The intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose anger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have, I any influence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, invironed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty.

David Hume, “A Treatise of Human Nature”

4 September 2023

• Shin-Okubo (Koreatown)

I checked out of the Shin-Okubo capsule hotel at the last minute. After texting the Chinese guy, he offered to host me again in nearby Mejiro.

Thank god people like him existed.

I took the Yamanote line up north, to put my luggage outside his apartment (he was at the office), and returned to Mejiro station. Now what?

With no friend available to hang out with, nor budget for Tokyo’s more expensive attractions – too many on my list I wouldn’t be able to see – I took the Yamanote line back south to Shin-Okubo.

Shin-Okubo

When one ticked off the major attractions, the only thing left was to eat. Today, the menu was Korean.

Shin-Okubo was Japan’s Koreatown. The hanok owner from Seoul had told me about it.

I started off by browsing at the best store for Korean groceries. Small and crowded and nostalgic. They had everything. Gochujang sauce, kimchee dumplings, instant noodles, soju, Makgeolli, Korean snacks…

K-beauty shops with K-pop playing. I missed hearing K-pop in shops and convenience stores. In Japan, konbinis rarely played music.

Then I found a hotteok stand and discovered Shin-Okubo didn’t sell ssiat hottoeks. Bummer. I’d go back to Busan specifically for this delicacy.

The honey hotteok was nonetheless amazing. I spoke very little Koran with the stand lady, who was in fact Korean, but fluent in Japanese.

Lunch was bibimbap at the most famous restaurant around. Silver cutlery and glasses and bowls; plastic water containers with that blue lid. How I’d missed this!

The spicy pickled turnip lit my mouth on fire. So did the gochujang sauce of the bibimbap. It’d been a month.

At first it felt good, but by the end, I could barely chew.

I found the language school I’d almost attended before Japan had reopened its borders. It was right next to a church. Ironic; most Koreans were Christians.

I’d met 2-3 people in the past who’d attended it. The school was right on the main street of Shin-Okubo, a five-minute walk from the station, on the Yamanote line (the most central line in Tokyo). Close to Shinjuku for transportation and nightlife. I loved Korean food, and loved Japanese culture. If I could’ve afforded to study here, this place would’ve been perfect for me.

My battery almost died at this point, and the portable charger I’d bought in January for this trip still wasn’t working, even though I’d tried charging it recently again. So I went to the Starbucks above Shin-Okubo station in search of a socket, like I had done in Shinjuku on Friday.

I’d bought a matcha latte that cost as much as a konbini meal. There weren’t any available sockets. Only next to two chairs, which were already taken.

Well. Time to catch up with journaling for the first time ten days. I’d memorized the path to my host’s in the morning, just like I had with the American girl in Tsuruda.

For an hour I journaled, watching Shin-Okubo below me. Starbucks was located on the second floor; the window overlooked the train platform and the main road. I could easily tell apart the Korean guys from the Japanese.

After an hour and a half, I managed to find a chair with a socket and charge my phone. Today’s afternoon was very uneventful. Too bad I hadn’t carried my laptop with me so I could at least write.

I spent the evening with the Chinese guy in his apartment.

Today’s highlights: hearing K-pop in stores; honey hotteok; bibimbap; matcha latte.

5 September 2023

• Mejiro Garden
• 15:55-16:45 Komagome station to Tamagawa station metro (Namboku line), 16:53-17:00 transfer to Musashi-nitta station (Tokyu Tamagawa line)

Mejiro Garden

I woke at 9:00. The Chinese guy was up, once again, since 5:30. As soon as sunlight had invaded his apartment, his day had begun.

First order of business: wash every article of clothing I’d worn lately. Including my two bags. And quick-dry towel. He’d told me they all smelled.

Yikes. Probably because of my weekend on Mount Fuji.

So I headed to my first launderette in Japan. I loathed how they only accepted 100-yen coins! Would it kill then to place a change machine or accept IC cards?

I bought breakfast at the nearest konbini to get enough coins, and spent the 27-minute washing period at the nearby Mejiro Garden, per the Chinese guy’s recommendation. A small, pretty garden. A pond with gigantic carps. Free, too. A nice spot for locals to get their green fix.

I returned to his apartment with my laundry. It did not smell any different. Did the machine not use any detergent? It hadn’t instructed me to add some myself. I’d wasted time and money on nothing.

