I could only describe the experience using some obscure similes:

• Like wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket with fuzzy socks after you’ve walked for half an hour in the snow.
• Like unlocking the door to your house after a really long day.
• Like cuddling up on your couch to watch your favorite movie.
• Like listening to the rain outside of your window while you sit in bed with your favorite book.

The experience I am talking about is eating in a Yatai.

Yatai is basically equivalent to a food cart, but I don’t really like that translation because it’s more like a tiny (and magical) restaurant on wheels.  They are common to pop up during omatsuri, or spring and summer festivals across Japan, but they make regular appearances in some cities and towns.

My mother told me a story of when she was twenty years old—the year that Japanese young adults turn legal.  She went to a Yatai after a night of drinking and before hopping onto the last train of the night to head home.  She told me that she peeled back the little red curtain that read: “Ramen” and took a seat on the rackety black stool to order a bowl of hot, oily ramen.  She’d never forget the smell or taste of that bowl of ramen, she said—it was perhaps the best in her life.  The chilly breeze would hit her back that was exposed to the cool air outside, but she didn’t care and slurped the noodles while chatting with the older businessmen or fellow drunk ramen slurpers.

So naturally, I determined to go to a Yatai myself.  Unfortunately, they’ve become rare these days in Japan, and I’d only seen one or two with my own eyes.  I had heard though, that they are still quite common in the southern city of Fukuoka, and when my boyfriend suggested that we stop by Fukuoka during our two-week trip across Japan, I was all for it almost exclusively for the Yatai experience.

When we got to Fukuoka after dark, it was raining.  I was worried that there wouldn’t be any Yatai out in the rain, but thankfully, there were a couple that were still open.  We walked in the rain, getting drenched because of course we had both forgotten our umbrellas back at the hostel.  The street that supposedly had many of the famous Fukuoka Yatai didn’t quite match the image I had in mind.  I had run a few Google searches on it prior to the trip, and there was supposed to be countless stalls crowded together with open seating, not just a couple encased in a translucent plastic cover.

From the two open Yatai that we could spot, we chose the second one.  I have to admit, it took a bit of courage to peel back the plastic casing and say hello to the people inside.  I asked if there were any seats available and the owner, or master as they like to call them in Japan, welcomed us in and told us to sit down.

Luckily for us, a big group of about seven were just leaving, so we switched to the stools in front of the counter instead of on the side.  The place was heated, free of rain, and smelled like warm, home cooked meals.  I could hear the patter of the rain hitting the metallic roof above us.

“So, what will you be drinking tonight?” asked the master.  I asked him for a beer, and he handed us a can of tall Asahi with a big steel mug.  While we sipped on the beer, the master made friendly conversation.  He asked me how I knew Japanese, what we were doing in Fukuoka, what we thought of Japan—even what I thought about the current president.  His wife, who was co-owner and co-chef, sat on the side and smiled the entire time.

First, we ordered a bowl of oden.  Oden is essentially an assortment of radish, potato, konyaku (jellies made from a type of potato), various fish cakes, and hard-boiled egg slow-cooked in a pot of dashi broth.  It tastes a little different in every Japanese household, but it’s something that Japanese people love.  It reminds me of home, because it’s not really a dish you’d normally eat at a restaurant.

The master’s wife scooped up one of every ingredient in the broth into an undecorated bowl and put it on the counter in front of us.  She gave us each wooden disposable chopsticks and smiled.  I tried the daikon, or radish first, because it soaks up the broth the most and you can really taste the flavor of the oden by eating it.  It was soft enough to break apart with chopsticks, and when I took a bite, I involuntarily let out an mmm noise from my throat.  It was as though every pallet on my tongue was satisfied.  It was a perfect mixture of savory and sweet, and I could tell that it was cooked for a very long time.  I looked up at the smiling chefs in front of us and told them that it was delicious.  The master’s wife thanked me, so I figured she must have cooked it.

It only took us a good ten minutes to finish the bowl of oden, so I asked the master for a bowl of ramen next.  I was really looking forward to this because ramen from Fukuoka is famous.  It’s called Hakata Ramen, known for its thin noodles and fatty, thick soup.  As we were ordering, two middle-aged men entered the Yatai and sat down next to me.

They turned out to be businessmen on travel.  They were originally from Kyoto, but had come for a meeting with the company.  Their faces glowed red from whatever drinks they had had before this, and they were jolly and chatty.  One of them tested his English with us, and the other teased and laughed at his friend.  They stressed that Fukuoka had some of the best food in Japan and were proud of us for coming to a Yatai instead of eating in a restaurant like most foreigners would do.  I told him that it was one of my goals in life to eat in a Yatai and he chuckled.

