AN EPIC JOURNEY - June 27-28th

A note on the title of my blog -- asobijikan is Japanese for "playtime/recess." Name chosen for obvious reasons. ;)

I've been in Japan for two days now and I'm STILL all giggly and gleeful over everything. Tonight I went with a friend to see Hana Yori Dango FINAL, a fantastic movie based on the series of the same name (minus the FINAL). Before the movie, we ate at a small restaurant and I had my first Japanese meal in Japan (I'm not counting the plane sushi or the hotel breakfast). Ready for this? I had soba (buckwheat noodles) and unaju (grilled eel over rice). Now that I've lost half of you, I give you the entry I wrote on the plane about the first day of my epic journey!

JUNE 27-28th, 2008 -- IKIMASU!

I am a pack mule, standing with the other pack mules waiting to receive my boarding pass. The power of the boarding pass is legendary – once in hand, it's said to transform you from a dumb, panicky animal into a calm, rational human being.

Until then, until I have tangible proof that this trip will happen, I am nothing more than a pack mule.

I shift my weight back and forth from one foot to the other. It's my oh-God-oh-God-what-did-I-forget-to-do-what-did-I-forget-to-read-what-did-I-forget-to-get-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God dance. As I numbly adjust one of the straps on my shoulders, I see the pack mule behind me in line wince with sympathy. I imagine her reaction if I told her I can't feel the weight of the bags I carry. I'm just that nervous. I can't feel my fingers or my toes or the exhaustion of staying up with my roommates well after two in the morning ringing through my body.

I can't even feel my heart beating, but I think that's normal.

Then I hear, "Next," and a spike of adrenaline forces my complete attention on the check-in counter.

An obedient pack mule, I approach the woman at the far end without hesitation.

She is stern-looking and tired, hunched over the last passenger's enormous rolling bag as she fastens a boarding tag around its handle. Without a hint of inflection in her voice, she asks me, "Where are you going?"

The rush of adrenaline soars even higher. "Tokyo," I say, and finally, it feels real.

She takes my passport and skims the first laminated page. I wait silently, my love for hearing myself speak smothered by my terror that somehow something is going to go wrong and prevent this entire trip – one that's taken months to organize – from happening. Then her eyebrows draw together and dread climbs into my throat.

"They spelled your name wrong on the ticket," she says.

I nearly collapse with relief. "No," I say with a slightly hysterical giggle, "it's the passport. My name is Ciara, not Clara."

All she says is, "Huh," but she might as well say, "I hope you have cash for a taxi home."

Struggling to keep calm, I ask, "Is that bad?"

Her fingernails clack dully on the keyboard. "I have to change the name on your ticket, because it has to match the name on your passport. So you may have to give up your seat. Depends how full the flight is."

I say, "Oh." I'm thinking, Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

As she plays with my future, I don't think of just how horrible this could get – missing this flight, missing the next flight, not getting to go at all. Forever remembering June 27th as a cautionary tale to keep all of your official documents up to date and accurate.

Instead, I think of how I'll fix it if it goes wrong. I'll ask for a seat on the next flight. I'll get a ticket for Clara, the secret identity my government has given me.

Then she says, "It's fine this time. I got you back in your same seat. But in the future – "

My heart gradually sinks back into my chest.

She explains how I'll go about fixing my passport later and I nod rapidly to everything she says.

When she hands me my boarding pass, I bounce on my heels for a tiny victory dance. I give her one of my saddle bags to check and just like that, I'm a human being with a single messenger bag.

"Thank you," I tell her emphatically. "Thank you so much."

She smiles, slight and tired, and says, "You know, my daughter's middle name is Ciara, but we pronounce it See-air-ah."

For once in my life, I stifle the urge to elaborate on the origins of my name and the "right" way to pronounce it.

I must be getting wise in my advanced age of twenty-one.

Next, I go to the security line. Because I'm only wearing sandals, a nylon shell jacket and sweatpants rolled up to the knees, it's painless. I made sure before I left my dorm room this morning that my bag contained only my laptop, my Lonely Planet guidebook, my Japanese dictionary, my cell phone, my wallet and my iPod. Still, I suspect it's only luck that gets me through so quickly. The tiny blonde woman in the line next door is randomly selected for a wand test.

