Snow angels

Takayama. I knew it wouldn’t fail me. Called “little Kyoto in the mountains” (these being the Japanese Alps), it’s been secluded long enough to have kept its character over the years.

I just got here. I’ve only spent a few hours wondering around the town tonight – looking at the handy English map and having a wonderfully hearty, warm and juicy bowl of noodle & leek soup. It was raining and so I walked around snapping pictures with my new purple plastic umbrella, bought for $3 from the onsen where I’m staying.

Purple plastic umbrellas make for good photos.

And...

So...

Does Photoshop. :)

There's a message in these purple plastic photos...

Did you see it?

I’d scheduled to stay at Hiroyonomoori, an onsen in the woods. It looked too perfect for words. Hot mineral baths outside under the tall trees… it looked like bliss. But when I got here, I discovered it was a 1 hour drive from the Takayama town, in Hiroyo (I would have realized that if I knew Hiroyo was a town and Moori was the owner). Alas. Completely impractical for someone scheduled to be here only 1 night and two days. And especially impractical since it took me almost an entire day just to get here. So, I made a judgment call and cancelled my night in the wilderness, under the tall tree canopy, for a local place in town. Much more practical than blissful. But some days just call for practical.

I’d woken up after another long night out. This one lasted only ‘til 2, which is starting to seem really early to me. Tokyo is dangerous that way. I’ve discovered that the Japanese know how to drink. Especially Japanese businessmen. This is a thing most people familiar with Tokyo know well, but something I had to learn from experience. After a group of us went to a little bar in Korea Town to watch (and celebrate) the Korean World Cup, we wandered around Tokyo trying to find a karaoke spot. I saw one guy lying in front of the turnstiles at the train station, obliterated beyond belief. His friends, trying to pick him up. They didn’t seem the least bit phased. This was just something that happened. You drink too much, you fall down. Simple enough.

I’d seen a picture of this on Google Images, when trying to find a good example of a Japanese businessman bowing for my last post. I typed “Japanese businessman” into my browser and this is what I got.

Weird, I thought. This seems like something you just don’t see every day. Not relevant, Google! Well, I was wrong. At the karaoke place, there was a guy lying down on a chair in the foyer, his friends waiting around for their karaoke room – to sing and have an “all you can drink” good time. He looked tired - to say the least. Passed out, maybe?

I watched him fall off his chair onto the floor. His friends casually looked over, seeming to say, “Ah, he fell off the chair.” Just a fact. Then I saw him slowly throw up, as he was passed out, and I realized – this is how people die in their own vomit. This. Is. Disgusting. This – the vomiting – finally got some attention from his friends. Being that the vomit was a bright pink color – God only knows what he’d been eating or drinking – it was hard to miss. It wasn’t loud – it was quiet, gradual. And finally someone came over and started helping to clean him – and it – up. It wasn’t like – Oh. My. God. How. Completely. Humiliating. Disgusting. Appalling. I wanted to think that. But it seemed so normal in the context of Tokyo. And that was seconded when the attendant walked over with an air of, “Hey, let me wipe this vomit off the floor so we don’t have to step over you.”

And then he was up. Out the door. His friends snickering. And keep in mind, these aren’t 16 year-olds. Or 22-year-olds. These are people my age – or older. It’s cultural. Why? Well, because the Japanese – especially men – do nothing but work. They hardly ever take vacation. They often work until 11:00 at night and then go directly out to the bars to let off steam. To relax. To have an outlet of some kind. And it has to be one major outlet to make up for all that working. Drinking. Shots. And often – karaoke.

Now that I’ve disgusted you, let’s go back to the beginning of the day.

I woke up in my little hotel room – small enough to be a sardine can – but not small enough to be a hotel in NYC. What to do… what to do. I have another whole day in Tokyo. Instead of packing my day pack and heading out, I hung around my room, planning my trip to Kerala, repacking my suitcase which was growing similar to a Thanksgiving turkey.

What to do. What to do. So I decided – I’ll do a little (more) shopping. Shopping in Japan is like a cultural experience on its own. It’s completely and totally fascinating to me. One of my new Googlers (Nooglers as we like to call them) lived in Japan for a while. She told me about this stationary store called Loft. I was dying to go. I love paper. I love texture. I love color. And above all, I love cuteness. Then I wanted to go to the Oriental Bazaar. It supposedly had great souvenirs – not “trinkety” ones, but good ones. Ones you keep. I wanted to go back to Kiddy Town – where I’d bought light saber chopsticks, a USB-animated dog that plugs into your laptop and precipitously begins to hump your keyboard. It’s called the Humping Dog. And it’s hysterical. I had to buy one.

