Category Archives: Michael in Japan

Japan, Past the Last Drop

The last cup of coffee I had in Matsumoto was the hardest to swallow.

In the 11 months that I spent in Japan, it’s hard to say just how many cups of coffee I consumed. Too many, without a doubt, and all the more so when you consider the fact that I’d also consumed it in cans; cold ones from vending machines as the September heat wore me and my fellow exchange students down to exhaustion, and after the change of season, when the weather crept in sharp enough to bite the bones, I had warm ones from the heated shelves of convenience stores. For a while, I stopped at the Starbucks inside of Tsutaya, a purveyor of books, comics, games, and other media, on a regular basis. They’d started to get tired of the students, asking us to please go upstairs if we were going to study for hours at a time, leaving the downstairs open for older patrons and those browsing the books.

Even without a real cafe, a convenience store or row of vending machines is always nearby in Japan.

I’d also visited several local shops, including a small downtown cafe, the name of which I’ve forgotten, where I talked to the aging proprietor about tourists, foreigners, and the fact that she thought I had a friendlier face than most of them. She was impressed with my Japanese and told me so, switching rapidly from broken English as soon as she realized I could converse in her native tongue, and she made me some excellent hand-ground, slow-drip coffee as we chatted, in addition to giving me a snack of tiny dried fish. Her friend read a magazine at the bar while a pair of younger girls in the corner giggled to each other over cigarettes, which my lungs would later regret. I’d gone to another place with fancier, shinier coffee equipment and a dazzlingly cozy interior, just a stone’s throw from one of the more impressive and well-used shrines in the central part of town, nestled under a copse of tall trees. I’d spoken to no one there other than the man who served me an expensive but exquisite saucer of coffee, although I thoroughly enjoyed the trip. But that shop was well over a half hour’s walk for me, and far closer to my apartment was Cafe F, a tiny place where retired locals came to hang out and chat with each other and the owner. He loved movies, and had a TV screen dedicated to a slideshow of stills from his favorites, which were mostly older, and mostly from Hollywood. A framed picture of Audrey Hepburn decorated one of the walls, and a TV behind the bar played news broadcasts from various stations. Once, during a report detailing the last stages of the Camp Fire that ravaged a massive chunk of Butte County in northern California, I tried to work up the courage to tell him that’s where I was a student back in the States, but I never did find the nerve. Something about talking to the older crowd, like those that hung out at Cafe F, or the young adults, like most of the students I was going to school with, was just too intimidating for me. I did better with my teachers, who were mostly in their 40s and early 50s.

But the place I loved most was Tully’s, and it was there that I would have my last cup of coffee in Matsumoto. It was my favorite place to study, with a seat directly in front of the air conditioning when I’d inevitably get overheated in the 25-minute walk from my apartment, and they always played classic jazz standards. Not only did I appreciate the general environment of the place, my fiancee Ashley and I had spent most of our mornings in Kyoto at a downtown Tully’s, which had the nearest thing to a decent western-style breakfast we could find in the area, with above-average coffee to boot.

Vending machines are ubiquitous, and the coffee goes cold in the summer and hot in the winter.

Tully’s itself is a formerly American chain, originally a competitor to Starbucks in Seattle, which would close the very last of its American locations in 2018. Stores had been opened through franchising in Japan, starting at the Ginza in Tokyo in 1997, and its now 600-ish stores have been owned by beverage giant Ito En since 2006. After selling off some of its assets, Tully’s filed for bankruptcy, and the remaining American stores were purchased by Global Baristas, an investment group headed up by Patrick Dempsey and partner Michael Avenatti, of all people, though Dempsey would later back out of the partnership, and Global Baristas would agree after a dispute never to operate under the name again. Keurig still sells coffee under the brand, but it has otherwise vanished from America. Despite such troubles, Ito En’s now-Japanese Tully’s never suffered the same fate, even in the face of the Starbucks colossus.