The ramen was eventually served, and the smell alone put a huge smile on my face.  The pork soup was indeed so fatty that I couldn’t even see the noodles below the surface. The soup was topped off with konbu, scallions, thin slices of chashu pork, and sesame seeds.  I took a photo to send to my mother for old memories’ sake and began to eat.

Again—it was hard to believe that something could taste so perfect.  The thin noodles tangled with the fatty soup and the konbu and scallion added a different texture to the soft noodles.  Every time I swallowed, my stomach seemed to scream “more! Give me more!” so I just kept on going.  The dragons drawn on the sides of the bowl stared judgingly as I slurped the entire bowl in record time.  The master looked flattered by the way we ate and smiled.

Eventually, the jolly businessmen left and we finished our beers.  When we asked for the check, I felt a strange feeling of sadness—like the feeling I’d get when my mom told me it was time for us to go home after spending the day at my cousins’ house.  The fun was over, and it was time to go head to reality.  After paying the bill, we peeled back the plastic to step outside into the cold rainy night.  The master and his wife followed us out in order to bow and thank us for coming.  We waved and began to walk, but the master’s wife told us to wait.  She walked over to their van and handed us an umbrella.  I told her that it was okay, that our hostel was very close by, but she insisted.  Her kindness made my heart swell and we took the umbrella.  As we walked, we turned back at least twice more to wave goodbye.  Eventually, they went back into their Yatai, but I felt like I could and would never forget them.  It sounds sort of silly, and I’m not really a sentimental person, especially when it comes to owners of a restaurant that I had one meal in, in a city I’d never been to before.  But my heart felt as full as my stomach that night.  I felt like I had gone home.

Disclaimer: I began writing this before Trump actually went into office, so before seeing how much impact his executive orders would have on countries all over the world.  I desperate want things to get better, but I can only foresee the opposite.

There is clearly a popular opinion about the new president of the United States among its citizens.  All of the ratings, protests, marches, and even Internet memes tell it all: that most American citizens are dissatisfied—to put it very lightly, about the 45^th president.

As his campaign slogan suggests, Donald Trump is very focused on America and “Making America Great Again.” That’s great and all, but what he and his supporters do not seem to realize is the significance of his job as a diplomat and representative of arguably the most influential nation in the world.

Many countries look to the United States to set up policies, organize trade, come up with an economic plan, develop new technologies, organize the military, etc.  Many countries also rely on the United States for many of these matters, whether we like it or not.  This means that as soon as the United States begins to tip over, so does the rest of the world.

This is perhaps the reason that there is so much Japanese media coverage on the new president.  Since his electoral victory in November, I have seen countless talk shows that analyze his background and proposed policies, and news programs that highlight parts of his speeches, press conferences, and dreaded Tweets on Japanese television.

At first, I thought that they were perhaps overdoing it.  Japan does have a sort of obsession with American politics, news, and entertainment, but I didn’t think Trump would get this much coverage.  I knew that Obama’s presidency was covered on the Japanese media, but I didn’t remember seeing him on television ad nauseam.

Usually, I only watch Japanese news and shows in passing, but I became curious about what they were saying about Trump.  After taking a closer look, I realized that they were voicing concern.  Talk shows compared Trump’s proposal to limit the freedom of Muslims in America to the Japanese internment camps during WWII.  News shows highlighted snippets of Trump’s speeches, when he would talk about Japan essentially stealing money away from the U.S.  Another less serious news show counted how many times he said the word “America” in a single speech—thirty-five, by the way.

Seeing all of this, I became curious as to what my friends in Japan thought about the new president.  I conducted a very informal interview and collected some thoughts.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking.  The thought that he has power over nuclear weapons terrifies me,” a friend said.

“Everyday, we see something on the news about Trump.  Most of them express critical opinion.  I don’t know why he was elected president and I wonder why American people voted for him.  What he says on Twitter sounds very selfish and childish.  I think that he manipulates people.  For example, Toyota might stop their construction of a new factory in Mexico, even though they pay a lot of money to America.  I’m fearful of Trump politics,” another friend told me.

I did some fact-checking, and it turns out that Trump tweeted: “Toyota Motor said will build a new plant in Baja, Mexico, to build Corolla for U.S. NO WAY!” and “Build plant in U.S. or pay big border tax.”  These posts of course, were released even with the fact that Toyota has invested $22 billion in the U.S., has 10 manufacturing plants and 1,500 dealerships that employ a total of 136,000 American workers.  So yes, it’s ridiculous for Trump to demand Toyota to stop building the new factory or demand more pay, especially since Toyota Corollas are one of the most popular affordable cars in the U.S.  It’s also shocking that he makes these huge, sweeping statements on Twitter.

“I’m shocked to see that he can give such a great impact by only saying something on Twitter,” one of my friends told me.  “He’s like a bully! Sure, maybe he’s a good negotiator, but he lacks morality,” she continued.

