Welcome to Iida

Shoko was going to stay at my apartment for a week after I invited her to see Iida. This may have been a huge mistake seeing as though my flat consisted of a bunk-bed, an armchair and, well, that was it. My surroundings were simple and basic in Iida, but that needed to change when I was going to invite a bombshell to stay over. I wanted to show Shoko a good time but Iida, as much as it was picturesque, offered very little in terms of entertainment.
I couldn't change the contents of Iida, but I could change the contents of my flat, so the day before Shoko arrived, I went to a furniture shop in town and bought some much needed items. I bought a new two-seater sofa. I bought a new blanket for my bed because my previous one was so old it had gone grey.
I also bought a table where we could eat dinner off. Previously I ate my dinner on my lap as I sat in my decayed arm-chair. It was a sorry state of affairs. I was therefore glad Shoko was coming because it forced me to change my lazy bachelor lifestyle.
Cleaning my room enabled me to see how degraded my life had become. There were rotten apples behind the fridge, there were dead mosquitoes I killed during the previous summer but failed to remove from my walls, and there was a strange black crust that circled the plug hole in my shower.
Shoko's imminent arrival was going to be a breath of fresh-air, literally.
Cleaning and organizing my room took one week, and on the day of her arrival, it looked brand new.
Shoko arrived at Iida's bus terminal on a coach at midnight, and the first words she said to me after surveying her surroundings, were, “Is this it?”
Things got off to a good start when she entered my apartment and found my table laid out with chocolates and lit candles. She was impressed by my romantic gesture, so much so that she abandoned eating the chocolates and went straight to the intercourse.
The next morning, I drove her around the town and showed her the various landmarks of the city.
It was a quick tour. My tour showed her the post office, the library and the opticians. If I really wanted to impress Shoko with the area, I needed to show her the area outside of Iida which had breathtaking scenery.
I drove Shoko along mountain roads which enabled her to see the beauty of the area, with its rich vegetation and soaring natural landscapes. Her big smile as we drove along the sunlit roads was reassurance that she was enjoying herself.
Her mood changed when a flash-flood erupted from the sky causing the car to skid on the edge of the mountain road.
“You get a better view of the ravine from this angle,” I said as the car cruised along the edge of the road from a high altitude.
Shoko informed me that she would rather stay alive than see a fucking ravine. I agreed with her and drove to a nearby Indian restaurant called Krishna's.
Upon arrival in the car park of the restaurant, we saw the proprietor beside the entrance looking up at the sky with his hands spread out in a crucified pose. We exited the car and waved a cheery greeting to this curious man. He was dressed in an Indian sari which was soaked and exposed his fleshy nipples. This horrific sight ruined my appetite, but there was worse to come.
The proprietor was a tall, bespectacled fellow with a body odour problem. Upon seeing us, he excitedly ushered us into the restaurant. It was soon revealed why he was so happy to see us.
We were his first customers of the day, even though it was the late afternoon.
Shoko and I took a window seat and watched the rain thrash down. After a while we surveyed the interior and noticed that he was the only person working in the restaurant. We concluded that with this many customers you only needed one person to manage the place.
As Shoko and I surveyed the menu, our bespectacled waiter was busy clattering pots and pans around in the kitchen. We tried to block the sound out and talked about what we should order when suddenly a dirty wet cat came hurtling towards us, hissing like a serpent. Shoko, who is allergic to cats, leapt out of her chair and screamed. I tried to shoo the cat away by waving my fork at it. The proprietor came darting towards us and reproached my behaviour, stating that it was a harmless cat. Shoko and I were too nice to state that it may well have been harmless, but it was still a filthy wet cat in a bloody restaurant, so we merely looked annoyed and ordered. As we ordered, the chef picked up the cat and started to stroke its wet fur. When he went to the kitchen to make our food I noticed that he was talking to himself. He was repeating "Samosa, samosa" whilst preparing the food. I'm not sure if this was his own personal mantra, or he was off his rocker. What was most distressing, though, was that he had failed to wash his hands after stroking the dirty cat that was now busy licking its penis next to us.
