Irasshaimase! いらっしゃいませ
Arigatou gozaimasu! ありがとうございます
If you’ve been to Japan, you know I can’t start with anything else.
Saying thank you in this country is like saying putain in French — okay, maybe not, let’s not be dramatic — but you get the idea.
They use it a lot.
Social Harmony
That makes up for a great transition.
In Japan, saying thank you isn’t just a polite reflex — it’s a way of keeping things smooth. A way to maintain what they call wa, social harmony.
It’s not just about good manners, it’s about acknowledging the other person’s effort, no matter how small.
It shows that something, even something simple, involved a form of mutual support. That nothing is taken for granted.
It’s subtle, but powerful.
It doesn’t come from a place of individual expression, it comes from the idea that we’re all connected and that we’re responsible for keeping that connection intact.
That being said, Japan is maybe the country where I felt the safest in the world.
In Paris, I do feel safe — but mostly because I know how to read it. I understand its mechanics: the places to avoid, the posture to adopt in certain neighborhoods. It’s a form of constant awareness, a way of protecting myself no matter the context.
And I’m not a woman, which I think makes a huge difference — sadly.
In Japan, I had the feeling I could wander anywhere and be fine.
There might be exceptions, of course — Tokyo is a megalopolis, and you never really know — but overall, there’s a sense of ease. You can drink water from the sink. Kitchens in restaurants are generally spotless. Streets are clean, calm, safe.
In China or Vietnam, I also felt safe. But there’s always someone trying to pull something. Nothing dangerous — just a scam here and there. Overpaying a taxi. A fake ticket.
It’s not unsafe. Just a mental burden you carry — a layer of vigilance that never really drops.
Yes, in Japan, some people probably curse about you being a gaijin who doesn’t speak Japanese.
But honestly — so what? You don’t understand it anyway.
And let’s be real: we do the same in France.
“Oh, vous ne parlez pas français ? Vous pourriez faire un effort.”
We can be such a pain sometimes.
In Japan, you might catch a glance — something quick, maybe a little cold. But respect runs deep here, and the fear of losing face is stronger than the urge to say something.
So most of the time, they just keep it to themselves.
I met an old man in a hostel, well over eighty.
He told me that on his first trip to Japan, he once made the mistake of getting angry — like only a French person can — in a shopping queue.
He still remembers the faces.
The quiet shock.
How visibly uncomfortable everyone became, just because someone had raised their voice.
It’s not something you do here. You don’t break the harmony. You don’t show anger.
Remember how we’re supposed to keep the connection intact?
Well, being polite goes a long way.
They’ve mastered it.
Some people say it’s too much. I don’t mind. I’ve always been polite — or “too nice,” as some might say.
That being said, it does create a kind of barrier.
One that feels almost impossible to cross.
That harmony runs through every little detail of daily life.
Take a ramen shop.
If you’re Japanese, it’s always the same routine:
You walk in quietly, barely say a word, pick your meal from the vending machine, pay, hand over the ticket at the counter, sit, wait, eat in five minutes, and leave.
No small talk. No fuss.
The only sound you’ll hear is slurping — over and over again.
And yes, you’re supposed to slurp. That’s how you eat ramen properly.
It felt odd at first, but I got used to it fast.
After all, I hadn’t cooked a single dish during my six months in Asia.
Sometimes, you don’t want to think too much about what you’re going to eat.
Just go for it. “Get a damn ramen,” and you’re good.
And damn, I miss it.
That juicy meat — pork, chicken, sometimes both.
The rich, greasy broth.
The seemingly endless noodles.
Spoon in the left hand, chopsticks in the right, trying my best to slurp like a local.
It’s harder than it looks.
In Japan, you can live a completely westernized lifestyle — yet still feel a deep sense of disorientation and wonder, simply because the culture is so different from ours.
It makes you want to learn Japanese, to blend in as much as possible.
And even if they can be a bit racist, or not always welcoming toward foreigners — let’s be honest — they genuinely appreciate it when you make the effort to speak their language.
I noticed a real difference when I started using basic phrases in Japanese, little sentences I had memorized and tried to use whenever I could.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how we should interpret the fact that they don’t always seem to like us — the Gaijin.
My conclusion isn’t that they dislike us. It’s more that they just don’t really get us.
And honestly, it’s not that surprising. Roughly 97% of Japan’s population are Japanese nationals.
There’s just… not a lot of room for foreigners, culturally speaking.
