“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe…”

So here’s my 28 hours in transit.

12:12, Dec 15th: Random Tom Waits quote of the day: “Well I’m at the station, and I can’t get on the train.”
I hate airport security, it gives me the willies every time. There I am, just stepping off the train to Terminal 2, and everyone’s going through a gate and showing their passport, so I do the same, hand it over. He checks it and I go to grab it back: but nooo, I have to fill in a form, for some reason. I don’t think anyone else filled in a form. I am briefly terrified that the guy on the left will whisper into the other guy’s ear and they’ll look at each other and nod and say “I’m afraid you have to come with us,” but eventually I get my passport back and continue through.

I’ve heard the US are developing cameras that “read” people’s facial expressions at airports for signs of nervousness, twitchiness, and I can’t help but laugh because a) potential Islamic terrorists are likely to be calm and peaceful and b) I’ll be hauled off for a cavity search for sure.

Into a massive queue for the check-in desks, which turns out to be the wrong one, so I join another queue, and check in. Finally through to departures, I stock up on Pocari Sweat to replenish my ions during my stay in Sri Lanka and some chocolate rations for sustenance. (I can’t seem to find a shop selling proper snacks, like sandwiches and stuff.)

So I have about half-an-hour before I need to board. I’m eating Japanese pork curry for the last time. I might blow my last thousand yen on gifts, or possibly the English-language copy of The Brothers Karamazov that I spotted.

16:14 – I thought I was in departures, but apparently I wasn’t, so I was a little late getting through the departure gate thingies. My visa has been officially voided. I made it to Gate 91 with a few minutes to spare, except it didn’t matter because the flight was delayed by an hour (someone had a fake passport, apparently. Oooh.).

That Mitchell and Webb Look is on TV, which is gravy. Oh, and I was watching the Matrix, and Neo kept saying “shoot” and “aw, shucks” and I thought “Wait, did he actually talk like this?” And then I realised this was one of the infamous bowdlerised airlineversions. “Gosh darn you, Cypher!” “Don’t believe his bullpuckey!” “Judas Priest, he’s fast!”
In a way, it’s actually quite funny, because I can only assume the censors know how stupid it is and try to do as good a job as possible. “I’d take that red pill and ram it up your ear!”

17:14 – wow, an hour. Decided to watch Lost in Translation again for the first time since I went to Japan, to see how it stacks up. And – I was surprised, but it really does capture Tokyo pretty well. I mean, only 10% of it, but the 10% it does is perfect. (Wow, I’ve been to that lobby! Ohh, so that’s where that scene was!) Oh, and when Scarlett Johannsen makes a phone call to her friend back home, but her friend doesn’t really pay attention because she doesn’t realise Scarlett’s calling because she’s alone and just wants to hear a familiar voice… ah, I’ve been there.

18:44, again, Sri Lanka time – jet lag noun: The strange feeling of having to survive through a single evening twice over.

Two inconsequential things: Why do people use “sub-par” or “below par” to mean bad when below par is good?
And how many David Bowie fans thought “from Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads” referred to women from a region of Virginia?

…I think the re-circulated cabin air is starting to addle my brain.

20:37 – And the never-ending evening goes on. Landed safely in Colombo, got my transit pass and everything, so now I’m back here in the transit lounge again. Oh, the memories.

My nose has been wrecked by the air conditioning. Blehh.

Also: I continue to be freaked out by the guys with moustaches here who all wear identical shirts and appear to almost always sit on chairs backwards. And like I mentioned before, the way they… scan. Like CIWS turrets, they hunt for a human target, lock on, and then track with beady eyes the hapless victim across the room, turning their heads in synchronisation. It’s damn spooky.

I have to get used to my N70 again after using my Softbank phone for so long. It’s difficult.

So, five or six hours and I’m back on my way to Blighty. I think I queued with a fellow Brit at the transfer desk, though I missed my chance to say something witty about the cricket because I know nothing about cricket. (But hey, at least I knew there was cricket on now, right? (There is, isn’t there?))

The front of my passport says: “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State Requests and requires in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.”
Okay, it’s just the necessary small print, and it doesn’t really mean anything, but isn’t that just so inspiring and above all awesome? That the Queen herself is contractually bound to help me out when the shit hits the fan? There’s the old story that any citizen of the Roman Empire could travel freely throughout the known world secure in the knowledge that their status as a Roman citizen meant dire repercussions for anyone who dared harm them.
I’m developing these weird feelings of patriotism, which are strange and unfamiliar to me as a leftie. Maybe it’s some colonial blood left in my veins, but I feel proud just having a little red book that lets me proclaim: “Britannius citizum est!” (Excuse the dog Latin.)
It’s because… it’s not just a little red booklet to prove your identity, it’s a shield and a weapon. No matter what happens: if I get dragged away by the secret police, or if someone plants drugs on me and I face the death penalty, or if I’m in an accident: my status as a British citizen protects me, wherever I go, because the government is contractually bound to help me out. Now that’s what a government is supposed to do. And that’s what I feel proud of.
Although, in reality, I have little doubt that the Foreign Office would just sweep me under the carpet. But hey, that’s Britain. “And did those feet / In ancient time…”

22:41 – Yeah, it’s happened. I’ve become too acclimatised to Japanese life, to the extent that I actually mumbled “Sumimasen” to the SriLankan staff. Weirder still, the airport is full of gaijin, possibly German in origin (except of course they’re not actually gaijin), and I can’t help but feel that same feeling of slight unease that you get in Japan whenever two gaijin cross paths.