I'm still jittery from my scare at the check-in counter. Fortunately, I have a place to go relax. Thanks to more than twenty years of faithful flying with Continental, my parents' frequent flyer miles got me into first class, and by extension, the Presidential Lounge. After checking that my gate isn't at the end of the terminal, I walk through automatic sliding wooden doors into the lobby of the Lounge. I give my ticket to the woman behind the counter and she looks it over.

"What are you going for?" she asks.

"Studying abroad," I say, smiling, and the blissful rush returns. "For a month and a half."

She smiles and says, "That's fantastic. You're going to have the time of your life."

"I hope so," I reply, even though I'm convinced she's right. Almost bouncing, I enter the Lounge itself.

As expected, it's big and broad, but otherwise unremarkable. Though compared to the flat seats by the gate, it's definitely a level up. I call my parents and relay the story of my near-death experience while I toast a bagel.

"Do you have an adapter for the plane?" my dad asks.

Traveling is in my blood. I've been traveling with my parents everywhere since I was a baby. And while I think I've gotten the hang of traveling alone from navigating New York City's subway system and taking the train to and from visiting my sister in Virginia, this is a whole new experience. I've never traveled alone internationally before, and the novelty of it is exciting. Still, it's questions like this that prove that I can still learn from my parents.

I would say that even if they weren't reading this.

(Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!)

I go to Brookstones in search of a converter adapter thingie. The truth is, even after ten years of using converters and adapters, I have no idea what the difference between them is.

So when the man at Brookstones says, "We have a universal converter, but it won't work with Apples," I'm stupefied.

"Do you know any other store in the airport that sells converters?" I ask.

He shrugs.

My quest just got complicated.

Ten minutes later, with forty minutes left until boarding for my flight begins, I'm walking in front of a video game store, just about ready to buy four books and hoping I don't breeze through them before the fourteen-hour flight is over. I'm thinking of the six boxes of books I packed and put into storage just yesterday. I'm about fifteen seconds from literally kicking myself when I think,

Video games need consoles. Consoles need converters.

I veer left into the store.

Turns out there's a difference between adapters and converters. The adapter is what I need, and the cashier knows which one will work. She explains the difference, but I won't remember it -- I spend the majority of the explanation daydreaming about having fourteen hours to work on my play.

Entertainment assured, I stop by a touristy shop to pick up gifts for the two host families I'll be staying with. I don't know what to get. Most of the New York souvenirs are hokey to me, like the I HEART NY T-shirts, but I'm sure the Japanese feel the same about novelty chopsticks. I don't want to carry anything breakable or risk buying T-shirts that won't fit, and I'm resigning myself to buying the tiny artsy glass mugs molded in the shape of the island of Manhattan when I see my third option – baseballs with I HEART NY on them. Baseball – the sport fawned over by both Japanese and Americans.

Aim and a score.

On my way back to the gate, my friend Karen calls to wish me luck and send me off. I'm practically bouncing in my seat once I find one, and the man next to me is very pointedly not looking at me.

While we speak, I start to think more and more about the trip ahead. I'm still worried something awful will happen to prevent it from happening at all – something will happen with my passport, or the flight will be canceled, or someone will sneak TNT into my bag and get me arrested the moment I go through customs.

Then the flight is called for boarding and I, half-dazed with excitement, hang up with Karen and approach with my ticket.

As expected, my seat is fantastic. It's big and cushy and there's more leg space than I have leg to fill it with. I sit down and send out fifteen more text messages and call another five members of my family.

The conversation with my brother is the most fun.

"Hey," he says after he picks up, "aren't you supposed to be on a plane to Japan right now?"

I grin. "I AM on a plane to Japan right now."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah!"

The quiet, dignified Japanese businessman in the seat next to me glances over and looks away without a readable expression. I can tell he's amused anyway.

