Land of the Rising Sun

I'll definitely be back!

I had never really given much thought to — at least, not in the way you’d expect from someone who had been quietly shaped by it since childhood. Japan was always there in the background of my life, woven into the small joys and obsessions that defined growing up. I just didn’t realise how deeply it had influenced me until I stepped off the plane and felt that strange mix of familiarity and awe.

For me, Japan began long before I ever set foot in it. It lived in the stacks of Pokémon cards I traded in the school playground — each one a tiny window into a world that felt bigger, brighter, and more imaginative than my own. It lived in the chaotic brilliance of Takeshi’s Castle, where grown adults willingly launched themselves into mud pits and foam obstacles for reasons I still don’t fully understand — but loved anyway. And it lived in the comforting ritual of chicken katsu curry, a dish that somehow became the taste of home long before I knew its origins.

It was there too in Mario Kart battles with friends, firing bananas across pixelated tracks on the old Nintendo 64, and in the scratchy tunes spinning on my Sony Discman — my first CD, Spice Girls: Spice World, still a proud relic of that era. Even the fashion trends that shaped my early emo‑skater phase carried faint echoes of Japan’s influence — a culture that somehow blended rebellion, creativity, and precision into everything it touched.

Landing in Tokyo — the world’s most populous city, home to over 37 million people — we were greeted by Mario and friends descending the escalators. Jet‑lagged but instantly energised, we felt the city’s pulse from the moment we arrived. Heading straight into the bustle of Shinjuku Crossing, made famous by countless films, we joined the tide of people flowing through neon lights and endless movement. Later, we found ourselves tucked into the narrow lanes of Omoide Yokocho — a smoky maze of tiny izakayas where sizzling skewers, laughter, and clinking glasses created one of our most memorable dining experiences in Japan.

Even the bathrooms here felt futuristic. Japanese toilets are an experience in themselves — heated seats, built‑in bidets, automatic lids, and even gentle background music. What might seem quirky at first is actually a reflection of Japan’s deep respect for cleanliness and comfort. Public restrooms are spotless, often designed by leading architects as part of Tokyo’s Toilet Project, which reimagines them as spaces of accessibility and hospitality. It’s hard not to smile when a toilet lid lifts to greet you — a small but perfect example of Japan’s obsession with efficiency and care for detail

Japan’s long history of isolation meant the language barrier was real, but Google Translate quickly became our lifeline. The younger generation were more open to English, and in rural areas we found ourselves connecting with students and locals eager to practise. One night in Tokyo, a group of businessmen even bought us dinner when we ran short on cash — a gesture of kindness we’ll never forget. They taught us a phrase about looking after others when you can: 「情けは人の為ならず」 (Nasake wa hito no tame narazu). 

It’s a proverb that perfectly captures the spirit of that evening — the idea that generosity ripples outward, returning in unexpected ways. In Japan, kindness isn’t transactional; it’s cultural. Whether it’s a stranger paying for your meal, a shopkeeper bowing as you leave, or a commuter guiding you through a maze‑like station, every act feels rooted in quiet respect. That night reminded us that travel isn’t just about discovering new places, but rediscovering the shared humanity that connects us all. 

We arrived just before the Sakura season, when families gather under blooming cherry trees to celebrate renewal. In Tokyo, we wandered through parks and landmarks, soaking up the city’s contrasts — neon and nature, chaos and calm. Takeshita Dori buzzed with youth culture, cat cafés, and endless shops, while nearby Meiji Jingu Shrine offered quiet reflection. We left wishes on the giving tree and admired barrels of sake and wine gifted by French wineries — a symbol of Emperor Meiji’s embrace of Western culture and Japan’s enduring friendship with France.

With only three weeks to explore, we travelled on a budget, swapping bullet trains for buses. In Yamanashi, we stayed in a bamboo‑walled Airbnb and braved the cold with every layer we owned. After a humble dinner of tofu and noodles, we went to bed early, ready for the next day’s adventure.

