Östersund railway station

SJ, the Swedish railway company, shows its good side as the train roars in only five minutes late. The teeming crowd that with lack of platform instructions and plain manners runs around a while before they find the right coach. Wouldn´t it have been easier with the cattle cars to this unruly horde of raving travelers? SJ loses another few minutes before the crowd is settled and the journey can continue south. The interior of the sleeping carriage becomes filled when a young man and I climb up in our beds. We are six men on our way south in the night. Brunflo is passed unnoticed without either braking or loudspeaker announcements. The conductor does his job and I fall into light sleep.

Wednesday 1st of August

North of Gävle, 00.17

The conductor wakes me unnecessarily. SJ has made an overnight detour and decided to stop at Arlanda airport. Why? SJ's ways are inscrutable, if not completely impossible to understand. This time SJ's wrong navigation in my favor. I do not get off in Gävle, wait there for an hour and a half and then take another train to the airport. I fall asleep and think no more about it.

Arlanda Airport, 05.50

Arlanda airport is approaching and I awakened again. With grit in the eyes, I only have to slide down from the bunk, comb and get off. Arlanda's Skycity offers broadcasts from the Olympics. A meaningless beach volleyball match shown on a badly assembled wooden Olympic area. Breakfast is served in an expensive cafe at the domestic terminal. For 75 kronor, US$10,60 a breakfast feast is offered, not for me, but surely for any five year old who had just been fed. The early morning hours are replaced by a more bearable time of day. The coffee from the breakfast has got the bloodstream going. The eyes do not feel as leaden even though a nap is high on the wish list. I buy some yen, a nasal spray and bottled mineral water. After that it is time for check in at the Finnair counter. The blonde woman that looks at my passport seems Finnish. She returns the pass and wonder if I will check in any luggage. Any resemblance of Finnish descent can not be heard on her Stockholm dialect. I answer disappointed that I was traveling light, just hand luggage. She responds with a suspicious smile. 7500 kilometers with just hand luggage gives respect, but not here.

A long wait begins. An expensive lunch-like meal is ingested, sandwich and banana, ruined before I even left the country. Every little piece is eaten before it's time to board the plane. It's a small plane, only four seats per row. I end up next to two gay men from Oklahoma on their way to Amsterdam. It may not be the quickest route to go via Finland, but it works apparently. The men from Oklahoma prove to be pleasant and talkative. Conversations about gay parades, gay marriage and artificial legs make the trip to the Finnish capital goes fast. It turns out that the gay couple from Oklahoma runs a business selling various human prostheses. If I ever need a better secondhand body part substitute I do know who to call. I do not mention the Swedish model that has free health care which includes prostheses. I promise to contact them.

FINLAND

Helsinki, 15.38

Helsinki Vantaa Airport has not much to offer. This doesn’t bother me because the only thing I want is a gate eastward. Vantaa feels slightly worn and a bit Spartan in its design. The walk to the gate is neutral and mediocre. Nothing visual etches itself into my memory. A person of the sensitive kind had probably suffered and had scars on the soul, but a simple traveller who venerates functionality and efficiency is delighted with the Finns total lack of interest in the beauty of the world. I'm not here to stay.

I am the first to the gate but soon it is filled with Japanese people in countless amounts. Before check-in, I count to seven people of Nordic origin. The boarding passes quickly and I soon sit comfortably in an airplane seat. The seat next to me is empty. The flight attendants are, besides an enjoyable Japanese, of the Finnish harsh variety. Sirpa who is serving amidships and aft is tight but offers a smile as she pours a glass of juice. No lavish niceness, only the minimum amount of charm that company policy requires. The juice tastes good and I am delighted to escape the fawning and obsequiousness that a traveler so often is greeted by 10,000 meters up in the air. Excluded from the Finnish roughness is the Japanese flight attendant who would certainly sacrifice her right hand in his mission to pamper passengers.

