Lost in Translation

I woke up around 2 or 3 a.m. and talked to some friends back home—one of them (shoutout Zim) helped me figure out a plan to get to a flatiron, and I instantly felt better. One thing about me, and something this trip really reinforced: I’m solutions-oriented. Having a plan immediately lifts my spirits. But the shopping center didn’t open until 11.

Mind you, I hadn’t really eaten since my first meal on the flight. Ion know how long it was because time change and I don’t know math. Just know it was a long ass time. I was about to wither away!

So I decided to head to 7-Eleven for those snacks I’d seen all over social media.

I’d heard so much about Japan’s safety—especially for solo Black women—and I remembered how safe I felt in Amsterdam. Plus, I don’t accept the version of reality where I have to be fearful just to move through the world.

So I headed out around 4 a.m.

And it was safe. I didn’t feel a hint of danger. Folks were just out walking around, hanging out like it was 8 p.m. I’m like, okay—I like det.

Now I didn’t see anybody that looked like me, let’s be clear, but that’s another story.

I made it to 7-Eleven and was very pleased with my haul—both in price and in value. On the walk back, I found deodorant at Family Mart. It wasn’t antiperspirant, but it would have to do. I might be able to step out with my hair a mess—but I absolutely cannot go musty!

Thankfully, the hotel provided a toothbrush. I tied on the same scarf I’d been traveling in and hit the road.

I ended up finding the flatiron I mentioned at a luxury mall—for one hundred and fifty US damn dollars (that I can’t even use at home because of the voltage? Or something?). I also grabbed a couple of cute fits from Zara. Honestly, I was shocked I found anything—considering anything above a medium in Japan is basically a myth.

But I have breasts. A lot of them.

I found some cute shit though.

Small sizes are temporary. Style is forever.

I went back to the hotel and soaked in a good bath—which was freeing in itself. One, because I’ve always loved a good bath, but my apartment doesn’t have one, so it’s been a while.

But also because my mom always told me never to use hotel baths.

But it was calling me.

And after spending so much of my unraveling standing up, I needed to sit. I needed to luxuriate.

After my relaxing bath, getting my hair straight enough, and putting on my breezy white fit (that really wasn’t the same white—but ion care, cause I’m fly and it matches cause I got it on) from Zara—feeling godly—I headed out to course-correct this trip.

One place I’d heard people rave about was Don Quijote. There was one within walking distance of my Kyoto hotel. I actually walked into the store without realizing that was it—and immediately walked back out. It was mass-produced shit. So overwhelming and so much. Everywhere.

But after confirming that yes, this was the Don Quijote everyone kept talking about, I decided to give it another shot with an open mind. I went on all the floors and tried to explore everything.

What I was met with? The same thing.

If you already know exactly what you’re looking for—go in, grab it, and leave—you might be able to do this store. But I’m a peruser. And there’s no way I could peruse when I couldn’t even read the labels. I was relying on product photos to figure out what I was looking at. I used Chat a couple times to explain what was in front of me, which honestly made me wonder how people did anything before the internet.

I—lover of knickknacks and trinkets—didn’t buy a single thing from that store that I couldn’t have gotten literally anywhere else. Really—I didn’t buy not one souvenir because I had a horrible time, lol. Why would I want to be reminded?

I bought a pin for my hat like a war pin. Like: I came, I saw, I was conquered.

But yeah, Don Quijote? I couldn’t even think in there. It was just… so. Much. Shit. Everywhere.

I did re-up on my Jimmy Choo perfume, which was at a decent price, and grabbed some ponytail holders to put my hair up—because it was drenched with sweat. Honestly, it didn’t even matter that I’d found a flat iron, because my shit was already back to looking like a helmet.

I ended up in some area with a bunch of shops. My scalp was sweating so bad my hair was literally dripping. I figured—let me find a hat.

I had noticed how much the Japanese seemed to care about sun exposure—people carrying umbrellas with no rain in sight, using them instead for shade. I’d really noticed it in 7-Eleven when I was searching for deodorant but found myself in a sea of sunscreen. Then I started noticing the sun hats.

I wanted a cute hat too.

