The last leg of our trip took us to Tokyo—a city I’ve returned to more times than I can count. It’s always been the pulse of my fascination with Japan. At 19, wide-eyed and full of fire, I dreamed of staying here forever. That dream didn’t survive the bureaucracy. No college degree, no visa. So, life happened instead. Marriage, kids, a career. The dream faded, but the city never lost its grip on me.
Back then, Tokyo was our utopia—an electric refuge from the rusted steel and tired streets of Pennsylvania. A neon-drenched promise that the world was bigger, faster, newer than anything Harrisburg could offer. And yet, each time I come back, I realize something. Tokyo is magnificent. It’s a playground. But it’s not home.
Kipp and I boarded the shinkansen from Osaka—smooth, silent, and fast like everything else in this country. And as the train sliced through the countryside, I wondered if chasing the dream was ever the point… or if visiting it from time to time is enough.
Cheers to you, Mount Fuji. After all these years, this was the first time I looked at you with my own eyes—really looked. Majestic, quiet, indifferent. Someday, I’ll climb you. But not this trip.
Kipp and I shelled out the hundred bucks and boarded the bullet train bound for Tokyo. It’s a ride I’ve taken before, but for him, this was the first—his maiden voyage on a machine that slices across the countryside like a scalpel. The Wi-Fi was unreliable, but when you’re hurtling through space at what feels like a million miles an hour, you don’t need the internet—you need to look out the damn window.
I made sure we sat on the left side, just so we could catch that sacred glimpse of Fuji. A moment, a memory, gone in seconds.
Tokyo Station came quick—like it always does. You blink, and you’re there. We rolled our bags through the station, made our way to a hotel tucked near the buzzing alleys of Akihabara. That night, we reconnected with old friends in the neon chaos of Shinjuku. The kind of night that leaves your head spinning and your soul just a little more full. Unforgettable.
After dropping our gear at the hotel, we headed straight for Shinjuku. The city was humming, neon slicing through the dusk. We were meeting up with our friends Vince and Penn—both in town for a conference, both just as eager to escape the beige walls of whatever hotel ballroom they’d been trapped in all day.
Finding them wasn’t easy. Tokyo restaurants tend to hide themselves like secrets. But eventually, we located their table, already half-covered in skewers and sizzling meat. The kind of food that doesn’t ask questions—just demands another beer.
A few drinks in, Vince leans back, eyes half-glazed with mischief. “We need something creepy,” he says, casually, like he’s ordering dessert. And I knew exactly what he meant. Not the underground kind of creepy. Not the dark alleys with pay-per-hour secrets. Just something… bizarre. Beautifully, unapologetically weird. The kind of weird Tokyo does best.
I grinned. “I got just the place.”
Next stop: the Muscle Girl Bar.
A short Uber ride dropped us outside a nondescript entrance—one of those places where the real action lies beneath the surface. We descended into the basement, and as the door opened, Tokyo delivered exactly what we were craving: the kind of discomfort you can’t explain to your co-workers on Monday.
Inside, the vibe hit like a fever dream. Women of all shapes and builds—some jacked, some just enthusiastic—vied for our attention with a practiced theatricality. It was performance, pure and simple. Weird, wild, and unapologetically tailored for foreigners. Sixty bucks got us all the drinks, sights, and strangeness we could handle. I didn’t see a single local. Maybe there was a separate menu—or maybe this kind of spectacle is strictly for the outsiders.
We started with beers. Some of the guys opted for protein shakes, because of course they did. Kipp, being Kipp, jumped straight into the action and cranked out 50 chest presses on a resistance machine in the corner. His prize? Ten Muscle Bucks. Later, we’d find out those could be exchanged for… punishments. Humiliations. “Prizes.”
Now, out of respect for the privacy and reputations of Vince and Penn, I’ll stick to just Kipp and me. Let’s just say things escalated quickly. After a spirited pole dance performance from a fifty-something mama-san who moved like she’d seen and done everything twice, the moment we were waiting for arrived: Muscle Bucks redemption.