Lahti, 17.10

Slipping past the Lahti at 6400 meters above sea level. Cruising altitude is not yet reached and some turbulence occurs. There is nothing that affect flight attendants except of course the Japanese. Had it been possible, she probably would have thrown herself up on the nose of the aircraft to stabilize the flight journey. It is not possible why the turmoil continues for a while.

Siberia, 22.53

Traveling along the Siberian north coast. Northern Siberia may be really pleasant. At least here at 10,000 meters. Dinner is served with a practiced and professional touch. No groveling, just food. Sirpa has been here before. On the menu is chicken and pasta with a raw piece of salmon. Nothing filling significantly, but given my location is still making me content. I check backwards and lower my seat to sleep. I should sleep given that it is approaching midnight. But this would be difficult because my body clock is still set to the early Nordic summer night. To doze off is not to think about. Instead I take part of the Finnair entertainment systems far above the barren Siberia in the Russian summer night.

Thursday 2nd of August

JAPAN

Tokyo

I did not get much sleep over Siberia, but a smaller breakfast over the Sea of Japan will organize my life. The coffee starts the main body functions just before the plane touch Japanese soil. I am once again met with suspicion when I slide through both passport control and customs with only hand luggage. Conventional queuing, a small interview and a couple of drug dogs, then I rattle around in the land area that for so many years has been trodden by Japanese sandals. After 27 hours, I arrive to Japan. 35 million Japanese, an incomprehensible language and an address system that requires training in universities do not make it easy to find in Tokyo. Despite these odds, it is fairly easy to find the hotel.

From Narita airport, trains run by fanatical efficiency and precision to the desired destination. I get off at Shinjuku train station and become a part of the Japanese multitude as wave after wave washes over the streets of Tokyo. Sometimes it feels as if I have come to the source from which all Japanese are spreading to all corners of the earth. Here passes three and a half million Japanese every day. The station has 35 platforms and 200 exits. With these statistics, it is not difficult to understand that there will be much tighter just because I am there. Although Japanese is not one of the biggest human family that mother earth can hold some Japanese are good at crowd together, but three and a half million is still a considerable amount of people.

Hotel Green Plaza Shinjuku (http://www.hgpshinjuku.jp) is divided in different levels. The elevator takes me to the fifth floor where the male of the human species is housed. Women may continue a bit up. The check in does not open until the afternoon. I leave the bag and head out of the vibrant metropolis. The pulse of the city is not as vibrant. My temporary accommodation, situated in the district of Shinjuku is Tokyo's entertainment district. There is a pleasant quiet while I run around and do the city. The city is sleeping the hangover off before it's time to invite to amusement again. Not much is open, but I find a restaurant and point at my order. The unidentifiable dish tastes good and I think I recognize several ingredients.

Lack of sleep, jet lag and lack of decent coffee depletes the male body. I check into the hotel, receive a key and a two-piece pajama. As some sort of pledge or hostage, I have to lock up my shoes and leave the key at reception. Barefoot is life's song for the Japanese, something I do not question. Traveling light has its advantages, especially when you have to lock up all your belongings in a small cabinet. I lock the cabinet after that I pushed and squeezed in the last stuff and end up in a confused situation. Only wearing a pajamas and with a key in hand, I start to think of paths that why and how? In the end, I start to follow a man from Japan that seems sure of the steps.

Two floors up, there is a spa. Not much for a true man, but I do appreciate the showers. I sit on a stool and begin to scrub me clean. Around me are a dozen Japanese and showers, all on small stools and with shower heads in a tight grip. Cleanliness is nothing to play around with for the Japanese. In the middle of the shower establishment is a small pool where relaxed Japanese people are sitting silently and watch the Olympics. I join them and slides into the water that is not hot. The temperature is above 40 degrees and a feeling of a boiled crayfish panic begins to appear. As the man I am, I try to put a good face and pretend to be interested in a table tennis match between Japan and South Korea. After a while I get used to the heat and it becomes bearable. I'm one of the gang, but when I later steps up, I differ from the crowd with my bright red skin.

