greetings from the dirty south

My summer vacation began on the edge of a planter outside Tokyo Station, eatin' on what amounted to a cup of whipped cream and cake crumbs and waiting for the night bus. It was not an auspicious start, an hour of my life spent watching a stout man in yellow study his clipboard and call out numbers that meant nothing to me. The neighborhood was a nightmare; expensive, pretentious restaurants next door to "massage parlors" listing prices unbearably cheap, women standing on street corners in miniskirts and slip-on shoes. The bus arrived precisely ten minutes before midnight, and despite its airplane smell of stale sweat, I was grateful to get inside.

Bathrooms in Japanese truck stops have flowers arrangements in them. They are well-lit, immaculately clean, and after four hours of twisting around on a hard seat that reclines just enough to taunt you, they are like entering heaven. We drove through Kyoto at dawn, all quiet, sunny streets and old women on bicycles, Beach House playing in my earbuds, a feeling of optimism that lasted until, at 7:30, I was deposited outside Osaka station, shouldering a heavy backpack and blinking at strangers. It took some time to find the subway, but the sea of people in business formal on their morning commute tipped me off. Dressed like MC Hammer going to a slumber party in Dracula's castle, I joined the crowd.

This is the front of my hotel. According to the lady at the front desk, these guys represent diversity.
I'm staying in the middle of town, the sketchy part, in the only hotel in the neighborhood that doesn't have a "temporary stay" option. Osaka makes Shinjuku look the the height of minimalist elegance, and I spent an hour last night just wandering around, taking pictures of the city in all its gaudy neon glory.

Look at this meaningful juxtaposition.
The city has been looking at me, too. When people talk about me in Tokyo, they have the sense to do it mostly out of earshot, just in case I can understand them. Here people evaluate me overtly; nice legs, fat legs, she's so pale, she's so pretty, she's fug and creepy, she looks like a real bitch, oh shit, she can understand us! Yesterday, in the stupidest conversation I've heard in weeks, I was mistaken for a hit woman. Remind me to tell you that one later, when I have the time to tell it proper.

Right now making tea in my hotel room, typing this out on a borrowed computer. In an hour or so, I'm going to put my face on, get my hair did, and head out to a drag show. Supposedly, it's cooking-themed.