Now consider the numbers: Japan welcomes tourists each year in volumes equal to about 25% of its total population. That’s one tourist for every four or five residents.
That’s huge.
So if you really think about it, how could that not be seen as disturbing the social harmony?
Can we blame them? I don’t have a clear answer.
But I do think it explains a lot about how they act — and react.
I’m not saying they’re right. These are just simple facts.
I met a few long-term foreigners. They were all on the same page: it’s nearly impossible to ever be fully accepted.
No matter how fluent you are. Whether it’s been five, ten, or even twenty years — you’ll still be a Gaijin.
The funny thing is, when I started traveling in Asia, I had no expectations.
But for Japan… I think I did. Not conscious ones — at least, that’s what I told myself.
Looking back, I’m sure they were there.
I’d interacted with its culture for years — through anime, food, history.
And in a strange way, everything unfolded just as I imagined.
Even though I wasn’t expecting anything.
Funny how that works.
If you think about where social harmony comes from, it’s not random.
Confucianism shaped much of it — especially during the Edo period — along with Shintoism and Buddhism.
The island context helps too. When you live in close quarters, you avoid conflict.
Harmony becomes survival.
But that same harmony — not disturbing others, always maintaining the surface — can also have a dark side.
It breeds solitude. Sometimes even deep loneliness.
You’ve probably read the headlines. About suicide. About social withdrawal. About people living and dying alone.
It’s real. And often, it’s accepted.
Remember how I described the ramen experience?
Let’s not generalize, though — otherwise, you’d think Japanese people never laugh or raise their voice.
Believe me, they can get loud. And laugh hard. Under the right circumstances.
First, the setting matters.
Izakayas are perfect for that — food, drinks, a festive atmosphere.
Second, the people.
They need to be surrounded by those they know.
Otherwise, they hold back — careful not to overstep, not to disturb.
But once they’re with close friends, it’s a different story.
Suddenly, they let go.
A complete switch.
To be fair, Izakayas were the only places where I really connected with locals.
Was it the alcohol? Maybe.
But I’d say it’s more about the moment — a space where they’re a little less concerned with etiquette.
If you really want to impress them, order without looking at the menu.
I did this unintentionally more than once — mainly because the menu was often entirely in Japanese.
At some point, I just gave up trying to use Google’s image translation feature.
Instead, I memorized the names of the dishes.
Something like: “Sumimasen, lemon sour to, tamagoyaki to, maguro no sashimi to, yakizakana o kudasai.”
Which roughly means:
“Hi, can I get a lemon sour, tamagoyaki, tuna sashimi, and grilled fish, please?”
I’ll write more about food a bit further down — it definitely deserves its own chapter.
Of course, more than once, they gave me that “I don’t get it” look.
That’s usually when a local who speaks a bit of English jumps in to save me, rescuing the moment from an awkward loop of me trying (and failing) to order properly.
Funny enough, that was often my best shot at starting a conversation.
Sometimes, they’d be extremely polite but keep the interaction short, ending it right there.
Most of the time though, they’d be curious enough to ask what I was doing there — and just like that, a conversation would start.
Looking back, I think it worked because they felt they could help, without imposing.
In that context, offering help is natural.
And once that door is open, you’re free to chat — or not.
You just have to create the moment.
It’s not like in Europe, or let’s say, at a Parisian terrace, for example.
If you’re a bit chatty, you can easily strike up a conversation with the table next to you. People generally won’t be offended.
Though with Parisians, you never really know! haha.
I came back on July 13th.
Quite the specific date in France, the day before Bastille Day, so people are already in the mood to celebrate.
I’d just landed and went to a bistro for a “quick” dinner, thinking, by 9pm I’ll be asleep.
Que nenni.
I left at 1am, half-drunk, after making new friends with two tables next to me.
First night back, and suddenly, communication felt easy again. Natural. Effortless.
Was it the language?
Not only, if you ask me.
It’s the attitude. The energy. Almost a kind of openness.
It didn’t feel awkward — it felt genuine.
People in Europe like to talk, I guess.
As a well-rounded stalker — kidding, I just had plenty of time to observe (you know, being on my own) — I sometimes found myself watching couples.
What struck me was how polite they generally are with each other. Many would find it cute.
Young men, especially those in their twenties, seemed particularly attentive — getting the kawaiiii cake, a sweet coffee, a small gift, or flowers.
As for women? It often revolves around kawaii — the culture of cuteness.
Kawaii pet, kawaii cake, kawaii this, kawaii that.