I walked into a few specialty shops. I saw hats, but I didn’t know the customs—was I allowed to try one on? Or is that some American shit? Not wanting to be rude, I didn’t try anything on. And without trying them, nothing felt quite like me, so I left.

Eventually, I walked into a shop that only sold hats and saw people around me trying them on. So I did too.

Let’s be clear—I’m never pressed about what other people are doing. But when I’m in a foreign country, my goal is not to be inadvertently offensive. And I think—I know—that was part of the thing with Japan.

It’s polite. Respectful. But also has this quiet, conservative air where you’re constantly wondering: Am I doing the right thing? Or am I just not being corrected?

And when I have to wait for visual confirmation from someone else to know it’s okay… it clashes with my natural instinct to be a free thinker.

But anyway, I’m in the hat shop, and I get super excited because I spot a tan Kangol bucket hat. I’ve always wanted one. Something about that Kangols and Cazals look just does it for me.

I tried it on—and yep, it was it. I was hyped about how it went with my look, and the shopkeeper was too. She gave me the affirmation I didn’t even know I needed.

While running my card, she smiled and said my nails were “super kawaii.” Even though they were hanging on by a thread—and I was missing one—that made me feel good.

I had let my nails grow out because I planned to get them done in Tokyo—because… it’s Tokyo. But after everything I went through just trying to get from place to place, I let that dream sail.

These nails were gonna have to hold—because I wasn’t gonna make it.

Somewhere in the middle of the trip, I started to feel disillusioned. I found myself scrolling through the TikToks I had saved for “things to do,” trying to reconnect with what had originally excited me. But with clear eyes—unclouded by anticipation—I saw it for what it really was: a bunch of surface-level stops that didn’t move me.

Almost everything boiled down to: go to this area, look at that thing, and... that’s it. Like in Osaka—go to Dotonbori and spot the Glico Man. Before I even went down the rabbit hole of how to get there, I paused and asked: Why does this matter to me? And it didn’t. It felt like that scene on Real Housewives when the white man gave NeNe a Rolex and she was just like… okay? This was very that.

I had wanted to collect shrine stamps—something I thought would be a beautiful, reflective souvenir. But after multiple anxiety attacks just trying to navigate public transit from location to location, I had to ask myself: Who really gives a fuck about a damn stamp? Japan started to feel less like a meaningful experience and more like something I was doing just to say I did it.

At one point, I asked Chat: if I’m already underwhelmed by Kyoto, is it even worth going to Osaka? Or would it just be more of the same—and I’d end up pissed? Chat, knowing what they know about me, my evolving travel preferences, and what I’d already been through, advised me to skip Osaka and head to Tokyo.

I figured Tokyo was the big city—and I’m a city girl. There had to be something for me there.

Only problem? Delta had arranged for my bag to be shipped to my Osaka hotel.

So I had to trek even further out to Osaka, just to pick it up. After about five more anxiety attacks getting to the hotel, I was sure it’d be there.

Wrong.

I told the front desk lady—multiple times through Google Translate—that I didn’t want to check in, I just wanted to retrieve my bag. She said it hadn’t arrived yet.

Lol. Of course it hadn’t.

My biggest thing when shit is falling apart is to get out of these people’s faces quickly and politely—because I’m about to lose it. I’m about to bust… into tears. (Like White Chicks.)

I asked if I could wait in the lobby, and while I sat there trying not to completely unravel, I came up with a plan: I’d call the shipping company, figure out where the bag was being held, and go pick it up myself.

I didn’t even cry this time. Even though I was frustrated, I figured this wasn’t worse than everything else tf that had gone wrong. So I got a phone number. I made the call. Got an address. And headed out.

Luckily, the pickup location wasn’t too far from the hotel, so I walked. My maps said I was there, but I didn’t see anything that looked like I was there—so of course, I started to panic. I took a breath, calmed myself down, and eventually spotted a sign for the shipping company. I followed it around to the back… nobody was there. Just as I was about to spiral again, a man came out and took me around to the front—where I should’ve been in the first place.

After some back-and-forth with him and another woman, they finally found my bag. I was so thankful. I got my shit without a breakdown. That was progress.

But the second I walked away, that progress evaporated. Because now I had two bags to drag through the streets, through the train station, onto a train—and through a three-hour commute back to Tokyo.

