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Date and Time: some time in November, 8:00AM.

Destination: Osaka

Cast: Shirley and Kathryn, two English teachers in Japan

I was on a quest to find a digital camera and visit the land of Western wonders, America-mura, largely due to a popular Simpsons episode in which they head to Japan and eat hundred dollar burgers and visit the dilapidated Hello Kitty factory. So off my buddy Kathryn and I went to Japan’s third largest city, full of foul odors, dirt, okonomiyaki, and cheap, cutting-edge electronics, in pursuit of a piece of technology and a good dose of something that resembled home.

The day was windy and cool, the opposite of the sweltering sauna that met us when we first arrived in Nihon-land, but we grit our teeth like any hearty Canadian accustomed to cloudy days and cooler temperatures and boarded the slow train bound for Osaka.

Our first stop: MacDonald’s.

No quest for Western civilization is complete without a visit to the zenith of America’s fast food chains. And after four months of ingesting bland and mysterious school lunch, neither of us could hack the thought of another Japanese meal.

On our last visit to Osaka station, we recalled eating at a little MacDonald’s peeping out from a hole in the wall, so we decided to trust our shoddy memories and look for it. The search seemed innocent enough. We had eaten there before, after all. Besides, we were strong, independent, and intelligent young women – how hard could it be to search for a MacDonald’s? All we had to do was look for a couple of golden arches!

Well, half an hour later, we still hadn’t found it. No surprise. And we were starving; our stomachs were holding a contest to see who could produce the largest possible growl.

We stepped into a tiny store stacked to the nines with cutesy Japanese trinkets and, in the most rudimentary of Japanese, asked the vendor how to get to the nearest Ma-ku-do-na-ru-do. Talk about perpetuating the Japanese stereotype that all we Westerners eat are burgers and fries! However, let me reiterate that we had survived four months in the midst of foods unknown and were dying for some hearty – or shall I say, heart-clogging – comfort food. Rice and seaweed just weren’t gonna cut it anymore.

Thanks to sheer luck – we realized a long time ago that most people in Japan give foreigners directions, whether or not they know what they’re talking about, and it’s up to us to search blindly for our destinations… unless you’re fluent in Japanese and can actually converse without sounding like a babbling idiot – we eventually found the MickeyD’s, bought combos, and scarfed down our food. In Japan, combo meals cost close to nine dollars Canadian and are roughly the size of a kiddie meal, with the great misfortune of not including the happy meal toy.

Throughout my meal, I couldn’t decide if it was comforting or scary to know that MacDonald’s fries tasted exactly the same in Japan as they did in Canada. How could the company possibly manage to keep the flavour of the French fries uniform throughout the world?

I decided not to ponder the question any further.

When our bellies were filled, Kathryn and I headed to Den-Den town in order to get me a digicam.

Den-Den town is a frenetic mess of loud salespeople trying to woo you into their stores, gaudy signs, the most litter I’d ever seen in Japan, and yes, endless shops full of electronic bargains. A techno-phile’s ultimate paradise. However, the hypnotic whirring of the lights and sounds put my head into a spin, so I wasted no time in indulging the vendors’ enthusiastic cries of “Irashaimase!!!” and “Haro!!”

We walked into one store, politely tried to haggle with the salesman (and he, after accurately smelling the scent of good hearted, compromising tourists, politely refused our request), bought the camera anyway, and quickly said sayonara.

Kathryn and I high-tailed it out of Den-Den town in search of another Osaka wonder, America-mura.

America-town is Japan’s attention-grabbing rendering of the sights across the Pacific Ocean, complete with Western “cheese and sleaze.” It is Japan’s concrete conception of an America reminiscent of an over-exaggerated Las Vegas, NYC, and a traveling circus swirled together and splattered all over a string of grid-blocked Osaka streets.

NOTHING reminded us of America, save for a few American fashions (I didn’t know Lee jeans were so popular in Japan) attached to hefty Japanese price tags.

First, we laid our eyes on an impressive statue of the Marlboro man straddling a wild stallion, resting on top of one of the overpriced novelty shops. Then we looked around and saw numerous hemp stores and clothing shops, all of which provided a back drop for avant-garde Japanese youth, sitting around, smoking cigarettes, and looking extremely bored. All the merchandise was overpriced and gimmicky and aside from the GAP, none of the stores looked familiar. Where were the Old Navy’s? The Abercrombie & Fitch’s?

As I delved deeper and deeper into this seedy section of town, the reality of the scenario hit - I wasn’t anywhere near America and a few stores selling ultra-expensive Levi’s and Lee jeans weren’t going to suspend my disbelief.

I felt like I was on the set of a lame hiphop video, with short-skirted Asian girls decked out in layers of dark eye makeup and peroxide-damaged hair, tightly clutching onto the arms of Japanese tough-boys, wearing Sean John and walking with that gangsta swagger that all devotees of hiphop vids consciously affect.

Kathryn and I walked around for a bit, gazed at the ultra-pricey merchandise, then got sick of the whole charade and decided to bust out of faux-town.

As we walked towards a subway station, a store the size of a port-a-potty caught our collective wandering eye. There in our midst stood a tiny boutique splashed with yellow, red, and green. Irie colours. Inside, we caught sight of packets of mushrooms and dried herbs up for sale. Neither of us knew how potent the natural wonders were, but since it had been a while since either of us smoked a spliff, we decided, hey, why not?

We purchased a joint that claimed to emulate the effects of magic mushrooms. We had several questions for the shy woman behind the counter, but after we approached her, she shook her head and replied, “No engrish.” So we shelled out some hard-earned yen, placed the merchandise on the counter, and pointed to the cash register. After our saleswoman packaged our purchase in enough wrapping to conceal small child, we continued on our merry way.

We caught a train home to share the j. To no one’s surprise, it tasted like horseshit and had very little effect on either of us. I wound up feeling slightly lethargic (could it have been the grease from the McDonald’s?), but Kathryn felt no better (or shall I say worse) after inhaling. Oh well, what did we expect? We bought the joint in a fake Rasta store in America-mura!

After we disappointingly passed the doochie on the left hand side, Kathryn and I fell fast asleep.

That night, I dreamt of the America I had visited in another life, far, far away from a giant replica of the Marlboro man and $300 jeans stretched out by someone else’s booty.