Soon before landing, as the body of the plane started to swoop low in earnest, l saw the edge of the island like a bitten biscuit.

Just jutting into the black space of night, all filled with pinpricks of light.

Japan, Japan. Though not, it would seem, the land of the rising sun at all.

From my window-seat, I could see a looming, magic ferris wheel perched at the edge of the blackness, for all the world as if it were about to tumble into the sea. Lit up brighter than an electric sea urchin. I thought I must have imagined it, or perhaps mistaken some other object for it, until I later realised that ferris wheels are yet another of Japan's magical commonplaces: they really do appear everywhere. Urban temples to some profane worship of fun.

When we left the airport, having been ferried in a tidy bus from the International to the Domestic terminal, we slipped into the aircon-cooled subway system.

The subway seats here are plush, velveteen fabric in an ancient, faded rust colour. I stared at their texture, their furriness. I was in Japan.

Most of our fellow airport passengers appeared to travel light, using neat, wheelie suitcases, but ALWAYS accessorised with freshly-bought duty-free in heavy, plastic sacks. The overall impression they conveyed to me was of wealth and conscious propriety; careful never to take up too much space. They gave off the air of Consummate Super-Travellers - calm, unruffled, and ultra-experienced.

We had had to book a ¥9450 twin room, somewhere near Hakata Station, by using the reservations desk at the International Terminal. We had arrived bewildered and accommodation-less, a little breathless at the thought of our own audacity. The women serving us laughed coyly behind cupped palms at all of our requests. The shift in manners and etiquette here stressed me beyond belief. I couldn't tell what was rude and what was not.

We sweated and heaved our bags off the subway system, up banks of escalators and along the neon-lit streets of Fukuoka nighttime. Porn was everywhere: big advertising pennants waving gaily at us as though breasts and panties were the city's unofficial mascots.

We shared the pavements with guys who hopped clandestinely out of vehicles to thrust the life-sized porn ads up all along the street. The ads were on flags, and the flags sat in heavy concrete bases, which made me suspect that this dance of illegal-poster-putting-up must go on every single night.

We checked into our business hotel and did the necessities - that is, we studied the toilet's control panel in our space-age bathroom (tiny as a flea's behind, mind you) and wondered aloud at the fact that the folder containing all the info on the hotel also contained explicit brochures for 'Blue Cherry' inhouse porn, including photographs of blindfolded women exposing their DD cup, surgically-enhanced breasts.

Down on level five, a whole section of the hotel's floorspace was dedicated to vending machines selling beer, sake, iced tea and pantyhose.

We were truly in Japan.