“Omg.”
A voice cut through the almost-silent train carriage.
I looked up, already deep in one of my internal dramatic monologues.
“Why can’t foreigners just behave? They fly in, rush through Kyoto with their matcha everything, stay two weeks, and go home bragging about ‘how authentic Japan felt’. Meanwhile, we’re left dealing with their chaos.”
Two girls sat across from me, cooing at an irritated cat trapped in one of those transparent capsule backpacks.
Their big animated expressions, their fluttery hands, the complete lack of awareness of everyone else on the train — everything about them annoyed me.
My inner voice went feral:
No wonder Japanese people get frustrated. If you can’t respect the culture, just stay home!
For a second, I genuinely wondered if I had said it out loud.
Because both girls suddenly looked up, caught my eye, and gave me a massive, friendly smile.
I froze.
Guilt and heat rushed up my neck.
Because years ago, I was them.
My first trip to Kyoto made me want to call Japan home.
I was wide-eyed, amazed, enchanted.
And I felt welcomed.
So when did I turn into this?
This bitter, judgemental version of myself?
All I’ve wanted for years is to blend in.
To be the wallpaper of Japan.
To master the etiquette so perfectly that no one notices I’m not native.
I try at 200% every single day.
And yet, one loud foreigner on a train makes me feel like all my effort is meaningless.
Like they can ruin everything I’m trying so hard to protect.
Maybe I’m not actually angry at them.
Maybe I’m angry at myself…
For wanting so desperately to belong to a place that still feels like it might never fully see me as one of its own.
by Current_Source_8143