But even with that stroke of luck, the wait felt endless. Every week leading up to June 4 felt like a hurdle. I counted the days, and I counted the hours within those days. I dreaded the rough days at work, rejoiced when they were over. It was, I believe, about a month away from our departure date that things started feeling really real. I knew intellectually that the date was fast approaching, even while it was still hard to imagine. Three weeks out, my anticipation was growing. Two weeks out, disbelief. Would I really be returning to Japan for the first time in seven years so soon? One week away, I could only surrender to the inevitable. There was no more room, or time, for disbelief. Each day felt flimsier, just one more small cluster of hours to brush aside.
At last, it was the night of our departure. We woke up in the dead of night to catch our early flight. The drive was short, but we got a little lost driving around the huge circuit that surrounds BWI. We weren't quite sure how to get in, and there was little indication of what the proper entrance was. No matter though. We picked a path and found our way to the building's front. That was the pivotal moment, seeing the airport itself and getting ready to make our way through it. My parents took me on vacations a lot as a child, so airports always felt like charged liminal spaces to me. Years of excitement were imbued into this airport, unfamiliar to me yet similar to all the others that came before. In a daze, we took out our suitcases from the car and parked them on the curb. When everything was accounted for, it was time to say goodbye to the friend who'd look after our apartment while we were gone. He didn't know what to say, because "have fun" sounded like too much of a cliche. But he said it anyway for lack of a better send-off. I'd always believed cliches often become cliches because they're broadly true. That seemed especially true tonight of all nights.
He drove away, and we entered the airport. It would be some time before they could check our luggage, so Sarah and I sat in the seats by the entrance and excitedly shared our feelings. We'd spent years planning for this exact moment. How surreal to finally be in the airport when our past felt so near. All those nights walking around our college's perimeter, fantasizing about our first Japan trip...We sat together contentedly, carefree as we'd ever been. Then a woman joined us, looking distressed. She was from China, and she was here to fly back. But she'd discovered, too late, that there's an extra document required to fly on a Canadian plane for non-US citizens. We'd heard of this document in our planning process. I'd been nervous that our flight would be blocked by it too. Yet it seemed we were the only nationals who needn't worry about it, and so I'd forgotten about it until this very moment.
The woman told us her story. She'd been in the airport for three days, having been shut out from her original flight and just barely missing another. Her family was waiting for her, and she was terribly upset about the delay. She was adamant about making it into this flight and getting home. We felt so sorry for her, and I hoped she'd be let through when it came time to check the luggage. Eventually, the attendants told us all we could get in line. Sarah and I stood up with the other passengers and got in line. The woman was in front of us, and when it was her turn to check her luggage, she spoke in a tone suffused with righteous anger. She regaled the attendant with the miseries she'd suffered at this airport and demanded assurance that everything was in order this time. The attendant raised no objections, and the woman was allowed through. I felt relief on her behalf. She met our eyes as she passed by, and we wished her luck on her return voyage. She thanked us, though her spirits weren't exactly high. I could hardly blame her.
We made our way to the terminal of our first departure. We were flying Air Canada, and there'd be two layovers: one in Toronto, one in Calgary. So we sat and waited for our first flight. Even though it would be a short trip from Baltimore to Toronto, this beginning to our trip was thrilling all its own. Onboard, I knew I'd want to listen to music and create associations. The issue, which I should've foreseen, was that it's hard to hear quiet music on a plane. Our plane's ambient roar drowned out most of what I could hear. So I picked the one genre I knew I'd have no trouble hearing: grime. I'd saved Wiley's two most recent albums just for the occasion, and I felt that would be an ideal start to the flight. After that, Skepta's appropriately-titled Konnichiwa. In the summer of 2017, I was feeling an especially strong affinity with accelerationism. The rave spirit of grime was what I was responding to most, and I knew months ahead that it would be an essential part of my Japan trip.
Toronto. Daylight had broken, and we were back in capitalist time, so to speak. Except Sarah and I were taking this trip for our own pleasure, so this moment existed in parallel to capitalist time. It was superfluous the way all aesthetic experiences are, separate from the demands of work and profit. Whatever the intentions of our fellow passengers, we were here because we wanted to be. This block of time had been carved out from a larger block that was not fully ours. We were content to repossess this small piece.
