Unpacking a Year in Japan (Part 2)

If you’re new to the blog, this is the second installation in a series about my year living and working in Japan — where I went, what I experienced, and how a year of slow travel (essentially) changed me; all framed through the Japanese concept of kō, or “micro-seasons.” I hope you enjoy the journey!

Season 2 - Finding the words

Growing up, I was an avid reader. I loved the idea that an author’s sequencing of words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into chapters could take me on a journey of their design. As I read, page by page, I loved the experience of that journey unfolding in my mind.

What feels so singular to me about reading is that it’s simultaneously the author’s story and, somehow, equally my own. As I read, I conjure images of that world or scenario in my head, almost like a film. This is based in part by the words on the page and in part by my own understanding of the world at large. On one hand, the author might paint the scene with exquisite detail, leaving a very distinct image; on the other, they might provide just enough detail to frame a scenario, allowing the me, the reader, to fill in the gaps. Either way, the story is theirs and mine all at once.

It’s primarily from reading that I get my love for language and its ability for nuance, adding texture to ideas, carrying emotion, and coloring sentiment. Beyond my native tongue, language has always fascinated me as a tangible way to experience and understand cultures that aren’t my own. The sounds, the gestures, the idioms, the phrases with no direct translation—they all say so much about a people and their heritage.

Going to public school in Kentucky, I had the opportunity to sample German, Spanish, and French before deciding which to pursue long-term. As a 12 or 13 year-old, that was exciting, albeit limiting. What about the other 7,000+ spoken languages on the planet? What if I was interested in more than Western Europe or Latin America? Well, when I was a student you could forget about learning Mandarin or Hindi or Russian or Italian or Polish or even Portuguese. These weren’t options. They weren’t seen as relevant or “practical”. (…And it’s likely there weren’t enough experts to teach them in Kentucky.)

By 2011, though, Rosetta Stone had started a language learning revolution with their immersive software. After learning I’d be moving Japan for a year, I asked Santa Claus for the Japanese course for Christmas so I could at least arrive with some grasp of the language.

From Christmas, for just over a month, I practiced daily—an hour or two at a time. In that time, I learned not only how to structure sentences with my growing vocabulary, but I also tackled how to read hiragana and katakana (the phonetic lettering systems for Japanese words and words incorporated from other languages, respectively).

By the time I landed in Osaka, I’d worked through several units. I knew common words and phrases. I knew how to sound like a Tokyoite. I wasn’t close to fluent, but I was proud. I thought I’d have enough vocabulary and grasp of syntax to get by.

Let me tell you… as helpful as Rosetta Stone was, those lessons only carried me so far. They don’t prepare you for everyday vernacular, for verb conjugations and tense cases, for the regional quirks of a place. Osaka’s dialect differs from Tokyo, which differs from Kyoto, which differs from Fukuoka, which differs…well, you get the idea. I can say, my pronunciation was decent, often awarding me the remark of “Patorikku, Nihongo jouzu desu, ne!” (”Patrick, your Japanese is really good, huh!”) However, many of the specifics to the Kansai region were completely lost on me those first few weeks.

Then, there were the ubiquitous words Rosetta Stone never touched; those pieces of language embedded in the rituals of everyday life, especially that of a working adult. Words like the hard-to-translate “onegaishimasu”. At a restaurant or between friends, it can mean “please,” but it also carries a sense of “please treat me well” or “let’s take care of each other” in the context of a working scenario. On day one, as we went around the room introducing ourselves, every cast member said it…and I had no idea what was happening. When it came to me, my inexperienced tongue stumbled. My over-worked brain could barely form the sounds, let along grasp what it might mean.

In the work environment, other words and phrases quickly reared their heads, showing me the gap in my language education. Like, how at the start of a work day (even if that day starts at 4pm), you greet your colleagues with “ohayou gozaimasu” (good morning); or how it’s common to say “ganbatte” (fight) as a form of encouragement to “keep going” or “do your best” during the course of the work day; or the end-of-day phrase “otsukaresama desu” which essentially means “thank you for your hard work” and must be offered before you or others retire for the day. None of this came from Rosetta Stone. All of it came from living and observing.

Then there was our show. Dialogue fully in Japanese, songs split between English and Japanese. During those first rehearsals in our quiet theater, I only grew to know the sounds—the inflections, the rhythms, the way the words shaped themselves in my mouth. It took time before they became meaningful. Before I could sing or speak them with intention. (Though to this day, I can still belt out a hybrid English-Japanese version of “I Gotta Feelin’” by the Black Eyed Peas 😂.) Those first rehearsals were mental marathons. My brain constantly felt it was in overdrive, trying to catch every word, every name, every gesture and “ism” that felt so foreign.

Outside of rehearsals, daily life had its own “vocabulary”, and slowly, I started to pick it up.