It was inside of this favorite Tully’s that I first searched out the information about the company’s history, wondering how this clearly non-native chain had reached Japanese shores and flourished where it had vanished in its home country. And it was inside of my favorite Tully’s that I contemplated telling the employees who had served me since my arrival that I was returning to the US soon, hoping to thank them for their constant good cheer and hospitality. I contemplated buying them a card, or giving them one of the small gifts I had brought from home. And it was inside of my favorite Tully’s that I chickened out, the taste of that final coffee lingering on my tongue with unusual bitterness as I walked out of the store, their exhortations for me to take care trailing behind me like smoke.

While I loved every minute that I spent in Japan because I came to love it with the special love one reserves for places outside of their own, places that they have chosen for the love they inspire, the thing that lingers most for me when I think back on my time abroad is the lessons of regret. They stay with me, like those final, long-rehearsed words from the good people at the Tully’s just a block away from Matsumoto Station.

Any city in Japan, even tiny ones, will have at least a few cafes or izakaya bars to frequent

I was prepared. I had done my research, listened to advice from people who had lived abroad as students before, some of them in Japan, some even at my university. I read up on the mistakes that people make when going abroad or trying to adapt to a new environment, the mistakes people make when learning and using a new language, and the difficulties they run into that take them by surprise. I had prepared in every way one could truly prepare for a year in a foreign country they’ve never visited, and the transition itself had been easy. There was no culture shock, no difficult period of adjustment. I fit right in, because I already knew a lot about Japanese culture, and because their polite, respectful, and generally subdued public demeanor fit me in a way American society never has. I had been confident about my ability to integrate going in, and if anything, the ease with which I found myself living in Japanese society was even lighter and more natural than I had thought it could be.

And yet.

I can confidently say that some of the regret wasn’t my fault. My university, for its many good points, ran a difficult program that required too much preparation, too much homework, and occasionally too much time in the classroom. The first semester had its share of challenges, certainly, but these were amplified in the second semester, when unexpected changes to the program had come down from above, forcing our instructors to adapt or die. Unfortunately, most of these changes were made at the expense of the exchange students. I harbor no ill will against the wonderful people who took care of us there, who for the most part exceeded my expectations in being delightful people, and who were open to talking to us about the difficulties we experienced. I am indebted to my instructors, as they not only taught me a lot and were always willing to engage, but they kept me sane during the most stressful parts of my time in Japan, even when their coursework was partially responsible for it.

That said, the best of my experiences in Japan were far and away the times I was out in the world, finding a way to connect to the earnest, beautiful places and people that awaited me at every turn. That had occasionally been in the classroom or on campus, though was more often out in the wild, and I came to feel stifled by the interior of those classrooms.

Exploration can happen far away and close to home. This snow-laden gate belongs to a local temple less than two blocks away from my former apartment

But as much as I would like to lay the blame somewhere other than at my own doorstep, I have to admit that it is not entirely the fault of the program or the changes to it that have left me with that lingering sense of regret. I have to admit that it is not merely the age gap between myself and the other students that kept me from making friends more readily, or from joining a club. Those things definitely didn’t help, and I am not uncomfortable in giving them their due share of the burden; but the truth is that I only went to that small downtown coffee shop with the friendly woman once, I never did work up the courage to have a true conversation with the kind old man at Cafe F, and I didn’t say a true goodbye either to the lovely young women who had served me coffee at Tully’s, or to the friendly, balding manager at the 7-11 where I bought so many cans of coffee, or to his employees, all of whom I had developed a great affection for during our many short interactions over the course of that year, very few of which resulted in me making any real effort at conversation.

Perhaps it was burnout–and no, it definitely was. I was tired, emotionally drained, and mentally exhausted. I would be doing myself a disservice not to give myself at least that much kindness. I wasn’t a student at Kansai Gaidai or Chukyo, taking courses in English for credit at my home university. I was a direct exchange student at Shinshu Daigaku, taking a full spread of Japanese-language classes, with only one throwaway English class during my second semester thanks to a scheduling issue with the other available options. My professors at home had great confidence in me, and wanted me to have the best experience possible, encouraging me to go where they thought my language skills would see the most benefit. For their confidence and support I am most grateful, and certainly I did see big gains in my Japanese, even if not to the degree I might have hoped. There were too many American students in our classes, and too many Asians from other countries equally as interested in practicing their own English or in expediting communication by using a more universal language, keeping us from engaging in Japanese as often as we should have. Some of those students also hit even harder burnout than I did, and gave up, weighing down the momentum of the group.