“His priority is only the American people and America, and that makes me fearful that he could do anything for that.  But I also wonder—isn’t America a country made up of immigrants? And he’s trying to push them out?” one friend remarked.

I have to say, that as a first-generation Asian immigrant, I am probably hit hardest by his immoral remarks about immigrants.  It took me years and years to feel like I belonged in this country and that I am in fact, an American despite having been born and raised in a different country, and I hate that the most powerful man in this country is trying to take that away from me and from others like me.

So, to cap it all off: as one friend put it: “I can say a lot about him, but none of it is good.”

Hi, everyone!

I have now moved back to New York from Japan, and I had quite the hiatus from this blog because I was trying to sort things out… In other words, I was unemployed and struggling (let’s just say I had two internships: one paid minimum wage; the other zero!).  Before you start sending me sympathy cards though, I just want to reassure you all that I’ve since found something that I enjoy and because of that, I feel like I’m comfortable enough to begin writing regularly on Resobox again and also continue exploring my Japanese roots, even though I’ve left the magical country that is Japan.

So, enough of the boring stuff: let’s get to the point here.

Now that New Year’s is over, I find that it’s a great time to talk about New Year’s! Okay, if you’re rolling your eyes, I kind of deserve it because it is now mid-January and way past New Year’s.  But to be fair, most people in Japan just got back to work (they have a long break from work for Oshogatsu), and I am still eating New Year’s mochi at my house. (But really I just procrastinate and don’t do a very good job of pacing myself sorry).

From my recent experience of New Year’s in Japan, I’d say that the holiday is most comparable to Thanksgiving in the states.  The family gets together, cooks a fancy meal, and enjoys each other’s company.  Of course, there’s no turkey involved—side note: turkey is oddly rare in Japan.  So rare in fact, that when my American/ Canadian friends in Japan and I made a Canadian Thanksgiving meal together, somebody had to order turkey from Russia on Amazon! Talk about sketchy. The person who ordered it was not present at the party making it even sketchier, but I ate it regardless and here I am, still alive and kicking, so I guess it wasn’t poisonous at least… Right, so anyway, New Year’s in Japan, kind of like Thanksgiving in America.  If you are curious (and you should be because I’m about to talk about food), for my New Year’s dinner at my Japanese aunt’s house two years ago, I had both Sukiyaki and Sushi. During the same meal. Are you reading this? Sukiyaki and Sushi. Unbelievable, I literally was on the verge of a panic attack because I didn’t know what to eat because well… Sukiyaki and Sushi. I’m just going to let your imagination run free on that one.

So, has New Year’s been massively disappointing ever since my return to America then? Well, my mom (who is Japanese) likes to keep the tradition up even though we’ve been living in the states for a while now.  We don’t do the whole shebang—i.e., Ōsōji (pre-New Year’s grand cleaning, as in cleaning up your entire house to start the new year fresh and clean—cool concept, but not complaining about not keeping up with this tradition to be honest); Mochitsuki (making mochi, which involves beating mochi rice with a giant hammer over and over); eating Osechi (a special New Year’s Day meal that takes hours and hours of preparation), etc.  What we did do though, was eat mochi dipped in soy sauce and wrapped in fresh seaweed sent to us from Japan, and calligraphy.

Well actually, calligraphy isn’t something that every Japanese household does on New Year’s.  In fact, probably only the older members of the family still do it, but I have a Shuji (calligraphy) kit that I brought over from Japan (yes, I took calligraphy class after school as a child in Japan; yes, I was a dork get over it) and it just sits in my closet, so it became our tradition to write our New Year’s resolution in kanji with ink and a brush.

There’s actually a term for this in Japanese, and it’s called Kakizome.  Usually, we each pick a word broad enough to encompass what we generally want to achieve for the year.  When I was still a student, it was easy to pick: “Benkyou” or “Study” for my junior year of high school, when I really needed to pass those good old SATs.  “Bouken” or “Adventure” for my junior year of college, when I was leaving to study abroad in London in the upcoming semester.  “Shushoku” or “Career” for the year after, when I was about to graduate university and needed to find a job.  It became trickier ever since I graduated from university, but last year, I wrote “Chokin” or “Savings” because I was getting sick and tired of being unemployed and on the verge of bankruptcy.  This year, I found it a bit difficult to find a good word.  I didn’t want to repeat anything I had written in the past, and I was no longer concerned with getting a job or money (well at least not bankruptcy, anyway).  Somebody suggested “Ai” or “Love,” but I thought that was a bit cheesy, and um, all the romcoms say that you find love when you’re not trying to find it, so clearly, writing it as a resolution would be recipe for disaster! So, I decided to go with “Netsui,” or zeal.  I chose it because I want to continue to have zeal for my job; for my career; for my friendships with others; for my hobbies; for bettering my life and myself.  It all sounds a bit obnoxious now that I write it out, but I guess that’s the idea of Kakizome.  It’s dramatic—we are literally putting what we want out of ourselves in permanent ink with a thick brush.  Doesn’t get much more obnoxious than that, does it?