I bought Kipp a round of slaps. A squad of women materialized and gave him the business across the face, one after another. He barely flinched—champ behavior. Then came the ass-kicks. He grabbed the pole, and they lined up to roundhouse kick him in the rear. It was exactly as dumb and unforgettable as it sounds. Maybe, it was his Tiger’s hat? Was there some extra aggression because he wasn’t wearing a Tokyo team? We remain unsure.
Thinking I’d dodge the public humiliation, I went for what seemed like a tame prize: a protein shot… administered from the lap of a muscle girl. It wasn’t humiliating—it was something else entirely. A weird, embarrassing moment of unexpected heat. Not what I came for. Not what I needed. I’ve got a wife who doesn’t serve protein with flirtation, and I’m perfectly okay with that. I don’t need slaps or high-kicks to feel alive. I’m not that guy.
But at the end, we got a group photo—us and the performers, frozen in that perfect, absurd snapshot of Tokyo at its most surreal. We said goodbye to Vince and Penn, parting ways with laughter, aches, and just enough shame to make it a night worth retelling. Back at the hotel, the city still buzzing outside, Kipp and I crashed hard. The kind of sleep only a truly weird night can earn you.
The next morning started slow, as it should after a night like that. We caught up on laundry—mundane, grounding, necessary. I grabbed my favorite convenience store coffee, Golden Drip. It’s a Coke-sponsored gem I’ve never seen outside Japan. Sweet, smooth, almost criminally good for something that costs less than a buck. It tastes like Japan to me.
With clean clothes and caffeine in our veins, Kipp and I wandered the streets near Asakusa, drifting toward the looming silhouette of the Skytree. No plan, just walking. That’s when we found it—Kura Sushi. Not just any Kura Sushi. The flagship. The one they probably take foreign investors to when they say, “This is who we are.”
Inside, it was like stepping into a sushi-themed fever dream—walls lined with traditional masks, faux bamboo finishes, the scent of rice and soy and something faintly grilled lingering in the air. We ate until we couldn’t. Plate after plate glided by on the belt. Tuna, salmon, octopus, mystery things we didn’t bother translating. A cold beer to top it off. Twenty-five bucks a person. A steal. A feast.
Stuffed and happy, we walked it off with a quiet visit to the Japanese Sword Museum. A shift in tone. From cartoon sushi plates to razor-sharp history. There’s something humbling about standing in front of steel that’s seen centuries, crafted with obsession and purpose. Like everything else in Japan, even the weapons carry a sense of artistry.
A perfect Tokyo morning—laundry, coffee, sushi, swords.
I’ve come to realize that Japanese museums can feel a lot like school textbooks—beautifully organized, dense with detail, and sometimes overwhelming in their thoroughness. The Japanese Sword Museum was no exception. Around 30 blades were on display, each with its own placard explaining lineage, forging technique, historical context, and likely the exact humidity in the smith’s workshop that day.
The first five swords? Incredible. Hand-forged relics whispering centuries of warfare, honor, and ceremony. But somewhere around number six, we hit the wall. Our untrained eyes just couldn’t parse the subtleties anymore. The curve, the grain of the steel, the inscriptions—all of it started to blur together. It’s not that we didn’t care. It’s just that reverence has its limits when you’re running on caffeine and sushi.
Still, it was special. These weren’t replicas or props. These were real blades, shaped by real hands, likely held by men who lived and died by them. Did any of them actually taste blood? We’ll never know. No photos allowed, so all we could do was take it in quietly, then move on.
Next stop: the Print Block Museum. A shift from steel to ink. From warriors to woodcuts. Another corner of Japan’s obsessive dedication to craft.
We paid our admission and, just like the sword museum, were hit with the familiar warning: no cameras. The staff told us outright—if people could take pictures, no one would bother showing up. Fair enough.
