Japan 2025

It was a baptism by fire, a full-sensory immersion into the beautiful, overwhelming chaos of Japan. Some trips are about easing into a new place; this was about being thrown into the deep end.

The Current of Contradictions: Three Weeks in Japan

The humidity hits you first. It’s a physical presence in the air, thick and unfamiliar, clinging to your skin the moment you step out of the station. Then comes the sound—a layered symphony of indecipherable advertisements, the distant clang of a railway crossing, and the murmur of a thousand conversations you can’t understand. Finally, the light. Neon washes over everything, bleeding from kanji signs stacked five stories high, reflecting off the wet pavement and the windows of towering, slender buildings. This was Kabukicho, Tokyo. Our first night. We were pushing a stroller with our one-year-old son, Lincoln, navigating a river of humanity through the world’s most famous red-light district with all our luggage in tow. It was a baptism by fire, a full-sensory immersion into the beautiful, overwhelming chaos of Japan. Some trips are about easing into a new place; this was about being thrown into the deep end. And we were there for it, one hundred percent.

You don’t travel to find a version of home; you travel to find a version of yourself you didn’t know was there.

Our journey through Japan was a study in contrasts, a three-week pilgrimage through a country that flawlessly balances the hyper-modern with the deeply ancient. After the electric shock of Kabukicho, we moved to Asakusa, a neighborhood that felt like a collective exhale. The pace slowed. The streets were lined with small, family-run shops selling senbei rice crackers and handcrafted fans. Our traditional tatami mat airbnb was a stone’s throw from the Sumida River, where the futuristic Tokyo Skytree pierced the clouds, standing sentinel over the timeless grace of the Sensō-ji Temple, the most visited spiritual site on the planet.

It was here, in the shadow of this sacred place, that Japan revealed another of its fascinating dualities: profound efficiency wrapped in quiet humility. A cough I’d picked up on the crowded trains had settled deep in my chest. We found a small hospital tucked away behind the temple, expecting a bureaucratic ordeal. An hour and about thirty dollars later, I walked out with a diagnosis, a course of antibiotics, and my own Japanese healthcare card. No shouting, no chaos, just a quiet, streamlined process that felt as calm and deliberate as a tea ceremony. It was a small moment, but a significant one. A society can be judged by how it cares for a stranger, and Japan, in its quiet way, had shown us its heart.

Tokyo Disney By The Sea

Our time in Tokyo was a blur of these contradictions. We spent a day at Tokyo DisneySea, a place of pure, manufactured fantasy. It wasn’t about the rides for us —with Lincoln too small for most, we became observers. We wandered through a meticulously crafted pirate’s cove, a medieval castle, and a steampunk city straight out of a Jules Verne novel. We saw an Arabian desert town, Rapunzel’s forest, and a lost river delta, each a masterclass in world-building and design. It was artifice at its most artistic, a testament to the Japanese obsession with detail and perfection. The next day, we were back in the beautiful reality of Tokyo Station, navigating Character Street, buying Pokémon cards — a nod to the culture that shaped so much of my childhood, although these are gifts for the nephews — and sipping matcha lattes before boarding a train that would take us away from the city’s pull.

An 18 hour night ferry into the Northern Pacific

The plan was to trade the concrete jungle for the open sea. We traveled through the countryside to the coastal town of Oarai to board the Sunflower Ferry, our vessel for an eighteen-hour overnight journey to the northern island of Hokkaido. The ferry was a world unto itself. While many passengers settled into large, hostel-style bunk rooms, we had a small premium cabin that felt like a secret sanctuary. As the ferry pulled away from the coast, the lights of the mainland dissolving into the darkness, a profound sense of peace settled over us. The hum of the engines was a steady mantra. We were suspended between two points, in that liminal space that only travel can provide, watching the black waters of the Pacific slide by. The journey itself had become the destination.

Hokkaido

Hokkaido felt like another country entirely. We disembarked and made our way to Otaru, a small port town with a quiet, melancholic charm. We learned that Hokkaido was one of the last parts of Japan to be electrified, so Otaru became a center for glassmaking, producing the oil lanterns that lit the north. That history is still etched into the city’s identity, with delicate glass shops lining its streets. The town of 100,000 people boasted nearly as many sushi restaurants, and I made it my personal mission to sample as many as I could. The fish was impossibly fresh, pulled from the cold northern waters. Otaru’s scale and proximity to the sea reminded me of Bellingham, a faint echo of home on the other side of the world. Even the Otaru Aquarium, a wonderfully strange complex built in the 1950s, had a distinct character—its old, rusted structures felt like relics of a bygone era, a sort of Soviet-style architectural aesthetic you’d never expect to find in Japan.

