A fish out of the water. Not in Kansas anymore. A square peg in a round hole.
As I sat down on the front steps of Atre Akihabara 1, a shopping complex directly adjacent to the main metro station for this area of Chiyoda, Tokyo, I could’ve been described by any one of these phrases. I was exhausted, overwhelmed and I barely knew the basics of Japanese conversation.
And I was completely alone.
Akihabara is known as the pop culture capital of Tokyo, and very likely all of Japan. The bustling streets are lined with stores selling manga, anime DVDs, idol merchandise, music, character figurines, electronics, rare collector’s editions, capsule toys, retro games, and movies -- the list goes on and on. If you want to find the epitome of Japanese popular media, ten minutes in Akihabara Electric Town will give you a plentiful picture.
Bustling with the crush of foot traffic from both Tokyo natives and tourists alike, Akihabara is one of the most popular and renowned areas of the Chiyoda prefecture; it’s essentially its own city within the greater Tokyo metropolitan area. It’s packed with buildings that stretch upwards rather than outwards, gangly skyscrapers crowding the airspace. Throngs of customers pour through the streets lined with rows upon rows of nearly indistinguishable stores, making it easy to become lost in Akiba (as the locals call it), especially given that there are multiple branches of certain businesses, so using familiar shop names as landmarks is a lost cause.
Thankfully, I wasn’t lost; I was sitting steps away from the metro station where my tour group agreed to meet before dinner. But I’d been walking around the equivalent of Times Square on crack for the past three hours without wifi or cell service, and I felt like I had a hangover from the sheer overload of stimuli I’d been trying to process. Not to mention I still had an hour to kill.
Oh, and I had no access to the money in my checking account.
There is something oddly surreal about being submerged in an entirely new culture head first, especially one as fast-paced and verifiably insane as Japanese (pop) culture. You can have an obsession with anime or manga, play video games religiously, or listen to entire Hatsune Miku albums on loop and you’ll still get the wind knocked out of you when you first step onto the streets of Akiba.
I, however, possess none of those qualities. I couldn’t hold a conversation in the native language. I couldn’t relate with the typical patrons who spent their paychecks on Akiba’s typical wares - the innocent side including posters looking up the skirts of various neon-haired anime ingenues, while more depraved merchandise could be found in fluorescent-lit basement treasure troves of perversion. I couldn’t even buy half the stuff for sale; most of the locations only accepted cash and I had nothing more than the change in my coin purse.
So for me, the four hours I spent in Akihabara was less of a surreal adventure into Wonderland and more of a bad trip on acid mixed with Redbull. And each passing minute was pushing me closer to a mental and emotional breakdown.
By day two in “The Land of the Rising Sun,” the magical realism combined with jet lag that made my first evening one of awe and wonders at this vastly different culture and society I had just been transplanted in had worn off. Instead, I was fighting exhaustion, and the tingle of anxiety settled at the nape of my neck made me hyper-aware of just how unprepared I was to survive in urban Tokyo.
There is a strange sort of realization one might come to when they find themselves surrounded by unfamiliar people in a starkly atypical environment speaking a foreign language. It washed over me like a breaking wave, not quite a feeling of terror, but rather an acute awareness of how lost I felt. Not necessarily geographically; I’ve already mentioned I was in sight of my group’s proposed meeting spot, but rather socially. In the vast sea of pedestrians flowing around me, there were businessmen, teenagers, parents with children, couples, grandmothers, school girls, government employees and tourists. I only knew ten of them.
It hollowed me out, and I felt very small in this lively metropolis, sitting in front of the Starbucks on the dirty concrete steps, since cafe table seating was reserved for customers only.
I wouldn’t have called myself “friends” with any of the other students on the tour, even after sharing a class with them for an entire semester (not that I’ve ever felt social graces to be my forte). More accurately, they were acquaintances: peers of a similar age, background, education and interests. But even then, just being able to see one of them, walk beside another student with whom I could identify and hold a conversation, would’ve been a blessing.
My hypothetical prayers were soon answered: three of the other group members happened to pass by and notice me just as I passed overwhelmed and, by then, had begun to sink into a slightly nihilistic depression. We struck up a conversation, and I felt a little less alone in the world. They weren’t done shopping, but I was so desperate not be left wandering aimlessly by myself that I tagged along while they attempted to find a specific store using very vague directions.
