It's been real.

"I'll follow the sun."


I wasn't going to write this now. It's six in the morning, I haven't slept yet tonight, and I'm back on American soil. When I got off the plane, it welcomed me, bounced beneath my feet. But then again, that could have been the extreme lack of sleep talking.

I awoke the morning of the 9th, later than I intended...because that's how I roll...and was interrupted from packing at around 10am by one of the landlord's dreadlocked lackeys reminding me that I should have left hours ago. I told him that my flight left at 6pm so, sorry, for the time being I wasn't going anywhere. Unable to make anything logical from my blunt answer, he just sort of backed out of my doorway and told him to call the office when I was leaving.
I flitted about, cramming my belongings into my obviously overweight suitcase and the souvenirs into the bag I bought for that specific purpose. At around noon, I gathered all of my things by the doorway, and looked at my suitcase, bag, guitar, and oversized purse sadly as I realized I had to walk 15 minutes to the station. At that moment Todd--or at least, I think his name is Todd--volunteered to help me carry half of my shit the whole way. I have never been more grateful in my life. On the way, he explained to me that he had nothing better to do at the moment because he was in between jobs anyway. He also said that he spoke fluent Chinese and lived in China for many years. I am always astounded to hear peoples' stories--some Irish guy I normally wouldn't give a shit about, and here he has this amazing past of traveling around the world and being proficient in a staggering number of Asian languages. I hope one day I'm able to tell stories to young travelers like that.
He dropped me off at the station, where I disregarded John and Masa's advice of taking the cheap route, which confused the hell out of me, and just decided to take the Narita Express from Shinjuku. I took the private line from Shinjuku to Takadanobaba, thinking that even though the private line did end in Shinjuku, I would have to walk all my shit at least four blocks to get it to the main station, and I wasn't about to do that. So I paid an extra buck fifty or something to take it to Takadanobaba to transfer to the main Shinjuku Station, figuring the Takadanobaba Station had an elevator. I was, of course, mistaken, and with the help of two amazingly kind female strangers, hauled all of my shit down the dark corridor of stairs to the platform.
I somehow managed to get my stuff onto the JR Yamanote line, two stops to Shinjuku Station which, thank the lord, had an elevator. I followed the signs to the ticket office to buy a pass for the Narita Express. I looked at the lady and inquired "Airport?" She printed me a ticket and pointed in the direction that I had to go. "Faivu," she said, and held up one hand. So I went and stood at platform five. After about half an hour of waiting awkwardly with my bags and being joined by other people with various kinds of luggage, the Express came and, after being helped with my suitcase to get it lifted up onto the shelves at the end of the car, I took my seat.
Sunglasses on, sitting alone, I clutched my guitar as the train honked loudly and began to move. Startlingly, it didn't move forward, but backwards; the wrong way on its tracks, taking us stealthily and efficiently to the Tokyo airport. The scenery zoomed by--towering buildings with mirrored exteriors, flashing electronic billboards, oversized television screens. The high-rises and ads became apartment buildings all crammed together, which soon became houses, and after that became small expanses of field. I moved backward the way I had come, as if going in reverse through my memories. It was almost as if nothing in Tokyo had ever happened. I was overwhelmed with relief at the thought of getting back to a country where I could understand every channel, order intelligibly from a menu, make people laugh with actual jokes as opposed to just being a confused American. But then I made the mistake of remembering the look on Masa's face as he stood in the doorway of the Big Wave 21 Community Living Room the night before. I had the same look on mine the day I left my hometown to go to college.
"Listen, I'll be back, okay!" I said, with a big, fake smile on my face. "And we'll be able to have a real conversation in Japanese, I promise!" He smiled weakly and waved at me before he left the room, as I jammed my nails into my arm to avoid freaking out.
