In Tokyo...

After losing an entire night's sleep, I seem to have found a new lease of life – but I know it's a false economy and a very temporary situation. My original plan was to reach the hotel, having flown from Heathrow Terminal Five with British Airways to Tokyo's Narita airport, and immediately hit the sack. But it seemed like such a waste, arriving in a city like Tokyo, for the first time, and simply going to bed. So I took a wander, as I'm prone to do, in search of somewhere to eat lunch, albeit a late lunch at around 3pm. Not that I was that hungry. I'd touched down around 11am (Tokyo time) and then had the faff of making my way to the hotel – without using a cab (which I am told is very expensive).

Ueno station on the Hibiya line heading for Roppongi station

Getting around was easier than I thought. To reach my hotel, which is in the Roppongi district of the city, I took the Skyliner train to Uedo, changed on to the Hibiya line and rode all the way to Roppongi station. In the carriage people came and went, nobody said a word, but there was a general politeness about everything and it gave me a tremendous sense of calm. There was nothing threatening about the situation and everybody was relatively well turned out, no scruff pots, not like in the UK. When the train arrived at Roppongi, I jumped out, walked about 100 yards, turned right and then right again and there it was, my hotel, my conveniently located hotel, no more than a few steps from leaving the subway; it's great when things work out so smoothly.

A train arrives at Narita Airport – not for me, mine's next...

I don't want to make too big a fuss about it, but the room is, well, let's say tiny, compact and bijou – alright, you'd be hard pushed to swing a hamster, let alone a cat. But everything works, it's clean enough and what else could I possibly wish for in a hotel?

Mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie...

I was in the room for all of 15 minutes, feeling fidgety, restless and, no doubt, in need of a long sleep, but that urge to do a little exploring, albeit miniscule, proved too much so out I went in search of a restaurant I'd both understand and enjoy. To be honest, I didn't fancy anything too 'Japanese' – not at the moment at any rate, just something straightforward and westen – so I skipped the noodle bars and a rather odd-looking pizzeria – and ended up in, of all places, a Starbucks, and only for a mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie, and then I went back to the hotel to try and get some shut-eye, but as you can tell, I'm up, out of bed and typing these very words you're reading.

One of many things I don't understand is this: why do some Japanese people walk around with surgical masks on? What do they know that the rest of us don't? It'll bug me until I ask somebody. I'm going to crawl back into bed now and see if I can get some sleep. Needless to say I'll be back soon.

I say I'll be back soon, it's now 1010hrs and I'm awake. The sound of voices outside in the corridor clearly disturbed a light sleep. My daughter has texted me a photograph of Karl Pilkington because she thinks (quite rightly) that I'm an idiot abroad. I am. This room, room 302, really is very small, although in all honesty, it's no smaller than the smallest bedroom in my house and they've managed to cram a lot in. The bathroom squeezes everything one might need: a shower, a toilet, a washbasin and outside of that there's a bed, a flatscreen television, a desk space and a small, square window of frosted glass, affording no 'view' whatsoever, it barely opens more than a couple inches. There's a mirror in front of me and I can see my naked self, illuminated by the halogen glow of the computer screen from the waist up. I don't like what I see, I never have, but does anybody really look at themselves and think 'oooh, very nice!' I don't think so. There's a full-length mirror by the door, but I'm not going to get up and stand there, although I'm sure I will as soon as I walk to the bathroom (in that sense it's unavoidable).

Dimly-lit hotel corridor...

It's ironic that such a small room has a minibar and that it's empty. There's also a coffee machine but no coffee. In essence, this hotel must be familiar with the phrase 'the bare minimum'.

I have just opened and taken a swig from a plastic bottle of still mineral water left on the desk by the hotel. There's nothing to suggest it's going to cost me any money, but I won't find out until I check out  in a week's time, as I assume there will be a fresh bottle tomorrow once the cleaner has been in. My guess is they will charge me, but I might be wrong.

