Food was such a central part of my time in Japan—in every country, for that matter. It was a point of exploration and wonder, of connection with the people and culture, of hospitality and generosity. But sometimes, especially when I was backpacking, it was a reminder that I was alone.
On all seven days I was in Japan, I ate my new favourite Japanese delight (onigiri) and savoured the fact that it was cheap, portable, and delicious. If you touch the pointer finger and thumb from both hands together to form a triangle, that is the size and shape of onigiri, rice wrapped in seaweed with some filling in the middle. I always got the type with salmon. Japan was expensive, so to preserve my backpacker’s budget, I’d grab one at a convenience store. I felt a little guilty about going all the way to Japan and eating food from a convenience store, but they were such a great snack at any time of the day and only 105 yen, less than a dollar.
On my last day in Japan, I scoffed an onigiri down in four bites at the base of Mt. Fuji while my breath blew soft white clouds into the cold air between bites. We, ten other tourists and I, were ending our four-hour tour that had originated in Tokyo. During our few free minutes to mill around the visitor centre before we headed back, I sat at the base of the mountain, chomping. I stared up at the white, snow-covered monstrosity, taking in its sheer mass. It was closed for traversing because it was January and dangerous. I took a picture to say I was there.
I’d taken the tour because at this point in my trip, I wanted to be guided and accompanied. I was ready to get home. I had taken so many photos in front of world wonders, ancient buildings, and landscapes all over the world. These were the pictures I had to take, but my sense of awe and wonder was now exhausted by the extraordinary. I’d come to prefer the ordinary people and things in each place. Toward the end of the trip, I just went through the motions, sometimes forcing myself to be present. What you see in those photographs is me smiling, looking happy to be there—and I was. What you don’t see is my tiredness. It was hard to stay open and be awake—all day, every day.
I felt guilty sometimes. Here I was, travelling the world, on this fun adventure, but exhausted. I learned something new daily, and something in me would never cease to snap awake, but I had taken in too much and wanted to zone out. A piece of me yearned for sameness. In my hand was a bite of Japan in a sushi triangle, but my heart felt conflicted—partially full of the beauty of the moment and partially drained. I tried to hold them both. I was learning that I could hold both, that life and being human meant allowing myself the range of experience, often at the same time.
I ate onigiri every day in Japan because they felt similar to sushi, but in a different form — familiar enough to satisfy my desperate need for comfort, yet different enough to remind me I was far from home. In that vein, I’d also eaten ramen earlier that week at a place about half a mile from my hostel in Kyoto. It was a crowded little hole in the wall about the size of a bedroom. Japanese people were bunched together at small tables with their faces hovering over large black soup bowls, coming up only when they raised the long noodles into the air to lower them into their mouths. I had once thought of ramen as nothing more than a cheap meal as a college student or an after-school snack in high school. But here, it was rich, flavorful, and deeply cultural.
I ordered, and when it came, I looked down at the contents of my black bowl. What sat before me looked much better than a ramen package, though similar: steaming yellowish broth, egg, and a piece of pork on top. Delicious. I couldn’t work my chopsticks as easily as everyone else, but I was patient. I didn’t have anywhere in particular to go. To eat in local restaurants with Japanese people was what I had come for. It’s a very different thing, however, to eat among Japanese people than to eat with a Japanese person. The latter is where the magic of connection and cultural exchange really happens.
The connection I yearned for came in the form of Naoko; someone I’d met on a couch-surfing website. Before that, I didn’t know that you could meet up with folks from the “couch-surfing, website and just have coffee, a meal, or they could show you around town. I thought it was just a way to get a free overnight stay. But as I learned— it was a way to forge a friendship.
After a few messages through the site to introduce ourselves and see if we could find a mutually agreeable time to meet, I met Naoko at the main train station in the centre of Kyoto on my second day in Japan. She would show me around for the day. I told her to meet me on the steps; I’d be a Black woman with a green-and-white jacket and black jeans. We greeted each other with a handshake. She was about 5′5″, medium-sized, with her black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a black winter coat. Her face was round and open. She spoke English well. She had trouble rounding some of the letters, so it sounded a little muffled, but I understood just fine. I couldn’t imagine what my Japanese would sound like.
