DAY 15-17: SEX-CRAZED MONKEYS, HOT SPRING FACEPLANTS & THE DEATH OF POLITENESS (ft. Shanghai Layover Madness)

There’s something beautifully deranged about ending your Japanese pilgrimage face-down in monkey crap. But let’s rewind.

Final leg of the trip: Yamanouchi, home of the snow monkeys. These are not the polite, Zen-inspired creatures you’ve seen in travel brochures. These are the cast of Real Housewives: Primal Instincts. 200+ macaques living free, wild, and unapologetically horny. Especially the alpha male—this guy had the libido of a Roman emperor on Viagra. I watched him yank eager young bucks off lady-monkeys mid-action just so he could finish the job himself. No shame. Zero pretense. Just raw, uncut monkey passion. He’s got over thirty babies running around. Honestly, it was impressive. If not slightly terrifying.

I stood there for hours, watching this snow-covered primate soap opera unfold, warm on the inside from the sheer absurdity of nature and the promise of an onsen soak later. Enter: the bridge. Rickety. Suspicious. The kind of bridge that says “I dare you.” Roger (the Swiss I met at dinner last night) steps on one end, a plank pops up on my side like a trap in Home Alone, and I go airborne—arms flailing, gravity victorious—right into a wooden bridge coated in freshly laid monkey turds.

Yes. Monkey. Shit. Face-first. I left that bridge a different person. I’m not saying I achieved spiritual enlightenment, but I now know the exact texture of primate feces in winter weather. I’ve also never wanted to bathe so badly in my life.

Thank God for Hotel Omodaka. The kind of place where they feed you like you’re about to hike Mount Fuji in a blizzard and soak you like a dumpling in a pot of healing broth. Dinner: exactly the same as the night before and still the culinary equivalent of a warm hug. Sake? Flowing. Tempura? Crispy perfection. Beef hotpot? Emotional. I was full, I was tired, and yet I snuck out for a stealth bedtime ice cream like the dessert goblin I am. No regrets.

But then… the pillows. Why, Japan? Why do your pillows feel like someone filled a sandbag with dried peas and disappointment? I woke up with a migraine that felt like an angry demon was trying to jackhammer its way out of my skull. The kind of headache that makes you question your life, your choices, and whether you accidentally offended a shrine spirit.

Dragged myself through a transit day from hell back to Osaka and collapsed into Hotel Nikko at Kansai Airport—a shining beacon of convenience and dim lighting. Took a coma-nap to fight the migraine and emerged like a sweaty caterpillar in search of dinner. My final meal in Japan? Eel teriyaki and beef combo from the airport food court—which somehow slapped so hard it made me emotional. Add in a side of McDonald’s fries like an unholy east-meets-west sendoff, and just like that: migraine gone. Praise be to trans fats and umami.

Then came the flight to Shanghai.

Sweet baby Buddha. This flight had turbulence that felt like the plane was trying to escape reality itself. People were screaming in five languages. Flight attendants yelling at passengers to sit down, passengers yelling back, everyone ignoring each other in perfect chaos. I was sandwiched between two of humanity’s quirkiest: one lady who whistled through her nose like a haunted tea kettle, and a man who snorted every 3.5 seconds like he was trying to suck a ghost out of his sinuses. My only escape? A downloaded season of Grey’s Anatomy and the power of mental dissociation.

Landed in Shanghai on the other side of sanity with a 12-hour layover and an unhealthy amount of optimism. I hopped on the metro into the city, expecting a chill stroll. What I got was a full-contact sport. Gone were the quiet, rule-following, bowing Japanese commuters. Enter: THE HUNGER GAMES: METRO EDITION. Screaming, pushing, shoving. Doors flung open like floodgates and people just poured in like a zombie apocalypse. No one waits. Everyone yells. Even the Apple Store was packed like a sardine can filled with capitalism. Still, I somehow bought Andy a new iPhone 16e in under 10 minutes, despite not remembering how I even got in or out. Shanghai sorcery.

Then I walked to Wujiang Road—the holy grail of street food. And just when I thought I’d seen it all, what do I stumble upon in the middle of this buzzing, chaotic megacity? Tim freakin’ Hortons. Yes, that Tim Hortons. The pride of Canada, land of double-doubles and hockey-fueled caffeine dependence, right here in Shanghai like it belongs. Nothing quite says globalism like a maple-dipped donut next to a duck blood hotpot. I didn’t go in, but I nodded in respect—because even 9,000 km from home, a Canuck’s got options.

Wujiang Road was absolute mayhem, but I found a cozy spot that served the beef stew of gods: brisket, tendon, tripe, veggies, spice, garlic. It was rich, deep, unapologetically funky. I cried a little. Not from emotion, just the spice. They were out of spicy chicken feet, but honestly, my soul was full.

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So that’s it. Japan: you gave me peace, wonder, and monkey sex ed. Shanghai: you gave me chaos, grit, and a new iPhone. My face still smells faintly of primate, but my heart is full.

Travel, man. You can plan for beauty. But the best memories? They come from slipping on bridges, dodging airborne humans, and eating stew with three stomachs in a city that never stops yelling.

Bon appétit, world. I need a shower. And a tetanus shot.