Outside of the room, the corridor is dark and dimly lit and despite the voices earlier on, it's one of those places where you don't really see anybody, apart from at breakfast time. In fact, I'm really wondering about breakfast time and what it will bring. I can't imagine a full Japanese breakfast will consist of sausages, egg, bacon and tomato with a literal sprinkling of fried mushrooms and a few slices of toast. I hope it is like this, but I seriously doubt it. Not having a hearty breakfast is going to be very disheartening as it will mean I'll have to seek out some kind of restaurant outside. Earlier, I passed a Wendy's burger kiosk, but whether it was the actual American chain, I don't know and besides, I'm not a burger sort of guy and who wants to eat breakfast walking along the street.

There are more voices in the corridor, Japanese voices. At least I'm making that assumption; they might be Korean or Taiwanese or Vietnamese, who can tell the difference? Well, they can, I guess, but I'm no expert of the region.

It's quite strange being in Japan. It's a long way away and the plane travelled across the desolate Siberia and then across the ocean. I feel odd being so far away on the other side of the planet and again amazed at how it's only a 12-hour flight away. Not that a 12-hour flight is in any way a short flight. I found it fairly taxing and passed the time watching movies: Leave No Trace was good and so was a British movie, Ghost Story. As always, more for comfort than anything else, I watched Toy Story 1 and after that little lot there was about three hours to go. Two meals were served on the flight: chicken with rice and then breakfast, the full English, which was very enjoyable. During the flight I also skimmed through a copy of the Daily Telegraph that I picked up in a WH Smith at Heathrow.

From where I emerged on to Tokyo streets...

If there's one thing I can't stand it's those situations, like yesterday, when I get to the airport and find I have to go straight to the gate, no time to chill with a cup of tea and a cookie or, better still, a proper meal. I had to make do with a chicken salad sandwich, which put me in a bad mood, knowing that I had a good 12 hours on the plane. As always, the plane was packed, but I was fortunate enough to have an exit row seat, which meant I could stretch out my legs in front of me.

Long flights are bad enough, but they're even worse if there's nobody you know on the flight enduring the same ordeal. I was flying alone so I only had myself and my thoughts and they were fretful. I'm glad I had the movies to distract me and in that respect, they were all worth watching.

I should really be getting some sleep, but I feel awake. Back home it's a quarter past three in the afternoon on a Sunday and oh how I'd like to be there, probably going for a drive to Chartwell or some sleepy Kent village for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or perhaps even further afield, like Felpham, to the Lobster Pot followed by a walk along the beach. But no, I'm here and don't get me wrong, I'm not ungrateful (not everybody gets to be in Japan on a Sunday afternoon, apart from the Japanese, of course). In many ways, the fretful, unrelaxing state of mind I found myself in on the plane continues in this tiny hotel room, which instead of flying through the air is flying through time. A long night ahead awaits me, it's an ordeal and it won't end until the morning. In a sense it's not sleep, it's another flight and I still have eight hours to go. All I can do is get through it. I might give mum a call.

There's an eight-hour time difference between Tokyo and London. In London it's now around 3.27pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

In Chicago...

This is the first time I've been to Chicago without being 'in transit' somewhere else. Normally I arrive here at some ungodly hour and then, after eating a meal at Romano's Macaroni Grill, I catch a connecting flight to Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Indianapolis. Today, I went no further than Chicago. In fact there was one time recently – or possibly not that recently – when my flight to London was cancelled due to a faulty aircraft, and I was forced to make an overnight stop in the Windy City. It's documented on the blog. I stayed in a Marriott close to the Cumberland CTA station, so the following morning, prior to flying home later in the day, I took a trip to Clark and Lake, wandered around for a bit, had lunch in the Corner Bakery and then took a taxi back to the hotel where I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet before taking a shuttle bus back to the airport and then onwards to London. I remember feeling that Chicago was a boring place, but this was because it was a Sunday morning, I found myself in some kind of business district where everything was closed and that was the end of it.

Soup IN a roll! I ate the lot.

