Journie Meets Japan: Between Stillness and Speed

 Tokyo has a rhythm that you don’t just hear—you feel it. It’s in the quiet of ancient gardens and in the blur of a thousand footsteps on crowded sidewalks. These last two days have challenged me physically, mentally, and emotionally in ways I didn’t expect. But in all of that movement, I’m beginning to find something solid in myself.

The Imperial Palace grounds were a peaceful start. The morning started with  fresh light rain and cloudy skies . Surrounded by deep green trees and traditional stone bridges, I was struck by how calm the space felt—even in the middle of a city as fast as Tokyo. It wasn’t just pretty or historic; it carried a sense of weight, like time moved slower there. I caught myself wondering how many generations of people had walked the same paths before me. The air felt different—maybe it was respect, or maybe just a rare moment of quiet that allowed me to breathe.

Tokyo Station was the opposite. Navigating through it felt like being dropped into the center of a hive. Every hallway was full, every corner buzzing with commuters, tourists, and endless options. Our scavenger hunt made me focus on details I would’ve missed—signs, symbols, small moments of organization in the chaos. For lunch, I took a comfort route and tried a British-style burger and milkshake. It reminded me of home in some ways, but I couldn’t help comparing it to the food back in the U.S. Maybe it was the craving for familiarity in an unfamiliar place, or maybe it was just a moment of exhaustion that made me want something easy and known.

Later that day, I explored the Toyosu Fish Market, a place I had been excited to see. I didn’t catch the famous fish auction (they only happen at the crack of dawn), but even without it, the experience was fascinating. Statues and videos showed the size and scale of what happens there every morning—huge tuna, sharp blades, skilled hands. There’s something powerful about an industry so rooted in tradition and precision.

 Across from the market, I ended up watching a samurai demonstration—part performance, part history lesson. Watching the performers clash swords and move with intention made me think about discipline, purpose, and how cultural identity is carried not just in stories, but in movement.

By the time we reached teamLab Planets, my body was sore and tired—but all of that faded when I stepped inside. This wasn’t just an art exhibit; it was a full-body experience. Walking barefoot through water, being surrounded by floating lights and mirrored rooms—it felt like stepping into someone else’s dream. For a few moments, I wasn’t just a visitor in Japan—I was part of something bigger, part of an emotion, part of a living piece of art. I didn’t realize how much I needed that space to feel small, and yet deeply connected to everything around me.

What I didn’t need was the pain in my feet. I completely forgot to pack my Dr. Scholl’s inserts, and the nonstop walking on uneven streets really caught up to me. Tokyo’s terrain isn’t flat—it dips, curves, rises—just like the pace of the city itself. It’s beautiful, but it’s brutal on tired feet. The search is officially on for something to relieve the soreness.

That night, we gathered at King of Pirates for a group dinner. Grilling meats like beef, pork, and sausage at our table was fun and interactive—plus, I tried edamame for the first time! I was surprised by how much I liked it. Eating together felt like a moment of grounding after such a fast-paced day. There was laughter, shared stories, and that subtle reminder that I’m not experiencing this alone.

The next morning, we headed to the Tokyo Skytree, and I found myself speechless at the top. The city looked endless—buildings stacked like puzzle pieces, each holding lives I’ll never know. Standing there, looking out, I felt both incredibly small and somehow more connected to the world. It’s strange how perspective works like that. Sometimes it takes being miles above the ground to realize how far you’ve already come.

Walking through Asakusa, surrounded by small vendors and traditional shops, reminded me that the heart of Tokyo isn’t just in its scale—it’s in its details. I bought souvenirs that I’ll carry home, but more than that, I took in the smells, colors, and pace of a place rooted in both past and present. Passing through the grand Kaminarimon Gate and approaching the famous Senso-ji Temple, I was struck by the reverence and quiet energy that radiated despite the crowds. The incense, the prayers, and the centuries-old architecture made it feel like a bridge between ancient spirituality and modern curiosity. Ueno and Akihabara added their own energy—Ueno felt like a balance of culture and calm, while Akihabara was a full-blown sensory explosion. Neon signs, anime figures, and people everywhere. It was overstimulating at times, but also energizing.

At one point, I remember just standing still and watching people rush past—on bikes, on foot, with umbrellas, briefcases, shopping bags. Everyone here seems to be going somewhere. That constant motion can be overwhelming, especially when you’re trying to adjust to a new place, a new culture, a new time zone. But I’m learning to move at my own pace, to give myself grace, and to lean on the people around me. The kindness and support of my friends and program leaders has been a lifeline in the moments where it all feels a bit too much.

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These two days reminded me that growth doesn’t always come from comfort—it often comes from friction, from being sore, confused, lost, or overwhelmed. But through that comes a kind of clarity. A reminder of why I’m here. A realization that I’m capable of more than I thought.

Tokyo is testing me in all the right ways—and I’m showing up.

Until next time,
Journie 🌸