2025 June – Tokyo, Japan

This trip was for my 15 year old who won straight As. I try to encourage all my children to do well in school. High school grades matter and if you want to get into a good college, I suspect that GPA helps.

So we landed at Haneda—domestic terminal. Not where I meant to be, but life rarely drops you off exactly where you expect. I got lost, which doesn’t happen often. But this trip? It’s different. I welcomed the disorientation. Tokyo’s maze is comforting in its own strange way.

We ducked into a little joint—quick, unpretentious, humming with the quiet clatter of mid-morning bowls. I wasn’t here just for me. I had a kid with me. A quiet companion, traveling light in years but heavy with all the invisible things we don’t say out loud.

Some days, getting them to eat is like negotiating with a ghost. But this time, we sat. We ate. Calories counted, not in numbers, but in small victories. The first chopstick lift. The first slurp. In this moment, it wasn’t just a meal—it was a step. And in Tokyo, that’s everything.

When it comes to eating in Japan, Americans often get the pleasant surprise that food here—real food—is cheaper than what we’re used to. Except, of course, when you’re at the airport. What should have been a $15 meal ran us $30. But I’m not complaining. There’s a structure to uphold. A rhythm. A routine. The kid needs to eat, and he needs to eat on time. Non-negotiable.

We didn’t head straight to the hotel. No, we went straight for the reason we’re here—Harajuku. There were no clear signs for the subway, but I knew better than to look for them. In Japan, you follow the flow. Head to the basement, and the city opens up from below. Sure enough, like a buried secret, the station revealed itself.

We got on the train. I knew this route. Muscle memory kicked in. Eleven years ago, I came through here. My first time. I’d waited so long—it felt like arriving at a shrine. Harajuku was electric, raw, pure Japan through a prism of color and chaos.

For the kid, though? This was his second time. He wanted to come back. That mattered. So we came back. Because when a kid asks for something twice, you don’t wait. You go. You make the memory real. Again.

And here we are.

We tossed the luggage into storage—not in the train station, but a little spot just outside. You get good at sniffing out these places. Tokyo rewards the ones who pay attention.

Harajuku. It’s the mecca. Not for high fashion runways or tailored prestige—but for something raw. Something younger. This isn’t for the boomers with credit cards or the executives with tailored suits. This is for the youth. For the ones who mix Victorian elegance with Hot Topic angst. For the girls in lace parasols and platform boots. For the boys in skirts and eyeliner. For everyone in between who just says: this is me. Deal with it.

We’ve seen it before—somewhere between Camden and the Lower East Side. But here, it’s its own thing. Kawaii—cute—morphs into Kowaii—scary. The lines blur. The pastel bows now sit beside black lipstick, crosses, and pentagrams. A style collision that, by all logic, shouldn’t work. But it does. Beautifully.

This is rebellion. In a society that thrives on uniformity, order, hierarchy—this is the middle finger raised high in platform shoes. A small army of teenagers saying, “No thanks, I’ll be weird.”

Tyler wanted to come. He saw it online, packaged for export by other Americans like him, chasing a dream through filtered Instagram posts. Japanese social media doesn’t push this. The locals don’t line up. But the tourists? They flood in.

And Japan, as always, plays it cool. They win.

Tyler came prepared—earned every penny. Straight As. $100 per A. That’s the deal. Or nothing. He had $200 and spent $140. Picked out the shirts himself. Chose carefully. Proud. Intentional. He even found a purse shaped like a cat. I watched him try it on. I watched him smile.

This trip wasn’t mine. It was his.

And this moment? It was worth every yen.

Then it was time. One last detour before we headed to the hotel—Shinjuku’s famous 3D cat billboard. You’ve seen it. Everyone has. It’s been passed around online, a glitch in reality that makes you do a double take. A cat, leaping out of a building, looping endlessly above a sea of commuters and LED ads.

Bags in hand, we ran the gauntlet of Shinjuku Station. A beast of a place, but not unfamiliar. Kipp and I were just here six months ago. I remembered the turns, the exits, the small tells that say you’re going the right way. And there it was. Just like Instagram promised. The cat.

Tyler took it in, amused for a moment—but he was more drawn to the street around it. The real Japan, or the illusion of it. On the sidewalk nearby, young Japanese men in full emo regalia—leather, eyeliner, glitter, fatigue. Characters? Salesmen? It’s hard to tell anymore. Maybe that’s the point. But my gut told me this wasn’t self-expression. This was performance. A lure.

