"Business trip," I was told. "Complimentary hotel room pillow mint, per diem networking business conference."
"I see."
"Minibar?"
"Not until Wednesday."
"Latest numbers shoehorn. Good business to you."
So that was that. Off to Shizuoka I went.
During my preliminary research I discovered that there isn't a lot to do in Shizuoka. Or at least, not in the main city. The surrounding area is known for its beautiful forests and mountains, including Japan's own king, queen and errant prince, Fuji-san (which I have to tell you, with crushing sadness, just means 'Fuji-mountain' and not 'Mr. Fuji' like I thought in blissful innocence for several months). None of this natural beauty sneaks its way into Shizuoka City, at least not in the streets immediately surrounding the train station/school/hotel, which I loyally kept to like a dog leashed to a peg.
But does Fuji have a hostess bar where men dress like Arabian princesses? Probably not. Shizuoka City one, Fuji-san nil. Regardless of its mediocrity, this was my first trip on an employer's dime and I was determined to have a good time. Maps in hand, I strained the zip of my backpack over my rat-king of charger wires, threw a pair of socks in my handbag and set off.
My journey began like all journeys should - on the shinkansen (bullet train), the one Japanese word it's not pretentious to say in the middle of an English sentence. Fun fact: due to the phonology of the Japanese language, shinkansen sounds like it has three syllables but actually has six; shi-n-ka-n-se-n. Just say it. Shinkansen. The syllables swoosh like three strokes of a razor in an advert. . The word feels just like the journey. Put that on your next chest tattoo.
My trip took a little less than an hour and felt rather pleasant - views of rice-paddies, blue rooves, adolescent bumpy hills and grass that was luminous green. I only have one gripe: unlike my last journey on the shinkansen, there was no lady sitting next to me who gave me a still-wrapped box of chocolates for no reason. I'd kind of hoped that was a regular feature, perhaps some sort of tax-funded programme meant to foster international goodwill.
After reaching the station, I have little to tell. I took a quick trip to an electronics store for a new pair of headphones, which took ten minutes to get out of the packaging and then immediately broke in one ear. I traipsed back towards the station, went to my school for my shift, clocked out at 9.30 p.m. and went for dinner at Subway, like the connoisseur I am, my daily meal allowance crumpled and clutched in my hand like a toddler's tissue. I had the teriyaki chicken, in honour of my host country.
It was now around ten and I was walking to my hotel, surrounded by suits and taxis and feeling very grownup indeed, when I realised I'd left my backpack at school. Naturally I reacted to this situation with aplomb and grace, by galloping unevenly through underpasses and passageways until I got back to the building, wiped the sweat from one part of my forehead to the other part of my forehead and garbled half-explanatory nonsense to the staff. When I made my way back to the hotel I evidently still glowed with suspicious foreigner-sweat, since the concierge wiped everything I'd touched as soon as I was out of his eyeline.
This was my first time in a hotel room on a business trip, so as soon as I closed the door behind me naturally I danced around the room chanting "HOTEL ROOM! BUSINESS TRIP! HOTEL ROOM! BUSINESS TRIP!" The room was brown but acceptable. It took me twenty minutes to locate the wi-fi information and four seconds to see the guide to the porn channel: in pride of place on the desk, on top of all the less interesting material such as the breakfast menu and list of fire exit locations. I couldn't read most of it, but I appreciated their attempt to keep TV alive in the age of the internet.
Coming soon: Shizuoka Day #2
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