Japan

By Sebastian LaTorre

Japan is the first stop of my long international trip through 2024 and 2025. I fly from Knoxville and land on the other side of the world, stepping into the country with a mix of adrenaline, exhaustion, and expectation. I have heard so much about Japan that I almost don’t trust what I think it’s going to feel like.

Haneda Airport immediately breaks the illusion.

It is chaotic. People everywhere. Travelers confused. Lines that don’t feel like lines. Bags everywhere. I expect perfect order and instead get pure movement. It isn’t rude or hostile, just intense. Everyone is trying to arrive at once. It feels like the country hasn’t quite caught up to how many people want to be here.

Once I get into the city, everything changes.

Tokyo is spotless. Uncomfortably clean. The streets feel polished. The systems work quietly in the background. Trash cans barely exist, hidden behind vending machines or tucked inside corners you wouldn’t think to check. Everything feels intentional. Even the silence feels planned.

Tokyo is massive, but it doesn’t overwhelm me. It hums.

I spend my first days moving through neighborhoods, learning how the trains work, walking until my legs feel loose again. I meet people. I eat constantly. Ramen shops. Convenience stores that somehow serve better food than restaurants back home. Every 7-Eleven stop turns into a ritual. Crème brûlée ice cream. Fried chicken thighs. Maple-sweet pancake sandwiches that shouldn’t work but do.

From Tokyo, the country opens up.

The cities begin to blur together as we move through Nagano, Nagoya, and eventually west. Trains carry us through farmland and mountains. Stations feel like small worlds that reset every time you step off. Hiroshima feels quieter than I expect. Reflective, but not heavy. It’s another city stop, one that feels important to see but not one I linger in for long.

Nearby, the pace slows even more.

We stay in Onomichi, a sleepy coastal town that feels paused in time. The Airbnb is traditional, almost delicate, paper walls and soft light. Everything creaks. Everything breathes. There’s nothing to do, and that’s the point. We walk without a plan and stumble into Cat Alley, narrow paths winding uphill with cats lounging in doorways and on stone steps. It feels accidental and perfect.

From there, the energy snaps back.

Osaka is loud, fast, and indulgent. The food hits immediately. One night stands above everything else. We sit down for wagyu beef, cooked in front of us by a chef who treats the meat like something sacred. A5 Kobe. Perfect cuts. Each bite feels unreal. It’s absurd and unforgettable and something I know I’ll never fully justify to myself again.

Kyoto changes everything.

We stay beneath Kyoto Tower and rent bikes. That single decision defines the entire city for me. Biking gives us freedom. Bike highways cut through neighborhoods. We fly across town instead of circling it. Eight-mile rides feel casual. The city becomes something we move through, not something we wait on.

Mornings in Kyoto belong to us.

We wake up at 5 a.m. every day. The air is cold. The streets are empty. The city is silent in a way that feels rare anywhere else in the world. From 5 to 7, Kyoto feels private. Shrines are empty. Paths are ours alone. By 8 a.m., it’s packed. The transition is wild to watch. A city waking up in layers.

We ride to temples early. We walk slowly. We leave before the crowds arrive. Fushimi Inari feels almost unreal without people. The torii gates stretch on quietly. We don’t rush.

Food becomes routine in the best way. We find a cheap spot with two-dollar gyoza and eat there almost every day. We wander the fish market and try things without fully understanding what they are. A baby octopus stuffed with a quail egg. Strange and fascinating and impossible to forget.

One day we take the train to Nara and walk among the deer. They bow for food. They crowd around tourists. Ancient temples sit quietly in the background as if they’ve seen this scene a thousand times already.

Later, Mount Fuji looms.

We stay near Lake Kawaguchi. The mountain plays hide and seek with the clouds. I bike the entire lake alone, circling the water with Fuji rising and disappearing behind me. It’s calm. Meditative. A contrast to the chaos of the cities.

Tokyo returns.

This time, I’m alone for a bit. I wander without urgency. I meet people through hostel chats. One night, we head out to Golden Gai. Narrow alleys. Tiny bars stacked on top of each other. We post in a group chat asking if anyone wants to join.

That’s where everything shifts.

Two brothers respond. One of them is Aiden. That night changes the trajectory of the entire trip, but that story belongs somewhere else.

Japan, as a whole, feels precise and wild at the same time. Structured but full of space if you move early enough. Loud in the right places. Silent when you earn it. A country where the best moments happen before breakfast and after midnight.

I leave knowing I barely scratched the surface.
And knowing I’ll be back.