In the fall of 2006, I visited Japan to research Purei Boru. The country was ready for me, a Big, Dumb American whose Japanese is confined to “Hello,” “Thank you” and “Is there squid in that?” When I approached a ticket booth and didn’t immediately launch into the local language, the seller often produced an English seating chart, then typed the price onto a calculator and showed it to me. Right: Jingu Stadium.

For the most part, Tokyoites’ knowledge of English matched my knowledge of Japanese. I’m not upset; it’s their country, after all. It’s just surprising that so much of the ballpark experience is in, what’s to the locals, a foreign tongue. The team and player names on the jerseys of all the squads I saw, the club-sponsored billboards near one of the venues, even some of the commercials on a scoreboard’s video screen: all in English. Right: Yakult Swallows billboard.

If you know a few words of the local language and are good at charades, you can travel anywhere. Many restaurants provide picture menus. English descriptions are rare, but just pick the least disgusting thing and hope it’s not squid. Many street signs are in English, as are subway signs. You’d have to be an idiot to get seriously lost on the Tokyo Metro. Right: Tokyo Dome scoreboard.

The four ballparks I visited in the Tokyo area (Chiba, Yokohama, Jingu and the Tokyo Dome) did not impress me. A dome contest feels like watching a game in a Best Buy, a huge building with no soul. While not of the 1970’s, American cookie-cutter variety, the other three parks suffered from that era’s sterility in baseball architecture. Even Jingu, home of the Tokyo Yakult Swallows, lacked the character I expected of an eighty-year-old venue on the grounds of a shrine, a field once graced by Ruth and Gehrig on a barnstorming tour. The charm has probably been renovated out of it. The term “remodeling” triggers a knot in the gut of a ballpark purist. Right: Tokyo Dome.

 But Jingu is worth a visit for the vibrant street scene outside it. As gametime approaches, a constant stream of fans navigates the narrow sidewalk, past vendors who hawk all sorts of freshly made and (to an American) exotic treats – including octopus.

My travel mascot Zeke the Jackalope (laugh all you want, but ladies and kids love him) looks skeptical. This better taste like chicken. It doesn’t. Octopus is a chewy little dish.  Cooking doesn’t change appearance of tentacles so I chickened out (no pun intended)...

Travelogue