ロスト・イン・トランスレーション

Now, this trip started fucked up. From the moment I landed.

I saw my big bag on the conveyor as soon as I walked up to baggage claim and thought we were off to a good start. I rushed to grab it, then noticed a lady holding up a sign with my last name. I’m thinking—oh shit, is this some VIP shit? So I saunter up, all proud, and tell her I’m who she’s looking for.

She tells me my bag is lost.

This has literally never happened to me, so I tried to stay calm and figure out next steps. She told me to keep an eye on the conveyor, but girl—you knew that damn bag wasn’t coming. I saw an upside-down bin with my name on it. I pointed it out, and she was like, oh yeah, that’s because we’re looking for the bag. Once I saw the bin loop back around a second time, reality—and panic—started to set in.

I started thinking about how I had packed that bag specifically for the beginning of my trip. I took inventory of everything I’d be missing—clothes, my toothbrush, deodorant, flat iron...

My mind started racing, thinking about how I—in JAPAN—was gonna find a flat iron that could handle my n-word hair?! I’ve honestly never even heard of Japanese people using flat irons. I didn’t see them doing her shit with a flat iron in Memoirs of a Geisha! I was already stressed from trying to navigate everything else, and now I gotta do it ugly too?

I eventually did find a flat iron—for one hundred and fifty GOT DAMN U.S. dollars. It didn’t get hot enough. It wasn’t wide enough. It didn’t clamp down on my hair the way I needed it to. But it did just enough to do enough. And honestly, in a state of panic, what choice did I really have?

But in that moment, trying to figure out how I’d replace everything I was missing—including clinical deodorant, because y’all KNOW that girl get hot and be sweating!—I got so overwhelmed, I couldn’t even give the Delta rep the full details of my luggage before the tears started falling.

A passerby asked if I was okay, and that just made it worse. The more I thought about what was happening—what I was missing, how I must’ve looked crying in front of these strangers—I started to hyperventilate. I asked the lady if she was done with me so I could go to the bathroom and have my anxiety attack in peace. But she needed more info... then passed me off to someone else to take me through customs.

Now I’m going back and forth with the man leading me, trying to get him to promise he’d watch my other bag while I ran to the bathroom. Because—why would I want to be dragging a suitcase through the airport in this state? But also... I’ve already lost one bag, wouldn’t want anyone running off with my last thread.

I locked myself in the stall and thought—luckily I’m only in here to have an anxiety attack and not to pee, because I didn’t even understand how to work the toilet.

“Work the toilet” sounds ridiculous coming from someone raised in America—because, like, just flush it—but there were a million buttons, and I was in no state to figure out what any of them did. That was the moment I started to understand: this trip probably wasn’t going to turn out the way I thought it would.

If I couldn’t figure out something as basic as a toilet... how was I supposed to navigate Japan?

Navigating only got worse from there. As I exited the point of no return at the airport, I had no mind to figure out anything. All I wanted was to lay my head in a hotel bed and let the rest of my frustration out in peace.

But then I remembered—the first hotel I booked was in Kyoto. Three hours away. The thought alone sent me spiraling again. I started to hyperventilate, overwhelmed all over again.

I needed to sit down and collect myself, but there was nowhere to sit. There’s nowhere to sit in Japan at all, really. So I stood there—tucked in a corner—trying not to be noticed with tears streaming down my face.

It took a few more attacks before I finally told myself—I don’t want to keep crying standing up in this airport. The only option was to push through, so I could break down comfortably in my hotel room. I wanted to fall apart right there, but I knew I had to keep going.

I walked to the train station and saw a bunch of people buying tickets. I realized—again—I didn’t understand. And honestly? I didn’t have the capacity to figure it out.

I assumed it probably required yen—I’d heard Japan was still very cash-centric—but I didn’t have any. I’d been too deep in my tizzy to exchange money at the airport.

I went up to an agent and asked if I could buy a ticket with a credit card. He said yes, but then I couldn’t even tell the man where I was trying to go. Because it wasn’t my final destination—it was just a train to get on another train. And I didn’t know how to explain that.

He was kind and gave me directions to the right platform. But when I got down there, I didn’t see a single sign for the train I’d just paid for.

So I stood there, overwhelmed. And I started crying again. At least there was somewhere I could sit down there.

After sending what felt like a million picture messages to ChatGPT (thank goodness I’m washed and have a Plus plan with unlimited picture messages), trying to figure out what the fuck was going on—I’m so thankful there was cell service at the platform, because I really would’ve lost it otherwise—I finally tried to calm myself enough to ask the conductor if the train was headed to Kyoto.