I thanked her for meeting me and said, “I have been saving my money for a nice meal when I hopefully meet up with someone. This is my splurge.”
“I think you will like it.” She was taking me to a sushi place her friends visited often.
We arrived at a nice restaurant with dim lighting in the middle of the day. It had a relaxed vibe but an upscale ambience. People were generally dressed up. I felt a bit out of place, with my T-shirt, jeans, hiking shoes and North Face jacket. Once we sat and looked at the menu, I tightened inside. This would be a twenty-dollar meal, much more than my backpacker’s budget allowed for. Then, I realised that I only had another three weeks left in my trip. I could spend a bit more than usual; I’d be home soon.
I began to bombard Naoko with questions about the menu, trying to get a better understanding of what I was seeing. She ordered a variety of sushi and sashimi for both of us, delivered in red bowls. As she picked up her chopsticks, I decided to ask the proper way to use them.
Naoko demonstrated. “Rest the bottom stick on your ring finger, use the pointer and index finger to move the top one and grab.”
As she spoke, I moved into formation and grabbed a piece of sushi.
She raised her eyebrows. “Your skills are actually pretty good! We have to practice when we are kids. Picking up little beans. Nowadays, a lot of the kids go to a second school late at night, miss chopstick lessons, and do not use them properly.”
I popped the sushi in my mouth and triumphantly pumped my fist. Naoko laughed.
“Second school?” I asked. “So that is school after you get out of day school?”
She nodded.
“So that stereotype about Japanese kids working overtime is true—pressure to overachieve, huh?” I said.
“Yes, very competitive. If you do not do well, it affects your future, and there is a lot of pressure from your parents and the culture. There is also competition among peers.”
“This is off topic, but I have been wondering about something over the past few days. What is up with the Japanese people wearing these face masks?”
Since I arrived at the airport, I had seen only the eyes of many Japanese people. Their faces were covered with medical masks that a doctor would wear, either light blue or white. At the airport, they had a quarantine station at immigration where they looked at peoples’ eyes and throat. I was concerned. Was there an epidemic that people were trying to avoid?
Naoko laughed. “The Japanese are very germ-conscious and do not want to catch colds.”
She cracked that question for me. I had been confused for days. About one in four people on the street were wearing masks. It was a thing!
After lunch, we walked around Kyoto and went to the market. My senses went on overload as soon as we stepped in. I loved Asian markets. It was such an experience. Unlike Thailand and China, I was excited to have someone to explain it all to me and could ask questions with abandon. I felt like a kid skipping through a candy store.
In the market, all kinds of unfamiliar foods were on display: fruit in unexpected colours, seafood, spiky things, and candy. I repeated over and over again, “What’s this?” and “What does that taste like?”
Naoko was gracious enough to answer all of my questions. She seemed to like giving me a brief education.
I walked up to an orange-like fruit or vegetable hanging from a string. “What is the name of this?”
“Those are hoshigaki, persimmons dried for like a month. That is why they are on a string, to dry. They are dried and are massaged to have a nice flavour.”
I snapped pictures before we strolled on, taking in all the things that were unfamiliar to me. Pickled vegetables were everywhere. After pointing out their abundance, Naoko suggested I taste one. “Go ahead, you can try one for free.”
I picked up something random and green, put it in my mouth, and immediately scrunched up my nose and shook my head from side to side. “I am not a fan!” She laughed.
We also tried a bunch of sweet black and red beans. “Good!” I said after I tasted those. Naoko handed me things with a nod, saying, “try this,” and I obliged, having total trust in my new friend. We ate these gummy green things with sweet bean paste inside. They were good, but I couldn’t get past the consistency.
“It’s like gummy bears meet uncooked dough,” I said.
