Breaking into Tokyo

When I first flew to Japan, back a few years, I was nervous as hell. I was memorizing little phrases on the plane, thinking about how bad I might suck as a teacher, unable to sleep much.

This time, it was completely different. In fact, I had a hard time distinguishing what I was feeling exactly. I was a little nervous about the classes, but not much. I know enough of the language to get around anywhere with little confusion. So what was I feeling? Wrapped up in all the packing, organizing, physical therapy, seeing friends and family, I hadn't had much time for introspection.

As the plane descended after the 13th hour, through wispy layers of clouds that became an overcast sky once we were close enough to see the rice fields, and as the plane landed the air was filled with a grey haze, and we taxied down the runway past a neatly-trimmed hedge that said NARITA (the airport's name), and then later, after passing through customs, when an elderly lady airport attendant showed me how the luggage carts were designed to fit perfectly onto the escalators, and then later, on the train to Tokyo, in the middle of the rush hour press, when one guy fell asleep with his head just below my shoulder blade on my back, so I couldn't move without waking him, and I looked around at everybody's personal fashion, everyone so put together, and later, as I fought with a salaryman who was pushing my bags out of his way while I was holding them in place, and as I stood there looking at the sunset, which had liquified the grey haze into a gleaming gold against the concrete and the wires and the signs, I realized what I had been feeling.

Relief. At coming back to a place that is more a part of me than I ever admitted.

I'm excited to be focusing on my Japanese. I'm thrilled for this opportunity to advance towards a career in linguistics and translation. But, in a certain sense, Japan is a kind of home. I don't think I'll end up living here for good. For now, though, it'll do.