Right? Am I right? You HAVE to buy the Humping Dog.

And finally, I wanted to go to a 100 Yen Store. It’s the Japanese version of a Dollar Store. That’s where the trinkets are found. I could only imagine the accumulation of plastic uselessness in one store. It made my brain wiggle with delight.

Before I realized I hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, I was hopping in a cab and asking the driver to take me to Shibuya. The fare should be cheap - my hotel’s not too far away. I’d booked my hotel on Expedia for a little under $100. I was surprised at how nice it was when the driver pulled up the night before. I’d spend hours trying to find cash. Japan is largely still a cash society, so it’s hard to use your credit card in some places. Having cash is key. And I couldn’t find an ATM that would give me any. My card was fine. My bank said nothing was wrong. In fact, they weren’t even getting the requests for cash from Japan. Disturbing. After trying 8 banks around town, I started – slowly – to panic. My friends were all heading back to Sydney. On a bus at 4:30. I had asked them to hand over all their cash to me – just in case I got stuck with nothing. But by the time I made it back from ATM #8, they’d all boarded their shuttle to the airport. Crap! They left on time! Googlers NEVER leave on time. WAIT – this is Japan. SHIT. Everything in Japan leaves on time.

I went to the concierge at the hotel we’d stayed at for the conference – a hotel in O’Daiba – an island near Tokyo. The concierge looked Western and that made me relieved. I needed someone who spoke English. And I needed to channel a desperate, lost, panicked American girl in a foreign land. If he were Japanese, I may have to cry in order for him to get the gravity of the situation. If he spoke English, I could simply say, “What the fuck?@@(*#&$( with these god forsaken ATM’s??@?##O”

He was – in fact – French. And he had a funny way about him. He spoke French, English and he at least read Japanese, because he navigated Google Japan with aplomb. I was impressed. I hope they paid him well for his talents. He told me that this was common – in his “unaffected” manner. Calm. Cool. Matter-of-fact. “Ah, yes. In Japan, we have problems with cards.”

Yep. I know. I’m living it. My credit card was declined in the cab a few times – my coworkers having to cough up the dough. My wallet was completely devoid of money. And my ATM card wasn’t working. Oh! And did I mention I was traveling for a month?

Screwed.

Totally and completely screwed.

He told me: You can go to Citibank. Sometimes that works (sometimes). Or the Post Office. Sometimes that works (sometimes). You could also go to 7-11.

7-11?

I’d tried 7-11 and they didn’t take Visa cards. Japanese 7-11’s, by the way, are not only convenience stores, where you can buy Frisk gum, Japanese porn and cigarettes from a vending machine. It’s also a bank. But they don’t take Visa.

So this sounds pretty easy, right? I have some options. But what you have to understand is… I have no cash to get around. My credit cards are declined by cab drivers. And one of my coworkers was taken to jail the night before for not paying his taxi (he was that guy*).

He had lost his wallet. And had not discovered this until he was about to pay for his cab. The cab driver locked him in the car and drove him to the police station, where he wouldn’t allow him to even get out of the car to explain the situation. He had to talk to the police officers through a crack in the window. 1 hour later, they finally worked out what had happened.

Additionally, finding a post office or a Citibank – when you don’t have cash, transportation and you don’t speak Japanese - and you’re on an island outside of Tokyo is not. easy.

Lord. It’s me, Stephanie. If you help me this one time. This oneeee time. I promise not to take shots of tequila at 3:00 a.m. and then amble around town the next day unconcerned and blaze by the fact that I can’t get cash until about 10 minutes before my friends load a bus to the airport. I promise to be more prescient and responsible.

“Maybe you can try our sister hotel in the city. The shuttle bus can drive you for free,” said the concierge.

BINGO.

Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you.

“It has worked for others before,” he said. Unaffected. Smiling. “In Japan, how do I say, the financial system “is shit.”

Ah, yes. Is shit.