Japanese girls are expected to be pretty — if not perfect — all the time.
What we often see in movies or anime, the mannerisms, the tone, the gestures, is still largely true.
Feminism? Hmm… not really.
They’re feminine, yes, but not feminist.
I think the kawaii culture acts as a major barrier to that, or at least slows things down.
When you look at Japanese society as a whole, there’s a lot that goes unspoken.
But then again, one shouldn’t disturb the social harmony of an entire nation.
Things evolve on their own time.
I guess.
The Rule is the Rule
How do you maintain social harmony all the time?
One obvious answer: rules.
Written ones. Implicit ones.
It’s not just about tradition — it’s about creating conformity and a sense of group responsibility, sometimes even through legal means.
I have so many small stories on that topic.
Sometimes it’s amusing. Sometimes it’s just frustrating.
I do kind of love how people queue to enter the train.
There’s nothing worse than getting pushed around while boarding.
I see that “order” as a quiet form of respect, an acknowledgment that others exist, and that yes, you’ll get on the train too. No need to rush.
One of the most telling — and honestly kind of fun — things you can observe in Japan is how people run in the streets.
At first, I wondered why.
Then I noticed: they’re just trying to catch the pedestrian light before it turns red, or starts blinking.
It’s almost a national sport.
You’ll very rarely see anyone cross on red.
Even if it’s just two meters to the other side, and not a single car in sight, the rule is the rule: it’s red, so you don’t cross.
Oddly enough, when there aren’t clear rules, people seem to operate on loose, collective habits.
Like cycling on sidewalks — technically allowed in many areas.
But I found cyclists to be pretty assertive, almost aggressive, weaving between pedestrians.
I kept wondering, “why don’t they just use the bike lanes?”
Apparently… new rules are on the way!
Sometimes, it kind of denatures the sense of adventure.
So many times on the trails, you’ll see signs saying “no crossing,” and I just think, “What? I can’t go there? But there’s clearly a trail… Let’s go then.”
Typically French of me, I guess.
It actually happened once, a forest guard, or someone similar, caught me somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.
He just said, “You’re not supposed to be here. Where are you going?”
I played the lost foreigner card — “Oh, I must’ve taken the wrong turn” — we both laughed, he gave me directions (which I didn’t really need), and we went our separate ways.
They’re not that strict, honestly, unless they decide to be.
But when they do decide to stick to the rules, they really mean it.
I once booked a 3:15pm bus from Kamikochi, deep in the mountains.
I finished the trail earlier than expected and reached another stop lower in the valley, just in time to catch the 2:40pm bus — same bus line, same destination.
But nope. Didn’t matter.
The ticket said 3:15, so 2:40 was out of the question.
You’d think it wouldn’t make a difference, but to them, it does.
In those moments, you just need to be more stubborn than they are — politely, of course.
Don’t raise your voice, don’t argue. Just calmly insist.
Eventually, they give in.
In my case, the bus driver had to leave anyway — and others would’ve missed their train otherwise.
Worked out just fine.
When I was in Peru, I actually enjoyed not knowing exactly how things would unfold.
You just navigate differently.
Even without speaking Spanish — which was my case — you ask around once or twice, and somehow, you end up finding the minivan, the bus, or the right corner to wait.
There’s a certain chaos to it, but it works. It flows.
In Japan, it’s the opposite. Everything is organized. Structured.
It has to fit in a box, and if it doesn’t, then it simply doesn’t exist.
I think that says a lot about their culture.
And I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to be Japanese and not fit in one of those boxes.
There are so many social codes, so many implicit rules, so many expectations about how you should behave.
It must be exhausting, trying to be “perfect” all the time — just to feel like you belong.
People are watching — subtly, quietly judging.
They’d never confront you directly. But that doesn’t mean they’re not thinking something.
I’ve been told that Japanese people tend to report things when they see something off.
Park in front of the wrong door, even for a minute? You’ll likely get reported.
It’s never aggressive — it’s just part of how the system works.
Small things, yes. But they add up.
That said, there are upsides to all this. As I mentioned earlier, structure has its perks.
Still, as a westerner, you need to be mindful.
There are a lot of social codes — and they matter.
You’ll make “mistakes,” for sure. But that’s okay.
Some of those moments even led to a few good laughs with locals.
So I wouldn’t worry too much.
They’re still people, after all. :)
Art, Craft & Style
Oddly enough, I found that Japan shares quite a few things with France — not just in lifestyle, but in style itself.