The original plan was to ship my bags from city to city. But after everything I’d been through? After my shit got lost once already? I couldn’t bear to risk it again.

I lost count of how many anxiety attacks I had just trying to navigate the transit system. But one that still stands out was when I tried to board the second train that would take me to the bullet train. I’d been tapping my credit card to enter stations up until that point—but this one? It wasn’t accepted.

My commute from Osaka to Tokyo was somehow even worse—and more stressful—than the one from Tokyo to Kyoto. For starters, I was lugging two bags. And the thing about Tokyo? Not ADA-compliant. At all. It’s stairs on stairs, and if there’s an elevator, you have to go on a scavenger hunt to find it.

I figured there’d be an office where I could buy a ticket, like I had before. Nope.

A station worker tried to help me at the machine, but I explained I had no yen—only USD. She told me I’d have to exit the station and get cash from somewhere else. She kept talking, but the moment I heard “you need yen to get on,” I couldn’t hear anything else. I was already unraveling.

I needed to get to safety. Fast. But there was no safety in Japan for me.

I literally had to ask Chat what elevator button to press just to get out of the station and back to street level. And even then—once I made it down—I couldn’t figure out where to go next.

So I cried. Again.

That was my cycle at this point: spiral, sob, survive. Then do it all over again. This was not my idea of a vacation.

Then suddenly—she reappeared. The same station lady. She grabbed my arm, told me to stop crying, and walked me to a 7-Eleven to get yen.

Swear, convenience stores were my anchor when Japan put me in survival mode. 7-Eleven, Family Mart… they were my safe havens.

Convenience stores. Who would’ve thought?

The rest of the commute was just as terrible as all the other times I had taken the transit, the end.

After the trip, I learned a lot about what kind of traveler I actually am. I don’t care about checking off trendy destinations just to say I’ve been—I care about how a place makes me feel. I want to live and breathe my environment. I want to feel connected—to the people, the energy, and the place itself—not isolated and out of place.

I’ve also realized how much my accommodations matter. It’s important to me to have a thoughtfully designed, beautiful space that gives me peace after a long day of navigating the unfamiliar. Not a Ritz-Carlton, but I’m not staying in a Motel 6 either. I need a boutique hotel with intention—somewhere carefully chosen, not just conveniently booked. Comfort anchors me when everything else is new.

I realized that the very next day—when I found myself once again irritated trying to navigate the train.

I was headed to Ueno Park, determined to make the most of my birthday, even in the middle of a shitty travel experience. I was willing to give transit one last try because I had asked Chat if the route was easy, and they said yes. I asked if I could tap my credit card like I had on the local trains in Tokyo—Chat said yes. I wasn’t ready to admit defeat, so I told myself, Let’s go.

I’m gonna cut out the extras and just be real—long story short, I couldn’t even figure out how to enter the train station. Then when I finally got to a station—not even sure if it was the right one—it only accepted Japanese travel cards. And maybe I should’ve tried to figure it out, but I was at my wits’ end.

The moment I saw my card wouldn’t be accepted, I walked away and started crying. Lol.

I wanted to go back to the hotel and let myself unravel in comfort. But then I remembered—the hotel I was staying at was picked on a whim. I had decided to skip Osaka, and I couldn’t extend my original Tokyo hotel—the one I’d thoughtfully chosen, to accommodate my updated plans.

This new hotel? A shoebox. I felt cramped. I couldn’t get comfortable enough to safely unravel—and that realization started to make me spiral.

But I sat down (lol—there were seats outside this station, finally) and calmed myself. I checked how far it would be to walk back to the hotel to grab my neck fan and loop earplugs, because I knew I’d need them to get through the overstimulation on the way to the park. I also priced an Uber. It was like a $1.50 train ride versus a $20 Uber—but I really didn’t care.

At this point, peace was worth the fare.

It was also at this point that I decided—I was done trying in Japan.

Honestly, I’d wanted to go home the moment I landed. But I kept pushing through because I had spent so much money and time on this trip. I had so much hope and leaving after just two days felt like a waste.

As I ate what felt like my 50th convenience store sandwich, I realized it was the perfect metaphor for Japan: cold (and I ain’t talking about temperature), left me feeling empty.

