Getting through the Tokyo Train Station that hot summer morning, nearly twenty years ago, was exhausting. As I made my way to the tracks of the shinkansen, Japan’s “bullet” train, I pushed through crowds of travelers and commuters, each rushing for one of the more than 3,000 trains that left the station that day.

japan travel shinkansen

Now, sitting in the cool shinkansen car, I relaxed, shifting my backpack from my lap to the seat next to me. After seven weeks of traveling through Asia, my black, well-worn backpack had become an extension of my body. I knew what was in each pocket, which meal each stain represented, and why it had gotten so dirty on the Great Wall of China. So it only took a millisecond to know something was missing. I started unzipping the pack with wild, jerky movements. A glance inside confirmed my fear.

I started hyperventilating. Or maybe I groaned. Either way, I panicked, putting my head between my legs and trying not to throw up.

This moment is one of the reasons we have best friends.

“What happened? Are you ok?” asked Megan, moving beside me from her seat across the aisle. She put her arm around me, as if trying to hug my panic away.

“My plane tickets are gone,” I whispered, as if saying it too loud would make it worse. Those plane tickets were a necessity for the next leg of our travels: the trip home. I remembered how we had moved from one counter to another while redeeming our train tickets. Perhaps that was when they were left behind? Or had someone reached into my backpack while I was distracted?

Megan sucked in her breath as if to try to swallow my words.

For those who don’t remember—or don’t know about—traveling in the 1990s, electronic ticketing didn’t yet exist. If you wanted to go somewhere, you went to a travel agent, who made all of your arrangements, printing out your tickets on shiny cardstock, with each leg on a different perforated sheet. Those tickets would always remind me of Christmas morning, right before I opened my presents; holding them in my hands made my heart beat a little faster. Losing those tickets, however, could cause big problems. With some maneuvering, someone else could use your tickets as his or her own. Oh, you could get new tickets, but that was a complicated affair, costing money and time, both of which were in short supply.

Back on the train, in a haze of increasing anxiety, I saw the problem clearly: we were to spend the next week visiting Japanese landmarks—from Nagasaki’s Glover Garden, to the Carp Castle in Hiroshima, to Kinaku-ji, Kyoto’s stunning Golden Pavilion. Deviating from what had been planned for months seemed impossible. Plus, I was out of money.

This is when we come back to the best friend, normally the dreamer to my organized problem solver.

“I have an idea,” she said. And, with that, she was off down the aisle.

I sat with my forehead pressed against the window, crying. I loved our travels, but so much intensity was wearing me down. My wanderlust, apparently, could only last so long. Our trip had taken me from the United States to Japan, Hong Kong, China, Vietnam, and now back to Japan. I had ridden horses in Inner Mongolia, swam in the Gulf of Tonkin, and eaten dim sum on a restaurant boat that rode the waves of the South China Sea.  Meeting new people and learning about different cultures thrilled me, but I was also disoriented; my connection to home—to my familiar—seemed so far away.

Then Megan was back. “Come with me,” she said, waving to me from the door. She grabbed my hand, pulling me into the next car.

Another traveler, a man, perhaps in his 30s, of medium-height, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, stood waiting for us. “Hello,” he said in heavily accented English.

“This is Sorato,” Megan explained. “He is going to help.”

Apparently, Megan had gone to the dining car and found Sorato whose English was about as good as her Japanese (read: bad). Together, they had come up with a plan. Why he was helping us was unclear but I suspected it had a lot to do with Megan’s effect on men; he looked at her like she was a plate of very fresh sushi.

More Like This


In order to comment on BlogHer.com, you'll need to be logged in. You'll be given the option to log in or create an account when you publish your comment. If you do not log in or create an account, your comment will not be displayed.