We set off at dawn to glimpse Mount Fuji, navigating winding roads and sleepy villages until, just over a hill, the mountain revealed itself — vast, silent, and impossibly symmetrical. For a moment, everything around us seemed to pause. The clouds parted, the air sharpened, and Fuji stood there like a reminder of balance and patience — that beauty often waits quietly until you’re ready to notice it.

On the way back down, we found a hidden hot spring beside a bus stop — the perfect surprise soak before the journey home. To kill time before our bus arrived, we tried our hand at throwing samurai stars at a target, laughing at our poor aim and the absurdity of it all. It was one of those small, joyful moments that perfectly captured Japan’s charm — a mix of serenity, tradition, and playful fun.

Our journey south to Nagoya brought one of our most memorable stays: a love hotel shaped like a castle. Originally designed as private escapes for couples, love hotels have evolved into quirky, affordable lodgings — complete with karaoke, jacuzzis, and an unmistakable scent of nostalgia (and cigarettes). Getting out of the room required phoning reception to unlock the door — a privacy feature that took several attempts and plenty of laughter to master.

Beyond the novelty of our accommodation, Nagoya itself offered a glimpse into Japan’s proud history. We spent the day exploring Nagoya Castle, its towering green‑tiled roofs gleaming under the spring sun. A local volunteer guide led us through centuries of stories — samurai battles, imperial restoration, and the painstaking reconstruction after World War II. These guides give up their free time to share Japan’s heritage with visitors, and their passion is infectious.

After the tour, we lingered just outside the castle grounds, the afternoon heat settling over the lawns. Families played games, children chased pigeons, and the rhythmic click of cameras echoed through the air. I stretched out in the grass and promptly drifted off — half‑asleep, half‑content — surrounded by the hum of everyday life and the quiet joy of memories being made.

We travelled through Japan mostly by bus and local train, steering clear of the bullet trains that were well beyond our budget. Our only misstep came when we accidentally boarded one after missing a connection — a brief but expensive mistake. The ticket inspector arrived, and despite our best efforts to explain, rules are rules in Japan. Fortunately, a kind businessman nearby stepped in, paid our fare, and wished us well for the rest of our journey. It was one of those small, human moments that remind you how generous strangers can be.

Japan was full of these moments — unexpected, generous, and quietly profound. Every encounter reminded us that travel isn’t just about seeing new places; it’s about rediscovering the kindness and curiosity that connect us all.

Once back on the right train, we faced another challenge: transferring to a bus on the edge of a highway. Normally, it would have been a ten‑minute walk, but a sudden snowstorm turned it into a dash through swirling flakes, umbrellas barely holding up against the wind. By the time we reached the stop, red‑nosed and soaked, the warmth of the bus felt like heaven. As we thawed out on the way to Nagoya, we couldn’t help but laugh — travel rarely goes to plan, but those chaotic moments often become the stories you remember most.

After checking into our second love hotel (still unbeatable value for money), we wandered through a local postal village — a step back in time to simpler moments of Japanese history. Narrow streets, wooden façades, and the quiet hum of daily life made it feel like walking through a living museum.

We joined a traditional matcha tea ceremony, watching finely ground green tea leaves whisked into a vivid froth. Whether made with water or milk, matcha’s earthy flavour is unmistakable — though I’ll admit, I now prefer mine with a splash of vanilla syrup to soften the edge.

Later, we witnessed the art of samurai sword‑making — an astonishing display of precision and patience. The folded steel shimmered under the forge light, each layer a testament to centuries of craftsmanship. That experience stayed with me; I now keep acid‑wash Japanese knives in my kitchen drawer, a small reminder of that day every time I cook.

Our final stop was Osaka — one of Japan’s most visited cities, alongside Kyoto. Our first accommodation felt more like checking into a crime scene than a guesthouse: no locks on the doors, no cleaning service, and bewildered travellers wandering in and out. After one uneasy night — capped off by a mild earthquake that shook us awake — we decided it was time to upgrade. The alert came through on our phones early that morning, and while we dashed outside in panic, locals barely looked up from their routines. Still a little shaken, we packed our bags and moved on to something we knew best: our third love hotel in ten days. 