In the end, however, these amount to excuses. I knew better. I had written about the pitfalls of falling into the wrong friend groups before I’d even begun my journey, and about getting complacent with language immersion. I had spent a great deal of my long spring break after my first semester in Japan traveling with my fiancee and a good friend of mine from Texas, and my Japanese soared as I interpreted for them and we met new short-term friends at bars and hostels; so where was that energy and effort when I returned to Matsumoto? Some of it was indeed sucked up by studies, emotional struggles, and the general grind of daily life, sure.

But I was still drinking coffee.

Connecting with people always leads to the best moments (and the most memorable places).

It’s the coffee I look back on fondly, and the coffee that I regret. Every day I stopped at a convenience store to buy coffee and snacks, or even groceries, from people whose faces I saw all the time. Every day I went to a coffee shop and curled up in it as a warm place to hide from myself, to bury myself in a public part of that new world that I loved; but I didn’t use it as an opportunity to interact, as the treasure trove of possibility that it was. I studied in those shops, read comics there, and made flashcards, even occasionally working up the courage for the odd remark or two to someone, but mostly I used those things as avoidance tactics. Sometimes it was for good reason, but mostly it wasn’t. Mostly it was letting my discomfort get the better of me.

I’ve been back in the United States now for a little less than three months. Once again I am in another coffee shop, my very favorite one, writing this article. I have a carafe next to me, which I bought at the Tully’s where I spent so much time in Matsumoto, filled with steaming hot coffee. This is the coffee shop where my fiancee and I spent a great deal of our early time together before I left for Japan–perhaps even where we fell in love–and it’s where I asked her to marry me after I returned. The day outside is cold, rainy, and beautiful, the kind of day we’ve not been graced with in northern California since I came home, increasingly rare thanks to climate change, and all the more welcome after the fire that consumed the town of Paradise, where friends of mine lost houses and memories and even loved ones. Fire season, at least for this year, is perhaps finally at an end.

Yet even here, in this coffee shop where I much more often speak to the proprietor and patrons, who speak my native tongue, I am reminded of opportunity and how it passes us by. Great Northern Coffee, which is built into the surviving hull of an old train car, is closing at the end of the year, the art collective that runs it having apparently found it too much of a financial and logistical burden. This place, originally introduced to me by a good friend I studied Japanese with for a semester, where I have made so many memories, met so many people, and spent so much time, will be gone by the start of my final semester at my home university. The people I might have gotten to know better will go with it, more opportunities lost, and I can’t help but think of those I’ve already missed: despite many friendly conversations with one of the baristas, she stopped working here before we ever really became friends, and there was a Japanese man and his American wife who used to come in, who I never said hello to, despite hearing him speak in Japanese and having my Japanese homework on the table in front of me half the time.

Sunset from a bus window as we left Matsumoto.

Who knows when I may return to Japan. I no longer have the money to make the trip, much less the time. Graduation is coming up fast, and with it, the increased urgency of finding more permanent employment. A success on that front will undoubtedly mean a substantially increased income, but that money is now spoken for; car repairs since my return drained my already dwindling funds, and saving for a new vehicle, not to mention a small wedding ceremony at the end of next year, will quickly take the place of any other savings goals for the foreseeable future.

So it is in that spirit that I urge all of you never to wait, or make excuses, or assume that tomorrow will provide another chance. The people may leave. The shop may close. The price of a plane ticket to that green, mountainous land where your heart still patiently waits–lost in a grassy thicket below a hillside, or at the bottom of a turquoise lake swollen with rain, or within the recesses of a snow-covered temple perched atop of a mountain path overlooking the sea–may blow calmly, quietly beyond your grasp.

