Kiwis, Touch Football, Cross Dressers, and Transformers

This Monday is a holiday in Japan (Sports Day; I don't get it, but hey, holiday means no work!), and because my days off are Sundays and Tuesdays, this means I get a 3-day weekend. Woohoo!! Filled with the sort of elation one gets after finishing a long day of work before an extended weekend, I called my friend Simon and asked if he'd be up for grabbing a few beers and a bite to eat. He was game (as Simon always is when beer is involved), so we met up in Umeda and wandered for about an hour in search of non-Japanese grub. Because you see, while I love Japanese food (it's simple, healthy, and yummy), I'm quite sick of it at this point. And you'd never guess this, but Japan is full of Japanese restaurants. I know, right?! Who'd of thought? And so we walked through the arcade, bright lights flashing everywhere, people standing outside their restaurants calling for us to come in for sushi! Tempura! Okonomiyaki! Takoyaki! No, no, no, no. We just weren't in the mood for anything involving soy sauce. Finally, we reached the end of the arcade. There were no bright lights, no cheerful beckoning, and very few people. And there it was, in a dark corner of an otherwise flashy street, like a beacon of hope: a Kiwi pub. And its name? Kiwi Pub. The menu? Meat pies, fish and chips, fried chicken, and grilled sausages. Nary a grain of rice in sight. We were sold.

The pub was in a tiny, non-descript basement, with flashing disco lights. It was so small, it was like one of the house parties I went to in college. The crowd was welcoming; a mix of Kiwis, Aussies, and Japanese (and one American--yours truly). Simon and I sat down, famished, and split a pizza, meat pie with mashed potatoes, and fish and chips, washing it all down with a couple of beers. Hey, I said we were hungry! (And thirsty.) The owner, Mike, gave us some kuava to drink, which tasted like floral-scented water and made my tongue feel funny. It's a Samoan fruit, used for medicine (at least I think that's what Mike told us).

As we were gathering our stuff to leave, Mike invited us to play touch football with all of them the following day at a nearby park. We were given a small map and felt like members of an exclusive club.

Sunday...

On Sunday we showed up to a beautiful park in Umeda. It was a sunny day and the weather was nice and cool. There was some sort of festival going on, and after a quick inspection, we determined that it was something similar to the gay pride festivals in America. There was live music, free condoms, AIDS awareness pamphlets, and loads of 8-foot-tall cross dressers with painted faces, giant feathered wigs, full-body leotards, and 10-inch heels, which we may as well call stilts because these heels take some endurance to walk in. It was a friendly, happy crowd, but we continued on our way to the dirt field on the other side of the festival to meet up for some touch football, which I think is just Australian rugby without the tackling (but don't quote me on that). Simon, bless his heart, is always trying to explain these things to me, but not being fluent in Australian (not to mention Athleticism) makes it difficult for my thick skull to absorb sometimes.

The touch football group was a mix of people from the pub the previous night and some others: a nice guy from Canada, named Mark, and a guy from Georgia, whose name I can't remember, so let's call him Georgia. Georgia had his son with him, named Takoma (Tako for short), and so Tako and I played dinosaurs and Transformers while the guys played a couple games of touch football. Later, Simon showed me how to throw the ball while spinning it, and I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of a natural. I refused to play, however, because it involves a lot of running, and as you know, running is not my forte.

Eventually Mike got the barbeque going and we dined on roasted sausages, chicken, and beef, the beer flowing as usual. As it got darker and chillier, we said our good byes, circled the gay pride exhibit a few more times, and finished our night with a couple more beers. It's the kind of weekend that fills you with renewed spirit.