Around 11:30, we went to Ikebukuro for conveyor belt sushi. Right before that, though, I’d received a text with some news that made me extremely dispirited.

I moped during the entire lunch. And consequently felt even worse, because I was with a kind companion, who’d let me spend the night.

It astounded me how every single time I thought a bad occurrence was the last straw – the Sendai incident from last week, for example, on the eve of my return to Tokyo – and then something else happened, and shattered me.

My First Earthquake in Japan

Back in the Chinese guy’s apartment, he worked on his computer, while I wrote on mine. At 13:30, his bedroom started shaking.

Earthquake.

My first one in Japan! How had I spent four months here without experiencing one? They were a daily occurrence.

It was totally fine; just a few seconds of shaking.

But I still felt too morose from that text message to be around anyone, and in the afternoon, left.

The Final Spark is Extinguished

On my way to my couchsurfing host’s for tonight, I took the train in the wrong direction. What ensued was an encounter somewhere between Tabata station and Rikugien gardens that left me even more shaken. A guy who’d recently moved to Tokyo lied to me and offended me in a hitherto unfamiliar way.

I dragged my suitcase through the alleyways of Tabata to Komagoma station and cursed every moment. How could one feel so livid and sad? The heart seemed pale and tiny when hurt, yet a ball of fire when mad. At this moment, mine felt like those sparks at the end of a fire: moribund and barely alight.

My previous post ended with me returning to Tokyo after surmounting Mt Fuji and wondering what was the point of it all. I hadn’t thought it possible, but now, after climbing to the highest altitude I’d ever reached, my mood was at a new low.

Just like triumphing Seoraksan in mid-July and all the misery that followed in Seoul.

I thought about the increasingly deep emotional (and financial) pits I’d been finding myself in throughout this trip.

• March 15, temple stay in Koya-san, and a nocturnal tour of Okuno-in cemetery. This was the night I’d made up my mind. Someday, I would forswear all pain.
• March 20, the pitch-black Nachi mountaintop cabin, after completing the 4-day Kumano Kodo pilgrimage; my first hiking experience. I’d felt alive. This had made me even sadder.
• March 23, a near-death experience in Shodoshima forcing me to realize: I’d rather worry about my present than my future.

Ah, well, the list could go on and on.

• April 1, failing to camp alone in nature, in Japan’s most secluded valley; a terrifying, lonesome night.
• April 4, my first day in Kyoto being the day I vowed to never let anyone hurt me again.
• April 9, crying in a street in Kyoto at 2 AM with the Ukrainian girl, who had rightfully pointed out that I’d never be able to actualize my idealistic values in reality; and that I might’ve been expecting too much of my former friends.
• April 29, the end of my hectic 10-day partying and clubbing during Tokyo Pride, with a surprise police ambush and a rock bottom self-esteem…
• Too many moments of longing and rejection in Korea, between June and August…
• The last ten days of the Korean leg of my trip, full of premature tears…
• My recent failure to reunite with the one person who had insisted on seeing me again…

I could fill pages upon pages by continuing this list. And I hadn’t even mentioned the good times; the unforgettable highs. Perhaps every one of those was chained to a low. Perhaps every success only cleared the way for more failure. Only this would explain why every ascent was followed by a longer fall.

The thing was… the dives were only getting more infrequent. Deeper. Farther. September 5 felt like the worst… but so had August 29. So what more would come that would dethrone today?

Who else would enter my life, lie to me, play games with me, and disappear altogether.  

If people didn’t see you on a regular basis because you shared the same circumstances – in class, for example, or work – they needed to put an effort into seeing you. To initiate it on their own. To become an active participant in your relationship. They could no longer rely on sharing the same time and space with you and letting these dimensions do the work.

Once all of this happened – well, as the Dutch girl from Round One had put it, only those who wanted you in their life made this effort. Traveling, as the Russian guy from Korea had put it, showed you who did that.

If they didn’t bother, why did I?

Why, when someday I would go, go away, run away, be done with this world, and breathe my last breath?

If this was what mortal, human existence amounted to… if someday I would find myself on my deathbed having achieved none greater than this… with more and more disappointments encompassing me like gold and an Egyptian mummy…

Why was I trying so incessantly? What force was I to blame for my stupidity? And why was I going through all these tribulations? They weren’t teaching me any valuable lessons. They weren’t hurting for a reason, or rather, a good one at that.

