Lani:

When you’re sitting on the Shinkansen bullet train, and you’re bolting through Japan at 200 miles per hour, it feels like home — but not at all. It feels like what the States could be if the country were smaller, or better, or whatever it would take to build up those trains. And I guess those are some of my first thoughts after one week in Japan: both the incredible familiarity and breathtaking differences between life in Tokyo and in cities like Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco. Sometimes, you think, “Oh yeah, people here are overworked and obsessed with their smartphones too.” But then you see a maid cafe, eat some blowfish or pass men wearing surgical masks, and you remember that you’re in Tokyo. It’s not the same thing at all.

I’m writing this blog entry from a tatami mattress in Kyoto. We left Tokyo a few days ago and I already miss the hysteria of Tokyo. For example, take this: The pachinko parlors, apparently owned by the Korean mob, are all over the country. When you walk inside, there is an immediate rush of digitalized, dystopian noise — a drowning, heavy wall of sound. And why all the noise? The parlors are sort-of gambling joints, where hundreds (sometimes thousands) of machines ring with constant noise. All day, people sit in front of the machines, smoking their cigarettes, staring intently, and betting away their Japanese yen. Technically, it’s not gambling. But there are loopholes.

Then you walk outside. A young girl, probably fifteen, stands in the cold, bare-legged, with a “babydoll” dress. She is doe-eyed with a big smile, asking if you want to go somewhere, some cafe. But you walk past her to see a geometric haze of neon lights, flashing like wild children’s fantasies, before your eyes. And, fuck, you’re in Tokyo.

I’ve been thinking about these moments now that I’m outside the States again. For the last three years, I was once again an “insider” — a citizen, a member of the society. Most likely, I missed being an expat or outsider. I missed the disorientation and the stripping of knowledge that comes with this terrain. And, while I’m still new at this journey, I know that it feels incredible on that 200 mph train. We’ve somehow made it — despite the grind and despite all social pressures telling us to go the other way. So I’m soaking up these vague impressions. Recording my thoughts in this blog. I’m not quite sure if this yearlong journey has any deep “meaning” or purpose behind it, and thank god I’m old enough to accept that ambiguity. But I do know that I’m an outsider once again.