People are almost always surprised to hear that I’m 36. Often, people ballpark me around 28 or 29, which works for me. I’ve always needed some extra time to figure stuff out, and looking younger than my actual age has been a blessing in disguise.
There was only one person, the documentary filmmaker I met in Chile, who got my age spot-on. “You’re 36,” he said during our first lunch. I was 35 at the time, and we had only met an hour before at the art museum where he was the artist-in-residence.
“Almost,” I said, taking a sip of white wine. “But basically. How did you know?”
“You just seem it,” he said. “I’m 35, too.”
That was nearly two years ago. I don’t drink anymore, and my trip to Tokyo this past February was my first sober trip. I was always careful with drinking while traveling, but a lot of my excursions revolved around my interest in wine. This time, there would be no wine-tasting, no meeting people at bars, and to be safe, no entering bars at all.
“Are you going to be ok?” Sunny asked. It was January, and I had spontaneously booked the trip after attending a visiting Japan workshop.
The guy running the workshop, while knowledgeable, didn’t share anything I didn’t already know about traveling. It made me question why I had waited to go to Japan for so long. So I decided to go, and a few hours after the workshop, I booked a roundtrip from Newark.
Weeks later, I was explaining to my Japanese translator the plot of Chicago.
“She’s the villain?” Mayou asked, confused.
“Well, not exactly,” I said loudly, trying to speak over the boat’s motor. “It’s like Taylor Swift. Roxie’s the anti-hero.”
Mayou’s eyes light up, some spray from the surf hitting the side of her face. She nods enthusiastically. She understands now.
We’re on a fishing charter, and it’s just past 7 am. The sun is still coming up, and Tokyo Bay gradually fades from shades of grey to soft pinks to bright and vibrant shades of blue and green. Moto, the main guide, starts prepping my rod, explaining how to fill the mini bait cage. The bait, a lumpy, unappetizing brown mush, Moto explains, is made from extra fish.
“We need to catch 30 fish today,” Moto says. The motor has stopped, and we’re all getting ready to drop our lines. “10 each.”
“I really hope I don’t let you down,” I laugh. “I’m not that good at fishing.”
Not even twenty minutes later, I have not one, but two mackerel on the line.
“This never happens to me,” I say, baffled, as Moto helps me remove the hooks from their mouths. “Double paycheck.”
“Double paycheck?” Moto and Mayou ask.
I explain the concept to them, that essentially, you’re getting paid twice for a job done once. They love it, and for the rest of the day, I hear, “Double paycheck!” whenever one of them catches more than one fish at a time.
We talk on and off throughout the fishing trip, covering everything from American politics to dating trends. Mayou asks me (bluntly) if I have a boyfriend, and when I tell her I don’t, she asks why again.
“There was someone,” I admit. “But…”
Knowing it’ll be easier to be direct, I just say it. “He doesn’t want to be with me.”
Mayou seems confused, and I take it as a compliment.
My time in Japan followed not only giving up alcohol but months of being completely overwhelmed. In my first semester at grad school, I took 17 credits, which included a fellowship. I commuted from Philadelphia to New York City twice a week, and to Long Island once a week. I worked full-time. When I’d get home at night, I’d crash and burn, choosing to fall asleep in front of something on streaming. Sometimes, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d go to a local bar to drink a glass or two of red wine to help me sleep. It wasn’t healthy, but I made it a point to try to make friends. It was one of the only parts of my day that wasn’t stressful.
“Are you ok?” Mayou asks, and I realize it has been a good twenty minutes since I spoke.
“Yeah,” I reply, “It’s just nice being out here. It’s so quiet.”
By the end of the fishing trip, I had caught over 20 mackerel. We head to a restaurant in Kawasaki, a cooler of fish in tow. We spend the rest of our time together eating the day’s catch, mackerel cooked eight different ways. I have the best soy sauce I’ve ever had, the softest tofu, and crunchy, salty fish bones.
For the rest of the trip, I lose myself in the sensations of Tokyo. The flickering streetlights at dusk, the smell of the innkeeper baking blueberry muffins. The humming of the subway, audible because everyone on the train was so quiet. The music in my headphones, everything from BØRNS to Taylor Swift to Christine and the Queens as I aimlessly explore the city. The pillowy dough of the cream puffs from 7-11, and the softness of the tatami beds. The soft chime when I tapped my Suica card on the subway. Savory soy eggs, warm canned tea from a vending machine, the scratchy talons of the owl I held at an animal cafe. The subtle pinch of my yet-to-be-worn-in laceless Onitsuka Tiger sneakers.
(And yes, the magnificent heated toilet seats, and everything else that came with them.)
Until that trip, I hadn’t realized how noisy my life had become. Too many feelings, thoughts, to-dos, and expectations. I needed the solitude that Tokyo gave me, and was so grateful to have it back.