Before I realized it I had been crying, for about half an hour, before the train pulled into Narita Station. There were two terminals, on two separate stops. I had no idea which terminal was mine, so I guessed terminal one--thankfully, I was somehow right. Forcing myself to get over emotions because I never have time for them, I dragged everything with me into and through the airport up four floors at a snail's pace. I made it to the bag check, only to be informed that one of my bags was just fine, but the other was 6 kilograms overweight. I have no idea what 6 kilograms is in human terms, but I knew that amount of stuff wasn't going to fit into the other bag. "Maybe you can exchange some items into the other bag?" they suggested. "Or maybe you can put it in your guitar case? Or hold it? Or throw it out?" The airport staff was so nice and concerned and helpful and would throw themselves under a bus before making me pay the overweight bag fee. But I laughed and told them it was just fine, and forked over the $25.
I stumbled through the security entrance and tried to find my gate. But then I got distracted by two beautiful golden arches in the distance. Remembering that it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten yet, I lazily stepped onto the moving sidewalk that crept painfully slowly toward beautiful McDonalds. Once I got to the counter, I opened my mouth to order in Japanese before I realized that the young lady's name tag said "I SPEAK ENGLISH" on it.
"Do you really speak English?" I asked.
"Er...yes." she replied. I was so happy.
"I'd like a double quarter pounder with cheese, no pickles and no mustard. That means you're going to make it fresh, then, right? Also I'd like an orange juice but go easy on the ice because you never get, like, any liquid in those goddamn things in the end. And fries. But not just fries, I mean like fucking huge fries--overfill them, it's okay if they spill open in the bag, I don't care." She blinked and pressed buttons on the register. I got my meal and sat down at one of the one-person seats across the way. I unloaded everything and started cramming it into my face like a ravenous tiger. I looked up to see a man sitting with his own cheeseburger, watching me fearfully. "Do you want thum?" I asked with my mouth full of food. He shook his head.
Eventually I found myself at the gate and boarded the plane. It was refreshing to hear all of the safety instructions given in English. After we took off, I tried to sleep. Soon it had been an hour. Three hours. Six hours. Soon ten hours had passed, and I had done virtually nothing but stare out the window with my headphones on. The O.C.D. woman next to me wearing a face mask couldn't stop moving and twitching and using hand sanitizer and organizing her wet naps and I did my best to ignore her. Around the 7th hour or so we crossed the international time line and the stars turned into a sunrise over the ocean. I filled out my customs and immigration card, and, only having an hour to get through customs, recheck my baggage, and run across the entire San Francisco airport to get to my Seattle flight, fucking booked it as soon as the plane touched down. I ran through all of the customs gates, answered all of their bullshit questions about fruit and weapons, and got to the luggage carousel, only to wait. My bags hadn't come off the plane yet. I stood and waited, flipping my shit, anxiously tapping my foot as soft saxophone music played in the background. Finally, someone pointed out that they had switched out carousel number without telling us. I ran and got my bags and booked it to the new baggage check. I dropped them off only to run into the back of the new security line, which wrapped around the United check-in counter. After 15 minutes of waiting, and another 5 trying to figure out how to remove all of the metal in and on my body, I grabbed my things, put my shoes back on, and booked it like a motherfucker to the terminal my gate was at. Of course it was at the very end gate, and I ran madly along the moving sidewalk, yelling at people to get out of the way. I arrived with three minutes to spare before boarding, and another woman, extremely out of breath as well, asked me where I had come from. I told her Tokyo, and she said she had just run through customs after coming from Australia. I was so happy to have talked to a stranger, that as soon as I sat down on the plane I began harassing the couple next to me about where they were from, where they were going, and what kind of tourist activity they should engage in. After they got sick of me, I once again tried to sleep and failed. Upon arriving in Seattle, I found that even though I stacked my luggage one bag on top of the other when I delivered them to the second bag check, they had somehow lost my larger suitcase...the one that mattered. Eventually it was delivered to my Dad's house, and after about four more hours of being in a half-conscious coma, I fell asleep for a good 24 hours.