It’s in the manners, the taste, the conversations, the obsession with food.
That constant search for something better. A quiet pursuit of excellence.
They care about how they dress.
They know how to do it well, in their own way.
It wouldn’t necessarily work in France, but it’s still style. Undeniably so.
They’re more discreet than the French, no doubt.
But let’s be honest, French people aren’t the most expressive either — at least not compared to Italians or Spaniards.
We often find them too loud.
All in all, there’s real taste here. A developed sense for it.
And in Asia, I think that’s pretty rare, worth noting, at least for me.
I also think that being respectful is a form of style here.
Not too many frills, just quiet consideration.
Sure, some of it comes from tradition and ingrained manners. But more than that, it feels intentional. Almost elegant.
That part of the culture resonated with me immediately.
Maybe that’s why so many French people love Japan?
I’m not sure, I haven’t really debated it much.
A few French friends have said the same, but I can’t speak for a nation, you know.
Small fun parenthesis — speaking of France — there’s definitely something about it that the Japanese love.
It’s often a bit ridiculous, to be honest.
A lot of shops use French names that make absolutely no sense.
Looking back at some of my photos: one restaurant was called “Maison de Grue” — House of Crane.
I mean… what the heck?
Even better: “Champ de Herbe” — literally “Field of Grass.”
Yeah. I don’t know what you’re smoking, but it must be pretty strong.
They kind of do the same with jazz.
I’ve noticed that whenever a place wants to come across as fancy, they’ll play jazz.
Why not — but sometimes it’s a bit much. Even in Kyoto, you’ll hear it playing in the streets.
That’s when I started drawing a line in my mind.
In France, people don’t listen to jazz because it’s fancy. They listen to it because they fancy it.
Yeah, I’m being a smart ass with words, but you get my point.
It’s genuine.
We don’t really have a show-off culture. We do things because we like them, not because they look good from the outside.
Not a universal rule, of course, but something I deeply believe. Maybe I’m just being French. Chauvinist? Could be. Whatever.
If you’ve never done it, go spend an evening at a Parisian jazz club — Le Duc des Lombards, 38Riv, just to name a few. That’s soul.
I’ve tried a few in Kyoto and Tokyo. Honestly? They’re pretty good. Some even mix in traditional Japanese elements, it’s beautiful.
And the people attending? Real connoisseurs. You can feel it.
But the rooms are mostly empty.
So where am I going with all this?
I guess I didn’t expect Japan to have such a taste for fancy things. For showing off a little, whether it’s jazz, French names, or anything else.
Surprising, honestly. But maybe that’s also part of the charm.
To some extent, I also saw it as something broader.
In France, we have what we call savoir-faire — a kind of instinctive know-how.
It’s not just about excellence. It comes from the gut. There’s often a strong sense of creativity behind it.
In Japan, the relationship to excellence feels different.
It’s more about focus. Precision.
They’ll dedicate themselves to one very specific thing — making knives, preparing sushi, whatever it is — and repeat it for decades. Not for the sake of innovation, but to master the essence of it.
Take sushi, for example. You’ve probably read this somewhere: as an apprentice, you can spend over two years just making rice.
Only rice.
Day after day, until it’s perfect.
Then, maybe, you’ll be allowed to handle the fish. And eventually shape your first nigiri — what we call “sushi” in Europe.
Crazy, right?
Landscape & Cities
I couldn’t write about Japan without mentioning its landscapes and cities.
So far, I haven’t even told you where I went.
Let’s take a moment to recap: Osaka, Kyoto, Matsumoto, then up north to Hokkaido and the Daisetsuzan National Park.
From there, Sapporo, and finally, Tokyo, with a brief stop near Mount Fuji.
Osaka: Rythm
I started the trip with just one day in Kansai, more specifically, Osaka.
If I had to do it again, I’d probably spend more time there, even compared to Kyoto.
It’s a big city, sure, but the atmosphere is somehow more approachable. Easier to navigate. Easier to experience.
Dotonbori was packed, as expected, but there were so many small alleys worth wandering into.
The food? Incredible. Some of the best value I found in Japan — second only to Hokkaido.
I landed on a Saturday night and immediately felt the rhythm of Japan.
Walking to my hotel, half-randomly, like a kid seeing things for the first time. Eyes wide open.
My first impression of Japan?
Exactly what I’d imagined, the smell of food in the air, tiny busy bars tucked in narrow streets, and that unmistakable sense of atmosphere.
