In February 2023, after studying Japanese since seventh grade, I traveled to Japan for three months. I’d sacrificed my youth and social life to write fiction that no one wanted to read, and now, at twenty-seven, realized that I was a failure. So I hoped that creating this travel blog would get me published.

I started in Hokkaido, where I saw snow for the first time since seventh grade. Festivals, drift ice walks, and hot springs dazzled me so much, that I cursed humanity for using money and visas to gatekeep nature’s delights.

The cultural shocks for a Middle Easterner in East Asia were many. I experienced xenophobia, received a surprise TV interview while hiking to a frozen waterfall on my birthday, and went on a digital detox at a remote ryokan. When a snowstorm trapped the guests on a reception-less hill, I met a Japanese guy who made me feel something for the first time. Yet I was too afraid of rejection to return his advances.

Regret haunted me all over central Japan, as I moved across towns on a daily basis. In vain, I searched for the Japanese guy. Friendships formed and dissipated within hours; I started scrapping months of planning for the people I was chancing by. In my first big city, I dipped my toes into the dating scene, but got ghosted repeatedly.

Blogging every day online helped me process all of this, but not get any readers. Even my best friends back home didn’t seem to care. I broke down at Japan’s holiest cemetery on a cold winter night.

My entire life, I’d been looking for people who would see me as their equal. But I was a stranger in a strange land. And I no longer wished to be part of it.

A temple stay and a multi-day pilgrimage to grand shrines elicited the most climactic nights of my life. I’d never felt happier and sadder, more mortal and alive. I posted my innermost thoughts on existence and the journal entry of my fourteenth birthday, where constant judgment had pushed me to hide my real self.

At twenty-eight, in a land where no one knew me, I was finally free: to explore, to date, and to be me. I yearned to see the world, meet people, and experience life’s good and bad.

Then I stumbled upon an obscure island. Abandoned cave temples on one of its mountains awed me with their harmony of nature, spiritualism, and art. Suddenly, I admired humans. They could do great things – but instead oppressed each other with money, prejudice, and visas.

Agitated, I crashed my bike.

I was alone on a misty mountain in a tiny island with no tourists, no visibility, and no reception. The sun was sinking; fog was engulfing me. A snake almost bit me, while a monkey ran away from my cries of pain. I cycled past abandoned houses with a bleeding knee, terrified of not returning to the civilization that had killed my dreams.

Once I did, I continued to cycle around more islands, despite my injury. Japan’s Seto Inland Sea, boasting peak cherry blossoms, was heaven. Life literally became a wild ride, whether on a bike or a ferry.

Ecstatic by these adventures, I posted my diaries from school, which chronicled my coming out story. Peer pressure, homophobia, and fake friends in Israel had led to depression and self-harm. I’d felt so lonely and misunderstood, that I’d suppressed my emotions, given up on the idea of intimacy, and focused instead on studying and writing. Yet I’d never met someone who believed in my art.

In Japan’s most remote valley, I failed to camp for the first time, alone by a river with more monkeys than humans. I explored an abandoned scarecrow village, and got rescued by an old couple. Crossing vine bridges and hitchhiking on dangerous roads, I realized my life never unfolded the way I wanted. I couldn’t achieve my goals and find people who stuck by my side. And now, I was pouring my heart out every day to a website.

I vowed to never let anyone hurt me again.

This trip was teaching me how to live in the present, at the cost of rejecting reality for what it was: a playground ravished by humankind. The world was wonderful – but the moment you reached for its marvels, they recoiled. My denial of reality meant that I would never grow up.

On my first day in Tokyo, I searched for the Japanese guy in his hometown. Failure made it clear: I couldn’t control even my own story. I went clubbing and started dating someone for the first time, when I attended my first Pride with a British guy. He was the first person who liked my writing.

He changed everything. But my visa was almost up, and I refused to languish again in Israel. With tears over my (lack of a) future, I decided to blow all my life’s savings on travels, in the hope that my blog would take off.

Hotels were replaced by hostels. My first couch-surfing host and I resembled each other so much, that we shared secrets from day one. Then he introduced me to the dark side of Japan.

Before this trip, I’d spent my time writing at home and not opening up to anyone. Now, I left Japan as a changed individual. I cried, partied, and hiked; tried bizarre dishes; and formed intimate friendships in an instant. I changed my plans on a whim; exposed my private life on the internet; and endured my first big regret. I missed people for the first time.