Wherever you find yourself, don’t wait. Don’t talk yourself out of it. Don’t let the friendship you see in the twinkling eyes of a stranger walk away unacknowledged. For it is those moments in Japan where I didn’t wait that make the regret worthwhile, that make it a learning experience instead of a tragedy. It’s the time when I went to the bakery across from my university and spoke to the old woman there in Japanese about what she had on offer, and told her that I wanted to buy something nice for the people in the exchange office on campus. It’s when I gave those cakes and sweets to the woman I had grown most fond of at that exchange office, and seeing the happiness and warmth in her eyes as she took the big pink box back to the rest of her smiling colleagues. It’s my second night in Kamakura, when I drank too much with a group of Japanese, Chinese, German, and Kiwi strangers at an izakaya, then bought more drinks and snacks at a 24-hour grocery nearby, sharing cigarettes and practicing Japanese on the stoop of the old Japanese-style building that was our hostel; and it’s the night in Karuizawa I spent in conversation with traveling Japanese who had come to see the place Terrace House made famous, sitting around the table in our hostel, drinking as the rain hammered on the thin roof and walls of the country house around us. It’s my dear friend Hayato, who I met through the school’s mentor program, who taught me Japanese as we read folktales together; and Yuu, who brought me strawberries as a gift when we met for a curry dinner, leaving our separate ways for home in the first real snow of the season; and Yuuki, who I met in an American classroom when she could barely speak English and I could barely speak Japanese, who I later talked to over highballs and ramen, and we realized we’d both improved so much there was nothing to do but laugh.

Probably every society on earth has a phrase or two for it, though I only know a few, but I cannot escape their necessity. In America, we use the Latin: carpe diem, “seize the day”; or “YOLO!” in the more modern parlance.

In Japan, however, I think the sentiment is even better expressed. There they say 「今を生きる」 (ima wo ikiru), or “live the moment”; and in the even more beautiful simplicity of idiom, something can be 「一期一会」 (ichi go ichi e): a meeting, opportunity, or even confluence that occurs only once in a lifetime.

So don’t sweat what’s past, because there is always more ahead. And if I might be so bold as to make my own idiom (if only for my own future reference): if the coffee is still hot, there’s still time to share it.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to return to Japan, but one thing is sure: I’ll be back just as soon as I can.

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One Day, One Step

As I sit down to write this article on my laptop, a Japanese let’s play (known as a 実況プレイ or jikkyou purei) of a PlayStation 2-era video game is playing via YouTube on my tablet next to me. Periodically, I look over and watch the action on the screen, provided the player has caught my attention with some interesting commentary. He’s not a known quantity to me, as I’ve watched so many videos from the various Japanese personalities I follow that I’ve run out of content from my usual sources and have had to find new ones. Watching games is a solid language learning method thanks to commentary accompanying and often describing the ongoing action. It also tends to lend well to sheer volume, as anyone playing through an entire game will be uploading a lot of video, which is great when you want to be constantly listening to something in a target language.

This always-slightly-distracted lifestyle is my new norm. In the morning, during a breakfast of fried potatoes or rice topped with natto, YouTube is also a frequent companion. In the evenings, once classes are done and the sun has set behind the mountains that surround Matsumoto, I find myself idly listening to Japanese music or a podcast while I work on homework. During dinner, which ranges from convenience store yakisoba to vegetarian マーポー豆腐 or mapodoufu, a Chinese favorite which I make without meat and serve over noodles, to any number of stir-fried concoctions of my own devising, I try to find the time to watch a professionally produced show of some type. The first one was Ainori, a Netflix re-imagining of an older Japanese dating show/road trip classic, and the latest was a bizarre live-action Japanese detective show called リバースエッジ 大川端探偵社 (Ribāsu Ejji Ōkawabata Tanteisha), itself a derivative of a comic with the same name. While I haven’t generally watched a lot of anime in the States, I’ve watched several series since coming here. Frankly, anything with value as listening and comprehension practice that’s even remotely interesting will generally do. Of course it does pay at times to turn off the distractions and focus on study, but constant input is especially good for mastering pronunciation and helping with listening skills.


