"Whenever I return to Japan it feels like an emotional homecoming, and I’m both relieved and excited to be back. Yet I’ve always struggled to explain or define this strong connection, or to pin down exactly why I love the country so much. Perhaps the words remain elusive because the reasons are more spiritual than tangible.
I learnt my first word of Japanese when I was a child. The word – which I couldn’t pronounce correctly – was yurushite, meaning ‘I beg your forgiveness’, and it appeared on the box lid of my Sorry! game – a souped-up form of Ludo. The board itself was decorated with elegant Japanese gardens: cherry blossom, stone lanterns, autumn maple trees, waterfalls and distant mountains. The beautiful board, and the evocative description of Japan as ‘the land of politeness’, were enough to instill a faint yearning that I didn’t understand, a yearning that was cemented by the amateur production of The Mikado that my mother took me to see. The white makeup and scarlet lips, the intricate hair decorations, the beautiful colours and patterns of the kimonos, all seemed magical.
Yet my inaugural arrival in Tokyo – way too many years later – was confusing and disorienting, and the first couple of days were all about jet-lag, sleepless nights, and fighting to master a complicated Japanese toilet that left me in tears of frustration by refusing to flush. However, as soon as I reached the traditional ryokan in the mountains, Japan became light and shadow, blossom and leaf, the sound of a shojiscreen sliding shut, of tea pouring and of temple bells, the scent of tatami matting and cedar, the exhilarating joy of climbing above the clouds. I was able to fill notebook after notebook with observations, sketches, and story ideas. And when I moved on to discover the cities and towns, I discovered that neon lights could be as beguiling as the glow of lanterns along cobbled streets, and that Tokyo, post jet-lag, was fascinating and seductive."You can read the full post here
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