Hokkaido Highway Blues

seen a real Viking sit down for a meal before, and I waddled out an hour later, satisfied beyond gluttony and having pushed the King of Kings to the point of bankruptcy.
    “Come again,” said the waitresses in quavering voices, fearing that I might take them up on the offer, yet still bound by protocol to make it.
    “Oh, I will,” I said, my mouth still full, as I chewed on my last handful of sheep’s flank. “I will indeed. Hahahahahaha!“
     

5
     
    IT IS A testament to Japanese engineering that the Hakodate cable car managed to get my heavy carcass up the mountain. It cost a small fortune, but I was in no condition to walk. I forked out a pile of yen and climbed on.
    As the cable car groaned under my weight, I looked out across the city as the evening lights began to blink on. Hakodate’s night view, it turns out, has been officially designated as one of the “Three Best City Night Views in Japan” (the other two are in Kobe and Nagasaki). Earlier in the day, however, the chap at the Hakodate Tourist Board had said in a hushed aside that really, “The night view of Hakodate is one of the best three —in the world —right after Naples and Hong Kong.” Had he been to Naples? No. Hong Kong? No. But he had seen pictures.
    Either way, Hakodate by night is magnificent, if not for the scope or brilliance, then for its striking shape. The city is built on low neck of land, an isthmus actually, and the lights are funneled in at the middle like an hourglass. The reflections glimmer upon water on both sides. It looks like a river of lights. Like a cup of jewels spilled. Like a wineglass filled with electric rhinestones. Like—like a woman’s waist. Yes, I tilted my head and squinted my eyes. (The same technique I used to descramble adult videos.) Yes, definitely. It looked like a ruby-studded corset, slipping from a woman’s body, it looked like—I stopped and cleared my throat.
    “Well, then,” I said as I turned and walked along the observatory platform in a jaunty way, humming lively tunes. “What a nice view!” But it was no use. In the shadows, in the corners, furtive in the half-light, I could see young hormonally-inflamed couples entwined in knots of limbs. At night, young Japanese couples transform into Parisians.
    The Hakodate Night-Viewing Observatory looked like a telescope pad used for stargazing, except, instead of stars, the gaze was directed downward, toward the city, adding to the voyeuristic atmosphere. I was standing there in the cold air, watching the night deepen and the lights become brighter when a young woman slid up beside me.
    She was staring out intently at the city lights. I sent ESP waves of charm toward her, but she evidently had her radar deflectors up. So, on the count of three, I turned and said, in a friendly-yet-exotic, American sort of way, “Hi there!”
    She returned my greeting like a limp volleyball and walked away, leaving me to set, leap, and spike to an empty court. Hakodate women, I decided, were very cold.
     

6
     
    MR. SAITO HAILED my return with a hearty “Hello!” His face was red and he clutched a bottle of Japanese vodka in one hand and a glass in the other. “I’ve been drinking,” he said, superfluously. “Come!” he cried. “Have some sea crabs. I caught them today when I went fishing.” A steaming tray was set before him. “I wasn’t even looking for crab; they just crawled into my pail. Can you imagine such luck? Good luck for me. Bad luck for the crabs.” He laughed and laughed and handed me a plate.
    I loathe crab. But I couldn’t think of any way to decline his offer, which was generous to a fault, so I sidled up to the table and Mr. Saito, with a scholarly air, proceeded to teach me the correct way to eat them, which, if done properly is horrible and messy and more than a little barbaric. First, he wrenched off the legs—the hairy legs (did you know crabs have hairy legs?)—and demonstrated how to suck the meat out. He then cracked open the backs and showed me the proper way to scoop out the (thankfully) small brains, which you lick from your fingers like pâté. “But we don’t eat the lungs,” he said as he removed the tiny flaps and discarded them. Why not? Well, that would be gross.
    I have never felt fully comfortable eating anything that looks like a giant mutated cockroach, but with enough vodka to wash it down, I was able to eat most of my crab. Then, like a bad joke, Mr. Saito produced another. And another. The