He said, “Kyoto?” Told me to hold on. Then said nothing else... and the train took off.

I said… okay lol. Then I went and sat down and started crying again. Lmao.

I felt so helpless—like I was drowning before the trip even really got started.

I stopped looking for the train the maps were telling me to get on and just asked Chat if the one in front of me would take me where the hell I was trying to go.

They said yes, and I was like—fuck it. Let’s go.

I couldn’t possibly be more lost or more stressed than I already was.

The whole time I was on the train, my body was tense. Because I knew this wasn’t a ride to my destination—it was just a ride to get on another train. And I was just praying that station wouldn’t be as difficult to navigate as the one I just left.

Not only that, it was crowded. The orange handles hung from the ceiling, which was also cluttered with a bombardment of Japanese advertisements—none of which I could even figure out what they were selling. I guess because they weren’t selling to me.

I couldn’t help but feel lied to. Everybody swore Japan’s transit is so easy to take. And it’s not! And I will not be silenced. Lmao.

Amsterdam spoiled me. I thought that because Euro Tay could breeze through trams, I could take transit anywhere. But clearly, I was wrong.

I got off that train and—just as I thought—trash. That station, where I had to catch the Shinkansen—the bullet train—was even more difficult. Just saying the name stresses me out. Shinkansen. It’s like he-who-must-not-be-named. That station put me through it. Coming and going.

Looking back, I remember seeing a post like, “when you’re at [blank] station in Japan…” but back then, I wasn’t paying it any attention. Because Euro Tay got this. Now? Today me is desperately trying to find that post just to compare war stories.

Again, I couldn’t figure out how to buy a ticket. Thankfully, there was an office. I asked if they took international cards—we’re in luck. She booked me a train about 30 minutes out. I wanted to ask her to move it up because I was ready to get on the fastest thing smoking out of that station, but I figured I could use the time to relax from all the stress I’d been through. Whew.

After spending a little time loitering—which really is the perfect word, because I was just standing there with my last remaining bag on the side of the station—again, no seats—I figured I should probably find my platform before things got chaotic.

I had plenty of time. And I didn’t want to rush or be stressed.

That 30 minutes? I needed every single second to figure out where the hell to go.

I was so confused—go upstairs to get to the correct platform number, but it’s only for cars 1–15. I’m in car 17. So I walk further down, but now it’s a different platform number, and still no mention of the car I’m looking for. What the hell?

More tears ensued.

Eventually, I made it through and found my platform. I stood there, crying—because again: no seats. Anywhere. Ever.

I had gotten there a little early, but I was willing to stay put and wait. I wasn’t risking getting lost again. I let my tears fall until the train arrived. Tucked away, hoping nobody would notice.

The train pulled in, and I stepped out of my little niche and saw a queue had formed to board. I cut the line. And I didn’t give a damn about the rules or looking like a pretentious American—because I was here before all y’all.

And after everything I’d been through? I don’t care if it looked like I came out of nowhere. I been here and I’m getting on this train.

I made a mental note: after everything I had been through just to get on this bullet train, once I got through the two-hour ride to Kyoto, I was calling an Uber from the station straight to the hotel.

Except—I couldn’t even figure out how to leave the station.

Then I couldn’t figure out where the Uber was supposed to pick me up. The license plates looked different, which threw me off, and I was already so disoriented. How was I supposed to know what car to get into?

I was so ready to lay it down. I was mentally preparing for something shitty to happen at the hotel too—because at this point, why wouldn’t something else go wrong?

More tears came while I tried to find my Uber. But I got in, and was quickly disillusioned by what I saw outside the window.

But then I checked into the hotel. I had intended to pay for an upgrade—but they gave me a complimentary one for my birthday.

The room was beautiful. There was towel art on the bed. A happy birthday card.

And for the first time that day, I felt a little softness instead of survival.

I cried the best cry I’ve had in months—because at least, for once, I was in comfort and not standing up in public.

But I cried because it was becoming painfully clear: this trip wasn’t going to be what I thought it would be.

I cried about how I was looking—because I had sweated my hair out so bad through all this shit, I had a bush on top of my head. And the bag with my flat iron? Still missing.

I wanted to go to the hotel restaurant, but why the hell would I want to sit anywhere in public looking like Buckwheat??

I opened Uber Eats and—hello Uber, I am an American, from America—why couldn’t y’all translate the menu for me? Everything was in Japanese, and I had no energy left to figure out what I was even looking at.

So I cried myself to sleep.

And set the intention that tomorrow would be better.