Our 787 Dreamliner landed with a thud. We smacked the tarmac, jolting the entire airframe. I have no idea why we didn’t bounce on the runway. We just didn’t. The jolt must have jarred something loose within the primitive, self-preservation portion of my brain. I did not realize it. Nor did I feel it. I was blissfully unaware, but I would begin to notice its effect later that night.

After we landed, we were herded onto a shuttle bus, and we wended our way around the airport until we were dropped off at the customs area. That’s when the enormity of the foreignness of the situation began to sink in.

We queued up to get through passport check. On the flight Pam had filled out the paperwork, noting that she was bringing in a prescription for a controlled substance, which was what her pharmacist told her to do. Too bad no one told the customs agent, who blanched when he read Pam’s document.

After a bit of futile explanation by Pam, the agent called for backup. Eventually, another agent escorted Pam to the area where the decision makers were, and after some discussion and review of the prescription bottle with the 20 pills in it, Pam was allowed to proceed through passport control.

We made our way to the baggage carousel, but by then our bags were nowhere to be found, as the baggage carousel was no longer in motion and all the bags were gone. Trying not to panic and after several stilted conversations, we were told where they might be. We made our way over to the indicated area and saw them sitting forlornly in an empty spot on the floor.

After retrieving them, we proceeded to baggage check. There we endured the same level of scrutiny as we did at passport check. They acted like we were bringing in 20 kilos, not 20 pills. Eventually, we got through and went to meet Justin and the other members of our group who had flown in on different flights from other cities.

We found Justin, and he made the introductions. I know Justin well, having worked with him for over a decade, but I had never met his wife or the other two couples in our group.

Justin led us to the train, which we entered and headed into Tokyo. He made it so easy. We would have been freaking out without him.

We checked into our hotel, cleaned up, and met in the lobby to go to dinner. Justin was starting us out big—he told us we had a private room in an upscale shabu shabu restaurant.

The last time I tried to eat shabu shabu, I took one look at the greasy, boiling vat of water, one look at the grisly, gnarly pieces of raw beef on the tray, and one look at the sick guy across from me dripping snot and dipping his beef into the water and knew I couldn’t eat it. I excused myself, left the restaurant, a locals place in the really industrial part of Gardena, California, and went next store to Burger King, where I bought a Whopper. That was over ten years ago, and I have not been to a Burger King since. That’s how desperate I was.

I knew I had to eat the shabu shabu this time. Thankfully, I was still reasonably full from the five meals plus snack that I ate while enroute to Tokyo.

 As we walked to the restaurant, I ruminated about shabu, shabu, the main course. Instead, I should have been thinking about the appetizer—sushi! Justin ordered it right after we ordered our drinks. It came pretty quickly, and the others were busy oohing and aahing as they ate one raw morsel after another. Eventually, attention shifted to me, I do not eat sushi. Anywhere. Ever. I had not touched the sushi. My travel companions suggested I try it. Just one piece. For the experience. We were in Tokyo, after all. The place to eat sushi.

Feeling like this moment would set the stage for the rest of the trip and not suspecting anything was amiss after the thump on the runway, I shocked myself by grabbing my chopsticks and putting a piece of sushi in my mouth. That was the easy part—chewing and swallowing were much harder. I managed both, barely. It was touch and go for a bit, but I did it, knowing I did not have to do it again….ever.

We were having high-quality wagyu beef shabu shabu. This foodie version of the meal requires the proper cut of wagyu beef. To make sure that we would be satisfied with our meal, the sommelier equivalent for beef at the restaurant came out and showed us the frozen chunk of wagyu we would be eating. Justin, our residing expert on waygu, inspected it and voiced his approval in fluent Japanese. The beef was whisked away to be thinly sliced so we could play swish swish with the pieces as we dipped them into our communal cauldron.

I have a hard time buying ground beef with more than three percent fat. As I looked at the fat laden slices of beef, with fat content easily exceeding fifty percent, I realized that they came from a morbidly obese cow, and I would never intentionally buy meat like that—nor would I want to eat it—despite how well regarded it is by foodies.

But like the sushi before it, a slice somehow ended up moving back and forth in the vat and then disappeared into my mouth. I can’t say I loved it, but I would eat it again without reservation.

The rest of the meal was uneventful, until it was dessert time. A plate of the most beautiful grapes sitting majestically on a bed of ice was placed before me. I ate them with relish. They were the best grapes I have ever eaten. They were also the most expensive.