When Colin Stokes made his first trip to Japan, he invited the cartoonist Edward Steed along to document the adventure.

Colin arrives in Tokyo tired and hungry. While eating dinner at a Shinjuku noodle restaurant, he is interviewed by a television-news crew filming a report about foreigners. Which might have looked something like this:

The following day Edward arrives.

Colin is rowing the two of them around the Imperial Palace when a message from seven thousand miles away arrives in their boat.

It’s from a colleague. She is recommending a bar in Roppongi where you can fire BB guns and listen to hard rock.

They waste no time getting there.

Colin browses the gun menu and, after washing his hands and putting on safety goggles over his glasses, blasts paper targets to the sound of Whitesnake.

Once you’ve been to a bar with a shooting range, regular bars can seem unjustifiably boring. It’s hard to go back.

So they play electronic darts in a maid bar . . .

. . . then eat dinner in a boat-shaped catch-your-own-fish restaurant . . .

. . . then end the day in that bar from “Lost in Translation.”

It feels less romantic than it did in the movie. Perhaps because in the movie no one in the bar had seen the movie.

As one fellow drinker explained:

But despite everyone’s best efforts the view is magnificent.

The next day, Colin finds himself in Tokyo’s electronics/gaming/manga/anime/porn/etcetera district.

Akihabara caters to every appetite. Including some you didn’t realize you had.

A moment ago, he didn’t know who Gudetama was. Now he wants one.

In a multi-story arcade, Colin and Edward take turns demonstrating great strength:

But apparently “Above average grip strength for my gender and age group” counts for nothing around here.

Surrendering to Akihabara’s charms, Colin finds an endless array of simple pleasures . . .

. . . as well as some more complicated sadness, and a few abject horrors.

Later, Colin makes a purchase that comes in an inconspicuous brown bag.

Edward interviews a shopper, and then wishes he hadn’t.

He said they were queuing to take pictures of the woman upstairs.

In the afternoon, Edward, Colin, and Colin’s inconspicuous brown bag take their seats in the Tokyo Dome for a game of baseball.

The game, which is indoors, air-conditioned, under artificial lights, and on artificial grass, feels strangely unreal.

The international language of low-scoring baseball, however, is familiar.

Hiroki Kuroda, who once belonged to the New York Yankees, is today pitching for the Hiroshima Carp against the Yomiuri Giants of Tokyo, the “New York Yankees of Japan.”

Hiroki Kuroda pitches to Hisayoshi Chōno . . .

. . . Strike. Swing and a miss. Groundout.

Takahiro Arai slides for first base. Doesn’t make it.

Two and a half hours in, Hiroshima scores the game’s first point. 1–nil Carp.

Shortly after that, Hiroki Kuroda, still pitching in the final inning, gives up two runs:

Shinnosuke Abe R.B.I. single.

Yoshiyuki Kamei walk-off sacrifice fly.

The Giants win, 2–1.

Hiroki Kuroda and his tired forty-year-old arm go home.

Hiroshima loses, but gains two new fans.

In the morning, Colin’s long-held dream of climbing Mt. Fuji is shattered in a Tokyo bus station.

Bad weather, so the bus to the mountain is cancelled. A few minutes later, plans have been changed and Colin boards a train bound for the hot-spring-resort town of Hakone.

But the disappointment lingers.

Leaving Tokyo in the rain.

In the countryside.

Amidst the famous hydrangeas.

Gora station, Hakone. Feeling better.

Hakone is beautiful and unusually quiet for what should be peak tourist season.

Hot baths outdoors feel nice.

Compulsory hotel yukata.

Soon, the rain has stopped and, while they relax in the foot-spa bar with a pretty view of the scenery, the morning’s disappointment is easily forgotten.

The next day, a dense fog has descended on the town:

Continuing his quest for at least a glimpse of Mt. Fuji, Colin goes for a cruise on Lake Ashi.

On a clear day you can see Mt. Fuji from here. You can even see it on a reasonably unclear day.

But not today.

For some reason, the ferry is dressed as an olden-times pirate ship.

What might have looked tacky in bright sunshine becomes strangely beautiful in the mist. Maybe even appropriate. How else to travel through this surreal fogscape? Sometimes only a pretend pirate ship will do.

There is even some consolation in the town:

Back at the hotel, there’s nothing on TV except Colin talking about ramen:

So they take some more baths.

. . . and then lie down on hot stones for an hour.

The following morning, from the window of a Kyoto-bound train, Colin stares into the fog in the approximate direction of the mountain that he didn’t climb.

Late at night, in a peaceful Kyoto bar that has neither a name nor any lights, they admit that the next day should probably be spent looking at temples, shrines, etc.

However, large numbers of other people would have exactly the same idea.

Kinkaku-ji Temple.

The rock garden at Ryōan-ji Temple:

According to Wikipedia, “only fourteen of the boulders are visible at one time. Only through attaining enlightenment would one be able to view the fifteenth boulder.”

Later, around midnight, in gentle rain, they arrive at Fushimi Inari-taisha. Thousands of orange gates line pathways up and around the mountain:

According to Wikipedia, Fushimi Inari-taisha is the head shrine of Inari. It sits at the base of a mountain that is also named Inari, two hundred and thirty-three metres above sea level. First and foremost, Inari is the god of rice.

But that doesn’t help.

In several hours of walking and climbing, they see only one other person. A businessman in a hurry. He explains that because of his job this is the only time he has to visit the shrine. Before sprinting up the mountain, he takes this photo of Colin and Edward:

Colin and the businessman become Facebook friends and will never think about each other ever again.