The exhibit we really came to see—the blocks—occupied maybe a 4×4-foot space. That was it. The rest of the museum felt like a shrine built around that single, iconic image: The Great Wave off Kanagawa. You’ve seen it. Everyone has. It’s on beer cans, t-shirts, tote bags. Probably on G-strings back at the Muscle Girl Bar.
Don’t get me wrong—the wave is beautiful, legendary even. But the rest of the museum had to stretch, filling in with related pieces, tributes, and nods to Hokusai’s legacy. The flip side of the room offered a reprieve: actual ancient woodblock prints, carved by hand, inked with precision, and mass-produced in an age before factories. Art that moved—literally—across Japan. That part? That was incredible.
But museum fatigue is real. After hours of reverent silence and placard reading, we were ready for something louder. We left the woodblocks behind and caught a train to Akihabara.
For Kipp, this was first contact. Welcome to Electric Town.
The first time I ever came to Japan, this was the place everyone said I had to see—Akihabara. A sensory overload of neon signs, staircases leading to mysterious second floors, and tech stacked to the ceiling. Ten years ago, it felt like the future. I walked out with camera lenses, weird cables, gadgets you couldn’t find outside of Japan.
But times change.
Now? The shelves of CDs, DVDs, even Blu-rays are fading relics. A digital graveyard. Arcades and claw machines still cling to life, humming with nostalgia more than relevance. Akihabara’s starting to feel less like the cutting edge and more like a living museum for an era we’ve already passed.
Still, Kipp gave me the green light to explore Super Potato—a legendary stop for retro games. It’s part collector’s haven, part nerd sanctuary. But I’ve gotta say, the prices? Definitely not retro. We browsed, reminisced, maybe winced a little at the sticker shock, and cashed out.
As we made our way back toward the hotel, Kipp’s stomach let us know it was time for the next adventure.
Tokyo’s Mexican food scene was calling. God help us.
This was the Mexican place we passed on foot during that first walk from Tokyo Station to the hotel—somewhere along the lines of “Meet Meet Meat,” or maybe just “Meet Meat.” Hard to say. The name alone raised eyebrows. The menu sealed it. Spelling errors everywhere. “Guackamoly.” “Torilla.” It was either a red flag… or an invitation. We stayed. This was an adventure, after all.
The décor was pure SoCal cosplay. Surfboards, cacti, desert sunset murals—it felt like someone described Southern California to a set designer who had never left Tokyo. But oddly, it worked. I almost felt at home.
Then the food came. To be honest? It wasn’t bad. Maybe an 8 out of 10. The flavors hit familiar notes—close enough to San Diego street tacos to stir memories—but the portions were classic Japan: dainty. Bite-sized. The kind of tacos you’d need six of just to say you ate. The bill, though? Godzilla-sized. Absolutely monstrous for what we got.
Still, for a local Japanese person craving a taste of San Diego? I’d recommend it. It’s a solid facsimile of West Coast flavor, right down to the craft beer.
A few drinks in, Kipp hit that moment he always hits. “Let’s take this to the next level,” he said with that glint in his eye.
So, we paid the bill. And left.
Our final night in Tokyo. The curtain call on a whirlwind trip packed with chaos, culture, and just enough weirdness to leave a mark. It only made sense to end it the way we always do—our little tradition: a good cigar and a stiff drink.
We found a quiet bar tucked away from the noise, dimly lit and just smoky enough to feel like a proper send-off. The kind of place where time slows down and the bartender doesn’t rush a pour. One drink turned into a toast, and that toast turned into a bill north of $250. Worth every yen.
We sat back, proud. Not just of the miles we covered, but the memories we stitched together—Osaka, Kyoto, Mount Fuji, the sushi, the swords, the weird, the wonderful, and yes, even the slaps and kicks.
With Kipp still nursing his battle scars from the Muscle Girl Bar—his pride intact but his ass definitely not—we made our way back to the hotel. Satisfied, spent, and already dreaming of the next adventure.