Calgary. This layover would take a little longer, so we decided to find lunch before arriving at our terminal. We settled on a Thai outpost in Calgary airport. It offered quick fixes of Thai classics, and though we hoped it would be a pleasant surprise, the food ended up merely serviceable (Sarah described my dish's sauce as tasting like tomato sauce). We sat at the far end of the airport finishing up our meals and waiting for the plane to board. This time we were among many Japanese passengers, which incrementally increased our feeling that Japan wasn't far away now.
More grime on the plane. Ghetts this time. I drifted in and out of sleep, catching stray lines and songs before nodding off again. I also had some Street Bass compilations from Starkey's label, and these would end up being among the songs most tied to my time in Japan. Despite this flight lasting longer than 10 hours, I was neither uncomfortable nor impatient. I felt content just to be on my way. I'd wanted to watch movies, but I felt curiously unaffected by the ones being offered. Most seemed too inconsequential to be worth a watch, while a few were too good to watch on a place (I think I remember SILENCE being there). Disconcerted, I settled on Ken Loach's I, DANIEL BLAKE, which I felt would be both interesting and visually straightforward enough to justify my watching it on a plane. Next came Leslye Headland's BACHELORETTE, chosen on similar criteria. I liked both quite a bit, but I couldn't help remembering my first flight to Japan in 2009. On that one, I watched just about anything they were playing: X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE, PUSH, STAR TREK, etc. This time I wasn't so omnivorous. I even tried watching Dreamworks' RISE OF THE GUARDIANS because I'd always heard it was "one of the good" Dreamworks movies. 15 minutes in, I realized I didn't care. Nothing about it appealed to me at all. So I shut it off. I don't regret that, yet I do have fond memories of watching all those Hollywood movies in 2009. I'm sure I wouldn't get much of out them now, but even those inauspicious choices are coated in the general glow of nostalgia. Perhaps that youthful enthusiasm is just lost to me as an adult.
Between the music and the movies, I'd whittled away a large amount of the flight. I remember looking out the window and ecstatically spotting the shore of Japan. Soon I could see forests, streets, rice paddies. I marvelled at how far away Sarah and I were from the United States. This was our first international trip, and we could hardly have been more ambitious. But here we were. The plane landed, and we disembarked.
***
Sarah and I progressed along the moving sidewalk and found ourself at Domestic Arrivals. All around us, Narita airport was decorated with travel advertisements and traditional Japanese relics. We made our way to the check-in point marked as FOREIGNER. After sorting out our paperwork, we took a bathroom break while waiting on luggage. At this point, I was overtaken by a sense of freedom. We'd made it to Japan, and the next steps were up to us.
The first step was obtaining our JR Passes. A JR Pass allows you travel across Japan on the shinkansen for a one-time payment. We'd thought about paying for a two-week pass, but since we only had about a week and a half, we decided it'd be better to spend a few days in Tokyo before traveling around the country. So we approached the JR East Travel Center, where we could trade in pre-purchased vouchers. Since JR Passes are only available to non-Japanese citizens, there were a lot of white people in line with us. This period of time would be one of the few when we'd see a significant amount of white people in one area. That was quite alright by us.
Next, we had to pick out travel times for our JR Passes. We were lucky to meet with a very friendly attendant who not only gave us the train tickets we wanted, but also advised us when we could just ride a local train instead of the shinkansen. For example, since Nara and Osaka are so nearby, he suggested we not bother getting shinkansen tickets for a connecting ride. Sarah remembers this as a moment that alleviated a lot of anxiety for her. Having our JR Passes and our train tickets was an empowering feeling, and once we bought our Suica cards to transport us around Tokyo's train system, we were very well-equipped for our stay. And since we both had experience riding Tokyo trains in the past, our next steps would be a matter of muscle memory.
Before leaving the airport, I went and exchanged a couple hundred dollars for yen. I also bought my first food item of the trip: tuna-and-mayonnaise onigiri! This was a personal favorite of mine, one I often ate for lunch as a student at the American School in Japan.