Listening practice at home is worthwhile, as sometimes the real world is on the noisy side, but balance is important. You have to get out and speak too!

It would be fair to say that Japanese has become my life; that is, after all, why I came to the country to study in the first place. My progress in even just the last two and a half months has been tangible, yet as Japanese learners are often taught to humbly say, まだまだです: there’s yet a long way to go. This has made 一日一歩 (ichinichi ippo) a favorite aphorism of mine, translating into English as “one day, one step”. Another favorite of my former and still occasional Internet sensei George Trombley adorns the cover of an old edition of one of his Japanese From Zero textbooks. 塵も積もれば、山となる or chiri motsureba, yama to naru, translates along the lines of “even specks of dust, when piled up, will become a mountain”. I’m not yet where I want to be, and feeling more than my share of trepidation about the challenges of next semester, so every day I endeavor to do a little bit more and get a little bit better. Or perhaps do a lot more and get a little bit better.



Opportunities for reading and speaking are in every store, with every shop owner and clerk. Wherever you are in your host country, there’s a chance to practice!

Yet with such single-minded focus comes the accompanying danger of imbalance. A student’s life abroad generally runs a number of risks, but perhaps the most common trap is hanging out with other exchange students and not making friends in the host country. Second only to that, I suspect, is studying to the exclusion of actually going out and doing things with other people, which means not only losing out on language practice, but also potentially going a bit stir crazy. My class schedule and assigned homework on top of my own rather ambitious self-study programs leave me without a lot of free time, and I have to be careful to make sure that I go out with friends to do things even at times when my impulse is to stay home and catch up on work. Interaction opportunities are important, but even more so, self care is both important and alarmingly easy to overlook. Sometimes it really is wise to take a night off to play a video game or go see a movie, a fact which one of my fellow exchange students reminded me of not all that long ago when I was clearly stressed out. If nobody’s seen you for a while, there might be a problem.


Finances are equally difficult. While I ultimately came to Japan with robust funding through scholarships, I failed to account for the whole of how expensive travel here actually is and how expensive it would be to get around during my initial tour prior to classes at my university. There were also unexpected problems in actually getting some of my funding, and setting up my apartment after moving in cost a bit more than I had anticipated. It can be tough to balance going out and having experiences in your host country with saving for future events and taking care of necessities. Especially when you’re talking about many months or even a year in a country with a finite set of funds paid in a lump sum (as is often the case in America) that doesn’t come as a periodic stipend (which is the most common form in Japan), being careful to not overspend can lead to becoming so strict you don’t actually do anything. That’s considerably better than totally running out of money, but may lead to regret for opportunities skipped.

So as I spend my days alternating between reading manga, going out with friends, studying, reading Japanese books with my tutor, and taking care of classes and daily life necessities, I find myself having to be mindful of my time, where I’m putting my effort, and whether or not I’m taking proper care of myself physically and mentally. My friends here, both Japanese and not, have been incredibly important, as has my connection to family and friends back home.


Even if you don’t have money, there are things to go do. The Diao Wasabi Farm (大王わさび農場) for instance, is entirely free in addition to being gorgeous.

And, yes, so have my Netflix and YouTube accounts. Never underestimate the restorative power of a long (occasional) night in, binge-watching the Internet—just make sure, if you’re a language student abroad, you’re watching it in your target language.

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Sunrise in the Land of the Rising Sun

There’s nothing quite like the sunrise from your own window, in your own home the day you leave for a long trip abroad. This is, I think, generally true, but all the more so if you’re going to be leaving your friends and loved ones for a full semester or an entire year. In my case, it was the latter. And my house has giant windows, which seemed the morning of September 12th almost to spite me as I left for the airport. The house has giant everything, if I’m honest, something of a symbol of American luxury that I can’t help but contemplate when I travel to Asia. I lived for a summer at a Buddhist monastery in Ningbo, China, and learned that this sense of bigness is hard to find in many personal spaces abroad. Though there are plenty of giant buildings, big streets, and big cities, personal accommodations in Asia are made for people of a much narrower stature than myself, and for people accustomed to being a lot closer to one another.