I could fathom neither cause, nor justification. Either I was too jejune to discern one, or it never existed to begin with… only blackness, nothingness, absence… not cruelty, but indifference… lack of thought.

I felt as small as a speck of dust inside the train. If I didn’t have influence over anyone – if my presence in their once-in-a-lifetime existence was as ephemeral as a leaf in winter – why did they pose such an impact on me?

“Hold up,” I wanted to say to this planet, before it continued revolving without me able to understand it.

Chasing it nonetheless, sanguine that a few meters from now I would find an answer, I’d only been making a fool out of myself. I’d kept waiting for people to apologize and change, while they didn’t even think of me.

Why did I bother.

I no longer wished to trust people. To open up to them. I did not find it rewarding.

Easier said than done, though. My pathetic faith in the potential of humanity to do good – to be good –

In this sense, I’d never matured into an adult, even at 28. I was still a child impatient for tomorrow to be better. For the next person I would count on to not walk away.

Maturity was admitting the inherent fallacy of the world and one’s inability to repair it. Coming on terms with this distorted reality, and learning how to inhabit it… the Ukrainian girl had urged me to accept this. I’d told her on April 9 that I’d never be able to.

Since then, nothing had changed.

And so, if people didn’t change, nor did my faith in them –

Either I learned to treat them the same way they’d been treating me, or I would be doomed to let them hurt me.

It had come down to one choice. If someone didn’t make an effort to stay on good terms with me, I would make an effort to stay on no terms with them.

I wrote all this during my one-hour metro ride south to my host’s for tonight, and realized: I was still learning.

Whether this was a step in the right direction – a growth that would improve upon my character – I couldn’t tell. I’d believed in second chances, and third, and people’s ability to learn from their mistakes.

It would’ve been easier to have lived alone in nature.

When I was in uni, I’d learned about life. Now that I was living it, I was learning about humans. Neither experience had convinced me that I would ever graduate. On the contrary: I felt more clueless than ever.

It made no sense for empathic beings to behave this way.

But what did I know? Perhaps I sounded ridiculous in confessing all this. Perhaps I’d been knocking on locked doors… perhaps I was the only one puzzled, in the dark, and everyone else was chitchatting over wine in a brightly-lit balcony, overlooking a green city. Perhaps I was missing something that was clear to those who were normal.

I’d been viewing the world using different lenses ever since I could remember. Seeking friendship, intimacy, fulfilment – the actualization of my desires, my dreams, my passions – identifying with a person who wholeheartedly understood me – perhaps these were aspirations too grand to expect. I’d always been too idealistic.

Either I spent the rest of my life seeking them once more – chasing, pursuing, probing, in every corner, in every piece of land – or quit altogether. But I would never just settle on a comfortable spot in the middle.

This probably explained more than anything why I was too much for people to stick around. There was never an in-between when it came to me. I either gave my all, or none.

This long rant might as well end with the ending of the following novel.

During the holidays Salander tuned out the rest of the world. She did not answer her telephone and she did not turn on her computer. She spent two days washing laundry, scrubbing, and cleaning up her apartment. Year-old pizza boxes and newspapers were bundled up and carried downstairs. She dragged out a total of six black rubbish bags and twenty paper bags full of newspapers. She felt as if she had decided to start a new life. She thought about buying a new apartment—when she found something suitable—but for now her old place would be more dazzlingly clean than she could ever remember. 

Then she sat as if paralysed, thinking. She had never in her life felt such a longing. She wanted Mikael Blomkvist to ring the doorbell and…what then? Lift her off the ground, hold her in his arms? Passionately take her into the bedroom and tear off her clothes? No, she really just wanted his company. She wanted to hear him say that he liked her for who she was. That she was someone special in his world and in his life. She wanted him to give her some gesture of love, not just of friendship and companionship. I’m flipping out, she thought. 

She had no faith in herself. Blomkvist lived in a world populated by people with respectable jobs, people with orderly lives and lots of grown-up points. His friends did things, went on TV, and shaped the headlines. What do you need me for? Salander’s greatest fear, which was so huge and so black that it was of phobic proportions, was that people would laugh at her feelings. And all of a sudden all her carefully constructed self-confidence seemed to crumble. 

