That first night pretty much set the tone for how the next few years would go.

As I said earlier, after arriving in Japan, we each found separate little paths to take. Mine led me into this underrated and awesome Yokohama party and music scene, where groups of hilarious, energetic people swarmed to each live show, and the doors were open wide and they'd wave you in eagerly.

The music was funk, and rock, and reggae. There were jambands and jazz. One night I saw a Japanese rockabilly band, with a lightning-fast standup bass and a shredding surf guitar. Another night it was a trio of piano, bass, and drums that played a stellar version of the jazz standard "I Remember April", one that I'll never forget. Yet still another night, I recall a heartfelt rendition of "No Woman, No Cry", where every single member of the audience joined in inspired song for parts of it. It seemed as though everyone knew the lyrics quite well, and no one was shy to sing them out, regardless of their level of English fluency. Bob Marley is one of the few that can make that happen.

Even better were the venues, all of them tiny places where you fit in any way you could. You might be at the front of the crowd, dancing, while at the same time trying not to accidentally knock over the guitarist—that is how small and intimate these shows were. One night the horn section of a funk band had no room at all on stage, so they just moseyed through the crowd while playing, as though part of the audience.

Most of my favorite nights were at The Road and the Sky. For me it all came back to there.

They had a nice menu, and by day it was a calm, laidback little joint to go have lunch or dinner. But right around 9 or 10 pm, the place underwent a transformation, as the music cranked up considerably. Sometimes the staff hung a big "Steal Your Face" flag over the bar while they blasted live Dead, and during this time, if you ordered a specialty drink called a "Jack Straw," it came with a free CD filled with choice live picks.

They played Phish even more often, always live, and always to the delight of the fans within. Fans that were knowledgeable—they knew exactly when to clap during "Stash", and when to say hey! during "Punch You in the Eye." I thought I'd be the only guy in Japan to know this kind of stuff. How wrong I was. I loved this.

Each of these little bars were so unique, set up exactly as the master wanted it, like he just took his vision and made it a reality. They were never part of a chain, or a franchise, and you never got the feeling it was just a business. These places felt more like your living room.

My favorites were The Road and the Sky, the Dude, Nine Mile, and Common, and these were, respectively, a Hawaiian surfer bar, a metal bar, a reggae bar, and a hip-hop bar. The bars were themed as such because their masters are a guy who loves Hawaii, another who loves metal, another who loves reggae, and another who loves hip-hop. It's just that simple.

And yes, I'm serious, a hip-hop bar, not a club. Common played music at a reasonable volume, only it was hip-hop. It was kind of brilliant. Why had no one ever thought of this in the U.S.? There's no reason hip-hop must be confined to a club, and that it can't be bar music.

There was no closing time, at any of these places. The masters would never ask people to leave. So long as you were there, they were open, and usually hanging out with you.

I became very accustomed to this, and all the nuances of these friendly establishments. Later, when visiting the U.S., and was at a massive bar in Washington D.C., catching up with several old friends. Promptly ten minutes before closing time, bright lights came on suddenly, and within minutes were bouncers coming through yelling quite forcefully for everyone to get out. I felt surprisingly shocked, almost insulted—a brusque, massive dude, right in my face, pointing toward the door, telling me to leave. Meanwhile everyone around me simply tipped their remaining drinks back and slowly left, as though this were totally commonplace.

And of course it was—I had just forgot.

Another thing I had to remember in the U.S. was to tip. You're supposed to leave some kind of tip—even if the service sucks. In Japan, you don't leave any tip at all, and the service is always outstanding.

Look, I can't explain these things. I'm not going to try, either. I'm just simply stating the facts.

And I'm very biased, okay? Truthfully, it wasn't always gravy in Japan. I'm not going to say that everyone was cool, one-hundred percent of the time. I had prejudice against me on occasion. It wasn't very pleasant, but you know, I brushed it off and kept moving forward.

I went to Japan looking for the very best, and so the very best was what I found. If I'd gone in expecting the worst, then that's what I would have found. I could have chosen to remember the bad moments, and focus on them, and then write a pissed-off book called Don't Send Me Back to Japan. But who the hell wants to read that?