I had no guarantee that I would be alive a year from now, nor be able to afford life.

In May 2023, I flew to South Korea on a whim, without knowing anything about it, for three months. I hopped from attractions to festivals and mountains in Seoul, thrilled to explore uncharted territory and not know what tomorrow had in store. But the latter point also distressed me, because lack of prospects continued to cloud my future. With no one to reach out to, I felt forlorn.

New friends from couch-surfing and hostels proved that increasing budgetary constraints eclipsed lonely hotels. I partied, slept little, hiked, and partied again. But then I had to say goodbye.

Jeju Island lifted my spirits with its tropical paradise. I hiked Korea’s tallest mountain, explored volcanic caves, marveled at waterfalls, and accidentally trespassed into an abandoned sex museum in the countryside at night.

In Busan, I began volunteering for the first time, by cleaning a party hostel for a month. This taught me humility, and made me feel young at heart. Yet the British guy from Tokyo, who had promised to wait for my return, blocked me.

A trip on my days off accidentally led to my second abandoned sex museum in the countryside, followed by a martial arts temple stay. When I was free to explore the world, it was a joyride.

Back in the hostel, alcohol, vomit, tears, and trauma kept me as the friend who took care of everyone. The heterosexual volunteers were making the most out of their twenties, while I was being friend-zoned repeatedly. Korea was not LGBT-friendly, nor were Koreans foreigner-friendly. I went out alone, got rejected, and sank into self-hatred.

So I blew off steam at Seoul Pride. I took partying to dark extremes, which didn’t pay off. Even though I never got what I chased, my life was no longer boring, like in Israel. Attractions, friendships, and delicacies in Seoul cheered me up, until I fell in love with a Korean guy.

I didn’t know what this new feeling was. But I had to leave for the east coast. I visited a North Korean settlement, hiked Korea’s hardest mountain, slept on the peak, and cried at the stars; attended a goblin festival, screamed at waterfalls, and laughed at a penis park.

With two weeks left on my visa, I returned to Seoul. The Korean guy I started dating disappeared because of our looming distance. I cried myself to sleep over a person for the first time.

I left Korea relieved. This country made me feel out of place, and reminded me that no one cared.

In August 2023, I returned to Japan for another three months. Perfect days ensued: in Tokyo with close friends, and in Tohoku, where I embarked on a festival marathon. I started working remotely for an Israeli travel agency specializing in Japan. Yet I couldn’t stop missing the Korean guy.

Then I returned to the digital detox ryokan exactly six months after my first time. I resumed my search for the Japanese guy, who never left my heart. A message from his mom turned me down without confirming whether or not he was the right guy. Broken promises from friends and psychosomatic skin problems aggravated my ire.

When I climbed Fuji-san with my friend from Tokyo at night, I reached the highest and most beautiful place I’d inhabited. Yet the beauty of nature always reminded me that humans were foul. My friend suddenly turned his back on me, and the travel agency disappeared. I vowed to never trust anyone.

Clueless about the meaning of love, I forced myself to go on dates that went awry. I was torn between loathing humans and needing them in my life. Sapporo Pride disappointed me with its tameness, until I fell in love with a Chinese guy.

I still didn’t know what this feeling was. But I had to leave for Japan’s northernmost islands. Vomit, windstorms, and the wackiest hostel on Earth recreated my adventures in South Korea’s east coast. Yet the Korean guy refused to talk to me now.

Once the Chinese invited me to stay with him, dating proved harder than I’d thought. I started working at a cabbage farm, and feared my impending demise.

Back at the birthday ryokan from Round One, I saw fall colors for the first time. I was looking for a job throughout Hokkaido, dreading my return to Israel three weeks from now, when the worst massacre in Israel’s history stranded me in Japan.

War raged while a reunion with the Chinese and a visa extension offered new possibilities. Yet the ups-and-downs of dating someone made it clear: as long as I was traveling, I was just a passenger in people’s lives. The Chinese suggested building a life together during a road trip to fall leaves. But I had to go look for a job, to make that work out.

Back in Tohoku, I was mocked and swindled. An adoptive Japanese grandma became a rock in times of trouble, while a new Taiwanese friend resembled me as much as my friend from Tokyo. Peak foliage backdropped visa consultations and job hunting. The Chinese rejected my offer of a long-distance relationship.

