I burn so much time on this diversion that, as usual, we're late for our destination. As night falls, we pull back onto the highway and hope for some high-speed company to whisk us toward Nikko. At dusk, a brand-new Subaru Impreza WRX STI charges up the outside lane, and I fall in behind. We're cruising at 100 mph, the STI and I, when suddenly, he hits his brakes and dives over into the slow lane. A moment later, red lights fill my rearview mirror. That set of headlights that had been trailing me for the past couple miles? A cop.
The Subaru brakes even harder, down to about 55 mph. He's freaked out. I'm curiously calm. I might be headed for a night in a Japanese prison, but at least my insurance won't go up.
I'm wondering which juicy target he's going to choose, me or the STI, when I abruptly receive my answer: neither. After hanging next to us for a quarter mile, lights ablaze, copper-san simply passes us, then douses the strobes and continues on his way. Now I'm really confused. Generally speaking, when a cop paces you at 100 mph and lights you up, you're in for more than the "gotcha!" rolling warning. This is the most perplexing thing to happen since Konoske ordered a hot dog out of a vending machine at the last rest stop. I mind my speed the rest of the way to Nikko.
As the morning sun melts the frost off the cars in the Nikko Kanaya Hotel parking lot, I select a brochure from a rack near the front desk. It's an advertisement for a nearby ski resort, and its cover depicts two animated grapefruit riding a snowboard. They are grimacing, as if in concentration, or perhaps constipation. Really, Japan? This is how you promote a ski resort? With constipated snowboarding citrus? May I ask why?
Lonely Planet describes Nikko as "one of Japan's major attractions," and it lives up to the billing - a mist-shrouded river passes hilltop temples, and you can easily imagine that the forest is filled with ninjas, which is scary. While there may not be silent killers in those woods, there apparently are monkeys, as evidenced by frequent road signs warning of monkey crossings. This is surprising, since it contradicts my long-held mental image of monkeys living in warm places with a plentiful supply of bananas. I slow down every time I see one of these signs, both out of caution and a powerful desire to spot a troop of Japanese snow monkeys.
In the middle of town, Konoske spies something even wilder than that: a yellow, early 1970s Ford Mustang Mach 1. It's up on blocks in someone's driveway. While this is the most outrageous American car we've seen, it's definitely not the first, which is perhaps part of the reason why our black CTS hasn't garnered nearly as much attention as I'd expected. With more than 40,000 American military personnel stationed in Japan, there's a lot of Detroit iron running around. Jason has one friend who drives a Chevrolet Suburban; another has a Camaro. Back in Tokyo I saw two Chevy Blazers and a lifted Dodge Ram. Our Cadillac is innocuous by comparison.
We need to head back toward Tokyo. As much as I love sushi and Nissan Skylines and unfailingly helpful service-industry people, by the fifth day, I'm OJ'd - over-Japaned. I've had enough hot-dog vending machines, naked electrified hot tubs, Monday morning football, SARS masks, monkey crossings, love hotels, and ambiguous answers. As we near Tokyo, I pull into the parking lot of a Kentucky Fried Chicken. I don't even eat KFC at home, so cultural withdrawal is the only reason
I can proffer for submitting to the deep-fried embrace of Colonel Sanders. And even then, the chicken tenders are weird - they're covered in batter that you might expect on fish and chips, and this makes me slightly despondent.
It dawns on me that the Japanese affinity for Western culture is never without a twist. Consider Ichiro Suzuki's slapping, high-percentage swing: it's baseball, but it's not baseball as taught in Des Moines. Japan is rife with 7-Elevens, but they're filled with sake and mentholated face masks. I'm having lunch in a KFC, but the eleven herbs and spices got left back in Maui. And all that speaks to the reason why we encountered no other Cadillacs in 1000 miles of driving - Cadillac, these days, knows what it's about, and you can't co-opt something that's so focused. The sharply pressed styling, the big V-6, even that distinct Caddy smell (new-car, with heavy notes of leather) defy interpretation, and that limits its appeal. The CTS is a little bit lost here. I can relate. ...next page >>