So, Netsui is now hanging up on the wall behind my bed.  I see the two kanjis every time I enter my room.  I know a lot of people scoff at the idea of New Year’s resolutions because let’s face it: who actually keeps them throughout the year? Or, if you want to change yourself, you don’t need a new year to motivate yourself! Of course these are great points, but seeing my Kakizome every day reminds me to keep my head in the right place and to go for what I want every day.

Imagine this: you walk into a beautiful European church, and instead of the beautiful stained glass, you see bottles and bottles of what appear to be… liquor?! “Well that’s weird…” you mutter to yourself.

And this is essentially what happened to me when I first encountered the stacks of sake barrels commonly displayed outside Shinto shrines. I remember thinking: “Wow, Shinto gods must really like to drink! Well, at least they’re having a good time up there.”

Sake doesn’t quite have the same meaning as wine does in Christianity, but it is rather close: it is said to bring the gods and people closer together. Sake even plays a role in ancient Japanese mythology, where it helps Susanoo, the god of the seas and storms defeat his serpent enemy Orochi by getting him wasted. Sake is by no doubt an important symbol for the Japanese nation as well as the Shinto religion.

Considering all of this, it makes more sense that barrels upon barrels are displayed in front of almost every Shinto shrine in Japan. I had wondered how they so neatly stack these heavy drums of alcohol, but I later found out that they are in fact, empty and are just there for show. So no, you can’t sneak into a Shinto shrine one day, punch a hole in one of these suckers, and get wasted with your buddies… Nice try, though.

The barrels are donated usually from local sake breweries, unless you’re a big shot shrine like Ise in Mie Prefecture (essentially the Mecca of Shintoism) and Meiji Jingu in Tokyo. Apparently, those shrines get donations from across the nation.

So, next time you’re in Japan, be on the lookout for these barrels of alcohol (or air, I guess)—if anything, it makes for a pretty cool photo op!

I recently took a two-week trip to the city of Melbourne in Australia, and I didn’t think two weeks was long enough to start missing Japan, but I managed to prove myself wrong… So I compiled a list of things that I missed about Japan while I was away:

1. Convenience Stores

It’s a bit sad that this is the first thing that popped into my head while making this list, but I did honestly miss convenience stores or “combini” when I was away.  I was sad that getting a three-course meal consisting of a salmon onigiri, a bowl of microwavable ramen (way better than that instant stuff), and a cup of matcha ice cream all for under ten bucks was no longer an option.  I also had to actually go to a bank to use the ATM, make sure I got everything I needed at the grocery store before it closed, settle for cheap bottles of wine instead of the delicious 100-yen cocktails and beers to pregame with, etc.  I’m starting to sound real snobby now so I’ll stop here but I’m only trying to express how on point Japanese convenience stores are.

2. The transport system

Being from New York, I don’t expect much from public transportation, and in all honesty I was satisfied by my experiences on Melbourne transport, but I don’t think anything tops Japanese trains and buses.  I mean, I thought the announcements about upcoming left turns on Japanese buses was a bit much, but it was better than being told that no, the bus driver could not announce my stop because if he did that for me, he’d have to do it for everyone… Topping up the IC card in Japan is also way simpler and convenient—I didn’t even know how complicated it could be to charge a simple card until I tried (and failed) to do it with Melbourne’s Myki card (I could just be a bit slow)…

3. Clean toilets everywhere

I know it’s highly unrealistic to expect clean toilets everywhere you go, but this is reality in Japan, and boy do I LOVE it.  Not only are there toilets everywhere, most of them are actually clean and nice… I can’t say that’s the case in Melbourne, although to be fair the bathroom situation in New York City is way worse.

4. Never being disappointed by food

Food is very important to me, and Japan never fails to impress me with its wonderful cuisines.  I’m not saying Melbourne didn’t have good food—it certainly did, but Japan is 99.99% fail proof when it comes to food… It makes sense because Japan is pretty much obsessed with quality, but I still don’t know how they manage to maintain this (arbitrary) percentage…

5. The wonderful quality of everything

As mentioned above, Japan is pretty much obsessed with quality, so I am hardly disappointed by anything I purchase here.  This is a privilege that doesn’t exist so much in other parts of the world.  My friend and I got dressed up one day and I wore heels that I had bought in Japan and she wore a pair that she bought in Melbourne.  The prices were around the same—mine perhaps a bit more expensive.  Anyway, by the end of the day, her feet were covered with blisters and she was in an immense amount of pain, while I walked away pain-free.  Maybe the Japanese heels were better made to begin with, but the man who sold them to me made sure to put in special soles for me without charge because he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be in pain when I wore them.  If that’s not an obsession with quality, I don’t know what is.