When I finish calling and texting everyone I've ever met, I start to look for the outlet in my seat. There isn't one. Only a headphone jack, a TV in one arm rest, a fold-out table in the other, some buttons to change the seat's angle and this oddly-shaped hole.

When I ask the flight attendant what's up, she explains, "The plane we were supposed to be using was hit by lightning this morning. It's back in the hangar now. We had to replace it. That's why we're a little behind taking off. Usually, you could just plug in, but for these you need a special car adapter."

It's $125.

I opt for sleeping.

I still get to use my laptop for a few hours. I spend it writing my play and this entry, pausing every so often when the flight attendant brings fresh fruit or sushi or tea.

As a first timer in first class, let me review the service in a word: damn.

I sleep sporadically, an hour here or there, but I'm too excited and nervous to get real consistent rest. At one point, the flight attendant comes by and asks me, "Are you traveling alone?"

She's been calling me "sweetie" and "doll" and telling me to eat more and generally acting like a close aunt.

I tell her, "Yep. I'm taking a Japanese class in Kobe."

"Wow. Really? That's incredible. Good for you!"

I grin. It's not that incredible. Anything is easy to learn when you have passion for it.

Every time I try to sleep, I find myself opening my eyes to check the flight's progress on the overhead screen. The hours get smaller and smaller until there's an hour and a half left and I can look out my window and actually see Japan.

The first thing I notice and marvel at are the rice fields. Perfectly symmetrical squares lining a smooth, mirror-bright river. Along the riverbank are old-styled Japanese houses. It's just like the pictures I've seen, only twelve times cooler because I'm seeing it first hand.

When the plane lands, I hold my breath and release it slowly. I'm still nervous – what if immigration finds something ELSE wrong with my passport? The world is getting more and more paranoid these days – having the wrong name on your passport could get you lynched somewhere, I'll bet.

The flight attendant grips my arm affectionately as I leave the plane. She smiles. "Enjoy yourself. It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Make incredible memories. I wish you so much luck."

I promise her I will, half speaking to myself.

The line for immigration takes about twenty minutes. They fingerprint me, take my picture and thoroughly scare the hell out of me.

Then I grab my bag from baggage claim, exchange my temporary form for an authentic JR Pass (a huge money-saver on the JR train lines – one fee you pay outside the country that gives you free access to the JR trains), and get a ticket for the limousine bus to my hotel.

I've barely missed the bus, so I have to wait another forty minutes for the next one. But I don't mind – this is my first opportunity to people watch in Japan. And the first time I see Japan's famed punctuality for myself.

The arrival times for each bus come up on a digital screen, along with where each bus is heading. The buses arrive on time every single time. Once, it's 9:39 and there's no bus in sight to pick up the 9:40 crowd and I start to wonder if the drivers have to go through boot camp training again if they miss the arrival time. It just seems that important. But along with 9:40 comes the bus. It's a little disappointing. I'd hoped for lightning bolts and gale winds to mark the occasion.

At 9:45, I board my bus. Every window seat is taken, and the bus starts moving while I'm standing in the back, so returning to the front is no longer an easy option. I look to my left and watch a ridiculously attractive guy lift his bag off the empty seat next to him. I think of an hour or however long this ride will be spent sitting next to someone that gorgeous and decide to save some work for my blunt side that will try to sneak in staring and sit in the empty seat behind him next to a grouchy woman who doesn't want me to sit there.

The bus stops at Shinjuku Station, the Washington Hotel and my hotel. At Shinjuku Station, almost every head I see is topped with black. The only blonds I see did not come from nature. I play a game with myself for a while – a spinoff of Where's Waldo called Find the Gaijin.

I find two. I'm not sure if I won or lost.

I arrive at my hotel at five o'clock. I've officially lost track of how long I've been awake. And yet, I'm not tired. My room turns out to be on the thirtieth floor, a total stroke of luck.

I look out the window and see, for the first time, for myself, the city I've seen in pictures and movies and art.

Just to sum it all up for myself – the flight, the anxiety, the whole trip to come – I say, "Sugoi."

Awesome.