"You only live twice, or so it seems. One life for yourself, one for your dreams."



I had a list of things I maybe would have liked to accomplish while I was in Japan, but honestly, I had no expectations and went overseas blind and ready for anything to happen...which it certainly did.
There are parts of my day that were so common for almost three months--taking the trains, walking everywhere I wanted to go. The flashing lights and booming techno music emitting casually from the high rise buildings as night fell. The thick, incomparable masses of people politely shoving their way through the city to get to work or go home. The flashing strobe lights of the claustrophobic karaoke room and the midi tracks behind your own strained vocal accompaniment. The strangers on the streets with their never ending smiles passing out promotional flyers and packets of tissues. The confusing ticket machines at the stations, the eastern toilets that hardly qualify as toilets at all. The air of sterility and humility encased in the buzzing lights of a thousand electronics. It's only been days, and even now it seems like it was a dream. I unlocked my car door, sat inside, and started the ignition. The cheap seat rattled beneath me, the vents blew out a puff of warm, stale air, and it was as if I had never left.

One thing that never ceased to astound me was the kindness of the people I met in that country. I have a feeling it has to do with the sense of politeness that is instilled in every Japanese person from the time they are very young, as to keep a sense of honor among their family lineage, respect the companies they work for, etc.. From the students at Tamagawa helping me find electronics and hanging out with me well after my term there had ended, to the guest house staff who were ridiculously lenient about my late rent money, to Masa who was randomly so nice and quick to give me advice, to Junko who made me a meal and dressed me up in a kimono, to the staff at Gonzo studios who let us sit in on their voiceover sessions. That doesn't even include all of the many strangers who helped me carry things, purchase tickets, and give me directions.
That sort of brings me to the things that I came to notice while I was there. There were a good many nights when I would wander the streets alone, find a cafe, and sit outside smoking and staring at the stars just thinking about what the fuck I was doing there and where I wanted to go. Robin told me before I left the U.S. one night, as we sat in my dad's driveway in his rumbling idling 50 year old Volvo, that you learn a lot about yourself when you travel alone. He wasn't kidding.
One thing that happened was I sort of got over the fragile sensitivity of making big leaps in my life. There are some instances where I feel sorry for myself, and it took me some time to realize that my life was virtually a living hell before I turned 17, and no matter what happens after this point, it probably won't be as bad as what I've already been through. And even if it is--events end, times change, a life isn't a span of 5 years or even 10; if things work out properly, it's a damned long time. A few years ago, I didn't think I'd actually be able to take the trip to Japan. But I did. And who knows--in 5 years, maybe I'll be happily living in Somalia. Or Australia. Or Germany. I don't know yet. I guess what I mean is, The Hard Part is almost definitely over, and even though I grew up in a town with a population of 5,000 and one main road, the world is virtually endless and I'll never run out of cultures to drown myself in.
I learned that even though I love Japan very much, there are things about that don't really click with my personality very well. The politeness, for example. It is an amazing thing, the guaranteed kindness and compliance of any stranger on the street. But in my eyes, a great deal of personality is lost in wearing the mask of the polite stranger, representing X college or X corporation. It is a uniform. I realized that I would rather take the harsh diversity of personality on the street in America than speak to a Japanese person I'm not too familiar with, knowing full well that they are judging me maliciously in their head and that the sweet smile on their face means nothing. My essence is built out of words, and in my opinion a person's soul is projected by what they say, their attitude, and even how they dress. In the sea of Japanese business suits, crisp white shirts, tailored blazers, pencil skirts and high heels--there is very little attitude, and few words at all. No snark, cynicism, sarcasm, anger. No wistfulness, hope, or even happiness. It's all seemingly lost in the ocean of anonymity and respect. And that fucking kills me.