6. The no-shoes rule indoors

One time my Japanese friend came to visit my apartment and we were both leaving but of course I forgot something so I ran inside without taking off my shoes and she was absolutely horrified.  Since my mother is Japanese, I grew up in a no-shoes house even in New York, but we bend the rules a bit for emergencies or when we need to check out our outfits for the next day with footgear included.  Anyway, while in Melbourne I stayed at a hostel where they obviously don’t care if you have your shoes on or off inside, unlike most Japanese hostels that require you to keep your shoes in a little cubby downstairs.  I didn’t realize how smart this was until I looked at the soles of my feet after walking barefoot for a while and they were basically black.  The rule is very practical to keep the place clean and sanitary, really.

7. Wonderful service

I’m being hypocritical here because I think customer service in Japan is too much, but I actually kind of missed it when I left.  Case in point: When I checked in at the airport in Japan, I had no idea that Australia required a tourist visa for everyone.  The airline receptionist asked me where it was but I had no idea what she was talking about.  Just before I broke into tears, one of the receptionists walked me to the airport computer station, got change for me so that I could put in the coins to use one of the computers, and walked me through the online visa application.  She was the reason I was able to go in the end, but she acted too humble to accept my countless thank you’s.  Fast-forward about twenty hours when I had finally arrived in Melbourne and I had to fill out one of those immigration forms at the airport but I couldn’t for the life of me find my pen.  In Japan (and actually every other country I’ve ever visited), they would definitely provide pens for visitors going through immigrations, but for whatever reason Melbourne Airport was missing all of its pens that night… Desperate, I asked one of the security officers who shrugged at me indifferently and told me to go borrow one from somebody who was filling it out.  I was able to fill it out in the end thanks to a really sweet Emirates stewardess, but the stark difference of customer service in the two countries just from the airport kind of made me chuckle.

When I first received an invitation from an American friend to climb Mt. Fuji, my immediate reaction was to chuckle to myself while muttering, “yeah right.” I carefully crafted a half sarcastic response rejecting the idea without sounding too nasty. Taking that into account, it is just as big of a mystery for me as it is for you that fast forward a couple of months and I was on a bus with a group of English teachers, about to embark on a journey to reach the summit of the biggest mountain in Japan.

For many Japanese people, Mt. Fuji is a holy site that symbolizes the beauty and serenity of Japan as a nation. It is a 3,776 meter(12,388 feet)-tall active volcano although it has not erupted since the early 1700s. Many view the climb as a rite of passage, and it is said that praying at the summit during sunrise will give you a lifetime of fortune.

Ironically enough, most of my Japanese friends and family reacted with shock and near horror when I told them that I had planned to climb the massive mountain. They told me that they couldn’t believe that I was actually going to do it; to please be careful and not hurt myself; that they could never imagine going up there themselves. My friends from home, however, reacted more supportively and thought it was one of the coolest things that I was ever going to do in my life (I guess they weren’t too far off on that one…).

I can confidently say that I am no mountaineer. The only mountain I had ever climbed before this was Bear Mountain in upstate, New York, and I distinctly remember asking “Are we there yet?” about a thousand times during the journey. I mean, just the name “Bear Mountain” reeks of adorableness, doesn’t it?

The start of the climb on Fuji was deceivingly easy. Sure, my backpack was heavy (filled with too much chocolate and dried fruits) but it wasn’t impossible. I knew it couldn’t be this easy… And it wasn’t. Soon enough, the climb became much steeper and I found myself shoving my rental sticks back into my backpack so that I can scramble up the boulders on all fours. I could almost hear the wondrous Fuji-San rumbling with laughter at my poor form and turtle speed.

At one point, I saw a tiny red Tori (gate usually placed in front of shrines) way up at the top and said aloud, “Wow, is that the summit, guys?? We can actually see it from here??” and I was quickly shot down with ridicule. “You’re joking, right?” “That’s definitely not the summit.” “Rebecca, that’s not even where we’re staying for the night.” Ouch.

Physically, I was all right during the climb. I was tired and my body felt heavier than usual, but nothing was in pain and I didn’t have anything to really stop me from moving forward. It was definitely more challenging mentally. There was a sense of anxiety that stemmed from not being able to see the end and not being able to just turn around and walk away from it all. There was a sense of fear from clambering over huge rocks and the possibility of plummeting to my death with one wrong move. There was a sense of nervousness from the chance of becoming sick from the altitude and not being able to go on with the group. Instead of worrying about all of this and making myself crazy, I decided to concentrate on my feet and on my breath: One-two, one-two. In… Out. In…. Out. With this new practice, things got a bit easier.

It took us about six hours to finally reach our mountain hut, where we were served some curry that I cannot even really remember tasting because I most likely just swallowed it all down. We were then guided to a space where we could lay down to get some sleep before setting off in the early morning hours again. The sleeping bags were so close to each other that one wrong turn would have ended up in an accidental kiss with my neighbor, although I was lucky enough to sleep between my two friends.