Limited space to sleep at Green Plaza Shinjuku

No, I´m not at the hospital having surgery.

After washing I drag my cooked body to the hotel restaurant. Some Japanese sits calm and relaxed and eat in front of the Olympics. The food joint has only single tables, all facing a giant TV that pumps out Asian Olympic accomplishments. The food tastes good and is reminiscent of a wok. The chop sticks are in a good mood and collaborate. Most of the food ends up where it should end up and it starts to get really comfortable again being human. Despite the early evening hours I drag myself back to my little capsule, pulling back the blind and fall asleep immediately.

Friday 3rd of August

The night in the capsule was long and pleasant. As enjoyable as a night in a crowded box-like hole can be. The hotel consists of several floors of the boxes where the Japanese creep in and sleep, cheap and easy. If it was jet lag or capsule madness that woke me up three in the morning is shrouded in mystery. The fact that I went to sleep at six in the evening, might play an important role that I woke up a few hours before sunrise. Whatever the reason I fell asleep again about when I decided to get up and get out and begin my wanderings in Tokyo.

I wake up in the capsule rested and cheerful. The capsule begins to feel homely, despite its small size and Spartan furnishings. A TV and a clock radio are molded into the plastic canister walls while a mattress of a thinner model covering the floor. For those who do not feel the need to straighten the spine, the capsule has its ceiling height. It is, no matter how pleasant the capsule is, time to leave the plastic cocoon and go out and take part of the Japanese urban life.

The morning toilet was accomplished expeditiously. The hotel offers assorted paraphernalia required for a morning toilet of qualitative measures to be carried out. The disposable toothbrush with toothpaste impregnated gives your mouth the freshness and lively vigor that characterizes a really well-executed morning toilet. I will use the razor and foam at the evening visit to the toilet.

Capsule hotels have their own routines and how wayward and strange they may seem, one must simply follow the Japanese ceremonies. Each morning, guests must check out and then check in again in the evening. I am, after a successful check out, reunited with the key to my sandals. Today the old strap shoes will be worn. Outside, I am reminded of the brutal humid heat hugging my male body. The sun helps to raise the temperature further. Yesterday I was cooked in a basin, now I am fried in the concrete oven called Tokyo. One flight down to an underground shopping center will be the only way out. I'll find a Starbucks cafe in the underground labyrinth of shops. I plan the day over a muffin and a cup of black coffee. On top of the agenda is the purchase of a smaller bag with the usual travel equipment fits. But first the coffee needs to settle into the blood.

Shinjuku, Tokyo.

Tall buildings in Shinjuku.

Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden

Tokyo is not as large as the city's street grid recorded in bright colors on a glossy paper. Experience has shown to be different. It takes me almost all day to wander on foot a few inches on the map. After the frugal breakfast it is the time to take out the bearing to Ginza, a nearby neighborhood. A few blocks later, I come across a bag store that neither impresses nor frustrates. A happy Japanese jerk bags down on command and comes with resident comments that most likely are a mixture of flattering and offering advice. Since we do not advocate the same language, I must make its own decision about my purchase. The choice falls on an Indiana Jones-like belt bag free that firmly hangs securely on my shoulder. Polite phrases in Swedish and Japanese are exchanged while the notes change hands. Shortly afterwards, I once again clatter my shoes towards new goals.

I soon have Shinjuku behind me and a green park in front of me. Sweat runs, the sun bakes and I curse that I chose a destination in these latitudes. The fact that it costs some money to get into the park does neither for me nor my temper. But walking around Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, which is the name of the park, is not an option for my shoes. I pay for a ticket in a vending machine, take my ticket put it in another machine that opens a lock and let me. The guard looks a little dull for me and my Indiana Jones bag when I slide into the lush vegetation. Two advanced machinery and a barrier guard is a bit too ambitious just to take part of some vegetation, but the Japanese are an ambitious generation so it's probably all right.

