プリント1：東京 (Engraving 1: Tokyo)
The ferry, despite all its tons of displacement, glides over the waves like it’s made of silk. Water explodes away from its prow in white foamy curls with a delicate — and yet somehow theatrical — fffsss-shhh! Tropical isles with their impossibly chic beaches and fearless fish slowly melt into the distance. Metaphorically speaking, a long flight home awaits; practically speaking, the port city of Naha, Okinawa’s capital, is looming up ahead.
Standing on the bow of the gently rocking ferry with my wife in my arms, it’s hard to believe we’ve already burned through fifteen days in the country I’d dreamed about for so long. At the same time, a quiet relief hums inside me — the trip is barreling toward its final phase and soon we’ll be able to properly digest the freakishly massive haul of impressions we’ve hoarded in these two weeks.
I wanted to come to Japan back when I was still a student, and I carried that wish like a secret coin through many years. When the pile of money finally began to look like the kind you actually need for a decent trip, fear and indecision crept in. Japan was my holy grail. There was nowhere else on Earth I wanted to go with the same stubborn hunger. “What if I don’t like it?” “What if, after this, nothing will ever feel as precious?” Those little doubts kept putting the trip off, again and again. But after the global lockdown, Japan lost a huge chunk of tourism revenue and the government started loosening visa rules like crazy. I can’t think of another justification for such dramatic simplifications. It became obvious: postponing the dream was no longer an option — we had to go, and fast.
“Now I know why I work.” Nastya said that in the Sheremetyevo business lounge while sipping sparkling wine. We had a couple of hours before boarding, so we decided to spend them in comfort. Ahead of us was a flight to Tokyo with a transfer in Beijing. Yes — we were about to finally do the sacred thing: step foot in Japan and answer the stubborn question once and for all: “Was it worth all those years of waiting?”
Our meat-suit transportation duties were handled by China Southern Airlines, and they did their job with mechanical grace. Seats were comfortable, the food was decent, and the little media console in the headrest offered a buffet of movies and games to keep cabin ennui at bay.
The only tiny cloud of anxiety was China’s borderline obsessive policy about power banks. Customs officers there truly seem to consider spare batteries to be ticking bombs and firmly believe they have no business aboard a plane. There’s one concession: devices stamped with “CCC” on the case. That mark supposedly certifies that the battery has survived every imaginable and unimaginable test and won’t randomly burst into flames to add zest to someone’s flight.
Out of our four power banks, only one sported that holy CCC badge. So we handed over the other three at check-in with a feeling that we were consigning them to a black hole. When the tray with our power banks rolled up to the eagle-eyed customs guy, he inspected every notch and seam with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for priceless artifacts, then flashed a narrow, unfriendly look and ordered us to follow him. Crestfallen, we went along, bracing ourselves to rely on a single charger for the rest of the journey and to buy replacements upon arrival.
But bureaucracy had a surprise ready. Another customs officer examined the power banks as if he intended to gnaw on them, handed them back to his colleague, then led us to a corner and… returned all three to us. He pointed at one of them with an accusing finger, made a monstrous face, and intoned, “NO!” with the gravity of a man pronouncing doom. Then, with a theatrical nod, he pointed to our carry-on and then to the onward customs corridor.
I translated his pantomime and solemn “NO” like this in my head: “Ideally, irresponsible foreigners, your wicked power banks should be confiscated and cremated in an industrial incinerator for purification. But since you are transit passengers, I will return your fiendish batteries and pray to whatever gods listen that they do not self-immolate mid-flight, as some models have of late. So hide them in your bag, o unwise humans, and do not flaunt them. The second chance? Don’t count on it.” We solemnly thanked the customs officer, struck appropriately mournful faces, and shuffled onward in grateful relief — credited, for better or worse, to his peculiar mix of mercy and hazy ethics.
I spent the entire flight to Japan in a state of feverish excitement — sleep was out of the question. Naturally, just as the plane began its descent, drowsiness finally struck. I woke up to Nastya nudging me in the ribs. With a knowing smile, she nodded toward the window and said, “Look who’s greeting us.”
All those years of dreaming about seeing her with my own eyes, all the times I stared at her LEGO version on my shelf — it all merged into that single airplane window view, freezing my breath for a few long seconds. It’s not every day your lifelong dream comes true with such a thermonuclear blast.
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The thrill and tremor of first setting foot on Japanese soil were quickly muffled by tropical heat and jet lag. Following advice from a helpful chat group, and with the assistance of a smiling local woman, we bought two Suica cards — the magic plastic that can pay for almost anything: trains, subways, and even snacks from Lawson, 7-Eleven, or FamilyMart.
Then came the great Tokyo Metro quest. We spent an eternity at the station, trying to decipher which direction we needed to go. Our navigation skills in the tangled Tokyo subway were just being born, but with some luck and a bit of instinct, we managed to hop on the right train toward our hotel. We stared at each other, half-awake, grinning like fools. It wasn’t easy to fully grasp that — we were here.