At about half past two in the morning, my friend and I put on our headlamps and set off into the darkness to finally reach the summit. The stars were breathtaking, and it was hard not to get distracted by them as my sleepy feet scrambled up the boulders once more. I got back into my routine: one-two, one-two. I talked to myself more than I normally would: “You can do it. That’s it, just one step at a time. Almost there!” I giggled as the safety guides shouted things like, “it isn’t sunrise yet! Don’t stop to take pictures, it’s too early for that!” Most people didn’t listen—I think we were too sleepy to make any rational decisions at this point.

We passed the last white Tori and reached our destination at about five in the morning. I almost cried from happiness but I’m also really emotional in the morning. My friend and I chose a place to sit and waited for the sunrise.

When the sun finally peaked into the horizon, I couldn’t really find any words. I kind of just sat there, my mouth gaping open but no sounds coming out of it. There weren’t any words that could appropriately capture my feelings or properly process what was actually happening before my eyes. I felt an intimate connection with Japan that I had never felt before this trip. I also felt like everything that had happened until that moment had been worth it just for that moment. Nothing else really mattered.

The sun quickly made its way up into the sky, and the beautiful sunrise was over as fast as it began. My descent was possibly worse than the actual climb: let’s just say my knees were in a lot of pain, my big toenails left their nail beds, and the sun that had made me tear up with awe a few hours prior didn’t hesitate to burn my skin and drench me in sweat as I got lower down the mountain. Even still, I don’t regret my decision to conquer Mt. Fuji for a second. I somehow feel more whole after the experience, and I have a sense of pride and confidence about myself that I didn’t have before the journey. I can’t say whether I feel more Japanese going through the “Japanese rite of passage,” but I am glad I got to share such an intimate moment with Japan.

Not too long ago, a friend and I stumbled upon a huge antique/thrift shop in the middle of nowhere. The shop was built to look like a mock castle, with its Kawara-tiled roof. In front, there was a big sign that said something along the lines of: Mysterious Objects from Around the World in an outdated Japanese font. So naturally, as we biked past this place, we decided to stop and step inside.

The sign didn’t disappoint—it was indeed a place filled with mysterious objects. It was like stepping into a cluttered attic at your grandmother’s house—highly disorganized but highly fascinating. After the friendly staff handed us cups of cold tea, my friend and I began walking through the maze between piles of framed artwork, toys that my mother probably played with as a baby, and violins that were missing all of its strings. My favorite room was perhaps the cash register room: it was filled with countless cash registers from before modern computerized ones were invented—even equipped with wooden drawers. I wondered what anyone would do with old-fashioned cash registers—perhaps they would make good décor for hipster cafés or something?

Although I frequent thrift stores in New York City hoping to snag brand-named items donated by Upper Easterners, I was never really interested in antique shops, so I don’t have a great source of comparison. However, for whatever reason I am not sure if American antique shops casually sell full Samurai gear or Japanese WWII memorabilia like this place did. Sitting in the glass casings, one could easily mistake the place for a museum had there not been price tags on all of the items. There were old guns, uniforms, badges, medals, boots… Let’s just say I did a double or triple take on most of the merchandise there.

Unfortunately, I did not bike home that day with a full samurai gear tied to the back of my bicycle. I didn’t actually purchase anything there, but the experience of the visit was perhaps worth more than actually taking any of the items home. Besides, what would I have done with an urn?

When I lived in New York, I hardly ever rode a bike. I know I owned one, but the last time I saw it was when I was in the broiler room in the basement of my apartment, asking the super to store it for me until further notice… I’m pretty sure it ended up either in the dumpster or in someone else’s hands, but I had bought it for a few bucks from a yard sale, anyway.

Considering this, it’s kind of a shock that since I’ve moved here, biking has become my main (and often only) form of transportation. People on bicycles are a much more common sight here in Japan than where I’m from, and to be honest I’ve grown fond of biking everywhere—it beats waiting forever for a bus to come, at least. It’s good exercise, and it helps me wake up on my commute to work. I do despise it, however, when it’s raining. Biking in the rain feels as miserable as sitting next to someone chowing down some sort of mysterious food with a pungent odor in a lukewarm subway car at 6 a.m… Point being: I don’t recommend anyone to do it willingly.

Fortunately, it was sunny and warm without being excruciatingly hot a couple of weekends ago, and a friend invited me along on a long biking adventure. Usually, people don’t take mama-chari or (literally translated) “mama-bikes” out on a big spin, but as we aren’t owners of cool sporty bikes, we decided to stick it out with our bikes designed to hold small amounts of groceries and equipped with a whopping selection of three gears.