I got to wander around the city that Sunday. Looking for breakfast, I followed the same principle I’d used in Vietnam: walk around, pick a random spot that looks authentic, and step in.
They didn’t speak a word of English. It was kind of a self-service setup, with dishes lined up on a shelf. I remembered how to say “omelet” — tamago.
I spotted one of those rectangular pans and figured they probably made their special omelet there. So I asked for tamagoyaki, and bingo.
A chef appeared, prepared it on the spot, quietly, efficiently.
Didn’t say a word.
You often read that Japan still relies heavily on cash. Well, I hadn’t withdrawn any.
They let me finish eating, then find an ATM and come back to pay. They were incredibly kind about it.
From the little I understood — mostly through gestures and facial expressions — they were basically saying, “Don’t worry, take your time.”
It never even crossed their mind that I wouldn’t return. At least, that’s how I read it.
I visited Osaka Castle. Worth it for the history and the view from the top, but that’s about it.
Very photogenic, though.
Later that day, I had the brilliant idea to try a sushi-train restaurant. Ended up at Sushiro, a bit of a chain, but kind of an institution here.
Honestly, you can’t imagine how satisfying it is to see your little plate slide down the rail and stop right at your station.
The fish? Incredibly fresh. Way better than 95% of what you get in Europe. No comparison.
Osaka is mostly known for its vibe anyway — vibrant culture, amazing food, great music scene.
In another life, I could have stayed longer. Next time, maybe.
Right after that one day, I headed to Kyoto, for two full weeks.
Kyoto: Traditional
Many would say Kyoto is too crowded.
I get it, but I don’t fully agree.
Sure, if you stick to the main streets and hit the popular shrines at 10 a.m., it’s packed. That’s when the tour groups arrive.
But what do people expect? Of course it’s going to be busy.
Get up earlier. Or go somewhere else.
There’s no shortage of shrines in Kyoto. I even ended up creating my own running route that connects a bunch of them.
You visit it how you want. That’s the whole point.
But if you wander into the small side streets, you’ll find a much quieter Kyoto.
Izakayas tucked away, almost invisible — yet everywhere.
To my disappointment, though, many were Japanese only.
I’d push the door, take a step in, only to be greeted with a cross sign.
Not full. Just… not for me.
It happened once, twice… by the fifth time, I finally understood.
Still, Kyoto is worth every minute.
It’s deeply appreciated — and often recommended — because it’s one of the most well-preserved cities from the Edo period.
Though if you look closer, parts of it echo even earlier times, like the Heian period.
You feel it in the layout, the architecture, the rhythm.
Honestly, I’d suggest visiting any shrine or neighborhood — they all have something to offer.
The famous ones, like Fushimi Inari, are worth seeing. Not so much for the shrine itself, but for the sheer length of the path. It just keeps going.
But there’s something special about being alone in a shrine.
That quiet. That stillness. It hits different.
I remember getting lost along the Philosopher’s Path.
It was peaceful — I was lucky to have it mostly to myself.
A good moment to just think, let things settle.
Maybe that’s why it’s called that way. A silent nudge to slow down. Reflect.
I went trail-running through Mount Daimonji, deep in the forest. I was completely on my own, far from the city crowds.
At the top, the viewpoint gives you a wide, open panorama over Kyoto.
Highly recommend it for a quiet Sunday walk.
Kyoto’s also a hub for artisans. I even booked a forging workshop to make my own knife.
Some might call it an almost-sword — it was pretty big, to be fair.
And yes, for the skeptics: I traveled with it and brought it back to France with no issues, ahah.
Matsumoto: The Japanese Alps
I’m a mountain guy.
Not born in the Alps or the Pyrénées, but my dad filled my childhood with mountain stories. Karakoram this, North Pole that. Crossing the Alps on skis. Wild stuff.
Still, it took me over 25 years to show any real interest in hiking.
I’ve always loved skiing — never skipped a season — but hiking?
I used to find it… I don’t know. Too slow? Too soft? Not worth the time?
It’s hard to explain now.
Looking back, I feel a bit stupid for thinking that way.
Maybe it was just stereotypes.
Because now that I know it, I love it.
Anyway, I had to head into the Japanese Alps, so I picked Matsumoto as a base.
It was a breath of fresh air. Obviously way, way less crowded.
And for once, locals felt easier to talk to.
I ended up chatting a lot more — in ramen shops, cafés, co-working spaces… pretty much anywhere.
It felt good after Kyoto. Maybe cities like that are just too much, maybe locals stop trying to connect after a while. Who knows.
