My plane landed in Tokyo and I was filled with excitement to be in a foreign country for the first time. My previous summer vacations had been limited to Florida and the continental U.S. Almost completely out of the blue, I purchased a ticket to Japan to visit a friend living there, simply for the experience of seeing Japan. Regardless of the fact that I spoke absolutely no Japanese, and knew little about Japanese culture, I felt prepared for my trip—I wasn’t.
Tokyo was a far cry from any place I’d seen before. The only thing I found comfort in was the humid heat, similar to that of D.C. It was unnerving to be in a country where you only know one person and have no way to communicate with those around you. It is an uncomfortable feeling to walk down a street filled with hundreds of people who look nothing like you. I felt inept as I depended on my friend, Michelina, to order my burger and fries.
Sunday night, as we laid on our mats on the floor preparing to go to bed, Michelina informed me that during the next week I would be on my own from 8 o’clock in the morning until 6 while she was at school and her internship. I had no idea how I would eat and get around the city. My panic deepened Monday morning when I realized I had what I knew from previous experience was an infected gland. Walking was difficult and resembled something of a waddle. Knowing I could not wait until I was stateside, I decided to find an English-speaking doctor in Tokyo, alone.
Armed with a stack of travelers checks and a Tokyo city map, I embarked on my journey. The Tokyo subway system is coded with numbers, a universal language which allowed me to successfully navigate to the neighborhood where the doctor was located. After my short-lived success on the subway, I was immediately lost again. The streets were sparsely adorned with signs solely in Japanese with arrows that pointed me in no particular direction. The map I was using had no directions on it, and was drawn in a manner than made it more confusing than helpful. In pain, lost and completely alone, I felt my frustration build as I walked down the street.
I walked into the first doctor’s office I saw. It was sleek and modern. The receptionist sitting behind the silver, metal desk smiled at me.
“Hi, I’m here to see the doctor.” She looked back at me blankly. “Do you speak English?” She shook her head and I began to cry. Somehow I communicated to the woman that I was sick and need to see a doctor, and she called him. As she was getting directions, I could not control my crying. With mascara running down my face, I looked up at the receptionist who presented me with a gift of a neat pen with four colors to calm me. The woman’s kindness softened me, and a few moments later she walked me to the doctor’s office.
Entering the office, greeted with “hello” rather than “nihongo,” I was immediately relieved but nervous about my pending procedure. The doctor saw me immediately, and before I knew it I was lying on a surgical table having anesthetic applied to infection. “You shouldn’t feel this,” the doctor said in a thick British accent. I cried harder as I realized he was lying. It was in this moment that I realized it was time to leave. In pain, and alone in a foreign country I had lost all control. I left Japan the next morning.
I flew across the world looking for an experience for which I simply was unprepared. I should have better acquainted myself with the way of life and city of Tokyo. Foreign travel should be well planned and thought out, which my trip was not.
When I tell people that I went to Japan this summer their eyes light up. “Was it amazing?” I shake my head no, but am unable to describe what I actually thought about Japan. I wonder if I would had gotten past the language barrier had I not gotten the infection, or if Japan was just too different. I don’t have an answer. I can’t separate my opinion of Japan from my experience there. I’m glad I went, if only for the experience alone. I got what I always wanted—a trip abroad, and a hell of a story to go along with it.
