Wednesday was Follow-Up Training 2 day, also known as FUT-2. I'd had FUT-1 several weeks earlier, which is where I first encountered Kurt, a spirited young I.T. guy from Vancouver. He and I hit it off well, trading Nova gossip during the break and just generally being wiseasses during the otherwise zombifying four-hour training session. So when we ran into each other at FUT-2, we decided to head out for drinks afterwards. (My longstanding drinking policy remains unchanged, if anyone's wondering.)

Kurt took me to Mickey's House, a gaijin bar that specializes in language exchange—all native English speakers get in free; Japanese patrons pay a cover charge to hang out with foreigners. Kurt, who's been to Japan twice before, sees the whole gaijin-bar scene as a pretty straightforward meat market, but after my first trip to one, I can see it either way. The Japanese really do love clumsy small-talk with foreigners, no doubt about it.

The bar itself was, well, kinda sad. The word "dingy" probably sums it up best—just a handful of tables and chairs, populated by ordinary Japanese folks and vaguely creepy-looking white guys, although any white guy looks creepy when he's chatting up a table of giggling college girls. Don't get me wrong; everyone was in good spirits, it's just that the whole place had a small-town fraternity feel to it that I didn't really cotton to.

Anyway, the bartender/owner ushered Kurt and me over to the college girls' table, where I immediately humiliated myself by trying to speak Japanese, something I must never, ever do again. It wasn't necessary anyway, it never is—in this country, even toddlers can speak English better than I can speak Japanese. The conversation was the same as it always is: how long have you been in Japan; have you been to Kyoto; do you like Japanese food; how old are you; etc.

Under normal circumstances, having a trio of 18-year-olds Asian girls fawning over me in a bar would be fun (though how would I know?), but mainly the only thought going through my head was, "Finally, a decent blog entry." Kurt and I both had early shifts the next morning, and I don't have a phone anyway, so we excused ourselves politely around 9:30 and made our way back to the train station.

It wasn't an unpleasant experience or anything, and I'd be happy to give it another shot sometime, when my Japanese is better and I don't have to go to work the next morning.

Getting a phone might be a good idea, too.

(From left to right: girl whose name I forgot, creepy guy, girl whose name I forgot, girl whose name I forgot, Kurt.)