Where Are Your Ninjas?: Day 4: The Alamo

Finally arrived back at the luxurious Park Hotel after Harajuku and a combination of humidity, illness and travel had beaten me like a red-headed step-child. I laid down to take a nap and by the time I woke up, the sun had set, which pretty much t-boned any plans we had for dinner that evening.

It's the most frustrating thing in the world to have your body quit on you twice in one trip, especially when travelling with Carisa, who is all motor and impervious to such things as temperature shifts and the sirens call of street vendors. It's like vacationing with a young Roberto Duran who realizes that food on a stick will probably kill you. Or make you a carnie.

When I did at last rally, almost all the shops in Shiodome and Ginza had shuttered. These are business and shopping districts and they don't make a ton of money off the night-owl set on a Sunday, so it was understandable but no less frustrating. Even the front desk attendant at the luxurious Park Hotel was at a loss when we asked where we could eat at 10 PM.

Carisa and I were in a bind. We were hungry and wide-awake at a time when people weren't eating and heading off to sleep and our options were narrowing. Go out and risk getting skunked on grub, or stay in and pay $50 for the Worst Pizza Made By Man. We made our decision quickly.

We hit the bricks.

Ginza at night.

And these people are hungry. Being the bright-eyed valedictorians that we are, we did what any sensible couple in a foreign city would do.

We turned down a dark alley. Hoo boy.

We saw nothing but Closed signs until at last, blundered into this place. Vapouer.

Yahtzee! Let's get some food!

"The kitchen is closed."

"But we just saw someone get food."

"That was the last one to go out."

Thwarted.

This place turned out to be a complete hose-job. The wine was listed at $5 a glass but we were charged $10 a pop. There was also a cover to get in that they didn't tell us about until we got the check, which had us looking up how to say "horseshit" in Japanese. At least we got to watch the people seated across from us tongue-kiss the whole time. That wasn't gross or anything.

The only saving grace of pile of suck was the old timey phone they had sitting on the bar.

Here's Carisa putting in a call to 1923. In hindsight, we definitely should have stolen this.

We left Cafe Bullshit and wandered some more without finding anything, and it was starting to get desperate. Our stomachs were growling. We were light-headed and full of over-priced wine. At a certain point, you just give up.