Before the Internet, information moved slowly. Planning a trip involved scrutinizing a few maps, buying as many traveler’s checks as you could afford, and figuring out the rest along the way. The best advice came from other travelers, often found sitting outside American Express offices, reading their mail and looking for a friendly face. Instead of texts or emails, messages were left on bulletin boards in hostel lobbies. If you wrote home, it was on thin blue aerograms.
I first arrived in Tokyo in the early 1970s, virtually penniless, having spent the last of my meager funds on a haircut and a cheap suit in Hong Kong. Now, looking back, I’m amazed at how little preparation there was.
The plan was simple. I would meet a friend who had already been there for several months, find a way to teach English, and save enough money for a plane ticket home.
My qualifications were simple as well, the haircut, the suit (“Do I look like a teacher now?”), and the fact that English is my mother tongue. The idea was that I would converse with Japanese businessmen who had studied English in school but rarely had the chance to speak it.
That was the plan, anyway.
A year and a half later, I finally left, having exhausted every extension and renewal available on my tourist visa. Somewhere along the way, I had become completely enamored with Japan.
One of my earliest memories is sitting in a noodle shop with my friend Michael. We ordered ramen. When it arrived, he picked up the bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other, and began loudly slurping the noodles. He looked up, saw the expression on my face, and we both burst out laughing.
As the laughter faded, I looked around. Sure enough, everyone else was doing the same thing.
Between slurps, he explained that it was considered the polite thing to do in Japan. I tried to get with the program—after all, when in Rome—but the laughter kept getting in the way. The ramen was delicious, and over time I ate many more bowls, eventually learning to slurp along with everyone else.
I’ve been re-reading some of the aerograms I sent home from that first trip, my mother saved them all. Impossibly thin blue paper, filled with cramped handwriting crowding every inch. Looking at my Tokyo address written on the back, it’s hard not to think about how much has changed
This time my arrival will be very different. Reservations have been made, itineraries mapped out, even a transit pass loaded onto my phone. It’s tempting to think that in the midst of all this efficiency, something will be lost. Maybe some of the uncertainty.
And yet, the anticipation feels greater this time.
I’ve been studying Japanese online with a tutor, and after several months on Zoom, we’re planning to meet in Kyoto, near where he lives. Knowing my fondness for ramen, he has promised to take us to his favorite spot. He apologized in advance that it might look old, humble, even a little dirty on the outside—which, he assured me, is always a good sign.
In the meantime, I’ve been making ramen at home, eating quietly and politely, the way I was raised. I suspect that will change once we’re there. After all, when in Rome…
No matter how much we plan, or how much we remember, we never really know what will happen until we arrive. In those moments, the years between then and now, may simply fall away.
And I have a feeling it will be impossible not to laugh with that first slurp of noodles.
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