 

The taxi raced up a main road, lined with noodle restaurants, Karaoke venues, and izykaya?fs (Japanese pubs).  Shopfront signs in Japan often feature cartoon characters handling the product or service that the shop provides.  Usually, large photographs of what you get inside, feature on the buildings too.  As I have spoken, I cant read the Japanese characters to know what?fs what, but these quirky cartoon characters make everything clear for me.   

After a few minutes the car turned into a carpark in front of an apartment building, ?gthis is your place here?h said my escort, turning to me from the front seat, ?gand this place next door is owned by the company too-there?fs two aussie girls living in there at the moment?h he said as he reached for his wallet.

After my escort had paid the taxi driver, the back door flung open, releasing me from the taxi?fs custody.  I dug out my keys from my large envelope that Bob had given me at the airport, and stepped up to my new front door.  When I opened the front door, a strong smell immediately overcame me.  It was a straw or wheat odour, which I later discovered was the new tatami mats in my bedroom, ?gright take your shoes off and leave them here?h said my escort kicking off his shoes onto the small concrete foyer, ?gevery time you enter any Japanese house you take off your shoes ok??h he said.  4 pairs of Nike shoes, neatly arranged alongside each other, and a large plastic bag full of beer cans, dominated most of the concrete slab foyer.  I guessed my new roommate liked sports and drinking.

Making himself at home, my escort turned and disappeared out of sight.  I had just taken my shoes off, when my escort, poking his head out of what seemed like an aperture in the wall, pointed towards a dark door towards the end of a hall, ?gthere?fs your room there?h he said.  I felt relief at this remark; much needed sleep was now only minutes away.

I turned the light in to reveal my new room.  It was an average sized room with a large cone shaped lamp, and it was completely empty.  Of course the smell of the new white/yellow tatami mat floor was even stronger at this spot.  There was no window and no bed.

?gyour futon is in the cupboard?h my escort voice piped up from the other end of the house.

I opened the in built wardrobe, ripped my futon out of the plastic bag, and throw it on the floor as quickly as I could.  I had no idea if I had it set up right, but I didn?ft care. 

?gCan you come here for a second?h my escort shouted.  I followed his voice to a small kitchen, with a large window overlooking a rice paddie.  Three large rubbish bins, overflowing with more beer cans and plastics, filled the space between the white cupboards.  My escort pointed at a little box on the wall, ?gmake sure you turn the gas off here everytime you leave the house, because of earthquakes, Ok? Right then if there?fs nothing else I?fll leave you to it?h he said.  He slammed the door shut and left.  So I went to futon.