Ever since my journey to Australia as a study abroad student, I had an urge to go visit a few more countries around the area. One of those countries is Japan, a place I thought I would never be able to go to by the age of twenty.
Why Japan out of all places to choose from? Well it was more spontaneous—I booked the trip a week in advance because being bored was not on my itinerary for a whole week break from schooling. Initially I was going to travel on my own, but instead ended up arriving to Japan with my father hauling his own luggage and couple film cameras placed randomly across his chest—then a few hours after we arrive, my mother, brother, and aunt showed up spontaneously… hispanic families, am I right? This wasn’t how the trip plan was supposed to go, but considering I haven’t seen my family in about three months, I was actually excited to see them.
I had to get my parents accustomed to traveling in public transportation. As naïve as I am about public transport, I’ve gotten used to it by just brute forcing myself into taking trains as a method of getting around Sydney instead of taking a taxi or the bus—I enjoyed it quite a bit. My father seemed hesitant on using the transportation after my mother was insistent on us getting a taxi because it will be “faster.” But we’re talking about Tokyo, one of the most densely populated cities in the world, so why not take the train?
Too many people were on the train that evening (just like every other evening and hour). But looking around the cart, my father and I noticed the silence was almost deafening. Nobody seemed to talk. They were either looking at their phones, or staring off into the distance. The only people that would talk were individuals either coming back from school, or people who wore punk, hip clothes. However I personally think, if you were to strike up a conversation with one of the silent individuals, you could write a whole novel on the history of their life. This is something that I see differ from Australia—where most of the encounters on the train are either by club-goers on the weekends, or families and groups of people trying to make their way around the cabin while talking up a storm. The cultures are different, none are right or wrong.
As we spent the next couple of days, most of my family left and It was just my Dad and I exploring the complexities of the Tokyo streets—well, the touristy areas like Shibuya, Harajuku, the business district, and Shinjuku. I got to see the nightlife among my travels in Japan and felt more attached than ever exploring the depths of Tokyo, the spirtual-traditional areas of Kyoto, and watching the bowing deer of Nara. But I don’t go to places just to go to places. I try to notice the differences between my own culture and the place I’m currently In. Not to make my culture seem better—without morals and sweating large swaths of ignorance, but rather trying to see what particular differences make a society work. I’m still attempting to understand the world and this is the best way of learning, through applying what I already know and building on from that like a fractal. And from what I’ve seen, countries sixteen-hundred miles away from each other can have vastly different communication styles, etiquette, formalities, and habits—which may seem obvious to anyone reading this, but to say this phrase as a legitimate observation that you’ve seen with your eyes, rather than reading it on a textbook or getting someone else’s opinion, feels more satisfying and reassuring to say out loud.