Because… I think the secret reason most people go to Japan is because by virtue of being a gaijin, they are somebody. A point of interest. A rare commodity. You get lots of attention, and you can share your exciting stories and tell the Japanese of things such as Marmite and how much it actually does rain in London.

And it’s great, until other gaijin come along, stealing your hard-earned attention. When two gaijin converse with Japanese people, it can be a war of interesting anecdotes, underscored by both of you knowing how shallow you are and why you really want to go on about how road signs are different here. Because you want to win the conversation.

And then it gets to the point in, say, hostels, where there’s tons of gaijin, and suddenly you realise you’re not special, at least not any more than any other of the hundreds of thousands of gaijin in Tokyo.

Except it’s worse, because all the other foreigners have been here longer and have jobs and more witty repartee, so …

What I’m trying to say is that I have built up a bizarre reaction to my fellow gaijin. I see them either as a threat or as clueless tourists, which is the other thing of course: a sense of superiority. “Pssh, you backpackers who come to Tokyo for a couple days before buggering off to Thailand!” I rage, silently. “You don’t know Japan like I do! I’m supposed to be here, not you!”

And now I’m going home, and it’s full of bloody foreigners! And truly, I am them.

23:59. It’s Midnight. And I’m listening to Tom Waits. Truly, there is no better man for when you’re down and out in a train station or airport or something. Flight in two hours, and all my batteries are running out. Say, that could be a Tom Waits song. “All My Batteries Are Running Out, Baby”.

1:17. Actually I can get my head around the fact that it’s 5am in Tokyo, but what I don’t understand is how it can be 8PM in the UK and yet my flight arrives at 8AM tomorrow morning. Time… confusing.

Through security again, to the exact same gate lounge I was in last time. They were scrupulously checking passports. The man doing mine held it up and looked at me as if to say “Is this… actually you?” but then let me through. No one looks like themselves on passport photos.

6:54am, GMT: And I was only one point five hours from Tulsa. Or, indeed, London. Just like my outbound journey, after failing to sleep on the first leg I fell asleep almost immediately after take-off on the second leg. Woke up a few times, but managed to sleep over most of Asia. At one point, half-asleep, I realised something was running down my throat, and then it dripped out of my nose. Shit. Nosebleed! I imagine it’s the cabin pressure, or just the hellishly dry air, because I haven’t had a single nosebleed in Japan.

I’m watching some silly romantic comedy with Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart battling the formidable Katherine Hepburn. (Not literally, that would just be weird.) I’d be the first to admit that old films can be difficult to get into, but once you make the effort it’s well worth it. It’s a totally different world to today’s Hollywood – where love was love, men were real men, and women actually were important characters rather than just eye candy. I mean, I respect a lot of modern actors, but I struggle to really name any Hollywood actresses, because they’re all so… bland, and they never get interesting roles. Whereas Hepburn has more charisma in her little finger than the whole of Hollywood put together. Likewise for the infinitely watchable Jimmy Stewart.

…

So … We got off the plane late because of some sort of traffic jam. I wandered down to the underground station, where everything was weird. £4 for a ticket? How much is that? How come I can’t use notes in this machine? The ticket’s the wrong size!

Having used the Japan train system practically every day for the past two months, using the Underground was… weird. Like coming back to your house and finding all the furniture in different places.

There were a group of Japanese tourists on the Tube. Oh, the irony.

Anyway, I was supposed to pick up a ticket from the information desk at Liverpool Street but they didn’t seem to have one and, too tired to argue, I just bought one instead. So, on the train back, and I check my voicemail. Seven new messages?

Dated November 20th. “Gerry, I couldn’t find the road you said, so when you get this message, give me a call back.”

“Gerry, I’m at the place, so I’ll meet you at 3.”

“Gerry, it’s nearly 3. When you get this message, please give me a call back.”

“Gerry, it’s now quarter past three. Can you give me a call, please!”
And so on, with increasing levels of worriedness. I felt bad for the guy, but he’s stuck a  month ago, so there’s not much I can do.

So… I’m home. And it feels so weird. I’m not sure how the next few days are going to pan out, but… we’ll see…