That’s when she made up her mind. It took her several hours to mobilise the necessary courage, but she had to see him and tell him how she felt. 

Anything else would be unbearable. 

She needed some excuse to knock on his door. She had not given him any Christmas present, but she knew what she was going to buy. In a junk shop she had seen a number of metal advertising signs from the fifties, with embossed images. One of the signs showed Elvis Presley with a guitar on his hip and a cartoon balloon with the words HEARTBREAK HOTEL. She had no sense for interior design, but even she could tell that the sign would be perfect for the cabin in Sandhamn. It cost 780 kronor, and on principle she haggled and got the price knocked down to 700. She had it wrapped, put it under her arm, and headed over to his place on Bellmansgatan.

At Hornsgatan she happened to glance towards Kaffebar and saw Blomkvist coming out with Berger in tow. He said something, and she laughed, putting her arm around his waist and kissing his cheek. They turned down Brännkyrkagatan in the direction of Bellmansgatan. Their body language left no room for misinterpretations—it was obvious what they had in mind. 

The pain was so immediate and so fierce that Lisbeth stopped in mid-stride, incapable of movement. Part of her wanted to rush after them. She wanted to take the metal sign and use the sharp edge to cleave Berger’s head in two. She did nothing as thoughts swirled through her mind. Analysis of consequences. Finally she calmed down. 

“What a pathetic fool you are, Salander,” she said out loud. 

She turned on her heel and went home to her newly spotless apartment. As she passed Zinkensdamm, it started to snow. She tossed Elvis into a dumpster.

Stieg Larsson, “The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo”

By 18:00, journaling for an hour on the pavement outside the station, my friends not answering my calls… recalling those sparks at the end of a fire… I felt that the final spark was extinguished.

In the evening, I met my new couchsurfing host. A 24-year-old guy originally from Fukuoka. He’d studied media and communications in Tokyo, and now worked in IT.

He had the usual large, wiry spectacles Japanese people were so fond of (and I. Except such a frame didn’t suit my face. Unlike theirs), and bangs parted in the middle. Having attended elementary school in the states, he was fluent in English, and spoke with an American accent… as I discovered later on. We spoke Japanese almost the entire time.

His apartment in Ota (an area in south Tokyo close to Kawasaki and Haneda airport) was chic and spacious. A large living room with a soft, off-white rug and one of those thin, collapsible Japanese couches that sat on the floor. A TV, a good-sized kitchen (counter space in any city in Japan was out of the question), a large bedroom, plus a large shower, a toilet with a washlet… long story short, the kind of apartment I would like to live in.

After a quick stop at the nearby grocery store, he cooked teishoku. Rice, miso soup, fried salmon, lettuce, and the most butter-y sashimi. A simple meal to make, a healthy meal to eat, a delicious cuisine I could not get enough of.

I slept on a futon in his living room with a form pillow and a soft blanket. He really had salvaged my day.

Today’s highlights: breakfast at Mejiro Garden; my first Round Two Kaitenzushi; homemade teishoku for dinner.

6 September 2023

• 9:56-10:00 Musashi-nitta station to Kamada station local train (Tokyu Tamagawa line), 10:07-10:30 transfer to Ishikawachou station (Keihin-Tohoku line)
• Yokohama Chinatown (~1.5h)
• Yamashita Park, Red Brick Warehouses (~30m)
• 21:04-21:25 Sakuragichou station to Kamada station train (Keihin Tohoku line), 21:31-21:34 transfer to Mussashi-nitta station (Tokyu Kamagawa line)

Yokohama Chinatown

This morning, a friend I was supposed to meet in Yokohama hadn’t texted me back by the time I left at 9:00 am, so I took the train north to Tokyo, with the hope of meeting him in south in Yokohama tomorrow.

A few minutes into the ride, however, I got a text from him all right, and took the train back to my host’s. Yokohama would happen today after all.

The friend in question was a friend of my Seoul host. She’d asked me to deliver him a souvenir. I grabbed it from my Ota host’s apartment, and set off.  

First on the itinerary: Chinatown. Navigating from the station was easy – I followed red streetlamps for five minutes. When I arrived, it started drizzling.

I liked the extravagant red and gold and outburst of colour. Deep green and bright turquoise. Golden dragons and red lanterns. Eye-popping, like the hanok owner had said, gaudy, but intriguing nonetheless.