From Otaru, we journeyed to Sapporo to visit the Shiroi Koibito Park, a whimsical chocolate factory that felt like stepping into a fairy tale. We toured the factory, watching the meticulous process of creating their famous white chocolate cookies, and I found a jar of “wine jam” for my dad, a perfect, peculiar souvenir. The chocolate we tasted there remains some of the best we’ve ever had, a simple, perfect pleasure.

Osaka

Our next leap was a two-hour flight south to Osaka. We landed on a modern marvel—the Kansai International Airport, the world’s largest floating airport, an entire island built by human hands. Catching the last midnight train into the city, we arrived at the Swissôtel Nankai Osaka and were immediately struck by the verticality of it all. Our hotel room was on one of the 38 floors of a tower built atop four stories of subway lines, which were themselves built atop six floors of shops and restaurants. Looking out the window at the layered city, the elevated highways weaving between skyscrapers, the rivers of people flowing through subterranean malls—it truly felt like a cyberpunk city made real. A place where humanity and technology had merged into a single, pulsating organism.

Osaka was kinetic. We stayed in Namba, losing ourselves in the labyrinthine shopping arcades, where we bought fifteen beautiful pieces of ceramic dishware that we somehow had to fit in our luggage. Never mind that – we purchased an extra suitcase to check back to the states, dedicated for souvenirs. We ate transcendentally fluffy egg-white pancakes and stood before the giant Glico “Running Man” sign at Dotonbori, a landmark so iconic it felt familiar. We went thrifting. We ate at conveyor-belt sushi restaurants where Lincoln sat, mesmerized by the parade of plates. One evening, I ducked into a tiny, standing-room-only izakaya for a bowl of ramen. Lincoln sat patiently on a stool beside me as Japanese salarymen, fresh from the office, filtered in around us. They were tired from their long day, but their faces broke into warm smiles when they saw him, offering friendly waves and kind words. In this city of millions, we felt seen. It’s one thing to see a culture from the outside, but it’s another to be welcomed, even for a moment, into its small, daily rituals.

Kyoto

From Osaka, we took a day trip to Kyoto, the nation’s former imperial capital and its cultural soul. It was a quick train ride but a journey back in time. We had a life-changing wagyu beef lunch, the meat so tender it felt like an illusion. We walked through the controlled chaos of Nishiki Market, a sensory explosion of sights, sounds, and smells. And we strolled through the thousands of vermilion gates at Fushimi Inari Shrine, a path winding up a sacred mountain, each gate a prayer or a promise. The train back to Osaka was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with uniformed school children, their cheerful chatter a reminder of the living, breathing present that exists alongside Japan’s deep history. We spent our last days in the region practicing machi-aruki—city strolling—with no agenda other than to see where the streets would take us.

This is the central paradox of Japan. It’s a high-tech society where bullet trains slice through the country at 200 miles per hour, yet you still pay for your ramen in cash. It’s a land of sprawling concrete jungles where, just around the corner, you’ll find a centuries-old Shinto shrine, a silent pocket of sacred space amidst the noise. You can be swept up in the frantic, fast-walking hustle of a Shibuya crosswalk one moment, and the next, you’re in a tiny shop having a quiet, deeply polite, almost meditative interaction with a shopkeeper before being released back into the current. It’s a nation of beautiful, functional contradictions.

Tokyo

Our trip ended where it began: Tokyo. For our last night, we stayed in Akihabara, the Electric Town, a district dedicated to the anime and video games I grew up with. It felt like coming full circle. We arrived in Japan as tourists, overwhelmed and wide-eyed in Kabukicho. We left from Akihabara with a suitcase full of ceramics, a phone full of photos, and a profound appreciation for the country that had shown us so much. We were different. We had seen how a society could value both progress and tradition, the group and the individual, the frantic pace and the quiet moment.

We went to Japan expecting to see a place. We left having experienced a way of being. The respect the Japanese people showed us, especially with a small child in tow, was a lesson in grace. The food was more than just sustenance; it was an art form. The culture I had only known through screens was now a real place, with real people and real texture. We can’t wait to go back.

The best journeys don’t just show you the world; they reintroduce you to yourself against a new horizon.