When I first stepped off the plane in Narita Japan my first thoughts were: Ah, it sure feels nice to move my poor stiff legs again. Oh the luxurious space! The surreal feeling that I had somehow stepped into the parallel dimension of a sci-fi movie shortly followed these thoughts. The things around me seemed normal enough—just what you would expect to see at an airport. Men with orange light sticks directed traffic on the tarmac and people bustled about with their carry-on luggage hurrying off to their destinations. But the people didn’t look right. An ocean of Asians had replaced the multicultural vista of my mountainous home. Foreign language danced about the air tickling my mind, begging by its mere existence to be understood.

Japanese characters mocked my question eyes as I searched for the directional cues the writing usually affords. Eventually they alighted upon a sign with the word baggage and an arrow pointing down the concourse. After a minute or so of walking, I began to wonder if I was still on the right track but decided to be content with following the stream of other people from my flight to wherever they were walking so confidently. They flowed down several stairways and turned down two or three hallways before arriving at the immigrations area. After deciphering the immigration officer’s English and another walk to baggage claim I found myself breezed through customs to the waiting area not twenty minutes after my flight had arrived.

I did not see Ashley my friend and host for the trip. So I found a seat and looked around me. The other people waiting mostly kept to themselves avoiding looking in my direction, though a couple passing children openly stared before their parents hurried them along. I assumed that this ignoring was either politeness—no one likes to be stared at—or some kind of cultural shyness. A few pages of the novel that I had brought along later, I was speaking my first complete sentences in Japan with Ashley.