Host clubs. That strange, seductive corner of Tokyo nightlife where fantasy is sold by the hour. I remember their presence back when I worked with Dr. Park in the late ’90s. Even then, they gave me a chill. I never stepped foot inside. Not once. Because behind the glamor, I saw the emptiness. And that’s a weight I’ve never had the stomach to carry.

Tyler lingered for a moment, curious, but didn’t dwell.

Then, we boarded the train—bound for something different. Something quieter. Sacred.

Machida City. A place that, for me, holds weight. Memory. Stillness. Home in a foreign land.

We weren’t just changing locations.

We were stepping into something deeper.

Machida City. This was supposed to be home once—back in the late ’90s. That was the plan. Before life rerouted me.

It all goes back to Chris. We met in high school. His dad was a contractor stationed out at Camp Zama, and Chris lived the kind of Japan experience you only dream about—four years of digging through the corners of culture most tourists never see. He soaked it in. Every alley, every underground band, every b-side import CD that never hit the shelves in the States.

Chris was my guide before I ever set foot here. His stories, his tastes, his mixtapes—they built a Japan in my head. I owe him more than just music recommendations. He introduced me to friends, to sounds, to ideas I still carry. These days, we’re older, states apart—he’s in Pennsylvania now. We trade beer pics. Swap music. That bond hasn’t gone anywhere.

And now I was finally here. In his Machida. His stomping grounds.

We checked into the hotel and I headed out, no itinerary—just memory and instinct. I wanted to find the spot where “Bow and Arrow” used to play. A Japanese punk band from back in the day. Gritty. More edge than polish. They’re long gone now, scattered like so many great things that never made it big. But one song still plays in my head like it never left. Chris saw them live. I envy that.

The streets weren’t packed. No tour groups. No neon selfie herds. Just locals going about their evening. I might’ve been the only white guy for blocks. But that was fine. It felt… right. I got some looks, sure—but nothing hostile. Just curiosity. Machida wasn’t selling a spectacle. It just existed.

I kept walking. This place—these streets—they echoed with music. The Mad Capsule Markets. SPEED. Amuro Namie. My personal soundtrack. All of it traced back to a dusty CD shop Chris once told me. It’s gone now. A shuttered ghost of the analog era. But it gave me everything: an AA= concert that changed my life, a hunger for sound, a piece of myself.

At night, under the hum of streetlights, Machida felt like home. Not a postcard. Not an Instagram trap. Something quieter. Truer.

Outside of Okinawa, this was the first time I felt that kind of connection again. Not as a visitor. Not even as a traveler. As someone who belongs.

One day, I’ll bring Andrea and Penny. We’ll stay a summer. Let this city be our basecamp. Let it seep into them the way it once did into me.

This place isn’t just somewhere I passed through.

It’s part of my map now. Forever.

I know I only get so many years like this—with my children, still young enough to hold my hand, still curious enough to see the world through wide eyes instead of phone screens. So I teach them: travel is good. Travel matters. Not the kind of travel where you sit at a resort and sip overpriced drinks, but the kind that wears down your shoes and fills your notebook.

Tyler earned this trip. Straight As. He chose the destination—Hello Kitty Land, Tama City. Not exactly my first pick. But this was his call. His win.

Thankfully, it’s close to Machida. We didn’t have to deal with the pressure cooker of central Tokyo. Just a few train stops, a quieter pace. Still, my eyes reflexively rolled back as we neared—there’s only so much pink and plush a grown man can handle before the brain starts melting.

But we were early. The gates still locked. So we wandered. Walked around in the calm of the morning before the cuteness bomb exploded at 9 a.m. sharp.

We lined up 30 minutes early, and we weren’t alone. A crowd had already gathered, buzzing with that quiet excitement the Japanese do so well—no shouting, no pushing, just an orderly anticipation. The gates opened, and we were in.

I’ll admit—I had assumptions. This was Hello Kitty Land, after all. I expected a pink explosion, pastel walls, saccharine music on loop. But that wasn’t what we walked into. Not exactly.

It was more of a fantasy realm. A low-key Disneyland filtered through Sanrio’s lens, built with clear admiration for the Mouse’s kingdom but scaled down and spun into something uniquely Japanese. Budget-conscious, sure. But charming. It didn’t feel cheap—it felt thoughtful.

And the crowd? The real show. Japanese youth, dressed head to toe in kowaii—not kawaii—fashion. That eerie-cute aesthetic. Gothic Lolita Kitty. Sweet frills with dark eyeliner. A rebellion wrapped in lace and cat ears. Tyler soaked it in. This was his field study. He had researched this place like it was a final exam, and today was the reward.