It was that kind of knowledge that left me so excited, curious, and apprehensive about the adventure to Japan I was about to embark upon; and it was that morning’s sunrise, my girlfriend’s I’m-trying-to-be-strong smile, and the soft warmth of my dog’s fur that reminded me, yes, there were a lot of things it was going to sincerely hurt to be away from for a year. Part of me wondered, perhaps a little cynically, whether the trip was really worth such a sacrifice.

But of course emotion speaks in that primal language, and a larger part of me knew that what was to come was something I’d spent the better part of a decade preparing for. This is my future, for better or worse, and when I’d decided to go back to school in pursuit of an Asian Studies degree, this was already part of a loose plan I’d mapped out for myself. So after a slow, tearful, reluctant farewell with my beloved, I boarded the plane that would take me to a place I’d never been before that I would soon begin to call home.

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Kamakura, my first stop after taking the shinkansen from Narita Airport

The Known Unknown

Narita Airport wasn’t what I expected. It bore more of a resemblance to the Shanghai Pudong Airport where I’d flown en route to Ningbo than it did LAX. It wasn’t as big as I thought it would be, and felt crowded and dirty. I realized that I’d never even seen pictures of it before. So as I scrambled to fill out immigration documents and stood in a long line of other foreigners, mostly from other parts of Asia, I had to remind myself that I too had foolish prejudices. I thought of Japan as modern, clean, organized, and above all more polite than we’re used to in America, but those concepts were in many ways just stereotypes, and the reality was that no matter how generally familiar I was with Japanese culture from afar, via TV, comics, friends, and reading about Japan’s history, this was my first time to ever visit the country. I checked my expectations, took a deep breath, and walked on through the line.

Even my checked expectations would prove unrealistic. On top of the general feel of the airport (which did at least function in a very organized and polite fashion), when I was taken aside to get my residence card with a couple of other foreign students, we were taken to a small, dirty, poorly-lit back room where a pile of children’s toys sat next to an old crib, and various worn-looking paper signs in Japanese and English adorned the wall, cautioning us against a variety of prohibitions. While I waited to be processed, an unhappy native Japanese traveler rather noisily informed the staff of her dissatisfaction with some element or other of her recent treatment, and there was a continual shuffling of airport employees as they attempted to resolve her issue and figure out how to process me and another student. After getting my resident card, crossing through customs, and retrieving my errant luggage, which was no longer on the carousel due to the length of time it had taken me to get through, my expectations had another challenge: trying to figure out which train to take to get to Kamakura. When I finally navigated what the best cost-to-effort ratio was through much consulting of my phone, and finally located where my chosen train was to depart, I had to actually buy the ticket, a process that involved a small piece of paper that a wandering ticket sales employee helped me fill out while I stood in line. I brought the paper to the the man at the counter, who hemmed and hawed a bit before finally giving me my final total. It all seemed weirdly imprecise.

I took my train without too much added difficulty, and figured out how to buy a local ticket at a terminal in Ofuna Station. I stood in a wobbly, charming monorail car next to commuters of all types for the short distance to Kamakura, where in the dark and intermittent rain I dragged my luggage another ten minutes to my hostel.

It was a different first vision of the country than I expected to have, especially given how much I already felt I knew about Japan. But what I knew had, of course, been filtered through an endless screen of cultural filters: media outlets selected only the best and most interesting stories, other people had shown me their best pictures and told me their least-mundane stories, and even friends from Japan had talked more about cultural differences than mechanical ones. Everyone’s seen about a thousand meanwhile in Japan memes, ranging from jokes about the questionable content in some anime and manga (read: cartoons and comics) to jokes about the eccentricity of certain citizens or oddities of cultural practice, but those are mostly false-positive stereotypes. Put simply, Japan isn’t that weird. If you took a sampling of the weirdest stuff in America or any other country, you would end up with similar memes, all while having to acknowledge that few of them reflect daily life. Whatever we think we know about a country is a heady mixture of the assumed, the relayed, the exaggerated, and the misconstrued, and so wherever you may be headed, expect to have your expectations overturned, even (or perhaps especially) if you think you know so much about the place that you’re the exception.