Our carefully chosen hotel sat on the purple line, near Ningyocho Station — a quiet, cozy neighborhood despite its central location. Perhaps its proximity to Tokyo Bay adds a touch of administrative importance to its calm geography.
Exhaustion was taking over fast, and injecting adrenaline straight into our hearts felt… uncivilized. We grabbed a quick bite — local onigiri, for a proper immersion into Japanese reality — and returned to the hotel with a single clear mission: rest up for future exploits.
For now, though, these marvels of engineering can — with a bit of reckless button pressing and zero Japanese comprehension — spray water into the most unexpected places, warm up the seat, perform multi-tiered flushes, and, for the shy souls among us, play soothing music or running-water sounds to create the illusion of total privacy in your little porcelain kingdom.
The next morning, though we were still struggling to fully comprehend where we were, we decided to fight the feeling head-on — by climbing the tallest broadcasting tower in the world, the Tokyo Skytree.
Every guide and traveler’s blog had warned us: in Japan, early birds get the view. The later you show up, the more you’ll find yourself simmering in a human stew with zero chance of actually seeing anything.
But alas, the observation decks and the shopping mall beneath the tower opened strictly at 9:00 a.m., leaving us with forty long minutes to admire all 634 meters of its majestic steel physique from the outside.
Sure enough, as the clock struck nine, a security guard appeared from inside, removed the barrier, and — with a grand, sweeping gesture — invited the sun-baked crowd of eager tourists inside. We were deeply grateful, having already been half-roasted under the merciless sun despite the early hour.
When the time finally came to head for the ticket counters, we discovered the true abyss of Japanese shopping. Each new floor on the way to the special elevators was packed to the brim with boutiques, stores, and kiosks of every imaginable kind. It felt like the place sold everything — and then five more varieties of it.
Had we wandered in here without a clear purpose, our travel budget would have died a swift, spectacular death.
Nastya and I felt genuinely guilty for rushing past them, not even intending to enter. Their faces radiated such sincere warmth — the kind powered, of course, by the carefully hidden engine of good old-fashioned profit motive.
After cutting our way through layers of courtesy thicker than Tokyo humidity, we finally reached the counter and bought tickets to both observation decks — the lower one and the one “for people who crave vertigo.”
Nastya was skeptical at first — concrete jungles weren’t really her thing. She’s more of a real jungle enthusiast. But even her nature-loving heart froze for a moment at the sight of that breathtaking panorama — followed by a squeaky little sound of pure delight escaping her chest.
And then, to balance out all that grandeur, we noticed something gloriously absurd: on the roof of one skyscraper stood a giant golden… well… object. Nastya called it “the liver.” To me, it looked suspiciously like the world’s cheekiest poop.
Suitably impressed by Tokyo’s unique blend of beauty and absurdity — and starting to get a bit hungry — we ducked into one of the countless cafés for lunch. The portions turned out to be surprisingly generous, which, as we later learned, was pretty standard in Japanese eateries.
Now, the thoroughness with which my beloved wife approaches any somewhat significant purchase never fails to both amuse and terrify me.
Nastya examined dozens of models, opened and closed countless compartments and zippers, asked for other colors and sizes — all while ignoring my sighs and eye rolls with a firm, “Don’t pressure me!” The Japanese shop assistants, ever polite, just smiled and kept bringing her new options in an endless relay of patience.
We’d yet to fully realize it then, but this was our first taste of what people mean when they say “Japanese service has no equal.”
Seriously — it takes them even longer to get here than us! And yet, the fact stubbornly laughed in my face with a thick Italian accent. In Tokyo, in Kyoto, even on Okinawa — they were everywhere. It felt like they were spawning near every landmark, at all hours of the day and night.
In some cafés, I even caught myself thinking Nastya and I must’ve accidentally teleported to Rome or Venice — the air was so thick with Italian chatter.
But far more persistent than the mosquitoes was a Japanese man in slacks and a button-up shirt. He sidled up to us, bowing a hundred times, and launched into an epic monologue — entirely in Japanese.
He immediately switched to a wild mix of English, Japanese, body language, and something that might’ve been pantomime.
Turns out, the folder in his hands wasn’t random — he was conducting a social survey about business lunches.
When he handed me a form — filled to the brim with merciless kanji and not a single English word — I pleaded for mercy. I explained (in my best international gibberish) that my Japanese was, and I quote, “very very bad-bad.”
- “What price would you consider optimal for a standard business lunch?”
- “When choosing a lunch venue, what factors influence your decision?”
But, as with all mortal things, my linguistic nitrous oxide ran out. On one question, I hit a wall — no amount of facial expression, pantomime, or divine intervention could help.
I quickly bargained for mercy — suggested he simply copy my answers, only changing the gender and age boxes.
The man, visibly relieved, agreed. His sociological fervor had clearly taken some damage from my broken Japanese, and he seemed happy to call it a day.