I loaded the bus. The driver taking my bag with white gloves. I knew I was leaving the security of the Google-overtaken-hotel. The nice one. I was hoping – hope, hope – that this worked. This ATM in their sister hotel. Why did they not have an ATM in the hotel I was staying in? DAMN THEM. I kept calm. I knew people still in Tokyo. My manager was here. A few other people. I’d called and left messages, but no one answered. I knew everything would be OK. It was just so. damned. annoying.

And then the ATM gave me the gift of cash. I got out $50,000 yen. $500 bucks. That outta last me in case this happens again. Whew. Then all of the sudden, my ATM card started working in cabs. Not my credit card, but my ATM card. Fine. I’ll just use that and only take out the cash when I absolutely have to. Crisis averted.

God, you rock.

I spent the next hour at the hotel business center, printing out all my itineraries. Hiroshima to Tokyo. Tokyo to Hyderabad. Hyderabad to Delhi. Delhi to Hyderabad. Hyderabad to Kerala. Hyderabad to Kuala Lumpor to Sydney. All booked on Expedia with the exception of Hyderabad to Kerala. I was sitting with a friend from India when I’d booked that one. She showed me an Indian travel site. “Use this,” she said. “It’s cheaper.” It was a site I’d never heard of. “Is it a good site?” I asked? “A reputable one?” I wasn’t sure. It was a site in India. For all I knew it was set up in someone’s mud basement. She told me they spend an astronomical amount on AdWords and so I thought, OK, they must – at least – have a customer service desk in their mud basement.

Each page cost me 100 yen to print. And then the fax I needed to send to India to book our Delhi-Agra-Jaipur tour cost me 1,000 yen. If it had gone through. We spent 30 minutes trying to figure out how to dial out of Japan to India, sending to a home fax, which has a different code than a business fax. It just didn’t work. It seemed like a miracle would have to happen for it to work. And I’d already had my miracle for the day. Oh well, I’ll do it later.

After coughing up $40 (@4,000 yen) for 1 hour of Internet, 16 pages of printing and 1 non-fax, I took a cab to my real hotel. The one I (not Google) could afford. That probably looked like a HoJo. But, no. It was nice. Much nicer than I imagined. Thank you, Expedia.

The service was – of course – impeccable. Every time someone bows to me, immediately acknowledges me, spends 10 minutes trying to figure out what I’m saying with a smile, translates my English into Japanese so I can give it to a cab driver, who will kindly pull over, look at the piece of paper, take out his map, type it into his GPS (all the while apologizing for not speaking English well), I’m transported to that first day in Sydney…

I’m at the Grand Mecure where Google put me up for my first month. I am standing – with my bags – in front of three people who are behind the reception desk. A minute goes by. Still standing. Waiting. I’m definitely feeling my presence known. Hmmm? I eventually ease closer. Closer. Put my arms up on the counter. Burn them with my eyes. Wondering if I am real. Invisible? Tangible? But still, no one acknowledges me. They’re all doing “their own thing”. Doing something, sure. But attending to me? Not on the top of that priority list.

In Australia, customer service is horrific. It’s the exact opposite of Japan. In Japan they call the customer a “God”. In Australia, I’ve surmised, they call them “Necessary Evil”.

After checking into the hotel, walking into my little sardine can, and flopping down on the bed, I let out a nice sigh. Ah… a home base. I love a home base. Traveling is one of my passions. But having a home base – to put your bags, to put your feet up, to hopefully get high-speed internet – is key. It’s a chance to refresh. To reboot. This is why I’m not a huge fan of traveling with other people. Not unless I know them extremely well. The thought of sharing a room with someone who is irritable, tired, cranky or messy – who is not me – while on vacation – schlepping around, navigating the confusion of the world – is just plain not happenin’. I gotta have some ME TIME.

That night I had a great sleep. My first in three nights. I’d had trouble falling asleep before the hour of 4 a.m., since my body had become attuned to Japanese nightlife. But I finally fell asleep around 11:00 p.m. And slept until 9:00.

Waking up and not feeling “right” enough to get out of bed, I wrote a little. I love writing. It’s so nice to pour all your experiences out on paper. If I had to tell these stories verbally, they would not be nearly as colorful or memorable. There’s something about writing that allows me to access parts of my brain that talking doesn’t. I don’t get it myself. But it comes pouring out of my fingers – but not out of my mouth.