The streets of Nagoya at night. This is probably what most people expect Japan to look like.


The Differences are Different

One of my mentors at my home university has told students to avoid overly simplistic and overreaching thesis statements in their papers, often saying, “Don’t tell me that the differences are different, tell me why they’re important.” That advice seems to apply equally to writing this article, but in attempting to implement it, I’ve run into the problem of the fact that Japan is both different and not all that different from my home country. Insubstantial or surface-level differences aren’t hard to find, but it doesn’t take long to realize that there are still streets, sidewalks, convenience stores, big-box stores, Italian restaurants, office buildings, and laundromats. The cars drive on the left side of the road, as once upon a time Japan took some of their modernization blueprints from England, there are vending machines almost everywhere you look, and it can be hard to find public waste receptacles because of Japan’s ideology that people should be responsible for their own garbage, but these sorts of immediately noticeable differences become window dressing in short order.

Larger differences might be, say, registering at a local municipal office if you’re becoming a resident. This is not an especially English-friendly process, and thankfully in my case I had a fellow student from Shinshu University to assist me. I’m currently living in Matsumoto city (松本市), and after settling down in my university apartment I needed to register with the government and open a bank account. So my companion picked me up and we took the bus over to Matsumoto’s local shiyakusho (市役所) or City Hall. We filled out at least 4 different forms via at least 4 different windows, which included some sort of insurance desk and something about the Japan Pension Service, and I was fingerprinted. In exchange for this process, they gave me a massive packet with a guide to the city, coupons to local museums and attractions, a map, and schedules for local transportation. This was all decidedly Japanese, including the bustling, crowded, and organized office in which it took place. And, as also seems par for the course in Japan, despite having received numerous explanatory papers, I was still very confused about many things, but was also glad for the friendliness extended to me not just by the employees and my assisting student, but also the system itself. I would venture to guess no local municipality in the U.S. has such a comprehensive package to give their long-term visitors from other countries.

My apartment has been another adjustment, though it’s easier for me than it might be for someone else, given that I’ve traveled around Asia staying in hostels. The apartment isn’t entirely unlike a good hostel, in fact: it’s small and old, but clean and (mostly) functional. Japan, as any visiting gaijin (foreigner) can tell you, is not built for large people. So it follows with the average Japanese apartment. It’s ostensibly just one room with a small bed, and what amounts to a hallway with a kitchenette on one side and a door leading to a tiny bathroom on the other. There’s a balcony, which is common practice almost everywhere in Asia since you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who owns a machine for drying their laundry. My front door uses a key-card style key, which is a small, metal, rounded-rectangle of a thing that fits into the front part of a two-segment doorknob. Once inserted properly, the front part of the knob can be rotated right or left to unlock or lock the door, and if unlocked, the back part of the handle can be turned as you would expect. The tiny bathroom has been something of a challenge given that I’m six feet tall, and learning the ins and outs of the small gas range took some time. The range isn’t a full oven, but just a big slab of a device hooked up to a gas valve, resting on a cabinet, with two burners and a small oven-like tray in the center. I didn’t initially realize that using it required manually turning on the gas valve at the wall every time. Hot water isn’t dissimilar: for hot water either at the tap or the shower or bath, you have to use a small unit that looks like a home air-conditioning panel. This will allow you to turn on the boiler and set the water temperature, though we’ve been cautioned not to use it for more than 30 minutes, or it may get turned off and require that we call someone to turn it back on.