A few minutes later he came back with our orders and I was aghast to find cat hairs in my curry. Shoko and I refused to eat the food for fear of getting a disease, and prepared to get up to leave. The waiter came back with a sad expression on his face. I couldn't take him seriously because in his hand was a pink cat toy.
"Aren't you going to eat your food?" he enquired.
"I would rather eat a rectal ulcer," I said, and we left the restaurant.
By now, Shoko and I were very hungry after not eating in Krishna's. We got into the car and I slammed my foot on the accelerator and we sped off in search of food. After hurtling up a mountain road, I spotted a small café perched on the edge of a clearing. I assumed it was a café because the sign outside showed a happy chap slurping on a cup of coffee.
Inside, the place was rustic with decaying walls and musty smells. There was one other customer using a laptop computer which seemed incongruous in a place like this. I assumed the most modern thing this place had ever seen was toaster.
The owners were an old couple with bent backs and impressive beards - the wife having the longer one.
Shoko and I took our seats and ordered coffee from the old lady.
"No coffee," she said.
"This is a café?" I asked.
"Hai," she proudly said.
"But you don't serve coffee even though the sign outside shows a man drinking coffee?"
"Hai."
"What do you sell then?"
"Juice" she said victoriously.
Shoko and I ordered orange juice and were distraught to find brown flotsam and jetsam floating inside the glass. We both refused to drink any more. Before we got the hell out of this pit of a place, I went to the toilet. Initially I thought it was a squatter model, but on further inspection it was just a hole in the ground. When I emptied my bottom I could hear the echoing thud of my excrement, and I was sure I heard something yelp down below. Maybe it was the chef at Krishna collecting the raw ingredients for his dubious curries.
Needless to say, we didn't stay long in this café and were on the road again. I was on the verge of turning back into town with the belief that there would be more restaurants to choose from. But before I did, I noticed that a large number of cars were parked up ahead. I guessed that they were there for a special reason so I drove towards them. As I pulled up, I estimated there were over 100 cars parked along the side street. I followed the stream of cars until we found an entrance guarded by a sullen looking man with kimono. I parked the car, and as we approached this man, he held out an open palm and ordered us to stop.
“Ticket!” he announced.
“For what?” I asked.
“Kabuki,” he said, and made a sweeping motion with his hand towards the open entrance, as if what lay behind him was a mystical land.
I asked Shoko what this guy was waffling on about. She informed me that Kabuki was traditional Japanese theatre dating back to the early 17th century. It consisted of dance and drama, with the actors wearing heavy make-up and lavish costumes. And performances are usually staged outdoors, often surrounded by nature. It is known throughout Japan for its visual beauty and affecting performances.
“That's lovely, but will food be available?” I asked.
Shoko asked this question to the man in Japanese.
“Hai,” said the man.
“Let's go and see some Kaboko then,” I said, clapping my hands together.
“It's Kabuki,” Shoko corrected.
“Whatever,” I replied, as I bought two tickets.
Shoko and I walked down a small pathway lined with market stalls selling Kabuki merchandise, kimonos and lucky charms. I only had eyes for one stall, though, and that was the bento box stall. I ran over to this stall and bought four boxes filled with various types of Japanese food. Shoko and I found a bench nearby and gorged ourselves for the next ten minutes.
The food restored our energy, allowing us to see the Kabuki in a satisfied state of mind. Any other state of mind would not have been compatible with what we saw. Kabuki is, I might say, an acquired taste. From my perspective, it was a two-hour show where very little happened apart from a couple of actors pirouetting around the stage dressed in multi-coloured robes and wearing outlandish make-up. When the actors spoke to each other, I asked Shoko for a translation but she had no idea what they were saying either because they were using an outdated Japanese dialect.
The option left to us was sit and stare at the epic show, pretending to understand what was unfolding, or leave. We chose the latter.
I asked Shoko what she thought of her first day in Iida on the way home.
“Stranger than Tokyo,” she said.
If something is stranger than Tokyo, then you know it is bonkers.