Universal Studios Japan took good care of us while we were there. We were each given a bike, train passes, a work phone, and our own apartments to live in. Inside our apartment building was a room called “Dozo”—a word that means “go ahead” or “please, feel free.” There, outgoing castmates left behind dishes, lamps, rice cookers, and little pieces of decor and comforts for the next group to settle in more easily, serving as a pay-it-forward destination.

Our apartments had their own lessons to teach. In time, I soon learned the microwave was also a convection oven. The toilet had both a small (小) and large (大) flush option, a novelty to my American-centric life experience. When the lights were on in the bathroom, the bathroom mirror heated up so it never fogged over. And the “bath room” was an actual wet room, with a shower space and a deep soaking tub. It was through this unique design feature that I began to learn the poetic ritual of Japanese bathing—first wash in the shower, then soak in the tub—a mini onsen experience at home.

The island we lived on, Tempozan, was also full of objects, places, and experiences waiting to be discovered and translated. In my thirst for understanding, I learned the ferris wheel by the mall lit up at night to forecast the next day’s weather - blue for rain, green for clouds, red for sunshine. I learned ”ハハハ’s” (Ha ha ha’s) restaurant served the best 400-yen set breakfast around, being both hearty and cheap. I discovered the little man-made hill in the park by the ferry—barely a bump—was proudly called a “mountain,” and was one of the smallest (if not THE smallest) in Japan. And then there was Bar Urizun, the decades-old watering hole run by Sachi and Hide, a couple who became (and still are) surrogate family to wave after wave of USJ performers.

I can’t forget to mention the convenience stores either. Lawson 100, Family Mart, and 7-Eleven were all within walking or biking distance from our apartments. Lawson 100 was closest to us and offered decent snacks, beverages, and other small conveniences in a pinch; Family Mart, with its iconic jingle, was down the street and had, in my opinion, a slightly elevated offering to Lawson. Both had ATMs at which I could use my Japanese bank card to draw cash from my account (during open banking hours only, of course). A Japanese quirk I quickly learned, like bank branches themselves, ATMs had “open” and “closed” hours, and one couldn’t draw cash when an ATM was “closed”.

Then, of course, there’s 7-Eleven. This convenience store was superior to the others in many ways. For one, it was the only place with an international ATM, allowing me to draw cash from my US bank account. I’d also place their food and beverage options on a higher tier than the others as far as convenience store food goes (their onigiri was incredible, and I liked their chu hai best). At all three brands of store, one can pay bills, buy concert, museum, or event tickets, send letters and packages, and print or make copies — truly a one-stop shop!

In those early days, I found myself biking a lot. Weaving the grid-like streets of our little island to learn its language and its secrets. As I became more familiar with my surroundings and made friends with my castmates, I ventured further and further into Osaka with or without company, walking slowly, peering into every restaurant, bar, and storefront I passed, trying to soak it all in.

Looking back, the experience of language learning was a microcosm of the greater experience of living in a foreign culture. At first, you’re guided by people, told what to do, and how to do it. But it’s only with time, observation, reflection, questioning, and practice that you really find meaning and understanding within this new framework of living.

Having that time is, of course, a luxury. That’s one of the reasons I write stories like this and why I value people like my co-host and friend, Charity (if you’d like some additional context, check out my first post!). Her experience helped me understand Japan and its people faster and more deeply, so that my time in the country and my cultural experience was richer. If my experience can, in turn, help someone else see a place more clearly or get to know a people more fully—even on a short, two-week trip—then maybe we all get to travel more intentionally, experience with more depth, and come home with richer stories and memories.

I will say, the more I started to understand the world around me and the more I let go of myself and the way I was raised to view the world (and myself within it), the more I felt I was truly immersing in the Japanese way of life.

While there were certain aspects of the culture that my western sensibilities railed against (for example, going against the grain and individualism is not a smiled-upon trait in Japanese culture), there was a lot of beauty and meaning to be found in the seemingly ordinary and mundane. Removing your shoes in someone’s home or at a restaurant so as not to bring the filth of the world inside; the warm, sing-song way you are greeted at any establishment; the small ceremony around exchanging money; the etiquette in how people address each other; the punctuality of the trains, of starting rehearsals, or of a casual meetup amongst friends - all of these are rooted in a place of respect. Respect for time, for the collective, for nature, for process. It’s integral to the fabric of their society and it became one of my favorite things about living in Japan.

And woven into it all was impermanence and seasonality—deeply embedded in Japanese culture. As rehearsals ended and our show opened, cherry blossom season was just around the corner. And with it, an opening-night meal that changed my life…

Micro-season Takeaway:

Finding the Words. It was never just about language. It was about learning the rituals, places, and quirks that gave shape to my new life. Every phrase, every discovery, was a syllable in the larger grammar of life in Japan.

NEXT SEASON: Shortly after opening our show, I take an unexpected journey…