Returning to Japan
I recently spent five days in Kyoto on a slow solo trip—my third time in Japan. Each visit brings me closer to understanding why I keep coming back, yet never quite gets me there. It’s like an equation narrowing toward its limit, approaching but never resolving. The more I return, the more I see, and the more I realize how much is left unseen.
A Detour That Stayed With Me
My first visit wasn’t even intentional. I was flying to South Korea, where I grew up, and noticed that adding a stop in Tokyo barely changed the price. A detour, a curiosity. Two nights in a city I knew nothing about.
I landed in Narita, took the Keisei Skyliner, and checked into the Cerulean Tower Tokyu. A room upgrade, club access—an easy win. Outside, Shibuya pulsed with neon and bodies, trains sliding into stations with mechanical precision. It was overwhelming but never chaotic. That first night, I ate at Uobei, where sushi arrived by high-speed conveyor—a concept that would feel like a novelty anywhere else but here was just another iteration of efficiency. Later, I wandered into a wagyu joint tucked in an alley, where the beef was so marbled it barely held together before it hit the grill. A few drinks, a walk through Nonbei Yokocho, past bars no bigger than closets.
It wasn’t until I was leaving that I felt it—the mistake of giving Japan only two nights. There was something I hadn’t unraveled, something just beyond my grasp. That regret followed me home. I knew I’d be back.
Living, Not Visiting, in Hakodate
Two years later, I returned, this time to Hokkaido. In Hakodate, I spent a week working remotely from a former trading outpost, a brick building that had seen more travelers pass through than I ever would. I worked US hours, which meant long nights and slow mornings. I cooked, shopped at local markets, and let the city move around me rather than chasing it. Travel is usually an interruption of life, but for a week, this was life.
When my week was up, I traded routine for indulgence. The Park Hyatt Niseko was nearly empty in the off-season, and my room came with an onsen overlooking the mountains. I lost hours in it, steam rising into the cold air, dissolving into nothing. I ate at the Michelin-starred sushi restaurant, hiked enough to justify my next meal, then returned to the onsen, letting the heat pull the last traces of exhaustion from my body. Japan has a way of making indulgence feel deserved. Nothing is excessive; everything is precisely what it should be.
Tokyo, With Purpose
Tokyo was next. A Yonlapa concert, a small venue, maybe 150 people. I stood near the bar, passing 800 JPY in coins for drink after drink, the only thing I could order without fumbling through language barriers. Jack and Soda, though it was more of a Jack and Tonic. The music, the warmth of the alcohol, the closeness of the crowd—it blurred into something immersive, the kind of night that exists only in the moment and then lingers in memory like a song stuck in your head.
Kyoto: Where Intent and Serendipity Meet
By my third visit, I knew Japan wasn’t a country to be taken lightly. Some things, you leave open for discovery. Others, you plan with precision. Kyoto was both.
I stayed just outside of Gion in a traditional home where the bath was the focal point of the space. I ran in the mornings, not for fitness but for the pleasure of watching the city wake up. My arrival had been slower than expected—a local train from Osaka instead of the express—but it was a mistake I welcomed. The slower pace let me see what travel usually edits out: schoolchildren in oversized backpacks, shopkeepers setting up, businessmen asleep against train windows.
But when it came to food, I didn’t leave things to chance. Japan does not take reservations lightly, and when dining is this serious, you plan accordingly. One morning, I went to Choshoku Kishin, a packed breakfast house specializing in rice. I ordered a marinated, dried fish so crisp it flaked at the touch of my chopsticks, thick cuts of local sausage, a raw egg to swirl into the steaming rice, and refills until I lost count. Each grain was perfect—fluffy, structured, designed more than cooked.
My last night, I sought out Saryo Tesshin for duck soba. The restaurant sat in a quiet stretch of Nakagyo Ward, far from the tourist paths. When I arrived, I was the only diner in a vast, empty room. The servers were unusually warm, watching curiously as I ordered duck soba, then ordered it again. The broth was deep, layered, the kind of flavor you only get from time and care. I had several glasses of their best sake, the kind that crept up on me slowly, filling my limbs with a comforting weight.
After dinner, I walked. Kyoto was sleeping, but I was still awake, moving against its current. There was something rare about this moment—no grand sights, no rush to be anywhere, just the quiet of an empty street, the stillness of temples set back from the road, the dim glow of lanterns swaying in the breeze. I thought about how I had spent my time here, how every visit had sharpened my appreciation, how each return felt like peeling back another layer. It wasn’t just Japan’s beauty or efficiency or even its food that drew me in—it was its deliberate nature. There is nothing careless about this country, nothing done without thought. Meals, landscapes, city design—it is all curated, refined, made to be noticed.
That’s why I keep coming back. Because Japan is not a place that reveals itself all at once. It rewards patience, rewards those who engage, who return, who pay attention. And when you do, you realize it’s not just about seeing Japan, but learning how to experience it.