On Friday I took flight BA297 out of Heathrow's Terminal Five at 1605hrs and got there with enough time to have lunch at the airport – at a place called Huxley's. I had breakfast there once and it was pretty good. I remember because I uploaded a software update to my iphone and it took ages to sort out. Anyway, Huxley's wasn't as good as I expected it to be; I ordered butternut squash soup followed by a chicken burger with chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot – much needed. The soup didn't come in a dish but in a hollowed out bread roll with a lid, like some kind of pastry pot. I wasn't sure of the protocol but I ate the pot. And then, feeling a little down (alcohol can do that, it accentuates how you're feeling and I wasn't feeling good), I wandered aimlessly for a while wondering why women like shopping so much as I passed by Louis Vuitton and saw a few of them admiring the handbags. I considered a cup of tea and a cake at EAT, but couldn't be bothered and eventually took the escalator down to where the driver-less trains take people to various gates. In my case Gate B47.

The flight was uneventful. I swapped seats with somebody's 'mom' so they could sit together. I still had an aisle seat, which was what I wanted, but I would have much preferred seat 37A, an exit seat with plenty of legroom. The annoying thing was that I could have taken it when the seats became available on line 24 hours prior to flying – but at a cost of £58! Even the woman on the BA desk at Heathrow said they should have been free. Had I been sitting in that seat I would have enjoyed the flight much more. As it was, I stood most of the way. Once I'd eaten my dinner – chicken curry with rice followed by a chocolate mousse and a small piece of cheese with two crackers – I walked to the back of the plane and basically stood around for most of the flight. I chatted to a computer consultant from Cleveland who plays the stockmarket and buys property. A nice guy, Lebanese, on his way back from a trip to Beirut via London, without his wife who, for some reason, didn't fancy the trip. Apparently there used to be a direct flight from Cleveland to London operated by Continental, but not anymore. I wish I'd known that, although, if I had I would never have known how wonderful it was to sit and enjoy Pollo Caprese and a glass of Cabernet in Romano's Macaroni Grill (opposite Gate H3).

View from the rear of the plane – an arduous, boring flight

Sometimes, to ease the boredom, I used the toilet, but only to stand there for a few seconds of solitude, not even to take a piss. Then I flushed the toilet, purely for effect, and re-emerged feeling just as weary and cheesed off as before I went in. With about one hour to go, the trolley dollies brought out a chicken sandwich and a mini Kit Kat, so I returned to my seat where I'd spent no more than two hours during the entire flight. I'd listened to Saint Caen's Symphony Number Three (fourth movement) plus Stylo by Gorillaz, Park Life by Blur, Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon, Jive Talking by the Bee Gees (I like the bass line) and The Wizard by Black Sabbath, not forgetting Joy Division's She's Lost Control and Love Will Tear Us Apart. I couldn't be bothered to watch any movies.

The flight was smooth – no turbulence – and daylight all the way. We glided into O'Hare and even the usually arduous task of immigration was smooth and fast, thanks to machines rather than humans. My suitcase was there on the reclaim – now that's an anxious part of flying – and soon I found myself in a taxi heading downtown to my hotel on North Michigan Avenue. My cab driver was from Namibia – where he says there are lots of Germans – and used to work for the cosmetics company Avon here in the Windy City, but was made redundant and took up cabbing. He moved to Chicago because he knew people in the city and hadn't been impressed with LA or New York. He found the latter dirty and wasn't keen on LA's downtown. It wasn't a long journey and soon I found myself in my room preparing to get some sleep. I haven't slept well (who does after a transaltantic flight?) and I know that over the next day or two I'll feel tired and weary at odd hours of the day until my body clock kicks in to US time. And then, of course, it'll be time to go home.

Even the view out of the window was boring

I've slept for about four hours. It's now 0608hrs and I've been up for around an hour.

The hotel room is fine: the TV works, the room temperature is just right, there's a minibar full of 'stuff' and a 'snacks draw', not that I'll be indulging in any of it. The room is sort of L-shaped. You come through the door and turn first right for the bathroom and second right for the bed. The desk, however, is too close to the cabinet that houses the minibar and 'snacks draw' and it took me an age to get the laptop's cumbersome charger plugged in – the desk is too heavy to move and so is the cabinet. Other than that, no hassles. I've entered the breakfast time zone so I think I'll head on downstairs to check things out. I could do with a decent cup of tea and some cereal.