Street food and restaurants with indulgent façades; fortune tellers and shops selling panda merch. Japanese restaurants were never so much in your face, with dozens of photos of dishes printed at large. Every store staff stood in the front welcoming guests.

Yokohama Kuan Ti Miao temple was small but just as garish. SO much gold and horror vacui ornaments. The shishi sculptures at the front were different from Japanese temples’, too. Dark grey and merry.

Everywhere I asked, meat filled the steamed buns. So I got a chocolate-filled, panda-shaped bun instead.

At noon, the vacant town filled up like the buns themselves. Lines everywhere.

Yamashita Park and the Red Brick Houses

After half an hour of futile wandering, I walked to nearby Yamashita Park, which was more like a few benches and trees overlooking the bay. The sky had cleared. The view was magnificent. I beheld the famous Gundam statue from afar (wasn’t interested in it enough to pay for the expensive entry ticket) and Minato Mirai.

The red brick warehouses (a relic from Yokohama Port being the first to open up in 1859 to the west) looked nice, but inside, they contained just shops and restaurants. Soon it became clear that without the nearby museum of art, which was closed for renovations, that wasn’t enough to do in Yokohama for a full day.

I passed the afternoon sitting down inside the warehouses and by a river, waiting for time to snail away. I needed to wait until 18:00 to meet my host’s friend.

With the public Wi-Fi NOT working for a single, stable minute, my boredom, and my longing to catch up with friends who were still interested in talking to me, I used my limited mobile data to call the Australian guy I’d met in Osaka and the Israeli girl I’d met in Busan. Knowing full well my three-month SIM card wouldn’t last three months at this rate.

They managed to cheer me up, even though this left with me 4% battery.

So I walked to Sakuragichou station, where I would meet my host’s friend. Crossing a bridge through a river with an adjacent amusement park and fishermen reminded me of Lotte world and Jamsil in Seoul.

Near the station, I stumbled upon Daiso, and bought a portable charger. Enough. Lately, not being able to use my phone to talk to people and make plans, and being anxious about my battery dying, was horrendous.

We met at 18:00, soon thereafter.

Minato Mirai

He was a 26-years-old Indian guy who had done foreign exchange studies at Kaist university in South Korea, Daejeon (where the Mongolian student I’d met was currently enrolled) and couch-surfed at my Seoul host’s. Since then, they’d become friends.

One and a half years ago, he’d moved to Yokohama, to work as an AI engineer. Last Christmas, he’d returned to her studio. An Austrian girl had couch-surfed there as well. She and the Indian guy had met and grown close. Now she was doing the one-year working holiday in Japan, having moved to Yokohama as well.

Both the Indian guy and Austrian girl were fun from the first moment. I understood why my Seoul host had urged me to meet them.

We walked to an amazing local-only izakaya area. Tons of tiny bars and eateries, with no other foreigners around. Yokohama was known for jazz. An old-school vibe, a bit dirty, very different from the bustling Tokyo night spots, always teeming with tourists.

We ate at a tiny place. Fried squid, soba, bean sprouts, etc. My first Round Two plum wine had me moaning in pleasure.

I gave them the souvenir from Korea – the Korean knockoff of my favourite Japanese snack, the chocolate and biscuit mushrooms, which the Indian guy preferred to the original – and a souvenir from me as well: salted caramel HBAF almonds, my favourite Korean snack.

The Austrian girl told me some surprising details about the one-year working holiday, particularly pertaining to Israeli citizens. I immediately toyed with the idea of applying, once it became possible for Israelis. Next year would be the first time.

After sunset, we watched the lit-up Minato Mirai at night, with the Ferris wheel and tall buildings. This was the second to last thing that the Miitaka guy had added to my list for Japan. Apart from a local specialty in Nikko, which I’d forgotten about during my visit there in late April, I’d done all.  

I returned to my host’s at 22:00. We spent the rest of the evening chilling in his living room in front of the TV. GTA Twitch livestreams and Mission Impossible movies. I used this opportunity to make some progress with planning my upcoming Hokkaido trip.

Today’s highlights: Chinatown’s signature architecture; chocolate panda bun; the afternoon phone calls; finally being able to charge my phone; dinner with the Indian guy and Austrian girl.