Hokkaido Highway Blues

gin, Akita saké, Hokkaido beer, and Suntory whiskey straight up, mixing them in my belly like Taoist alchemists seeking the elixir of life and—probably—almost certainly—death.
    At some point a heated discussion broke out about my quest. “You understand the true heart of Japan,” said one man, the same man who told me earlier that, as a foreigner, I could never understand the true heart of Japan. They raised their glasses. A younger member said loudly, “ This —this is the true heart of Japan! Drinking. Singing. Friends.” Which provoked an immediate response. “That is not so. We must take him to a temple, to see the plum blossoms by night!”
    Soon, we were back outside on some nameless side street. They were determined to show me the Real Japan. Unfortunately, they couldn’t agree just what that was. One man insisted that a topless cabaret was the real Japan, another man was equally adamant that I visit a public bath, and another wanted to drink saké under the stars and compose haiku. The group dissolved into factions, and I slipped away during the confusion.
    I reeled down the streets of Akita, ricocheting from one side to another, narrowly missing a plunge into one of the meter-deep gutters that plague drunkards across Japan and finally, after exhaustive staggering, I found myself right in the center of who-the-fuck-knows where. The Hotel Hawaii might as well have been in Hawaii for all of the navigational skills I then possessed. I wandered blindly through the city, seeking some kind of salvation.
    I saw it before me in liquid purple and pastel pink, a neon oasis in a night of assassins. The name read Hotel Elegance, or Hotel With, or some such nonsense. Either way, I was glad to see it. It was a Love Hotel.
     
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    Love Hotels are a bargain. For couples traveling together, they are the same cost as a business hotel, but with far more space and entertainment. No reservations are necessary, though Love Hotels do often turn away single travelers (masturbation apparently being the only sexual act that is unacceptable to the proprietors). Lost and luckless, I decided to stumble in and try my luck.
    Love Hotels are designed for people who feel that Las Vegas is too restrained. The rooms are spacious and luxurious, and shamelessly kitsch. They can be rented by the hour or by the night. When I was traveling through Japan with Marion, I became something of a connoisseur of Love Hotels. In Okinawa, we stayed in one where the entire building was shaped like a battleship (there was a large American base nearby) and the bed was a shuttlecraft. Above it, in blinking command phrase capital letters was the message: ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK! In Kagoshima, we stayed in the Mickey and Minnie Room, filled with cartoons of the famous rodent couple—which was not exactly conducive to sustained physical passion, if you know what I mean. In Beppu, we stayed in a round room with a seashell bed and silhouettes of starfish and mermaids pinned on the walls, meant to evoke an adventure on the bottom of the sea, but which induced a chest-tightening, suffocating feeling. I woke up several times and felt like I was drowning. This, too, was not conducive to sustained physical passion.
    Still, for all their endless variation of rooms, the hotels themselves come in only three basic styles, which I have dubbed: the Park ‘n’ Ride, the Peekaboo, and the James Bond Secret Hideout.
    The Park ‘n’ Ride style Love Hotels are usually out on the highway or on the outskirts of town. Each room has its own entrance and its own parking stall. Couples drive up, park their cars below, and walk up the stairs to their room—all without having to face another person, anonymity being the prime attraction at Love Hotels. Once a couple has settled in, the phone rings, they state whether they are spending the night or just “resting.” Payment is made through a slotted door, like you might in a Chicago speakeasy, again without any face-to-face contact.
    The Peekaboo style Love Hotels are almost like real hotels. Some even have lobbies, though no one ever seems to hang out in them. The distinguishing feature of the Peekaboo is the front desk, which is shielded with a pane of frosted glass—only the clerk’s hands are visible-—so that the monetary transactions are again done anonymously. These are the ones that most often turn away foreigners, simply because it is harder to slip in unnoticed.
    The Secret Hideout style is the most