Now, I am not going to sugarcoat the trip and say that it was wonderful and I was happy and at peace the entire time. During the trip, I managed to accidentally flash a group of junior high school boys because I was obviously dimwitted enough to wear a skirt (note: I was wearing yoga shorts underneath!!) on a very windy day. I also felt my legs physically turning into jell-o and my mood swings were at its worst when my stomach began to rumble.

With all of that being said, the experience was truly amazing—enough to call it life changing, even. I particularly enjoyed biking through the endless rice fields, the young plants whispering in the wind as I gazed out at the intricate contours of the green mountains that got closer and more detailed as we biked. I saw rice field workers, their shoes left on the side of the road, trudging through the mud to groom their precious crop. I felt the strength of the sun on my skin as my hands tightly gripped the bike handles. Sometimes, the wind blew so strongly that my exhausted legs could barely pedal against it. I felt nature attacking me from all sides, but also coating me with a blanket of comfort.

We often get caught up in things that have us sitting inside, staring at a computer screen or a phone all day. This trip made me rediscover the importance of being physical and enjoying what the world actually has to offer. All it took was my mama-chari.

I don’t have a clue when it comes to politics—especially in Japan. Embarrassingly enough, I don’t even know the mayor or governor of the city and prefecture I currently reside in (I think I’ll go ahead and check after I’ve finished writing this article; that’s something I should definitely know, right?).

I am fully aware though, that the elections took place in my town, because there were cars rolling down every street obnoxiously announcing the politicians’ names and campaign slogans. I also witnessed lonely politicians standing on street corners with a sash labeled “honnin,” which translates to “insert-name-here himself.” I was rudely awakened by the blares coming from the politician-on-wheels more and more frequently as the date to the election neared. If I ever saw one while I was out and about, I would try to stare down all of the passengers for being so blatantly rude, but they would only respond to my cold looks with smiles and waves, which only mounted my anger and frustrations, of course.

Alas, I am exaggerating, but I found the whole thing incredibly ironic. In a society like Japan, where citizens are expected to speak in a volume barely above a whisper on a train, or heads are turned for chatting excitedly in a public space, how is it perfectly okay for politicians to go around waking everyone in the neighborhood with a megaphone? My American friends here and I wondered if this was even legal in the states, and if it were, nobody in his or her right mind would vote for such an obnoxious candidate. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve worked at a politician’s office back in the day in the U.S. and we were told to be pretty obnoxious: harass innocent people on the phone to vote for him; go door-to-door to try to win people’s favor…. But there was never a car and a megaphone involved…

Most people here seemed uncomfortably used to all of this and barely batted an eyelash at the cars or the lonely politicians on the street corners, but some of them were apparently just as fed up by the whole ordeal as me—just look at this perfectly vandalized poster! Anyway, it’s all over now and I should find out who in the world got the votes in the end.

Usually, the town I currently reside in in Japan is calm and quiet. The only crowds that I see in the course of an average day are either a band of elementary school children on their way home from school with their uniform school hats and backpacks or a gang of senior citizens filing out of a coach bus (also somehow with almost-matching hats and backpacks) to tour the famous Basho Park—dedicated to no other than Matsuo Basho who finished his journey across Japan at the very spot.

Two weekends ago, the population of the town skyrocketed to maximum capacity. On a normal night on my bike ride home, I am met by perhaps a few stray cats, some late night commuters driving past, and a couple of rare pedestrians or fellow bikers. But two weekends ago, I was met by music, brightly lit tents with games and food, colorful floats, and believe it or not—hundreds of people. As I walked around with friends in shock and awe, I couldn’t help but voice, “Where did all these people come from? Is this really the same town?” This was the moment I discovered (or perhaps rediscovered) the Japanese magic that is Omatsuri.

I have distinct childhood memories of going to Omatsuri, which roughly translates in English to “festival.” I remember winning some goldfish at the “kingyo sukui” tent, a Tamagotchi at a ring toss tent, eating some Takoyaki and drinking a bottle of Ramune that the rough old man at the tent would pop open for me.

So you can only imagine my excitement when I walked through the Omatsuri as a 23-year-old. It was as though someone had pushed the rewind button and I was reliving my days as a happy kid in Japan. In the course of two days that I attended my town’s Omatsuri, I ate a chocolate-covered banana, candied strawberries, a plate of yakisoba, some takoyaki, a rice ball on a stick covered with barbequed beef, chili fries, curly fries on a stick, and grilled squid on a stick. I saw beautiful, historical floats carried by young men in traditional wear and little girls in kimonos dancing on said floats. There were lots of whistles and “wasshoi!”s as well as sounds of constant chatter and laughter. It was so delightful and really as though I had come to a different town.