So – back to the cab on my way to Shibuya. This day was about shopping. And I’d written down on 5 pieces of paper:

Tokyo Station

Oriental Bazaar

Loft

100 Yen

Hotel Sunroute Plaza

And the hotel kindly translated them to Japanese. Those were my flash cards for the day. My ticket around the city without having to ask for help. It was worth spending time online, figuring out where I wanted to go, getting everything translated. Because I would have had to quadruple that time with a street map written in Japanese, a “Fodor’s guide book from 2008 and asking people for directions using my borrowed “Lonely Planet” English to Japanese pocket guide. Google was much easier to use. In fact, it was so easy to use that I was able to look up Loft on Google, see that a bar code was present on the local listing of that store, and scan that bar code with my Android phone, immediately sending the address to my phone. It took not more than 3 seconds.

God, I love technology.

Did I mention I loved Google?

It certainly makes the world a smaller, more navigable place. The company’s mission – to make the world’s information easily accessible and useful – is drilled into my head as a Google employee. But it’s so much more than just a mission. It’s absolutely. Definitely. The truth. No matter where I am. Google makes everything better. Just like Rose.

Speaking of Rose. She’s at Hanrob. The kennel in the country. This time she’s rooming with Snoopy. Ben was her flatmate last time. The staff at Hanrob adore Rose. They say at playtimes she spends the entire hour following the staff around looking for pats. Ignoring the other dogs. That’s my girl. She’s going to be spending the next few weeks with my friends, Disha and Sid. They live down the street from me and have been wanting a dog. Since they’re from India, it’s not practical for them to have a dog of their own (or at least Sid says so J), so they offered to keep Rose. She’s very excited about staying with them. Particularly because Disha is an excellent cook. And although she’s a vegetarian, she makes meat-laden dishes for her husband, Sid – every night. And Rose can smell a good home cooked meal in Sydney from Japan, so she’s going to have a good ol’ time at Aunt Disha & Uncle Sid’s house. Plus, it’s right beside her favorite park. The one with the good trees - and therefore - sticks. The ones which have bark that flakes off like chicken on a bone. Eucalyptus, they call them. She thinks. :)

Rose before I left.

If you think this is cute, look at the Japanese versions I saw for sale in the store. I'm not sayin' any dog is cuter than Rose. But c'mon. Look at these dogs. I swear on my life they are real.

RIDICULOUS.

Ahhhh, the stream of consciousness... It’s only been 48 hours since my last post and I have so much to write. I haven’t even managed to get mention my “night of Korea”.

And why am I all of the sudden in Korea, anyway? As my brother says, “She like ninja.” :)

But more specifically – because of World Cup soccer. Now, being from the U.S., the country that barely thinks outside its own borders, World Cup soccer is not on my radar screen. It’s not even a blip. Actually, the only reason it’s a blip is because Kezar Pub in Cole Valley always had a gaggle of international brethren, drinking pints, smoking cigarettes and peering into the windows of the sports bar at 6:00 a.m. in the morning. They were watching their hometown game. Spain. Ireland. England. And Guiness is, of course, required.

So, this is my first official match. My manager told me some of her favorite Googlers in JAPAC (our region – Japan & Asia Pacific) were going to be there. And so I went. After a long nap after shopping (my God, I skipped the bit about shopping – Must. Return. To. That. Later.), I showed up. She couldn’t believe that I’d found it. They’d waited for me at the train station and then walked to the restaurant after 10 minutes. Thinking – she will never. ever. find this place. But I did. I had it on a flash card. And the taxi driver pulled over and got out of the car to walk me into the restaurant. He was so concerned I’d get lost.

Sydney, you’re losing some serious points here.

When I walked in, I heard a collective SHRIEK. It’s kind of like Super Bowl on steroids. Because everyone – in the entire world (outside of the United States, of course) is watching. And your country’s clout is on the line. Woo, a co-worker from Korea, put this party together. We had a back room in a little bar and restaurant. My manager, Shawn, introduced me to everyone. There were some familiar faces. Others were brand new. Woo (pronounced EWWW) said, “Thank you for coming to support Korea.”

“Of course!” I said.

And I thought, “I wonder who they’re playing?” This must be some huge game, I thought. A final round – a bitter rivalry - or something. These people are IN. SANE.