Back in the biggest city on Earth, I worried about money and future prospects. The only person I could trust – the Chinese – spurned me, because he felt that I had forsaken him. With no one to count on, I began volunteering at a language cafe. Time looped with more lonely nights of clubbing, more frustrating dates, and an ugly breakup.

A job interview led me to Kyoto, where temples bled red leaves. My autumnal marathon encompassed unrequited longing, geishas, and grief; anxiety, tears, and thirty shrines and temples in one week. Until an accident at a forested temple at dusk recreated my bike crash.

I limped with a sprained ankle to the cave temples on the small island that had made me live in the present, and hiked to the cliff where I’d crashed. Then I returned to the remote valley from Round One, and no longer struggled in the wild. It was official: no pain, whether emotional or physical, could stop me from exploring and making the most out of life.

After scary nights in several towns, snow at a desert heralded a white Christmas, when sickness ruined end-of-year plans. A dwindling budget and lack of support reminded me that no one had my back. Heartbroken and helpless, I began volunteering at an obscure temple.

This new gig offered a simple lifestyle and a trip to Japan’s hidden gems. Until my nine-month visa expired, and I left Japan.

My life was still going nowhere in terms of dreams, love, and career. But I learned to live like there was no tomorrow, and rejoiced over my decreasing budget and increasing baggage. They made reality more memorable.

In January 2024, I continued to Taiwan for two and a half months. It felt like the middle ground between South Korea and Japan, plus a myriad of cultural shocks. I began volunteering at a hostel in Taipei for a month.

Temples, memorial halls, mountains. Great dates ended my social and romantic problems. Everyone was treating me so well, that I didn’t suffer one bad moment in Taiwan.

I celebrated the Chinese New Year and one year of traveling with the Taiwanese friend from Japan. Cherry blossoms, kinky bars, and the best dating week of my life peaked on Valentine’s Day, when I fell in love with more than one Taiwanese guy.

Taiwan was a revelation for a Middle Eastern queer. I’d never been to such a liberal country, nor felt more desired. I celebrated this discovery on my second birthday on this trip. Then I was ghosted, and my dating life plunged.

A new romantic mission coincided with my worst hiking injury yet. My head was bleeding as I resolved to understand the meaning of love. Even if it traumatized me. I was confused by the idea that I was in love with multiple people at the same time.

After one month at the hostel, I went south. The world’s most dangerous festival resulted in one of the scariest nights of my life. As I indulged on food in Tainan, it hit me that love was the bravery in baring your soul and trusting someone. After all, people had broken my heart after I had invited them inside.

In stark contrast to every guy I’d dated, a new Taiwanese suitor cried at our impending goodbye. We dated for several weeks, until distance forced us to part. My chest was aching for the people I was in love with, none of whom wanted me in their lives.

A temple stay that ended in expulsion and a new German-Palestinian friend from Gaza proved that I’d out-grown my social anxiety, and sought challenge from a special someone. I didn’t mind losing my peace of mind for someone who’d ruin my day and then make it, as long as they stuck by my side.

I climbed Yushan, the tallest mountain in East Asia, on a winter night. Surrounded by pitch-black snow and ice, I realized that I couldn’t hate someone with whom I was in love, even if they’d left me in the dark. Nor could I deny that every low on this trip had followed a high. As the sun rose above the summit, it dawned on me that pain was the fate of love, and the essence of life.

I began to chase both adventures and trauma.

All over Taiwan, I enjoyed the food, nature, and festivals. Improved dates showed who was willing to wait for me, and who would forget our time.

Back to volunteering in Taipei, lonely nights out recreated my alienation in South Korea. A Korean volunteer and I grew close in an instant, like the friends from Tokyo and Taiwan. He made me realize how strong it was of me to embrace pain, yet weak to flaunt its impact.

I was told “I love you” for the first time. Yet this only emphasized how unrequited my romances had become. My visa was expiring, and I was in love with too many, too much. All my life, I thought that I would never know love.

Then a 7.5 earthquake shook me into understanding the meaning of love. Caring about someone despite the distance, despite the pain, despite the time apart. I found on my final nights the Taiwanese dates that had left their mark, and wrapped my trip on a high.

After fourteen months, I’d grown from a misfit robot in Israel to a sociable romantic in Asia. Even though my blog ended in failure, I finished my trip proud and penniless, following my mission to explore the world and experience life, and flew back to war in Israel.