And just as fast as it happened, it was all over in a heartbeat. Biking home on Sunday night after it all ended was unrealistically sad: the silence, the people sweeping the streets, the dimness… Thankfully, Omatsuri is a common occurrence everywhere in Japan, and as the weather warms, its frequency is only going to increase—my childish self is filled with happiness.

Awkward moments pretty much rule my life, but not a single awkward moment tops the time my Japanese uncle held out a shirt with a very sexual message on it and asked me to translate it into Japanese.

How did I get myself into this situation, you ask? Well obviously I consented to it: moments before, I was having dinner with my aunt, uncle, and two cousins when my uncle suddenly remembered an important task he needed me to accomplish. “Hey, do you think you can translate some English on a T-shirt I got the other day?” he asked. I didn’t think much of it—I thought it’d just have a simple message or phrase, like “live life to the fullest” or something cheesy like that. “Sure,” I had said…

I’m pretty sure my face matched the color of beets, and I did the only thing I could think to do in such an incredibly awkward moment: laugh hysterically. My uncle’s curiosity conveniently skyrocketed at this point and he tried harder to get the meaning out of me, but I kept telling him that I couldn’t say it. Eventually, my aunt and cousins came to the rescue and told my uncle to stop nagging me because obviously, it was something that I couldn’t say comfortably in front of him. I told him to never wear the shirt and if possible, to burn it.

Japan is a wonderful, advanced country that also happens to not be particularly skillful in English. I’m not trying to be imperialistic here—Americans should definitely also learn a thing or two about the Japanese language… It’s not “kora-ree,” it’s “ka-ra-te,” and what is “karee-o-kee?” it’s definitely “kara-o-ke.” But I digress. I’ve travelled a lot in Europe, and I didn’t really struggle because every sign and everything essential had English translations on it. Japan has followed suit on this and most important signs and things now have English translations on them, but a lot of the times, the English is actually so completely off that it becomes a source of jokes for us crude English speakers.

One time, my friends and I went to an Italian restaurant in a small town in Japan. There, I ordered some pasta with tomato “source.” At a café in Nagoya, I enjoyed some tea with “honny.” I was very close to buying a sweater with a whale on it that said, “I’m whale.” And then there are signs meant for serious messages as the photo shows, but instead, they leave me chuckling.

Recently, I’ve been asked by several people here in Japan to either look over something they have (tried to) translate into English or to help them translate something they cannot for the life of them figure out (i.e. how do you translate mochi rice? Is it gluten rice??). I’ve gone to a restaurant where the chef/ owner handed me the English menu he’s working on to see if everything was correct. I’m happy to help, but now I’m thinking perhaps this will be a lucrative business… Perhaps there is a future in this… But the other more sinister side of me really enjoys the terribly mistranslated signs and menus and thinks they are fine just the way they are.

Perhaps because it is known as the land of dreams and opportunity, for the most part, Americans appreciate boldness and straightforwardness. It is very different from the Japanese, who seem to uphold subtlety at a much higher standard.

I never really cared for subtle things—that is until I moved to Japan and began living here. Unexpected little quirks exist anywhere from product packaging to home appliances. It seems that people are generally more inclined to care about the smaller details here—at least more so than people in the states. Sometimes, it gets my eyes rolling: You mean to tell me that I have to replace ink in my markers using plastic tubes whenever they begin to run out? Why can’t I just throw them out and replace them like I would back at home? Other times, it makes me smile to myself: The local convenience store was recently selling Pocky that was proposing to a bottle of iced tea…. Errr, what? The box of Pocky had a picture of a man kneeling and holding someone’s hand, and the iced tea bottle had a picture of a woman who was being proposed to, so when you lined the two up, it made the picture complete. “Well played,” is probably the best phrase to apply there. Japan’s appreciation of subtlety is also something that fascinates me at times.

Recently, I took a trip to Kanazawa in Ishikawa prefecture. Kanazawa is a beautiful, traditional town. There, I had the opportunity to participate in a Wagashi-making workshop. Wagashi is traditional Japanese sweets, usually made from mochi and anko (bean paste) that is served with hot tea. Of course, I had seen and eaten Wagashi before. I enjoyed how pretty it looked and how delicious it tasted, but I never really thought about how it was made, so the workshop was incredibly enlightening.

As I struggled to keep the sticky sweets from being glued onto my palms and labored carefully to press flower petal shapes into my cherry blossom-shaped Wagashi, I came to realize that the subtle art that went into these seemingly simple sweets was actually astonishingly meticulous. I went through all kinds of emotions from frustration to happiness just from making three little snacks that I would have not given a second thought to if someone were to have served it to me. As my fingers shaped the sweets ever so gently as though massaging an infant, I began to really appreciate the existence and art of subtlety—even sweets and snacks had little details that one could appreciate before consumption.

Sure, boldness can be a great thing, but subtlety is not something to overlook, either. It gives you a different sense of appreciation when you notice it—as though you’ve stumbled across some hidden treasure.