One strange thing that changed while I was overseas was the decline of my interest in Visual Kei. Visual Kei is a music genre that originated in Japan focusing on the fashion aspect of rock and roll performance as opposed to the music. Men in drag with glorious intricate gowns, hair teased up feet above their heads, colored contacts and glam makeup slamming on drums and guitars and singing dark, gothic lyrics with an over-dramatic vibrato. Very Boy George, very KISS, very David Bowie. The music ranges anything from heavy death metal to peppy pop-rock. It originated in the late 70's, and still holds some popularity in modern Japan with young adults currently forming Visual Kei bands today. I won't lie, it was a bit of an obsession with me, and the reason I learned Japanese and wanted to go to Japan in the first place. I know the names of every Visual Kei pioneer. I know the bands that started it all, the ones that retained popularity, VKei history as it molded and metamorphosed over the span of 40 years. Every guitar riff, every drum fill, every death and revolutionary album and major photo shoot. My useless archive of Visual Kei knowledge is exercised only in internet forums, Livejournal, and the rare occasion where I can bring something up about it in conversation. I have an addiction to visual indulgence, and for me VKei was the perfect combination of music, my passion, and visual decadence, my obsession. It began when I was about 16 and Chris Hensley came into my house and popped an X-Japan CD into my stereo. From that point, I was done for. These days, I am a fan of a few particular VKei bands, and follow every artist's albums and photo shoots and interviews online. Coming to Japan gave me a new perspective on things. Instead of having to work my ass off to research what was coming out, I could walk outside and see posters for Visual Kei bands plastered along the sides of buildings. Commercials played on cable showing clips of their music videos. The massive television screens in Shibuya advertised for the release of Alice Nine's new single, and The GazettE's new album. Miyavi's remix album had it's own cardboard displays in Tower records, and there was a whole section devoted strictly to visual music. In Harajuku, the girls that dressed up in glamorous costumes were all cosplaying Visual Kei Jrock stars. I could point out who was dressed as The Ruki from this month's issue of Shoxx, Aoi from 2007's Neo Genesis photo shoot, and Mana from a Cure interview over ten years ago. Visual Kei wasn't just a fantasy genre--it was real, it had real followers, real young obsessed fans. Hundreds of people knew what I know, dressing up as their favorite stars and giggling incessantly about the concerts. And so it became less of a faraway, wondrous concept, and just became another set of franchises with a never ending supply of annoying fans.
I'll still follow the genre, of course--but I realized that apart from the limited handful of Visual Kei artists that actually record quality music, I had been following all of the genre's artists' releases just to follow them, thus making me pretty much everything I hate about humans.
And of course, my Japanese needs to improve. Greatly. Immensely. I revolve around words, and when I can't express something with a flowery vocabulary, let alone at all, it's beyond frustrating and easy to give up. A part of me hopes that upon becoming fluent in the language in a two or three years, I'll be able to greater understand what makes Japanese people brandish the shield of politeness and maybe see what makes them tick underneath it. But still, nothing will change about their culture, and the rigid, unspoken rules of quiet respect will remain. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and personally, I need expression, and more importantly, comedy. Sarcasm is a much bigger part of my life than I realized, and it doesn't really exist to Japanese people that haven't been extensively exposed to western culture. I realized that I kind of need to be in a place where I can communicate smoothly, with humor and metaphors, and I should probably just stick around in a place that speaks English for awhile.
The last thing that's probably notable is the fact that I didn't end up in the hospital the entire time I was in Japan. I have an anxiety problem, and a history of freaking the fuck out for little to no reason. Usually only under the influence of caffeine or drugs, but I have been known to lose it under instances of extreme pressure or stress. There are times when, if I'm left alone long enough, I will turn into sort of an agoraphobe, refusing to leave my apartment for days at a time for fear that I'll forget how to drive, or walk, or breathe, or that my heart will spontaneously stop. I spoke to my psychiatrist before I left about how I was more than a little nervous about being in a foreign country alone for three months. She told me that it would actually be good for me, and give me the confidence to get up and do anything after I got back. And she was actually right. If me, the paranoid freak afraid to ingest caffeine or smoke anything that didn't come out of a carton, can survive in the wilds of Tokyo's concrete jungle, I can probably be okay just about anywhere...let alone outside of my apartment.

So I guess, I learned something today. Take a risk, earn some money, go out there. Way far out there. Embarrass yourself. No, more than that--make an absolute ass of yourself trying to communicate your thoughts, ideas, desires. Meet people, keep in touch with them. When bizarre situations find you, which they will, roll with them. Walk for blocks, get lost. Get off the train in a place you've never heard of. Have coffee with a stranger. Smoke a brand you've never smoked before. Order something off the menu you can't pronounce. Spend all your money. Fall in love. Get your heart broken. Learn who you are. You'll learn to love yourself for it. Just don't don't forget to pack normal deodorant.