It's a New Yorker's natural instinct envision bright lights, Harajuku girls and overly packed train rides when thinking of Japan. "Tokyo is Japan, right?" asked a clueless bystander in the John F. Kennedy airport. Her friend jokingly responded, "Duh. It's like Manhattan on drugs," gulping yet another cup of fresh brewed Starbucks coffee. "Who in their right mind would pay $1,700 and sit on a plane for a day to be back in New York again?" Their Long Island accents were strong and aggressive, even at 7 a.m.
As the blonde girl clique trotted down the hall, two travelers waiting patiently in line began to ponder. "You think they're right?" asked Danielle, the communications major. Her best friend, Robin, glared into her eyes, too ashamed to respond. For the past semester, the girls spent day and night raising money for their first international trip to Japan, with the support of their Columbia University professors and peers. Their five-day itinerary was simple: Capture the perfect picture at the Shibuya crosswalk, shop until they dropped in Harajuku and nonstop partying in Roppongi. Tokyo. Tokyo. Tokyo. Nothing else mattered... until now.
"Welcome to Japan," said the flight attendant, calmly and with relief. It was 11:01 a.m. and the dreadful 15-hour flight to Narita Airport had officially come to an end. From row to row, the restless passengers stretched their legs and excitedly exited the plane, closely following behind the Japanese natives who were ecstatic to be home.
Bilingual officers patrolled the lobby and directed each individual towards their destination. Robin began to break the silence. "So, I've been thinking..." she said. "We live in New York freaking city. Let's get away from the craziness." Like any typical law student, she was determined to get her point across, even if she'd lose the argument. "Anthony Bourdain is your hero, right? He just visited Egypt and didn't even see the pyramids!"
Danielle's eyes began to water as she didn't want to disappoint her best friend. Instead, she smiled. If Bourdain could do it, she too, could enjoy the unknown parts of Japan... Even if was only for the first seven hours.
At 12:32 p.m., the bullet train arrived. Two lines formed as passengers stood on both sides of the folding doors, waiting to enter as the service men swept behind the departing. The train was big, modern and full of technology. Robin and Danielle plopped onto the comfy cushions and locked arms, afraid to speak... or breathe. As the bullet train sped through the country's well-manufactured rice and tea fields, the silence and long stares pierced like a knife, forcing even the most conservative New Yorker to miss the rowdy Metro entertainment.
"We are now arriving at Yokosuka-Chuo," said the conductor. Danielle woke up to the shuffling of locals releasing a tight grip on the hanging tsurikawa rings to crowd the doors for a safe and swift exit. It was 2:05 p.m. One by one, they swiped their Suica cards at the crossing gate and stepped into the 45º sunlight.
This was nothing like New York. It was far too calm and civil. The people acted as perfect robots, following every rule and maintaining order. The trains were much more expensive than the single fare of $2.75 and free transfers. The air was abnormally fresh and the streets were squeaky clean. The environment was incredibly secluded from Tokyo's congested and frenetic city streets. There were no major attractions or shopping districts. It was small - and from the looks of it, extremely Japanese.
Young or old, man or woman, every local wore simple, statement garments from brands like UNIQLO and Comme ça Ism that are both affordable and on-trend. Each piece reflected generations of their hardworking and comfortable lifestyles. Here, thrift stores are considered luxury, especially when new shipments of authentic Japanese denim arrives.
The girls gazed up at the sign reading "Mikasa Shopping Plaza" and continued walking in awe, dragging their carry-ons along the way. Like any spontaneous traveler, they were completely subdued by Yokosuka's history and culture. The surrounding buildings were short and stacked, full of restaurants, small boutiques, Shiseido salons and organic tea shops, each on top of the other. The local women shopped at the fish and produce market to collect a week's worth of food along with a few beauty supplies and home remedies like matcha.
Young schoolgirls walked towards home in groups of three and four as they shared earphones to listen to trending J-pop artists. Their uniforms were like any other international schoolgirl: a short, plaid skirt, high socks and platform loafers, slightly revealing their muscular legs from hiking the deep Yokosuka hills.
As the sun set at around 7:45 p.m., sailors and single Japanese women mix and mingled over saki and Chuhai, thankful to have survived yet another work week. Kick starting the weekend in The Honch is a Yokosuka tradition. "Massage! Massage!" screamed the women at the corner parlor, promiscuously pacing the streets in heels and short jean shorts. Most of the men passing by made about ¥2000 a week. For less than half of that amount, they'd get a very happy ending.
The nearby Yakitori stand opened its windows to a line of hungry night crawlers ready to snack on chicken skin, rib and cartilage. Robin got in line first, unable to bear her hunger any longer. She glanced at the dozens of trees up on the hill and pointed towards the traditional Japanese homes. Danielle smiled at the families kneeling down for dinner and slurping homemade soba noodles. Tiny Akita dogs stood outside, staring in delight.
"Ahhhh, Yokosuka," said Robin. "We're still doing Tokyo tomorrow," Danielle added. Spending seven hours on the outskirts as their initial introduction to Japan would make a seamless transition for any big city nearby. These kinds of extremes reflect Japan as a whole - one that could be busy and fast-paced yet harmonious and isolated... enjoyable for even an uncultured, caffeine-obsessed Long Island girl.