Summary of My Trip

Japan: Round One

In February 2023, after studying Japanese since the age of twelve, I travelled to Japan.

I started in Hokkaido, where I saw snow for the first time in fifteen years. Festivals, drift ice walks, and hot springs dazzled me so much, that I cursed humanity for gatekeeping nature’s delights.

The cultural shocks for a Middle Easterner in the Far East were many. I experienced xenophobia for the first time, received a surprise TV interview while hiking to a frozen waterfall on my birthday, and went on a digital detox at a remote ryokan. There, I met a Japanese guest 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 from one town to another on a daily basis. In vain, I searched for the Japanese guy. Friendships formed and dissipated within hours, while my itinerary underwent spontaneous revisions. In my first big city, I dipped my toes into the dating scene, but got repeatedly ghosted.

A temple stay and a multi-day pilgrimage to grand shrines elicited the most climatic nights of my life. I shared my innermost thoughts on existence and the story of my fourteenth birthday, where I’d lost the balance between the brain and the heart.

Free from lifelong inhibitions, I began to chase adventures. Obscure, mountaintop cave temples awed me with their marriage of nature, spiritualism, and art so much, that I felt like a free spirit in the universe, confined by humans. Fervid, I crashed my bike.

I was alone on a 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, with peak cherry blossoms, was heaven. Life literally became a wild ride, whether on a ferry or a bike.

Ecstatic by these adventures, I started to share my diaries from school, which chronicled my coming out story. Peer pressure, fake friends, and homophobia in Israel had led to depression and self-harm. I’d felt so lonely and misunderstood, that I’d suppressed all my emotions, given up on intimacy, and focused instead on studying and writing.

In Japan’s most remote countryside, I failed to camp for the first time, alone by a river with more monkeys than humans. I explored a 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 had failed to fulfil my dreams and find people who stuck by my side.

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 into an adult.

On my first day in Tokyo, I searched for the Japanese guy in his hometown. Failure made it clear: the joys of life were slipping through my fingers, and I couldn’t rewrite my story. I went clubbing and started seeing someone for the first time, when I attended my first Pride with a British guy.

But my trip was coming to a close, and I couldn’t go back to wasting my life in Israel. With tears over my doomed future, I decided to blow all my life’s savings on travels.

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.

I left Japan as a changed individual. I cried more and more now, partied and hiked, tried bizarre dishes, and opened up to new friends 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 live a year from now, nor be able to afford life.

South Korea

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, elated 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, marvelled 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 one month. This taught me humility, and made me feel young at heart. Yet distance from Tokyo broke my ties with the British guy.

A trip on my days off accidentally led to my second abandoned sex museum in the countryside, followed by a martial arts temple stay.

Back in the hostel, alcohol, vomit, tears, and trauma proved that I was the only person who didn’t disappoint me. 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 won what I chased, my life was no longer boring, like in Israel. Attractions, friendships, and delicacies in Seoul compensated for my heartache, until I fell in love with a Korean guy.

Then I had to leave for the east coast. I visited a North Korean settlement, slept on top of a mountain, and cried at the stars; attended a goblin festival, screamed at waterfalls, and laughed at a penis park.

I’d never felt so mortal and alive. But the Korean guy I was dating disappeared because of our looming distance. I cried myself to sleep over a person for the first time. It was a painful reminder of how people always ghosted me, even friends who promised to stay in touch.

I left Korea relieved. This country made me feel out of place, and reminded me that no one cared. Friends had forsaken me, and so had the first person who made me fall in love.

Japan: Round Two

In August 2023, I returned to Japan for another three months. Perfect days ensued: in Tokyo with close friends, or in Tohoku, where I embarked on a festival marathon. Yet I couldn’t forget about 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 baffling 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 strengthened my conviction that humans were foul. Betrayals in my social, romantic, and professional life made me vow to never trust anyone.