It turns out that it was well spent yen to visit the park. Besides avoiding rip my thong shoes through a detour around the park it gave me the diverse fauna that thrived in the park with plenty of shade and a temporary respite from the heat. It turns out to be a really nice walk that would be really enjoyable if it were not for these damn insects that sits somewhere in the vines and sounds like an ill-directed orchestra, a noise like no other.

While my strap shoes takes me through the park on small gravel roads I pass a Chinese teahouse, a class from some school and a few vending machines. Nothing spectacular or unexpected, just a pleasant feature of a typical Japanese park. Before I take aim on the gate leading out of the greenery, I rest my back on a park bench. The insects carry on but I've gotten used to and think that life after all is cozy.

The change to an environment vibrant city is lightning fast and I once again move around in an incomprehensible street system. A gigantic range of venues appears on my right side. Arenas, smaller parks and baseball fields seem to never want to end. It's somewhere here as it slowly dawns on me that the Tokyo subway system unearthed by a particular reason. On the map, I have advanced a few centimeters. In reality, I feel that I and my thong shoes have changed the continent of the long journey that is far from over.

Although I long ago lost both the bearing and the future, I am not lost. I just do not know which way I'm going to bring my strap shoes. After a moment's consideration of questionable choices I choose to go south and follow Gaienhigashi dori, a major road that splits the smaller streets in two parts. Road with its avenues of insect-bearing trees do not have the same direction as my intentions, but it is the safest choice of the road and one of the few roads that can be identified on the map.

A wall that surrounds yet another giant park will join me on my journey along Gaienhigashi dori. Not much of a company, but better than nothing. The wall and I will end up with a major intersection. It's Aoyama dori that crosses our path. I take my own bearing and control my strap shoes east, a more correct direction.

Leaning house or photographer??

A Chinese teahouse in a Japanese park.

Lush greenery in the summer heat.

It isn’t long before I met with hordes of white shirted Japanese. Suddenly they are everywhere, identical to each other and swarming like ants on a hot spring day. All have black pants and white shirt with a pass dangling around their necks with a stripe of nylon. It becomes even more difficult to fit in, to become one of the gang, feeling of community and togetherness. Here I go pale-skinned, head and shoulders above all others in the free costume. None of white shirts take any notice of the outsider but rush gently past me to some for me unknown destination. I look towards the wall, which also turned out of the east, a faithful friend.

My strap shoes seem to have brought me to a business district. Soon a street that runs south pops up. It is containing restaurants in abundance. I bid farewell to the wall and folds into the southbound street whose name is a well sealed secret to us who think that Japanese can be a tad difficult to decipher. It's lunchtime which my gastro-intestinal system has already been noted. As indeed every Japanese within 5 kilometers radius also have noted. The street is narrow and the numbers of hungry Japanese are large.

Queuing white shirts adorn the restaurants' entrances while I was looking for a suitable place to satisfy the stomach fussy mood. The restaurant down the road there is everything the hungry Japanese might wish to have. All from a small hole in the wall, where the happy shouts can be heard as lunchboxes are offered, to finer restaurants with white tablecloths and expensive menus.

A bento doesn’t feel right in the current heat. Sitting outside on a curb stone with fumbling chopsticks in a lunchbox is not something that appeals. A restaurant visits that break the budget for a large number of future missions feels not quite right. Eventually I find a restaurant that meets requirements for both comfort and economy. I sit down in a booth at a table with a gas grill in the middle. Confusion of tongues is total but I succeed with a primitive gestural to make a waiter understand that he could choose something from the menu to me. Something he did. A green cool drink of dubious taste and smell is placed on the table. Three hours of constant sweating leave me no choice but to run into me every drop. The liquid is probably some herbal tea that probably is both useful and invigorating.

Here you prepare your food yourself.

Shinto portal.

Through the flags.

Messages which are hard to understand.