This trio were the geekiest of the group, young men who all stood at similar heights that hovered around six feet. Their hairlines all showed traces of the male pattern baldness to come, and their faces were pale, sporting patchy stubble where they could grow it. Each was the type to wear t-shirts referencing anime series like Dragon Ball Z, Yu-Gi-Oh!, or Pokemon along with cargo shorts and velcro sandals well into adulthood. They collected cards, action figures and affiliated bobbles and trinkets. They read manga from right to left, spent hours playing video games late into the night while running on energy drinks and empty calories, and swapped facts about their favorite episodes from the fourth arc of some grand anime fairytale for idle conversation. And they were proud of it.
Of course, they currently obsessed with finding something nerdy; of what, I have absolutely no memory. We waded through the streams of people moving along the sidewalks, the three guys I was clinging to arguing over which way was right. We ended up at a narrow, seven-story establishment called “Mandrake,” supposedly a purveyor of rare and vintage pop culture paraphernalia. The inside was dusty and dimly lit, filled with rows of towering cases that housed a maze of geeky toys and collectibles.
I felt ready to pass out.
I had no choice but to remain glued to their sides as they browsed each floor’s wares, mostly because I needed a guide to get back to the metro station from here. My head was pounding and my throat was unbearably dry. The overpriced mementos that engulfed every inch of available space in this veritable vertical warehouse had no appeal to me. Everything was in Japanese, or worse, nerd-speak as the other three traded stories about what they wanted to find or what looked cool. My stomach turned and twisted.
The next hour or so remains something of a blur in my mind; I know we eventually left, the nerds unsuccessful in their quest for whatever it was. I felt like I was nothing but a shambling shell, my arms limp and my legs protesting every step. I’m fairly confident if I had a candid photo of our strange little group in that moment, I’d be wearing a version of the infamous “thousand-yard stare” seen on victims of shell shock during WWII; to be honest, I felt like I’d just endured a grueling battle, so that seems fitting. I remember being extremely quiet and withdrawn, almost in a state of walking catatonia; if I did speak, it was little more than a mumble or a sigh, as though I didn’t even possess the energy for basic communication.
At dinner that night, I sat with the chaperones instead of my peers. I wasn’t hungry in spite of not having eaten all day.
And I began to cry.
At first, it was just the stinging of tears at the edges of my vision coupled with some light sniffling. But as the weight of the entire afternoon I’d spent consumed by anxiety, loneliness and extreme culture shock settled into my bones, I couldn’t help choking on my sobs despite trying to hold myself together. Thankfully, one of the teachers that had accompanied us was kind enough to show me to the bathroom; she patiently waited outside while I bawled my eyes out in the tiny toilet cubicle.
When I finally emerged, she seemed genuinely surprised that I felt this way; everyone else had enjoyed themselves, ending their afternoons satisfied, lighthearted, and starving. I made an effort to explain my conundrum and she seemed to understand the gist of it. And thankfully, I did manage to find enough of an appetite to eat something after I’d completely vented all the tension and overwhelming emotion weighing me down. Our meal was quite good, and I joined the conversation with the chaperones, laughing from time to time.
This may come across as a warning against visiting the magnificent city of Tokyo, or a negative review of my experience there; I’ll assure you that in spite of the account I’ve given, I thoroughly enjoyed my trip, and would recommend it to almost anybody. Rather, I consider this day to be a learning opportunity; I’ve traveled abroad before, but never to a place that requires as much conscious awareness and foresight as Tokyo. The city is beyond immense, and if places like New York City or Las Vegas leave a bad taste in your mouth, you’ll have to brace yourself for the sheer magnitude and cultural density of Tokyo.
It’s an otherworldly experience, to say the least. Regardless of how much you read up on the country, plan your itinerary, or immerse yourself in pop culture before boarding your flight, nothing can really adequately prepare you for what it’s like. You can learn so much about Japanese society and the culture it produces simply by walking around a district like Akihabara for thirty minutes - you certainly don’t need four hours.