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

Then 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 I moved in with the Chinese, dating proved harder than I’d thought. I started working at a cabbage farm, and lamented the woes of mortal life.

Back at my birthday ryokan from Round One, I saw fall colors for the first time. Repeated encounters with Israelis across Hokkaido couldn’t have prepared me for the worst massacre in Israel’s history.

­I’d been looking for a job in Hokkaido, fearing my return to Israel three weeks from now. Then the massacre stranded me in Japan. War raged while a romantic reunion with the Chinese, a job offer, and a visa extension offered new possibilities.

Yet the ups-and-downs of dating someone made it clear: as long as I was travelling, I was just a passenger in people’s lives. Romantic foliage graced new crossroads, when the Chinese suggested building a life together. But war, visas, and money forced us to part.

Back in Tohoku, I was swindled and mocked. 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 injected color into an anxious routine of job hunting and legal endeavors. The Chinese rejected my offer of a long-distance relationship.

Back in the biggest city on Earth, I found myself alone, penniless, and helpless. The only person I could trust – the Chinese – also turned his back on 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 soul-crushing nights of clubbing, more frustrating dates, and one ugly breakup. I bid Tokyo and romance farewell.

In Kyoto, a bleeding heart raced to see every bleeding temple around. My autumnal marathon encompassed fiery leaves, unrequired longing, and sudden tears; geishas, grief, anxiety, and thirty shrines and temples in one week. Finally, a disastrous accident at a forested temple at dusk recreated my terrifying bike crash from Round One.

I returned with a sprained ankle to the mountaintop cave temples that had made me live in the present, and hiked to the cliff where I’d crashed. Then I returned to the remote countryside from Round One, and no longer struggled in the wild. It was official: no pain, whether emotional or physical, could stop me chasing adventures.

After scary nights in several towns, snow at a desert heralded a magical Christmas, until sickness ruined all 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 forgotten gems. But my nine months in this country were coming to a close, without an adequate job offer. Fed up with being forgotten, I left Japan.

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

Taiwan

In January 2024, I continued to Taiwan for two and a half months. It felt like the middle ground between South Korea and Japan, except with a myriad of cultural shocks. I began volunteering at a hostel in Taipei for one month, and clubbed so hard from day one, that I fell sick.

Temples, memorial halls, mountains, and great dates ended months of social and romantic abandonments. I didn’t suffer one bad moment in Taiwan.

I celebrated the Chinese New Year and one year of travelling 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 sexually-liberated country, nor felt more courted and desired. I celebrated this discovery on my second birthday on this trip. Then I found myself ghosted by everyone in my life.

A new romantic mission coincided with my bloodiest hiking injury. My head was bleeding as I resolved to understand the meaning of love, even if it traumatized me. I realized 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 divine 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 entrusted it in their palm.

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 body was starting to give into the pressure of being in love with multiple people who didn’t want me in their lives.

A disastrous temple stay and a new German-Palestinian friend from Gaza proved that I’d out-grown my social anxiety, and sought someone special who would challenge my new composure. I didn’t mind losing my peace of mind for someone who would 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 I was too much in love to hate those that had left me in the dark. Moreover, every heartbreak and life-threatening low on this trip had followed bliss and life-changing 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 beautiful nature, divine food, and extreme festivals. Improved dates showed who was willing to wait for me, and who would forget our time.

Back to volunteering in Taipei, lonesome 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.

New dates led to being told “I love you” for the first time. Yet this only emphasized how unrequited all my relationships had become. My trip was ending, and I was in love with an absent plural.

Then a powerful earthquake shook me into understanding the meaning of love. I wasn’t just in love – I also loved, despite the distance, despite the hurt, despite the time apart. I found on my final nights the Taiwanese guys that had captured my heart, and wrapped up dating – and my trip – on a high note.

After fourteen months of unforeseeable adventures, I had grown from a misfit robot in Israel to a sociable romantic in Asia. I finished my trip proud and penniless, with my mission complete, and flew back to war in Israel.

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