If these positive qualities outweigh flavor and colours is questionable. The food comes in a variety of dishes, the gas grill is turned on and I get a quick demonstration in how the food is cooked and eaten. Since my Japanese covers only two words, I guess the way this lunch should be handled. The sticks are in a good mood and I manage to roast the shredded meat without charring results. What's in the bowls, and if it be grilled or not is not something I devote any thought to. Hunger gives me no time to think about these extremely trivial matters.

A quick look at the map gives grim news. Despite sore feet and worn strap shoes, I have not moved many centimeters. With new bearing and new powers, I give myself out of the Japanese crowds. I soon reach Sotobori dori, a major shipping lane in the asphalt. Without these roads navigation would be a hopeless enterprise. Despite this realization, I trust my inner compass and cross the road to avoid detours. A knoll is nothing to prevent my strap shoes. Once up, I find myself suddenly in front of a temple in a temple courtyard. Beautiful and peaceful, but religion has never been an allure so I continued my walk. Pretty soon I realize the idiocy to trust my inner compass. Mostly because it most likely does not exist. I am, after all a southerly course a few miles, reunited me with mixed feelings again Sotobori dori. Although it is a defeat for my sense of direction but it is for a sure ticket to the emperor's palace which is located in Ginza's outskirts.

The skyscrapers of Ginza visible from the Imperial Palace.

The shy emperor's palace.

Dwarf pines in the Japanese summer greenery.

Emperor Akihito is a man of integrity. His palace is surrounded by moats, but at a certain angle in a certain place I managed to get a photo of the shack. With despondency of mind I turn myself down on a bench in the park prior to the palace moat. The park is clean to the border on boring and bland. Mostly lawn with some bullied pines in miniature format. It´s late afternoon and I have not yet arrived in Ginza. Ginza is a prosperous neighbourhood with Tokyo's finest shopping. Here the exclusive brands are competing in the glamorous shops while calling the money-loving Japanese people with bad judgement. For a poor tourist with a thin wallet and strap shoes this neighborhood has not much to offer. I take my refuge in a book café, ordering a really expensive soda and looking at my notes. The intellectual attitude that I'm trying to play does not impress the single Japanese sitting and sipping on their expensive coffee drinks. They probably don´t know that both Aristotle and Plato wore sandals, or it's not that obvious metaphor that I want to believe.

Most of Ginza is untouched by my strap shoes when I give up and take myself down into the subway system. Ginza subway station is of the simpler model with only one line. An unusual part of this complex public service system. A first glance at the map of the metro system gives a hint that a challenge of biblical dimensions in front of your feet. The Metro network looks like a flattened ball of yarn like a cat coughing with phlegm thrown up. Once found a map in English, it feels a little better while I appreciate that my color vision is running smoothly. For this it is important to follow the color markings. The colour of the day is red and it will be according to all calculations take me to Shinjuku. I put a few coins in a machine key in my destination and receive a modest piece of paper. A few minutes later I'm sitting in a subway car somewhere under the skyscrapers on the road in a westerly direction.

It took me a day to go above ground took 20 minutes underground in a speeding subway car. At the train station in Tokyo's rush hour. Japanese people in considerable quantities are on the way home while I struggle on against the current. I manage to find the right exit and reunited finally Shinjuku has begun renovating for another evening with large quantities of dubious entertainment. I slip into a restaurant that has just opened. Waiters and chefs meet me with happy shouts. I'm their first customer and given the almost desperate service provided seem to me to be this summer's first income. A meat casserole similar dish served in foil. Hunger drives chopsticks in a fast pace and soon I'm full and satisfied, and out on the streets of Shinjuku they have seriously begun their nightly entertainment stage.

It's hard to lock up my trusty strap shoes and leave the key, but the Japanese capsule tradition is nothing a tired Scandinavians can´t handle. Previous evening cleaning routines are repeated and soon, I creep into a new capsule, identical to the one I visited last night.

Ginza