Riding the bullet

A journey across Japan by bullet train

‘Speed is the only truly modern sensation’, said Aldous Huxley. Well, he never rode the bullet train. We’re rocketing through Japan at 200 miles per hour; at this pace a Formula 1 car going flat out would struggle to keep up with us. Inside the carriage, though, it’s virtually silent. My coffee in its styrofoam cup rests on the tray table in front with barely a ripple.

I’m travelling from Fukuoka, a small city in Japan’s south west, to Tokyo, and press my face to the window. Across a vast chessboard of misty fields Mount Fuji, squat and imperious, keeps watch over the ancient landscape. Towering beside the rising moon its party hat of white snow catches the fading sunlight and splinters it in pink sparks. Down below we scream through the flatland, passing farmhouses and tree groves that flicker into view before vanishing behind us.

A waitress approaches wheeling an over-stacked trolley of disorienting Japanese snacks. As virtually nothing in the country is written in English ordering food is essentially a game of ‘point and pray’, a method which at a restaurant the day before had left me munching through a gristly bowl of fried pigs ears. I’m relieved, therefore, to discover the nondescript white packet I tentatively jab at contains chewy purple chicken strips and nibble merrily away. Deep down know it’s octopus.

I feel like chatting to somebody, and in a moment of inspiration remember the word for ‘delicious’.

‘Oishiiringo!’, I yell, pointing at my food and turning to the businessman next to me who, it turns out, was sleeping. Terrified out of his slumber he stares at me blankly.

Not knowing the word for sorry I’m left with little option but to hesitantly repeat myself in an apologetic tone.

‘Oishiiringo…?’

The man, as well as a row of university students opposite burst out laughing. Later I learn ‘Oishiiringo’ roughly translates as ‘yummy apple’, but for now I remain blissfully unaware if somewhat bewildered at the response. I’m the only English speaker, but relying upon the universal language of backslapping, ‘Michael Jackson Beetles!’ being screamed by all, and occasional fits of random hysterics, we enter into a lively conversation. A round of cheap tin can beers is summoned magically from someone’s bag, and we sip them as the train powers onwards.

It’s night now. The flickering lights and neon flashes outside herald our entry into Tokyo’s sprawling suburbs. I peer into the web of twisting streets, trying to ignore my own reflection as it grins dementedly in the background. 39 million people live in the Greater Tokyo Area, well over half the population of the UK in a single buzzing, broiling, electric hub of humanity. This is by far the largest city anywhere, ever, and we’re headed straight for its heart.

As we begin to slow I bid farewell to my new friends and prepare to disembark.

If the journey to get here was anything to go by, I think I’m going to like this place.