During our stay in Osaka, we took a day trip to nearby Kyoto — a city that hums with history and culture. We lost ourselves in a seven‑storey sports arcade packed with batting cages, ping‑pong tables, darts, and tennis courts — pure, chaotic fun that felt like stepping into a video game.

The next day brought a change of pace. We wandered through the famous bamboo forest, its towering stalks swaying gently in the breeze, before strolling down the Philosopher’s Path beneath blossoming sakuras. Tourists clustered along the walkway, each searching for the perfect shot — the next Instagram‑worthy moment.

But somewhere between the camera clicks and falling petals, I realised how easy it is to chase the picture and miss the feeling. Sometimes the best memories aren’t captured — they’re simply lived. The sound of the stream, the scent of cherry blossoms, the quiet hum of conversation — those are the moments that stay with you long after the photo fades.

As a final treat, we spent a day at Universal Studios Japan — a theme park bursting with colour, chaos, and nostalgia. For the price of a day pass, we managed just four rides and, heartbreakingly, never made it into Mario World. It was packed beyond belief, and only later did we realise it was a national holiday. Had we known, we might have skipped the queues and soaked up more of Osaka instead — but travel is all about learning as you go.

Our last day was spent in Nara, a peaceful close to our whirlwind adventure. Famous for its deer park, Nara felt like stepping into a storybook. We wandered through temple grounds and tree‑lined paths, surrounded by hundreds of deer gently bowing for treats and posing for selfies with tourists. Their calmness was disarming — creatures so accustomed to human presence that they seemed to share in our curiosity rather than fear it.

There was something profoundly wholesome about that final day. Watching people laugh as deer nudged their pockets for snacks, I realised how seamlessly nature and humanity coexist here. It was the perfect farewell — a reminder that kindness, respect, and coexistence are woven into Japan’s spirit as deeply as its cherry blossoms.

It was here that I noticed something remarkable. Every car on the street gleamed as if freshly polished, not a speck of dirt in sight. The respect Japanese people have for their possessions is admirable — everything is cared for, maintained, and treated with pride. That same respect extends to their environment. You rarely see bins on the streets; instead, waste is sorted meticulously in convenience stores and train stations — metal, plastic, paper, food, bottles, combustibles, and non‑combustibles, each with its own place.

It made me wonder why we can’t recycle with the same precision back home. Japan’s efficiency inspired me to reflect on how I move through life — to live with intention and respect for what I own. I’ve tried to adopt some of their philosophies: the 5S principle, which teaches that everything should have its place, be clean, and serve a purpose; and Ikigai, the idea of finding joy and meaning in daily life. Both remind me to pursue purpose over distraction — a mindset I carried home long after leaving Japan.

So arriving in Japan at the end of our journey felt like meeting someone you’ve known your whole life but never actually spoken to. There was a strange nostalgia in the neon lights of Tokyo, a déjà vu in the vending machines, a sense of recognition in the quiet politeness of everyday life. It was as if all those childhood fragments had finally come home to their source. 

What surprised me most wasn’t the culture shock — it was the culture connection. The things I thought were random quirks of my childhood suddenly made sense. The creativity. The eccentric humour. The obsession with detail. The food that somehow manages to be both simple and perfect. Japan wasn’t just a place on a map; it was a thread that had been running through my life for years without me noticing. 

Ending our trip here felt poetic. After months of exploring the world, we found ourselves in a country that had been quietly shaping us from afar. It wasn’t the destination I expected to fall for — but maybe that’s why it hit so hard. It reminded me that travel isn’t just about discovering new places. Sometimes it’s about discovering the old influences you never realised were part of you.

Japan wasn’t the finale of our journey.

It was the prologue I never knew I had.