Riding the train, Sarah and I gazed serenely out the windows at a familiar view. The Japanese countryside was passing by under a late afternoon sun. We were both blissed out and loving every second of the ride. In fact, we were so happy to be on a train to Tokyo that it took a while for us to notice how slowly the train was going. It stopped every few minutes at local stops, and we were on track to arrive at Tokyo late in the night. Curious, I checked the electronic display perched above the train doors. After a long discussion with Sarah, I came to conclusion that we were on the Local Train, when what we wanted was the Rapid Express. It wasn't a disaster, but we needed to transfer if we wanted to get to Shinjuku anytime soon.
I perused the screen display carefully and checked the departure point with Sarah. I was pretty sure we'd figured out a point where both the Local Train and Rapid Express stopped. If we got off there, we would be able to hop on the Rapid Express the next time it stopped. We felt uncertain, but it was worth a shot. At worst, we could just jump back on the next Local Train. So we got off and waited around at a countryside station. Sarah suggested we buy drinks, so I opted for another old favorite: Royal Milk Tea!The sun was sinking lower in the sky at this point. We were a little behind schedule, but it wasn't worrying us. There was no hurry. Sure enough, the Rapid Express rolled up after a while, and we climbed aboard. Most of the stops from the Local Train were no longer listed, and we were shuttling right along to Shinjuku. Our gamble had paid off. Before long, we were entering the tunnel that would take us to Shinjuku Station. This huge station had been my nexus point for so long, the beginning and end of so many explorations. Coming back seven years later at this new stage in my life was wildly disorienting. It was almost like no time had passed after all.
After disembarking, I looked around for a way out of the station. It looked familiar, yet I wasn't entirely sure we needed to be. The Airbnb we'd be staying at wasn't necessarily near the apartment where I'd lived. I thought that if we could get to the East Entrance, at least I could find our way to the Entrance we needed. That plan would've worked if I hadn't gotten us lost inside Shinjuku Station. At least two times, I swore the East Entrance was right around the corner only to discover we were still trapped inside. Not only could I not locate the East Entrance, I couldn't locate any Entrance at all. Defeated, we eventually found our way out the West Entrance. This was a fairly new area for me, since it was facing away from the area I'd lived in. However, I knew we could walk around the station's perimeter to reach the East Entrance.
Sarah and I weaved our way through a huge crowd of mostly young people. We followed the narrow sidewalk underneath the railway bridge and worked our way back up to the East Entrance. It was an enormous 180 degree turn, in a sense, but it got us to a familiar spot. I was back at the Entrance I knew from countless trips to school and other areas of Japan. We were on firmer ground now, but we needed Wi-Fi so Sarah could download the directions to our AirBnb. That took us on a loitering spree with the intention of soaking up some unwitting business's free Wi-Fi. Eventually we ended up outside the big BIC Camera store along Shinjuku Station's elevated walkway. While she downloaded the directions from her email, I looked around at the huge buildings. It was surreal to see how little had changed. I felt as if the past had overtaken the present, and this was merely another day living in Shinjuku. But of course the time would soon come to leave, just as it had in 2009. Just as I can't stop returning to Shinjuku, neither can I stop leaving.
Our route took us back around Shinjuku Station. We were looking for the South Entrance to get started, so we doubled back to the West Entrance to orient ourselves. This would be the easy part, I figured. Now that Sarah and I were outside, all we had to do was find what should be a clearly-marked sign. We marched in the other direction, away from both the East and West Entrances. We walked and walked, but the South Entrance didn't announce itself to us. Bewildered, we backtracked again in case we had overshot our mark. By now the sun had gone down, and we were moving through that inimitable neon-studded Tokyo darkness.
There were still throngs of people in our path, but we ducked and dodged as needed. Our heavy luggage began to weigh us down. We were growing tired and our morale was flagging, but our jittery excitement kept us moving. The West Entrance loomed ahead, and I was getting very confused. Walking left would only take us around to the East Entrance, but we'd just come from the right and found nothing. All we could do was head to the right, again, to see if the South Entrance was somewhere along the way.
It was not. I asked Sarah if I could see her phone. We deduced that the Tokyo Hilton was visible in one of the pictures we'd received from our AirBnb host. We both knew what it looked like, and I knew it was near the apartment I'd lived in. Exasperated but determined, we swung our luggage around and headed back to the left, bypassing the West Entrance and making that arduous loop back to the East Entrance. From the East Entrance we scaled the walkway, passed the BIC Camera store, and headed toward my old home. I remarked to Sarah that this was the exact path I walked coming home from school all those years ago. From those familiar intersections, I led us in the general direction of the Tokyo Hilton.
