Arriving in Narita was not as tricky as I expected. There were enough English words to guide me to my bags, and cue a feigning of perfect health as I passed the ‘medical examination room’, no doubt for potential Swine Flu victims. I was still feeling pretty rotten, and flying had proven agony for my blocked ears.
I gathered from the landing card I’d filled in (ticking the box next to ‘restricted items’ because I was carrying 2 Feijoas – not illegal drugs or firearms, which should have had a separate tick-box in my opinion) that I had to go and pay my regards at the Food Quarantine desk.
All clear.
My cousin had emailed me with explicit instructions on which bus to take, and after exchanging the stray $20 AUD from my wallet for one and a half thousand Yen (at least I couldn’t tell how badly I’d been ripped off), I managed to point and nod enough to obtain a ticket for the 17h30 departure, which I paid for by card as it exceeded my recently acquired Japanese fortune.
The ‘Lost in Translation’ culture shock that I’d been expecting failed to materialise, as we sped down the left-hand side of a motorway with trees on either side, following signs which read ‘Tokyo’, through the darkness of early evening rain lashing down on us. It could well have been England.