I had mentally prepped myself to need a buzz. Maybe a beer or two before entry to dull the edge of sugar-rush colors and kids screaming through the halls. But I didn’t. And I’m glad. Because there was none of that chaos. It was calm. Japanese calm. Even the children had a rhythm. The staff—security included—weren’t enforcers. They were hosts. Guides. Smiling, present, gentle. I took note. In this country, even amusement parks have a sense of harmony.

As we explored, I couldn’t help but analyze it all. That’s just how I’m wired. I saw the bones beneath the plush: the careful planning, the strategic product placements, the experience sculpted down to the smallest detail.

The food? A love letter to the fans. Cute-shaped meals, themed desserts. You could literally eat Hello Kitty’s heart out—served on a tray with a bow. Drinks like sugar bombs, rides echoing Disney’s classics, and then the shows. The live events. This was more than a park—it was a performance.

And in the quiet between attractions, while Tyler took it all in, I had a moment to reflect.

This wasn’t for me. It didn’t have to be.

But being here, beside him, watching him absorb a place he once only knew from pixels—that was the real reward.

Towards the end of the visit, it all came together—the crescendo of cuteness wrapped in performance, spectacle, and subtle cultural messaging. We’d arrived at the main event. A show. This was what Tyler had been waiting for, and I was just along for the ride. Or so I thought.

Hello Kitty, of course, is the Mickey Mouse of this pastel empire. She’s the face, the heartbeat, the icon. But she doesn’t stand alone. A whole chorus of four-foot-tall somethings danced around her—mascots with short, sweating humans stuffed inside. They twirled and posed like storybook guardians, beaming plastic smiles through fuzzy heads.

Two live performers stood out—humans dressed in whimsical, fantasy-inspired outfits. All smiles, glitter, and high-pitched cheer. They were here to guide the kids through the storyline, and it started innocently enough. The music swelled. The lights dimmed. Then it began.

They handed out wands.

Rows of little kids now stood in place, clutching glowing batons, wide-eyed and ready. And then the “evil” appeared. A dark figure, swirling with smoke and melodrama. Suddenly, this world of candy colors and twinkly voices had an enemy.

That’s when it clicked.

Of course—of course they need something to fight. The Japanese can’t help it. In a culture built on control, compliance, and unspoken rules, this was their outlet. Their sanctioned rebellion. But only against the designated villain. Only in this space. The kids waved their wands, cheered, yelled in unison. It was a call to arms, dressed in glitter and bubbles.

But what exactly were they fighting?

In a culture where you don’t rebel. Where hierarchy rules, and deviation is shameful. In this pocket universe, they can. For five minutes. Against a safe, pre-approved evil. Was it symbolic? Was the nemesis the looming West? China? North Korea? Bureaucracy? Depression? Maybe it’s none of that. Maybe it’s all of that.

Only the kids could raise their wands.

And while the crowd rallied behind a scripted good-versus-evil arc, I drifted again. My brain, always turning gears, caught a detail: the teeth. The singers—performing with full commitment—had crooked teeth. Nothing terrible. Just… off. Not the polished perfection I’d expect in a commercialized dreamland like this. And then I noticed bruises. On legs. Small, faint, but visible. Exhaustion? A second job? A fall backstage? Why no nylons to cover them?

These weren’t criticisms. Just observations. In a land famous for its obsession with detail, some things get missed. Or maybe they’re accepted. Maybe it’s not about looking perfect—just performing the role.

And here I am, noticing the smallest things. Always.

They’re likely paid peanuts. Maybe $10 an hour. Probably less. There’s no dental plan in kawaii utopia. I need braces myself. I’ll get them eventually—after Tyler’s are done. Priorities.

*Update* It’s apparently a desire to have snaggle teeth. They believe it makes them appear younger. Who knew?

Still… even with these flaws, even with my mind quietly dissecting it all—I appreciated the effort. The guidance. The way every adult in that building was focused on one thing: making kids feel safe, seen, and celebrated.

And as the show ended, and the lights came up, Tyler turned to me—not a word spoken—but I knew what he needed.

We weren’t done yet.

He still had to meet his hero.

And there it was.

The payoff for every straight A, every late-night study session, every tough conversation about effort and focus—this moment. Tyler’s dream, not mine. His fantasy made real. I didn’t need to come here. I could’ve skipped it, stayed back, done something quiet, more my speed. But I’m a dad. This is what we do. We show up. We endure the pink overload, the songs, the long lines, the saccharine smiles—not for ourselves, but for the look on their face when their world becomes real.