I asked Shawn, “Who are they playing?”

“They’re playing Greece,” she said.

Greece?

Hmmm… doesn’t sound like it has potential for a bitter rivalry.

“Is this, like, a big game?”

“Um, no. It’s one of the first games. World Cup just started.”

“Oh holy God,” I said.

She smiled. “Isn’t it crazy?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The entire group was wearing red t-shirts. I didn’t own one – in my turkey stuffed bag – so I was the odd one out. There were people from all over Google – Ernesto from Sydney, Michael from Tokyo, Shawn from Singapore. All Americans – working in Asia.

There were few Japanese there. And since we were in Korea Town in Tokyo, most of the patrons were Korean. Any time the ball would get within a certain range of their protected Korean goal, everyone would take a deep breath in and hold. HOLD. HOLD.

Whew.

And w hen it would get close to the protected Greek goal, they would start to shriek. And Asian girls – CAN. SHRIEK.

Holy God. My ears. My fragile American ears.

We had a back room booked with a large screen TV just for us. It was called “Nomihodai” which means – and I translate exactly – “Limitless Beer for 4 hours”.

Yes, there is a word in Korean that translates to “Limitless Beer for 4 hours.” Wait ‘til Australia finds out about this…

In addition to the beer, everyone was doing Sake bombs. And I mean everyone. Well, except me. They would drink a beer half way and then someone would say, SAKE BOMB and they’d put a shot glass in the beer glass. They you had to take turns pouring little bits of sake into the shot glass until it sank. You would try to drizzle – so you weren’t the one dunking the shot glass. Because if you were, you drank the whole thing!

Don't dunk it!

The loser.

I would pass. “No, no, I’m not gonna play. There is no way I’ll drink that. That would get too ugly.”

So my manager – and the boys – drank it all for me. To hilarious effect (picture someone singing “Like a Virgin” into a microphone later that night…).

So I nursed a beer or two and Woo San (what they call him in Japan - everyone's a "San") asked me, “Did you eat yet?” “No,” I said.

Shawn said, “Let him order you food. He’ll order the best food.”

“OK, I said. Order me anything.”

“Do you like spicy?” he asked.

I looked at Shawn. Spicy means something different in every culture. She gave me a knowing smile.

“Yes,” I said. “I like spicy!”

There was a rice pasta – kinda like gnocchi – that came out first. And it was infused with something resembling fire. Whew. And then the glass noodle dish arrived in this luscious sauce (plum + soy + oyster maybe?). And I gobbled it up. Slurping. Noodles hanging from my mouth. No napkin in sight.

The game – the American and English expats were lappin’ it up. They’d learned a few choice phrases in Korean to yell throughout the game. They asked Woo, “How do you say, “Finish them” in Korean.” And he translated it, the closest thing in Korean to “Finish them” being “Kill them.” So Ernesto, Michael and James all yelled, “Kill them!” in Korean – over and over and over.

Throughout my meal, everyone would jump up and start singing a Korean fight song… “Goooooo something Korea! Gooooooo something Korea. Goooooo something Korea. Uh, no no no no no no. No no no no no no no.” All the Westerners chiming in with gusto. Woo – leading the song.

Hilarious. Exhilarating. And somewhat humbling. I absolutely love the melting pot that is Google. I could not love it more.

From there, we all moved in a herd to karaoke – Woo San exclaiming, “I used to be a commander in the Korean army. I can lead us there.” Um, yes. I do believe you can. All the way there, Michael, Ernesto and the other boys yelled, “We won! – claiming Korea as their own. The real Koreans in the crowd laughed, went in for the high five when the boys offered it and joined in on the chant.

When we finally reached our destination, Bianca, Fadhila, Kate, Shifali, Jon, Kae, Colin and Cathy were there. We got a karaoke room and sang our hearts out.

If you look closely, you can see the lyrics. J

I sang a rendition of some 80’s song I knew by heart but cannot seem to remember now. And then another. Around 2 a.m. I decided it was time to leave.

Someone tried to convince me to stay by calling me Kathryn Heigl. Flattery will get you nowhere tonight, people. Although, I have to admit, it does seem early, I have to navigate the Japanese rail system on my own tomorrow. One subway, one train and one bullet train. I think I’ll retire. So I hopped in a cab, trotted into my hotel room and feel fast asleep.

