This March, after a thirteen-year absence, I once again set foot on Japanese soil—thanks to the long shadows cast by the COVID pandemic, we hadn’t traveled for four years. Thirteen years ago, an unexpected semi-business trip took me to Hokkaido, leaving a lasting impression of Japan. Back then, I didn’t have the chance to explore the main islands, but I vowed to return, and specifically, to visit Kyoto. Little did I know it would take thirteen years to fulfill that promise, until this year. My fifteen-year-old daughter has been incessantly longing for Tokyo. Born in bustling Shanghai and having moved to Canada at nine, she yearns for the vibrancy of the “metropolis.” With her passion for art, she has set her sights on a career in animation design, making Tokyo her “holy land.”

After a half-year odyssey around the globe, my daughter and I landed in Tokyo, casting our fatigue to the winds. The fresh air of a new country filled us with both anxiety and excitement. As a Chinese person arriving in Japan from Canada, I felt an indescribable sense of familiarity from the start. Stepping through customs, I found myself surrounded by people with black hair and yellow skin, who looked much like us. More importantly, despite the stark differences in pronunciation between Japanese and Chinese, the written characters are strikingly similar; nearly all subway station names and addresses are in kanji. Thus, in a country where English proficiency lags behind many developed nations, we enjoyed a linguistic privilege that most foreigners do not.

This likely emboldened my daughter and me to embark on this journey to Japan, relying entirely on public transport. What astonished us about Tokyo wasn't merely its hustle and bustle—though that's what captured my daughter, the “metropolis fan.” —Instead, it was the meticulous order beneath the chaos, creating an illusion of being able to “blend in with the city.” The crowds in the subway felt like being swept away by a torrent; one misstep could disrupt the flow of others. Standing on escalators requires adherence to the left, silence must reign in the subway cars, and so on—lessons my daughter had diligently researched in advance, worried we might inconvenience anyone. I felt a sense of satisfaction in this; in Canada, children live in a rather permissive environment, and I had often worried they might forget about etiquette.

Once, I read a reflection from a Japanese expatriate in Canada who lamented that Japanese people struggle to forgive others, thus placing themselves under unnecessary pressure. I must admit, Chinese people are similar in this regard. In contrast, Canadians generally accept that “people make mistakes,” which fosters an environment where blame and self-judgment are minimal, leading to a more relaxed life. Because of this characteristic among the Japanese, during this boom in Japan's tourism industry, “rule-breaking” foreigners can be found everywhere, prompting me to wonder if this is a source of frustration for the locals. However, it seems most Tokyoites have become accustomed to this. I rarely witnessed annoyance from those who saw foreigners neglecting to stand on the left or chatting loudly in subway cars. But perhaps I just missed it, as the Japanese are known for their restraint.

The one exception occurred on our last day in Tokyo, when a series of missteps caused quite a scene as we hurried to catch a train. The Tokyo station’s layout creates a unique challenge; the train station and subway operate in tandem, requiring you to pass through the subway gates before reaching the train platform. Moreover, the ticketing system is dual: a travel ticket and a seat reservation ticket, both needed together. Unsure why we needed to pass through the subway gate first, we hesitated at the barrier with our train tickets, leading a fellow passenger to impatiently snatch a ticket from our hands and insert it into the subway gate. The doors opened, allowing us to pass, but we inadvertently left one train ticket behind. When we reached the train platform, a staff member stopped us for missing a ticket.

Confused at first, the staff spoke rapidly in Japanese, realizing we were lost. They seemed frustrated that we had delayed others boarding the train and forcibly pulled one of us back from the gate, directing us to the information desk. Fortunately, the staff there patiently used Google Translate to communicate with us, understanding our plight, and managed to retrieve our ticket from the subway gate, allowing us to board the train later. I could only imagine how such “foreign misfits” might disrupt the lives of the Tokyoites.

Later, we learned that Japan’s Shinkansen allows travelers to board any train bound for their destination at any time—essentially an open ticket. The seat reservation ensures you have a seat corresponding to your intended travel time. Without it, you can still board but must find an empty seat, and unfortunately, we had lost the travel ticket, making us unable to enter. As for the subway entrance, it’s indeed correct to first use the subway ticket to enter the station and then the train ticket to access the platform; similarly, when exiting at your destination, you must use the subway ticket again. This system is complex yet precise, a potential nightmare for foreign visitors. No matter how thorough your travel guide, nothing compares to firsthand experience.

Readers of The Chrysanthemum and the Sword might be familiar with the “sense of dissonance” that arises from Japan's cultural dualities—so much so that the term “dissonance” is an import from Japanese, absent in the original Chinese lexicon. Tokyo encapsulates this dissonance perfectly.

Before this trip, as I studied Tokyo’s map, I was startled to discover the Imperial Palace (Kokyo) nestled right beside the vibrant Ginza district, mere steps from Tokyo’s central subway station, accessible by foot. In China, palaces are sacred and aloof, like the Forbidden City, designed to distance itself from the “mortal world,” hence the name “forbidden.” Surrounded by high walls, the wide avenues of Chang'an Street are a hundred meters across; the palace grounds cover hundreds of thousands of square meters, most of which are empty space, creating a stark physical divide between emperors and commoners. Yet it seems the Japanese, when constructing Tokyo, opted for a location that made the imperial residence easily accessible via modern transport, placing it next to the central subway station, thereby rendering the palace physically approachable.

Another curious contradiction lies in the transportation situation. No metropolis escapes the struggles of traffic—be it Shanghai, Beijing, or New York, the car-centric age has spurred conflicts between vehicles and pedestrians, evident on city streets. Yet, remarkably, Tokyo seems immune! While I had read numerous accounts and analyses of Tokyo’s traffic efficiency, experiencing it firsthand still felt surreal.

One theory I heard suggests that Tokyo’s urban planning diverges from other major cities. Most cities divide regions to mitigate noise and pollution, with distinct zones for commerce, industry, and residences. However, Tokyo reportedly embraces a mixed-use model. The advantages of zoning are clear, but as urbanization intensifies, the disadvantages become apparent, particularly regarding transportation. Residents need to commute to commercial and industrial areas for work, leading to daily traffic woes. In this context, Tokyo’s mixed-use approach shines. I’m unsure if this reflects Japanese foresight or their stubborn adherence to tradition, but the outcome appears commendable.

Another prevalent dissonance is that, while perhaps not unique to Tokyo, it’s something you can experience throughout Japan: a high standard of professionalism and friendliness in service settings juxtaposed against an everyday environment marked by emotional distance. Despite the cultural similarities that evoke a sense of familiarity, Tokyo doesn’t feel “close.” The city is clean, orderly, and boasts excellent service, with residents displaying kindness—one shopkeeper, despite language barriers, earnestly assisted us with an iPad when we were lost. Yet on the streets of Tokyo, you might find that you rarely make eye contact, receive smiles, or encounter the simple gestures of greeting or conversation that are commonplace in European and American travels. This could be attributed to language barriers, cultural traits, or perhaps our hurried itinerary. Regardless, during our three days in Tokyo, we felt like travelers adrift in a two-dimensional world, enjoying what we could see, touch, and taste, yet unable to connect. The lives of Tokyoites remained a mystery to me.

Perhaps on our next visit, we could explore different approaches to communication and understanding with Tokyo. And so, with these thoughts lingering in our minds, we concluded our brief three-day journey through Tokyo, finally boarding a train to Kyoto after navigating the earlier chaos at the station.

(To be continued…)MarMar