Beyond these sorts of mechanical adjustments, my familiarity with Japan has kept the culture shock to a general minimum. I feel quite comfortable here on the whole, and yet it’s still been an emotional experience, with some highs and quite a few emotional lows, the latter mostly due to occasional loneliness and feelings of isolation, missing my family, and most especially missing my girlfriend and my dog. If there is one huge challenge I feel I have to overcome, it’s living without those closest to me for an entire year. My dog is a pit bull I rescued from the streets of Texas around 6 years ago, a giant softie sweetheart that is probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to a child. My girlfriend and I got together only one year before I left for Japan (and she’s not Japanese, if you’re wondering), which makes the year apart even more of a strain than it might normally be. Humorously enough, the one thing I said I wouldn’t do was get into a relationship before I left—life has a way of mocking our plans.


Tiny washing machines and air-drying the laundry are par for the course in Asia, and Japan is no exception.


The Choice and the Challenge

But I made a conscious effort to make this trip happen. From six months filling out countless scholarship applications and asking my beleaguered professors for countless letters of recommendation, to all the preparation that goes into leaving one’s home for a year, to talking to my girlfriend about what I was doing to make sure we had open lines of communication and were on the same page, nothing I did was anything less than a whole-hearted, conscious choice. Because I knew that this is what I wanted to do. It’s been something I’ve wanted to do for years, because I love the language, I love the people, and I wanted to do something that would allow me to grow closer to them both.

The challenges, two weeks in, have already been many. My Japanese is considerably less than adequate for anything beyond everyday tasks. I can buy things in stores, exchange money, wish people good morning and ask them basic questions about themselves, in addition to answering basic questions about my own experience, but more complex instructions are still difficult, and I’ve had to cope with the realization that I am a much longer way from real competency than I’d imagined. The placement tests for language study at my Japanese university were humbling. Frankly, I’d never been more embarrassed to turn in a test in my entire life. Out of all the (as I thought) complex grammar that I’ve learned, none of it whatsoever turned up on that test, only some basic stuff, then a pile of things I’d never seen, which might as well have been gibberish. Kanji, the complex characters imported from China that represent one of three different writing systems in the logo- and syllabo-graphic totality of the written Japanese language, went a little bit better, and I was fine with the more basic reading and comprehension material, but the rest of it was just rough. To be fair, the test is intended to gauge proficiency all the way from total beginner to the level of someone who could do graduate coursework in the language, but I had hoped I was at least a little further up the scale than I turned out to be.


These are the kinds of places that even a small degree of language ability can make a lot more accessible. Learning a new language is hard work, but well worth it.

No matter. I didn’t just stumble into this gig on a whim, nor did I study for the last decade (with a few long gaps) just to let my pride get in the way of the end goal of Japanese fluency. If I haven’t done as well here on my first outing as I might have hoped, that just means I have that much more reason to buckle down and give this the attention it deserves and demands. I have a year. It’s a long time, but it’s also a short time—when it comes to something like the lifelong experience of learning a language deeply, there’s no room to squander any of it.

And that’s an important point. I am committed to what I am doing, and to the sacrifices I’ve had to accept in order to make this opportunity a reality. Anyone studying abroad owes it to themselves to ask questions about their motivation, and what they hope their end goal will be, not only because it helps at the outset to make plans and manage expectations, but because it can constantly remind you of what you should be doing at any point along the way. It’s easy to fall into numerous social and academic traps when studying abroad: hanging out with other foreigners, using too much English, not studying enough, or studying too much and not going outside and talking to people are all good examples of how you can throw away what you’ve worked so hard to achieve.

So every day here has been a choice. It was a choice to find the last bus to Eiheiji Temple from Fukui Station where I was seemingly the only foreigner for 200 square kilometers. It was a choice to stay in an apartment outside of the International House that my host university makes available to its exchange students. And it was a choice to leave behind so much that is precious to me in order to truly experience life in another part of the world. Because nothing worth doing comes without some sacrifice, whether that be of time, effort, or presence. Every morning, when I see the sun rise over the mountains between Nagano Prefecture and its neighbors Gunma and Saitama, I am reminded of this, and of why it’s important. I chose to be here, and the only one who can make the most of that choice is me.


Matsumoto City, my home for the next year.

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