When I woke up, I had to figure out how to pack all my goodies from Loft into my suitcase. The one that was already a stuffed turkey. Luckily I’d bought a bag yesterday – a tote bag with giraffes and lions and elephants on it. That’s my strategy. I just buy more bags to fill as I travel. I have so many duffel bags at home, it’s suffocating. Why not just bring some with me when I travel? Because I like buying new ones, that’s why. And because I was too lazy to crawl into the attic to get the other ones.:)

So this is where I talk about my purchases. You knew I’d find a way back to this subject.

I cannot describe how much I loved Loft. I almost dropped to the floor to do a snow angel. Smiling up at the bright fluorescent lighting, melting the proverbial snow underneath me.

But instead I headed right for the card section. OK, let me see if I can do this justice.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

The cuteness. It’s almost too much to bear. I just started grabbing. Grab. Grab.

GRAB GRAB GRAB

You weren’t allowed to take pictures in the store (as you’ll see, I did anyway) – which means I have to buy the cute things in order to remember them. And there were so many of them.

There was this…

For little Tegan.

And this…

And this...

Yes, Raj. This is for you. A Shiba thinking about beer. All. you.

And this...

And there were cards with redheaded girls all over them (apparently we're a novelty in Japan).

And a million other things…

There were stickers. Bags. Notecards. Greeting cards. Birthday cards. Father’s day cards.

Father's Day's coming up, so they were stocked. A preview of what's to come in 2010, 2011 & 2010. :)

And guess what else?

PUFFY STICKERS!

Oh. My. God. They have puffy stickers!

I’m dying.

What will I do with puffy stickers?

No idea.

(If you are a guy and you are reading this...sorry about all the girly stuff. The sake bombs and the humping dog were for you.)

This went on and on. For hours. After about 1 hour, I discovered that there was more than 1 floor . What did they have on those floors? EVERYTHING.

Everything in a cuteness version. It was a cuteness explosion. I died a cuteness death.

Gift bags with what? Llamas on them!

Pepper grinders.

You wear these and they clean your house as you shuffle around.

These are tiny Japanese scales. How much do dainty Japanese people annoy me with this?

What is this? No idea. But its cute.

I. love. pillows.

I wish I could put these in my bag.

And then I realized it was 4:00 p.m. and I had not had food. And then I ignored that fact and went to another floor. And then I started feeling dizzy - take it easy, Mom – it’s not that bad :) - and I went to another floor.

THE KIDS FLOOR.

So, first of all, thank your lucky stars, pocket book, that I don’t yet have kids of my own. If you think grown up shit in Japan is cute, try their little people shit. Their little people shit IS. CUTE.

Exactly.

I got this little bento box for Peter, my best friend’s son. There were sooooo many little bento boxes with cuteness all over them. I was having visions of Strawberry Shortcake, Rainbow Brite and Holly Hobby lunchboxes from my youth. But these were BETTER. These were SMALLER. CUTE-R.

I started thinking of all the children I knew. Ruby. Peter. Deegan. James. Maren. Tegan! I will buy one cute thing for EVERY CHILD.

There must be about a hundred of them, my friends’ children. I know this because I have about one hundred cards with their fat little faces on them. Christmas cards. Birth announcements. Christenings. Birthdays. You got an occasion? I’ve got a fat little baby on a card.

OMG. This is so exciting. I get to buy ONE HUNDRED cute little people things! OH MY GOD! Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

OK, STOP (says the angel on my left shoulder).

No, I said stop.

Take a breath.

Another.

OK.

I’m going to tell you something. And you have to listen, OK? Will you listen?

You cannot buy 100 cute little people things.

BU-

Nope. You are traveling around Japan and India for a month.

BU-

Do you hear what I’m saying? Walk away from the Pokémon.

You have to stop. And you have to go get some food.

I crossed my arms. Trying to deflect the rational thought.

Deflect. Deflect.

But I couldn’t. Rational Stephanie was right. I was traveling for a month. And I was bound to find other things I wanted to purchase along the way.

So I walked, tail between my legs, to the elevator. And I left Loft – going straight to McDonalds (where the locals eat). And I used my Japanese:

Ichi Double Cheeseburger. Mizu. Arigato.

:)

P.S. “That guy” is the one at the conference with the best/worst story which often involves having sex or getting arrested.