Day 0 - Planes, Trains, and Public Panic Attacks: My Journey to Tokushima

Four modes of transportation. One emotional breakdown. Infinite nervous energy.

After waking up in my Tokyo Airbnb, I filmed the first video of my trip—and let me tell you, nothing says “let’s start this journey” like sobbing into your phone about your fears at 7 AM. I wrote them on the back of a 7/11 receipt. I had the urge to read them outloud into the camera like a final will and testilmate. Deep down I thought this might be the last time I am seen alive, or as the person I am now, either way change was inevitable. I had a solid panic-cry, packed my bags through the tears like a champion, and braced myself for what turned out to be a full-day odyssey to Tokushima.

Breakfast of the Anxious Champions

Before confronting Japan's transit system, I did what any rational adult on the verge of a breakdown would do: hit up McDonald’s. I ordered a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich—except this version had mayo and lettuce like a McChicken with a hint of teriyaki. Bold move, McDonald's Japan. I respect it. Gave it a solid 10/10.

Worried I'd starve later, I also grabbed a hashbrown and a chicken sandwich. Because clearly, I thought food might cease to exist once I left Tokyo.

Drunk Girl, Cold Ground, Existential Mirror

En route to the train station, I passed a girl passed out drunk on the sidewalk. It had snowed the night before, and she was jacket-less. The police were waking her before the street sweepers did. I saw a little of myself in her—chaotic, vulnerable, lost. Except I was heading off on a self-imposed spiritual adventure, and she was (hopefully) going home to chug water and sleep for 12 hours. But still. There was something there. Two girls in the middle of transitions.

Google Maps: Savior of the Day

Getting on the local train was easy—Google Maps is basically a divine presence in Japan. It told me exactly what platform to stand on, what time to board, and probably would've offered emotional support if I’d asked.

Next up was the bullet train (Shinkansen). It cost about $100 USD, but it took me nearly across the whole country, so I pretended I was booking a land-plane and tried not to wince. Once on board, I queued up my favorite podcast and zoned out while passengers around me casually ordered beer at 10 AM. Cheers, comrades.

A Surprise Bus Situation

Google Maps got a little cryptic after that. My next transfer was listed as a "train," but the tiny emoji looked suspiciously bus-like. Spoiler: it was a bus. I had 10 minutes to catch it and had to pee—badly. One glance at the bathroom line and I knew I was not making that transfer.

Luckily, the next bus came an hour later. Crisis avoided. I used the time to grab a pork bao bun and some sushi triangles (onigiri) from a grab-and-go kiosk. Only issue? No tables. Where do people eat this food? Secret underground dining lairs? I perched quietly on a bench and nibbled discreetly, trying to emit “respectful foreigner” vibes. Based on the looks I got, I failed. Sorry, Japan.

Bus Heaven (and a Mild Navigation Fail)

I finally found the correct bus kiosk—bless the English language setting—and boarded a comfy, Greyhound-style bus with reclining seats, privacy curtains, Wi-Fi, and outlets. And best of all: no seatmate. It was the introvert’s dream.

Unfortunately, I missed my ideal stop and got off one station too late. Classic me. But hey—closer to dinner, right?

Ramen, Language Barriers, and Grandpa Joy

Still feeling adventurous, I wandered into a ramen shop for dinner. That’s when it hit me—I was no longer in the global, English-friendly zone of Tokyo. No English on the order kiosk. My Tokyo swagger disappeared instantly.

An elderly Japanese man tried to help, pointing enthusiastically to every ramen option except the one I wanted. I was trying to figure out how to add gyoza. He was just vibing. Eventually, the waitress kindly explained, in decent English, that gyoza only comes in a combo. My gyoza dreams were crushed, but I smiled politely.

I sat two tables away from the old man and his grandson. The way he slurped his noodles with pure, unfiltered joy—it was a sound only Japanese grandpas make. Like a “yummy” mixed with a victory celebration. It was oddly comforting.

Uber? Never Heard of Her

Post-ramen, I opened my phone to call an Uber. And... nothing. No cars. No taxis. Apparently, I was still in a city, but not that kind of city. I stood in front of the station like a true L.A. girl, wondering how the world could function without app-based rideshares.

Cue: 20-minute breakdown.

I started to spiral: What am I doing? Where am I? How do I survive the next two months? Is this what people mean by “finding yourself”? Because I want to return myself immediately.

Eventually, I found a local train via Google. Luckily, I hadn’t strayed too far from the station.

Ticket Machine Madness

Buying a ticket here was a different beast. No English, multiple machines for different types of transportation (trains? buses? possibly boats?). I finally picked one machine, but it only had numbers instead of destinations. What was I buying? Coordinates?

I asked a staff member and she just kept saying “333,” then “33,” then made a circle with her hand. I was like, “Ma’am, are we playing charades or summoning a demon?”

Finally, another woman showed me a calculator that said “330.” OH. That’s the fare. Not a portal code. I felt bad for mentally cursing the first lady. She was right. I was just dense.

I paid, boarded my fourth and final ride of the day, and let the train rock me into a dazed silence.

Quiet Town, Louder Thoughts

The 20-minute walk to my stay was quiet. Not “relaxing quiet,” but “pin-drop, post-apocalypse” quiet. I passed three people—all smiled and said hello. It felt like I’d teleported to a small town in America, if America had vending machines for hot corn soup.

Locals definitely gave me a few puzzled looks. Probably wondering why this American woman was rolling luggage near Temple 1 like she planned to walk 700 miles with a carry-on. Fair.

The Coziest Little Ending

Eventually, I found the house... by knocking on a private residence. A man with a lazy eye opened the door, gently corrected me, and still called me “Rachel-san.” I loved him instantly.

Inside, the real host was just as sweet. I got a private room with its own little bathroom (complete with a tiny but adorable toilet), and the shared showers downstairs looked very cool. I’ll test those waters tomorrow. For now, I put on the soft cotton robe they left in the room and felt like a very tired but very fancy spa guest.

Dinner was... an experience. It was traditional Japanese: sashimi, a soy sauce-braised fish, a mushroom soup, and one very chewy octopus. I hate mushrooms, but I powered through. The dining room vibe was surreal—one older man and one older woman sat down, all of us facing the same direction while the host played a TV show. No talking. Just the quiet chewing of strangers. I felt like I was in a very polite cult.

Beanbag Pillow and Earthquake Anxiety

Back in my room, I discovered my pillow was less “fluffy cloud” and more “tiny beanbag.” Surprisingly cozy, though. The room was snug, peaceful... and earthquake-ready. I started scanning the design and safety measures and spiraled just a little again. Then I reminded myself: I made it.

Lights out by 8 PM. Out cold in seconds.

Final Thoughts

Day one was an emotional, logistical, and digestive journey. I cried, I ate too much, I panicked, I got lost, I got found. And tomorrow? We begin again—with clean hair, fewer tears, and (hopefully) less octopus.