The day wound down. We had done it all. Tyler was done—emotionally full, physically spent. His body slumped gently next to me, and that’s when I realized: my phone was dead.

No maps. No GPS. No translation apps. Just instinct, memory, and a handful of yen in my pocket.

And I felt it—that flicker of joy. A mission.

Find our way back. Navigate the stations. Read the signs. Feel the hum of the city in my bones and let it guide us. I had time. I had money. I took the risk. And we made it.

Safe.

That was my Hello Kitty Land experience. Not the shows, not the wands, not the singing mascots. It was being lost—and finding our way home.

Maybe that’s the adventure I live for. The reason I keep moving. Keep traveling. It’s not just the places or the photos or even the stories.

It’s the challenge. The trust. The quiet victories. It’s watching your kid fall asleep on the train while you figure out what’s next.

Maybe that’s what I’ll hold onto until the end.

Not Hello Kitty.

But the adventure.

Once we got back to Machida, Tyler crashed at the hotel—tired in the way only a child can be after living out a dream. Me? I still had gas in the tank. So I left him to rest and headed into the heart of the city.

This was my time. My hunt.

I wasn’t here for temples or sushi joints. I was here for the real relics—CDs, DVDs, retro games. The stuff that shaped my youth. The stuff that still matters to me in ways that streaming never could.

Tokyo’s great, sure. But it’s been picked clean. Shinjuku, Akihabara—they’re inflated now. Tourist tax baked into every shelf. Machida, though? It still breathes. It still hides the treasures in back corners and dim aisles. The prices here? A fraction. One-fourth of what you’d pay in the city center. Like I said in Ecuador—there are always three prices: local, foreigner, American. But in Japan, it flips. The exchange rate turns the American price into the bargain. Five bucks for a CD? Hell yes.

I ducked into store after store. Quiet, tucked-away shops filled with the past. Rows of jewel cases. Discs nobody remembers. But I remember. And then came the familiar sign: Book Off. The mecca.

I always check the same bands first. Even if I already own every album, I want to see if this shop gets it. If they have the good stuff in stock, I know the rest of the shop is worth my time. It’s a litmus test.

Retro games? Cheap and plenty. But I wasn’t looking for just anything—I was chasing something specific. The Famicom cartridge version of Legend of Zelda. Boxed. Not the floppy disk. That one’s a ghost. Everyone’s got the disk. But the cart? That’s the grail.

They had a lot. But not that.

So I moved on. Into the modern temples—shopping malls, escalators humming, and finally: Tower Records. The mothership. A place that reminds you that physical media still has a pulse. But it comes with a cost.

Tower Records is honest about its margins. Big floor space. Staff. Branding. New releases sit proudly at $40, $50. I flipped through a few, checked my favorites. But I already knew—this wasn’t the place to buy. It was the place to browse. To gauge. To measure the hunt.

I left empty-handed.

And that was okay.

Because the thrill isn’t always in the prize. Sometimes, it’s just in the search. The walk. The quiet, personal joy of flipping through memories on shelves in a foreign city, halfway around the world.

Okinawa will have more. I’ll return to the chase.

Tonight, I had the hunt.

And that was enough.

Towards the end of the night, I did what any parent does when the world winds down—checked on my kid. Tyler was out cold. Dreaming, probably. A day of magic, lights, wands, and his personal hero will do that to a young mind. He was safe. Content.

So I stepped out.

I hadn’t touched a drink the whole trip—not yet. I’ve made a promise to myself: no more than once a week, if that. Alcohol’s taken more time from me than I care to admit. Moments lost. Days blurred. This isn’t some big turning point—I’ve been at this a while. It’s just the practice now. The daily choice to stay clear.

But tonight felt like a night to sip, not spiral.

I had on my Thorn Brewery shirt—one of my favorites. It’s a reminder of home. Of good times, not reckless ones. As I walked, I noticed a small craft beer bar tucked between side streets. One of those blink-and-you-miss-it joints. Something pulled me in.

I wasn’t there to socialize. I just wanted to observe. What do people in Machida drink when they want something beyond the konbini shelf?

Inside, I smiled. Ballast Point posters on the wall. A Societe sticker on the fridge. San Diego had made its mark. Or at least, its marketing had. But there were no actual San Diego beers on tap. Just the ghosts of them. Decorative echoes.

I ordered an IPA. First one? Flat. No carbonation. Might as well have called it a cask pour—warm, tired, disappointing. I gave it a pass. The second? That one hit right. Crisp, hoppy, a little citrus bite. That was home in a glass.

