Japan and the Bullet Train? They go together like green tea and yaki-tori. Just about every visitor to the Land of the Rising Sun wants to sample the almighty Shinkansen rail network and zoom along at speeds that defy imagination.

But, as a former resident of Japan, whose working life there took me across all the main islands in search of stories, I have a different perspective.

Japan is small, efficient, disciplined and, let’s face it, often indecipherable. You are very unlikely to be robbed or taken advantage of, unless you rub shoulders with the yakuza, which I do not recommend.

The key to cracking the code in Japan is to move at a gentle pace, acclimatise to your surroundings, and seek out in-depth tours and helpful locals to achieve a degree of immersion — and by that I don’t just mean steaming onsen baths.

Check the Goodwill Guides association for a volunteer to escort you on sightseeing tours. They will not charge a fee as the guides regard the job as a way of improving language skills, learning about other countries and, as one housewife confided to me, getting away from her mother-in-law.

Her name was Keiko, she’d studied in Hawaii, and her English had an attractive twang. We bonded instantly and got up to all sorts of schoolgirl-worthy mischief for years, including stuffing ourselves with matcha Kit-Kats, which are the most delicious and addictive sweets on the planet.

But I digress.

Keiko and I did not just put on weight together, but she proved a dab hand as a travel adviser. However, her insistence that I forget about the Bullet Train alarmed me. “It’s all a blur, honey!” she said. I ended up sulking a bit, but a very long way down the track, Keiko was to be proved right.

This revelation came on a recent journey from Nagoya, where my family now lives, and Namba in Osaka, Japan’s third-largest city. The Shinkansen takes two hours and nine minutes on that route — and not a second shorter or longer, as Japanese timetables are unerringly exact and honourable in their intentions.

But it was holiday time, and no seats were available. The other option would be a two-hour Hinotori limited-express, and that sounded just right. I expected a suburban kind of train with no frills or flounces, which was not the case.

The Hinotori is red and speedy, sort of like a (very) elongated Ferrari, but quite a bit higher. Its name translates to Fire Bird or Phoenix, and it flies along at 130km/h. The footrests pop up unbidden if you recline the shell-shaped seat, so wear enclosed shoes to guard against slicing toe-tips.

The panoramic windows are truly huge and as it’s a local line, there’s a touch of voyeurism involved while gazing into village streets, furrowed fields, and backyards where housewives (never housemen, from what I can tell) bustle about hanging washing and fussing over pot plants.

“This is what we call Japanese scenery,” announced the schoolboy across the aisle. His grandma was urging him to practise his English. I thanked him for letting me know the scenery was indeed in Japan. Reassuring, I suppose, to confirm I hadn’t gone totally mad and booked a train to somewhere else. It was enough that the conductor was dressed like a Japan Airlines pilot, complete with peaked cap, aviator glasses, and epaulettes.

Then I realised I should have bought a bento box lunch at Nagoya Station as there’s no food service on the Hinotori. I asked the schoolboy if there was a vending machine. He looked alarmed. I tried again, in Japanese, and it was Grandma’s turn to be astonished. “You speak Japanese?” she inquired, rather dismissing the fact I had just spoken in Japanese.

“It’s a long story,” I replied.

“I speak German!” she announced.

Not to be outdone, as I have no words of German other than “Lufthansa”, I countered with, “I speak French and my mother is Spanish!” This was getting too much. “Why?” she retorted. It gave me pause. Indeed, why was my mother Spanish? She is no longer alive and I had never thought to ask her. And why did I speak French? I longed to tell Grandma because it’s easier than writing it and dealing with the pluperfect. But that would have resulted in an acute case of scepticism.

At this rate, as Grandma prattled on, would we ever get to Osaka? Would I expire from starvation? She rose with regal hauteur, grabbed my hand, and off we went to find the vending machines. We bought wasabi-flavoured crisps and cans of yuzu-flavoured soda and sweets shaped like Hello Kitty (that money-spinning little minx is everywhere).

I scoffed the lot but at least I didn’t have to deal with the zoom-swish of the self-flushing toilet on board, as mild stomach cramps from lolly overload were destined to keep me constipated for a week.

As I faux-napped, military music blasted out. It reminded me at that stage of being on the old Siberian Express rattling across Russia. Then I realised it was the boy’s Walkman turned up to the max, and Grandma was displeased. “What will the foreign lady think of you!” she shouted. In Japanese, I replied that I liked the boy very much and feigned sleep until odd xylophone tinkling erupted over the PA system like a merry jig as we approached Tsuruhashi.

I said my farewells to Grandma and the boy, then caught a taxi to my hotel and drew the curtains. Why had I not asked their names? Everything suddenly felt discombobulated. The boy knew I was Susan and had chanted “Susan-san” until Grandma made him stop. Now it felt eerie, like a dream.

Then I checked my iPhone and a text popped up from Keiko’s sister to remind me of the anniversary of her death. Gone too soon, never forgotten, still watching over me, and no doubt laughing at my antics. Sayonara and aloha, dearest friend.

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japan.travel

kintetsu.co.jp

There’s more about the Goodwill Guides in Tokyo at tokyosgg.jp.