We tried loads of other things: dried fish, dried fruit, crackers, and cakes. Looks were deceiving. I picked up something that looked like an orange but tasted more like an apple. We came upon these large fish that were dried so hard they looked like pieces of wood. The fish were then shaved to make what looked like wood flakes, which were sold and used in soup.
“Wow, now that was an adventure,” I said as we walked out of the market. My curiosity and stomach had been satiated for the day. It would have been so much less fun and educational if Naoko had not been there. Her company was far better than walking around alone or paying for a tour.
We stood outside the market for a second and looked around. “Where to next?” I urged.
“It’s the New Year, so we will see a lot of people visiting the shrines if we walk a little way up. Interested?”
“Of course!” Having led myself so much of this trip—so much of my life—I was happy to follow, to have someone else to set the agenda. We walked a while in the same direction as droves of other people. Naoko explained: “In Shintoism, during the New Year, there are a lot of people going to the shrines and making offerings and wishes for the year.”
There were masses of people everywhere, walking up to pillars, buying leafy branches with charms attached (omamori, small amulets for blessings or protection) that represented their prayers. Others bought small wooden plaques called ema—with drawings or handwritten wishes—that they hung or tied on the pillars. Men and women in white robes stood behind counters, selling charms and branches, while others on stage waved them over altars and addressed the crowd in song and prayer. I watched, engrossed, as the crowd moved and bowed in synchronicity. Everyone had grave and determined looks on their faces. This was serious business. They were decisive in choosing their omamori or ema, sure of where to place them. I had no clue what was going on, but I understood the need for humans to make sense of the world, to create ceremonies that brought meaning and made known their hearts to the universe, or in this case, kami, or Shinto gods.
Before this outing, I knew nothing of Shintoism. I wondered what new and different things people wanted to explore in the New Year, what past pains they wanted healed, relationships repaired, or financial blessings they hoped for. During my seven months of travel, I had learned above all how to pay attention to people, to listen, to be present and curious about their experience. As I was learning to see the heart of a person, a people, I was also learning to see and pay attention to my own desires, my heart, myself. Everywhere I went, there was always some kind of spiritual ceremony or celebration. A time when people returned to the center, their deity, but also to the center of themselves, back to the core of their hopes and desires.
I looked around at the masses of people who stood around us, watching and bowing with the white-robed Shinto priests, called kannushi on stage. I looked over at Naoko and realised that one of my core desires was connection. The days when I had someone local to show me around were the best; having sushi with a Japanese friend, going to the market, visiting a shrine and attending a festival, doing what they did, eating what they ate, and being immersed. I smiled at Naoko in gratitude as we did our last bow. She smiled back.
Her time that day meant a lot to me. It meant I was a lot less lonely and confused, that I wasn’t relegated to being an observer. She helped me participate. I felt less like an outsider. I felt revived from my exhaustion.
Naoko helped me realise how much I had always been carried by friendship and faith. Living six hours away from my family in New York, I had to cultivate a community of chosen family. My friends and faith communities were my chosen family during my time in Charlottesville, which began in 2003 with a one-year leadership development program at a conservative white church. They were loving, but so far away from my reality as a young Black progressive woman from the north. I was supported, but never felt like I belonged.
After the program ended, I found a group of about ten Black Christian friends. We were connected to or had graduated from the University of Virginia. We hung out, had potlucks and Bible studies and prayed for one another. They brought so much colour to my life and were a lifeline. We laughed loudly on weekends in the red dining room of my house as we ate and played Taboo. Many of them were first-generation college graduates like me; some of them had known poverty, too, so I felt at home.
During that time, 2004–2007, I lived in an old mini-mansion called The Manor House with four white women. We had moved into the neighbourhood intentionally as Christians, to support a nonprofit organisation that was investing in the surrounding low-income Black community. I loved my housemates, and we had fun. We went on trips, ate together, served and prayed together. This shared faith, service, and community complemented the belonging I had found with my Black friends. Life with all of them was rich.