We were about to make our escape when he suddenly produced a small plastic bag — our reward for participating.
Out came:
- a hermetically sealed dish sponge,
- and a pack of napkins featuring an adorable panda face on the wrapper.
This priceless treasure trove was presented to us with another series of deep bows, and our newfound Asian compadre departed, mission complete.
We stuffed our gifts into the backpack and continued on our way — blissfully unaware that this would be far from our last encounter with Japan’s love of social surveys.
We jumped off at the next station, crossed to the other platform, and squeezed ourselves into a Tokyo-bound train — now packed tight with locals rushing to work or school.
After the non-stop Tokyo whirlpool, Kamakura felt like a pastoral corner of peace. The only thing that betrayed its calm were the crowds of visitors, drawn in by its endless temples, a decent beach, and one particularly hefty Buddha.
Like a pair of proper sea dogs, salty and wind-battered, we set out crunching sand between our teeth — atmospheric, sure, but low in calories.
When the bill came and we paid for every conquered plate (you’ll always be in our hearts, salmon roe gun-kan!), there was only one logical move left: crawl back to the train station, merge with our seats, and ride back to Tokyo in a blissful, sushi-induced coma.
Like true Stakhanovite heroes of the tourism front, we managed to pack a five-year plan into—no, not three years—but fifty-eight minutes.
Moments later, we emerged from the subway. Streams of tourists merged into a full-fledged river of humanity — a clear sign we were heading in the right direction and not the only ones chasing the tower’s night glow.
And then, there she was — the one whose tiny LEGO version had winked at me from my shelf for years.
But if you’ve ever seen how Japanese people package even the tiniest gifts, you’ll understand every tourist who stands there, eyes wide in aesthetic ecstasy, heart fluttering with delight, and hands diving helplessly into the wallet.
After we were politely bowed out, we went to hunt for one particular photo angle — according to blogger intel, it was hidden near the exit of an underground parking lot.
Our last full day in Tokyo turned out to be a wild patchwork of places and impressions — and you’ll soon see why.
We managed to film our own atmospheric clip before our prime filming spot was ruthlessly occupied by the omnipresent Italians.
We were, once again, amazed at how many Italians we’d run into in Japan. But we didn’t rush off — because just around the corner stood the statue of perhaps the most famous dog in the world: Hachikō.
If you’re a hermit, social-phobic, or have somehow avoided both the 1987 original film and the 2009 Richard Gere remake, here’s a quick history recap:
In 1923, a farmer gifted a Tokyo University professor a puppy — an Akita Inu, the eighth dog he’d ever owned. Hence the name “Hachikō” — from “hachi” (八), meaning eight, and the affectionate suffix “-kō.”
As soon as Hachikō grew up, he began following his owner everywhere — seeing him off to work every morning and meeting him at the station every evening.
A statue was erected in his honor while he was still alive in 1934 — later melted down during WWII, then recast and restored in 1948.
Part of his remains were cremated and buried at Aoyama Cemetery beside his beloved master, while his taxidermied form now resides in the National Museum of Nature and Science.
All this circled in my head as we stood in line to see the statue — which also happens to be a popular meeting spot for couples.
So don’t be surprised if, at almost any hour of the day or night, you find a long queue of tourists from every corner of the globe waiting to touch his front paws — polished to a golden shine by millions of hands over the decades.
Inside, it’s surprisingly both cozy and solemn. At first, the kanji inscriptions above the familiar Orthodox icons are a bit confusing — but then you remember, oh right, we’re in Japan, and your brain politely stops arguing with reality.
To test our freshly issued Kazakh bank card (long story), we bought tickets to teamLab Planets. After queueing for nearly forty minutes, we finally made it inside — and instantly understood why the ticket said you could re-enter any of their exhibits within twelve hours of activation.
“Water” and “Forest” are immersive in that futuristic, otherworldly way that only the Japanese can pull off — but “Garden” stands apart. Rumor has it there’s something similar in Moscow, but here’s the gist: you walk into a vast mirrored chamber — walls, floor, and ceiling — and suspended in midair, on nearly invisible threads, float hundreds upon hundreds of live orchids. They form a glowing, fragrant canopy just above your head.
After our floral enlightenment, we decided to go through the exhibits once more — but first, a pit stop. Luckily, a food court sat strategically nearby, and one humble-looking ramen stall caught our eye. The sign boasted that it had been listed in the Kyoto Michelin Guide four years in a row. Only one thing gave me pause: the word “vegan.”
Later, we caught the subway back to our little Ningyōchō neighborhood, which by now felt as cozy and familiar as an old haori. But alas, the time had come to pack our suitcases. Ahead awaited the city I’d been most eager to see — Kyoto.
We’d be traveling there on the legendary Shinkansen, Japan’s bullet train. I kept wondering whether the coquettish Fuji-san would reveal herself during the ride — maybe even just for a moment — as we’d rocket from the new capital to the old at 320 km/h.
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