Standing there, I realized: Japan was never going to meet me where I was trying to meet it.

I logged into my FlyDelta app, found a flight home the next day—two days early—and instantly, a weight lifted off my shoulders.

I would be back in safety. In peace. Tomorrow.

Suddenly, my priorities shifted. I was no longer trying to survive this trip—I was trying to enjoy my birthday and see what I could see. Because I had decided: I’m done with Japan. And I’m not coming back.

I got to Ueno “Park” in an Uber and was underwhelmed, again. The main “park” is basically a slab of concrete with a fountain in the middle. There are museums around it, but the park itself? A liminal space.

And really—Japan as a whole felt like a liminal space to me.

There was nowhere to sit and absorb. Everything was “look, move, go.”

And that’s exactly what I was ready to do: go.

And get the fuck up out of Japan.

One thing I did pay attention to in Japan was the fashions. I appreciated the flowy layers that moved in the wind, and the way accessories were styled to complement instead of compete. It felt like the perfect way to dress—in the winter.

But everything was so muted. Monotone. No color. And I kept thinking: It’s the middle of May—the start of summer. Can we get some brightness going? Chat told me to expect more color in Tokyo than Kyoto, but it was all the same: brown, black, navy, white. Dassit. Very drab. Very uninspired. I expected more. And like everything else on this trip, I was unimpressed.

I didn’t wear any of the color I had packed either, out of respect. I didn’t want to stand out more than I already did. I didn’t want to further alienate myself. But that didn’t make me feel any more connected. Just… duller.

I was desperate—anything—to salvage my birthday. So I hit up the Seiko Museum. Seiko originated in Japan, so I tried to be open-minded. But let’s be real—I don’t give a fuck about watches. I was bored.

I had one last idea: Disney.

I decided on DisneySea and bought an After 5 ticket for about $35. I had about an hour to waste, so I started packing my shit up.

I’m usually up until the wee hours packing—procrastinating because I don’t want to leave. I’m also pretty sure I’ve never moved a flight up, only delayed it. But this time? I was ready to get the fuck—asap.

DisneySea ended up being a great choice.

When I got there, they gave me a birthday sticker. And every cast member who saw it clapped and said happy birthday. It was the first time I felt happy in Japan.

I was still alienated—nobody looked like me, everything was in Japanese—but I knew the characters.

And for once, I had something familiar to cling to.

I went on a ride—I don’t know what the story was or what they were saying. But I recognized Nemo. Dory. Marlin. That was enough.

I also found myself smiling—not because I was having a good time, but because I was proud. Like yeah, I’m having a shitty trip… but I’m also at Disney. In Tokyo. That in itself was a wow moment.

Was it the best birthday ever, no lmao. But it was great considering.

At one point, I started to get irritated and was ready to go—but I couldn’t figure out how to exit the park. I was trying to orient myself when I caught a whiff of something smoky. At first, I thought it was part of a ride. But then I saw the line—people waiting for smoked chicken legs.

And not gonna lie, I feel about a smoked chicken leg the same way I feel about a smoked turkey leg:

If you see one, you gotta get one.

I got a chicken leg and a kiwi mojito.

I’m not even a drinker, but after everything I’d been through on this “vacation”, I deserved a little liquor.

The chicken leg was so good. So tender.

And it made me sad.

Because that moment drove home how much good food I missed out on in Japan—because I was constantly overwhelmed, disoriented, and unable to navigate anything.

It was all just too foreign, and I couldn’t make it work.

And I hate that.

By morning, I’d made peace with my decision to leave. I grabbed one last ham and cucumber sandwich and an apple juice from Family Mart. When checkout hit at 11, I called an Uber—because I was done with public transportation—and headed to the airport. My flight wasn’t until 4, but I didn’t care. There was no explorer left in me.

When I arrived, baggage drop didn’t open for another 40 minutes, and I was too early for the Sky Club. So I sat. And I laughed. Because even in the wait, it literally couldn’t get any worse. And I knew I’d be back in comfort soon.

When my partner came to get me from the airport, I felt like an episode of love after lockup—like I just got out of prison. But I was back home, in peace, and looking up flights back to Amsterdam to redeem myself.