The three Black teen girls I mentored from the Prospect Avenue neighbourhood in Charlottesville also brought a sense of joy and belonging to my life. They were smart and sassy, a little rough around the edges, but witty and hilarious. Kind of like me. I wanted to be for them what I hadn’t had much of during my young life: a mentor and role model. I picked them up and offered them advice. Together we joked, ate a lot of ice cream, and I tried to share whatever wisdom I had to give. They called my purple two-door Saturn, “the Batmobile.” I’d like to think that I came to their “rescue” on a few occasions. I tried to be a solid place in their lives—amidst shifting boyfriends, financial woes and riffs with parents. I did this out of a sense of purpose and passion fueled by my faith. To whom much is given, much is required.
In 2009, I found a new church, All Souls. Though I was one of only a few Black people, I felt at home in this faith community. After my first visit, I volunteered to read scripture in service. Later, I started reading poetry. Though I looked out at a sea of white faces, I felt like I could be my full self. I could be my uncertain, questioning self there, something new for me, and that was freeing. We shared stories and scripture. It was artsy, intimate, and contemplative. They helped me see God everywhere and find the voice of the spirit for myself, within myself. This church was the perfect setup for my travels and for finding my voice through poetry.
Like many others before her, Naoko had been God-sent. Now she tapped me on the shoulder, letting me know it was almost time for us to get going. The men in white robes waved palms over the crowd, and people bowed. Following Naoko’s lead, I bowed too. Her calming presence felt spiritual to me, a connection that bound us together for the day. She helped me understand a little about Kyoto in a way I would not have gotten from a tour or guidebook. Her friendship was an invitation to be led, cared for, and guided without needing to be in charge. It was a soft landing after months of exhausting, albeit enriching, travel.
We finished our evening off with some Japanese beer and a beef bowl. Since Naoko and I had spent the day together, and she was likely the only Japanese person that I would have this level of comfort with, it was time for a poem.
“Naoko, I want to thank you for the day, it’s been great. But I have a favour to ask.” I explained the concept of the poem. All she had to do was fill in the blanks.
“Okay,” she said, though she sounded a bit hesitant.
I told her that I’d videotape her at the end. She looked concerned and asked, “Where will it go?”
“Up on my website.”
Her eyes became wide.
“It’s fine,” I reassured her. “I will lead you through it like you led me through the market today. If you don’t like the video, I won’t post it.” She nodded.
It was late, so I hurriedly asked Naoko a few questions and wrote down her answers.
“What’s one of your favourite celebrations in Japan?” I asked.
“The Gion Festival,” she said. “It’s in Kyoto every July. People wear yukatas—summer kimonos—and there are floats, food stalls, parades, so many people in the streets. It is one of the biggest festivals in Japan.” I wrote it down quickly, picturing the colour and pageantry.
“What’s one of the happiest moments you remember?”
She thought for a moment. “Flying for the first time, when I went to the United States for a homestay. It was exciting and scary. I lived with a family and practised my English.”
I nodded, smiling at her mix of nerves and pride. “And one of the hardest?”
Her eyes fell. “My friend died in a traffic accident. It was very sudden and sad.”
I let the moment rest, then asked, “What about foods you love?”
She brightened. “Sushi, sashimi, and rice,” she said. “Always those.”
When she read her poem aloud, starting with family names like Sateshi and Takamis, she was nervous—her eyes shifting, her hands shaking—but she made it through, ending softly: “That’s where I am from.”
Even in that brief time together, I felt the richness of her story—tradition and travel, celebration and loss, all grounded in the simple comfort of food that tasted like her home.
My tour of Mt. Fuji and onigiri from 7-Eleven later that week paled in comparison to my day in Kyoto with Naoko. This was evidence of how one can visit a different country, see the sites, and even eat the food without being moved by the spirit of the people and touching the heart of the place. Making a friend made a world of difference to me and closed the gap that could have kept us worlds apart.