Once that tall white building became visible to us, we oriented ourselves according the host's directions. We were striking out in a direction that was unfamiliar to me, so we kept an eye out for any landmarks in our host's pictures. The breakthrough moment was when we spotted the 'Morinda' building. That was when we knew we were definitely on the right path. At the Morinda, we took a sharp right turn and headed up a long street. The next landmark was a B&W Auto Dealership, and from there it was just a short left turn to our final destination. We entered the building, rode the elevator, and opened the door to the apartment we'd be living in for the next four days.
Free of our luggage at least, walking regained its pleasure. Even though we were sleepy and worn out from all the previous wandering, Sarah and I were happy to be walking the streets unburdened. I thought about how touching it would be to see my old apartment building the next morning. We arrived at the 7/11 and picked out a few pre-made food packages to take back. Now that I knew where I was, I figured we could easily backtrack to our AirBnb. That turned out to be overly-optimistic. Sarah and I headed back the way we came, but I couldn't discern any of the landmarks from before. We scaled walkways I thought I remembered, only for them to lead us in unfamiliar directions. We were lost once again. All the while, huge impassive buildings loomed over us in the cold grey night. Our meandering had lost its sense of fun. Now we just wanted to get back, and the city was offering no help. I found myself distressed by how unwelcoming Shinjuku felt at that moment. This city I loved more than any other seemed totally indifferent to me. I no longer felt the warm bond of those earlier years, and I couldn't even feel the echo like I had just hours before. I might as well have been a stranger here among the monoliths. Looking back, Sarah and I agree that this was the worst night of our trip. With aching legs and bags stuffed with food, we were in no mood for meandering. Our stamina had bottomed out, and we desperately needed to recuperate.
After spotting that lucky Morinda building, we made our way up to the B&W Dealership and around the corner. Now we were ready to settle in for the night. The next day would be full of new experiences, but for now we just wanted to eat and go to bed. I tore into my spaghetti bowl and got ready for bed. I said goodnight to Sarah, feeling proud once again how far we'd come. As rough as the night had been for us, it was good to lay in bed knowing we had days ahead to get familiar with our surroundings. We turned out the lights, and I switched on my iPod for a few more music encounters. My first pick was a new album from shemusic, a huge influence during my year living in Shinjuku. It sounded different than I expected, but I wasn't too surprised. Just like much had changed in the time since I lived in this city, so had the musicians I once listened to. I acclimated myself to the male vocals and slower pace of the music before finding a familiar delight in the buzzing electronics. shemusic's chiptune melodies and glitch effects are deeply connected to the sustained future shock of living in Shinjuku. For all the things that were different, those sounds felt as timeless as ever.
I was close to falling asleep, but before I nodded off, I was lucky enough to click on to a stray song hidden in my gallery of new music. It was a collaboration between two artists newer to me: Manual and Orange Crush. The former I'd encountered through Sean Baker's STARLET soundtrack, and the latter had deeply impressed me with a remix on an EP I'd gotten for other reasons. Since I'd discovered them in such different contexts, I wasn't expecting to find that they had worked together. So I downloaded their joint track Calderone before leaving, and the first time I heard it was in that AirBnb apartment.
Immediately, I felt deep wells of emotion washing over me. All the discomfort of our first night in Japan receded far away. At last, I felt the profound connection to Shinjuku I had been dying to experience again. The past seven years seemed to melt into one vast pool of memory, and I was floating on my back right in the middle of it. I thought about how all the contingencies of my life had guided me to this beautiful moment of warmth and love. There was even sadness at ever having left Shinjuku, but I could handle that as well. Regret was just a small part of the swelling orb of emotion I felt inside me. The apartment was dark, and I was sure Sarah was asleep by then. I felt ready to sleep too, but I couldn't stop listening to this song as I drifted off. The distance between past and present, melancholy and joy, Pennsylvania and Shinjuku, Pennsylvania and Baltimore, Baltimore and Shinjuku, all seemed like a sprawling vista seen from miles above. A tangle of paths I could look upon with fathomless affection, both closer and farther away than I had ever noticed. Nothing ever so distant as it seems.
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