coming home

on tokyo and new york

After returning from my third Japan trip, I’ve been trying to figure out what there is to say about it. It was my third trip to the country, the first since I moved to New York. Last time, I was struck by everything — the unfamiliarity of the language, the universality of humanity despite it, the small interactions with Tokyo residents that I had the benefit of spending time with. I was so amazed by the possibilities of the city that I moved to the American city most similar to it, one that reaped the benefits of density and public transit.

But, this time in Japan was different. Everything was familiar. I had practiced my few Japanese phrases enough to feel comfortable with most service interactions, I knew what the iconography on signs meant, the general etiquette to avoid committing any faux pas. I felt comfortable there, the way that I do in cities I know well, like Atlanta, San Francisco, NYC.

For this trip, I was a part of a larger group than before, and I felt more like a tourist than ever before, walking to all of the major sites with friends that had never been before, spitting out facts about one thing or another. At times, I felt like a tour guide, comfortable enough with the city to navigate us to our destinations: all of the greatest specialty coffee shops, quirky dessert shops, and whatever interesting stores were on the way.

During my previous trips, I’d failed to purchase much of anything, being overwhelmed by options or spending too much time at vintage stores that only stocked American clothes that were too small for me. This time, I bought a t-shirt that was made using a process that can only be done in Wakayama, Japan, I bought Japanese denim that would’ve cost double across the Pacific, I bought souvenirs for friends that I never had room in my suitcase for during my previous trips. Even as I shopped better, things felt odd.

The differences of this trip were most clear when returning to places I’d been before. It was jarring — a couple of years ago, I had felt so much younger and so shocked by everything I saw in a country I didn’t understand. Despite my efforts to be present, I couldn’t help but compare visiting the Bamboo Forest to the first time I saw it. Then, I remembered feeling overwhelmed by the crowds, only to find solace in the shade that the endless shoots created. This time, in the absence of the crowds, in the absence of unfamiliarity, and in the presence of 95 degree heat, I just saw pretty bamboo and glimpses of my past. The same thing seemed to happen at the Inari Shrine or at the darts bar. Could anything compare to the first time?

Instead of dwelling on this in the moment, I talked with my friends, spending our time identifying all of the things that felt different from our lives in America. There was the visual culture that manifested in every sign having an illustration, there was the ubiquity of convenience stores, the dense variety of shops and bars and restaurants that could exist due to the sheer number of people and low cost of rent. I pointed out the politeness of every interaction, the quietness of the streets, and the subway system, but I wondered if I had already started to miss the racket of human life that made me appreciate New York so much.

Frequently, we were surrounded by enormous amounts of people in the train stations and malls, but it never seemed to get very loud. People didn’t talk to each other very much, and the sounds of cars and sirens never grew to anything close to the din that I was used to. By the time my trip was coming to an end, I yearned for messy, crazy sights on the street, something to listen to.

On my first day back in New York, I tried to recover from my 14-hour flight by doing chores — laundry, grocery shopping, organizing my souvenirs. I took pleasure in the slowness of the day, ambling down aisles of the store, appreciating that I could read every label with ease. But as my backache caught up to me, I decided to go to Chinatown for a massage. The wall of noise from the subway was a shock after the quietness of the Tokyo subway, and escaping the station into the street was a welcome change. On the way to the spa, I walked past a table of older Chinese men loudly gambling in a park, a beautiful cafe, my favorite indie theater. The street had some grime, the din of cars and sirens was inescapable, but, after a few weeks away, I felt as comfortable as ever.

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