Japan doesn’t do a lot of IPAs. It’s a pilsner and lager country—clean, light, sessionable. Like much of the world. But to find a proper IPA in Machida? That’s a win. A small, personal win.

Dinner was a shepherd’s pie—modest, satisfying. No super-sized plate, just enough. That’s the Japanese way. Meals aren’t about excess. They’re about balance.

The bartender said a few words in broken English as I paid. Polite. Kind. No need for more than that. I nodded, bowed slightly, and made my way out.

This wasn’t just a beer run. It was a bookmark in a chapter I’ll return to. I’ll come back to this place. With Andrea next time. We’ll walk these streets together, maybe after Tyler’s older, maybe after he’s found his own favorite bar somewhere.

But for now, it was just me.

A quiet night. A quiet victory.

And that was enough.

We rested and the next day, we went to a favorite place while in Japan. Denny’s.

We woke up in Machida. Slept well. No dreams, just the dull throb of jet lag and anticipation. We suited up—costumes, really. Tyler had on his fresh haul from Harajuku: loud colors, oversized sleeves, the kind of style that says, “I’ve arrived, dammit.” I pulled on the latest band tee from AA=, my favorite Japanese metal group—part homage, part bait. Maybe some fellow long-haired, black-shirted misfit would spot me, nod in that unspoken way fans do, and we’d share a moment. But no.

The city moved around us. Efficient, indifferent, stylish in that way Tokyo suburbs are—everyone minding their business with the kind of discipline that makes you feel like the only weirdo in the room. It had been 25 years since I’d first dreamed of walking these streets. Back then, I imagined myself in baggy jeans, safety pins, and a mohawk. Now I’m older, softer, dressed for comfort instead of combat. No one noticed. No reverence. No secret metalhead handshake.

Maybe I wore the shirt because I ran out of clean clothes. Probably. But still, we marched on toward Denny’s—because why not start your Tokyo morning with an American chain wrapped in a Japanese aesthetic?

Then it happened.

I didn’t feel it at first. Tyler did. A bird—some kamikaze pigeon perched high on a wire—unleashed its payload from above. Direct hit. Right on my back. Tyler barely dodged it himself. Inches from the face.

What did it mean? Was this bird a metal fan expressing disdain? A celestial critic of my fashion choices? Or just some flying rat with impeccable aim and terrible timing?

No. No symbolism. No grand message. Just shit. That’s life. Sometimes you walk through a city you’ve waited half your life to see, dressed for the moment, hoping for connection, and the only thing that reaches out… is a bird with digestive urgency.

Before you get on my case—yeah, I know. Denny’s. In Japan. I used to scoff too. The kind of sneer reserved for tourists who skip the local breakfast for something safe, beige, and familiar. But let me tell you something: when you’re traveling with a kid, you don’t get to play culinary roulette every morning. You size up the battlefield, and you pick your wins where you can.

Japanese breakfast? I love it. I’ll eat wet eggs until the end of time. Those perfectly cold, mayonnaise-kissed convenience store egg sandwiches? That’s my idea of romance. But Tyler? He’s not there yet. And after years of watching my brother freak out over hotel eggs—soupy, shiny, looking more science experiment than food—I get it. Some people just aren’t built for wet eggs.

So we went to Denny’s. But don’t get it twisted. This isn’t the Denny’s you know, filled with 3 a.m. regrets, Walmart wanderers, or someone yelling about onion rings in the parking lot. This is Japan. Here, even Denny’s has its dignity.

I half-hoped for a sumo brawl in the parking lot, maybe over a spilled drink or a stolen pancake. But no. Civility reigned. We walked in, opened the menu, and picked what Tyler would actually eat—victory through compromise.

And then: the drink bar. A glorious monument to self-service. Five cups of coffee, no questions, no tipping, no passive-aggressive glances from a waitress named Yuko who’s on her last nerve. Pancakes? Reorder. Salad with breakfast? Naturally. That’s Japan for you—where even greasy spoons have a sense of balance and pride.

We ate. We filled up. More importantly—he filled up. That’s what mattered. I wasn’t going to let shyness, nerves, or some misplaced sense of culinary honor stand in the way of a good meal.

Maybe we’d do ramen later. Maybe sushi. But not this morning. This morning needed a win. And we got one.

Back at the hotel, I peeled off the bird-shit shirt, now just a rag carrying the memory of some sniper pigeon’s idea of a joke. Changed into something more anonymous, something clean.

Kyoto was next. The train was waiting. And so was everything else.

2025 June – Kyoto, Japan