One thing’s for sure: people were always surprised I was staying two weeks.
Most visitors stick around for a couple of days, maybe three at most.
“Why so long?” they’d ask, visibly puzzled.
But I liked the vibe.
People moved differently.
They didn’t seem as busy as in Kyoto or Tokyo. Actually, quite a few told me they came from Tokyo — not because they loved the mountains, but because they needed peace of mind.
I get it.
Japanese culture can be intense: work hard, follow the rules, behave properly, show respect at all times.
It’s no surprise that many eventually crave a quieter rhythm.
And mountains usually offer just that.
Most tourists come here for Kamikōchi — and fair enough, it’s a stunning valley.
But one of my first hikes was completely unplanned.
I wanted to “train” a little before tackling Yake-dake — plus the peak was hidden in clouds that day, and I wanted better conditions.
So I opened Google Maps, picked a random spot that looked decent: Mt. Hachibuse.
Took a bike from the hostel and rode out.
Wandered through the forest until I came across Gofukujo Temple.
It felt kind of abandoned — not run down, just… empty.
No one was there. I had the whole place to myself.
I glanced at a map, noticed a trail nearby, and figured I’d check it out.
Didn’t expect it to turn into a 4-hour hike with 1,000 meters of elevation gain.
I hadn’t eaten anything that day — luckily, I always carry snacks.
The trail cut through the forest, steep but quiet.
Thankfully I’m in decent shape, so it didn’t hit too hard.
Turned out to be solid training. Unexpected, but worth it.
The next day, I headed for Yake-dake.
Dake means “peak” in Japanese, if I’m not mistaken.
The bus was packed with tourists, though it was pretty clear most of them weren’t planning to hike to the “summit”.
I did run into a few Japanese hikers who were fully geared up, some even carrying ice axes.
Made me laugh. There was no snow, the trail was well-marked, no technical difficulty whatsoever. Totally unnecessary.
I’ve noticed the Japanese really love their gear.
I do too — I’ve got a backpack for every type of hike — but here, they often go overboard.
And then there are the bear bells. That constant jingling. Sometimes funny, sometimes just irritating.
Still, I’m really glad I made it to Kamikōchi. It’s a completely different vibe from what I know in France.
I really liked it, but if I’m honest, we’re incredibly lucky to have both the Alps and the Pyrénées.
Hard to beat those two.
The Alps are majestic. Some peaks are seriously technical, especially on the Swiss side.
Glaciers feel almost mystical.
The Pyrénées are different. Still very preserved, almost untouched — sauvages, in the true sense.
I love them. Perfect for tent camping.
A bit harder to do that in the Alps, at least from my experience.
While in the region, I visited Magome-juku. Some kind of super old-school village, straight from the Edo period.
Wooden houses, narrow street, stone path. Time slows down.
From there, I followed the trail to Tsumago.
It’s quiet. Peaceful.
The forest wraps around the path like a soft blanket.
It almost feels staged.
I pictured an old lord passing through.
Samurais walking ahead to make way.
I don’t know of any other villages that well preserved in all Japan.
It was like walking through a memory.
The train from Matsumoto was also beautiful.
It followed the Kiso River, right through the forest..
Perfect for a slow Sunday.
Hokkaido: Nature’s Wonder
Traveling in Japan, you have so many options. You could go to Okinawa, or try some other islands like Shikoku. Like history, venture to Hiroshima in the south.
At the end of the day, despite 2 months being relatively long, I had to pick. My love for nature called me out to Hokkaido.
Man, was I not disappointed!
I took a week holidays. Felt “tired” of huge impersonal hostels. I wanted a bit of comfort. So I chose some 4 star hotels in the Daisetsuzan national park region.
I wanted to hike to peaks: Kurodake and Asahidake. It was supposedly too early because of snow blabla but I still went.
One thing I know with the little mountaineering experience I have, is that everybody has its own sense of difficulty. Don’t ask me why, but I felt super confident that those two peaks would be a piece of cake even with snow.
Took a train from Matsumoto to Tokyo and flew from Tokyo to Asahikawa. From there, rented a car, direction Sounkyo.
My first time driving left, felt a bit weird at first but I didn’t die. Guess that accounts for something eh.
The first days, knowing I wanted to go for Kurodake directly the next day, I went for a small hike to Momijidaki Water Falls. Nothing spectacular.
So I looked for something better, and found a spot from where I could observe not one but two waterfalls: Ginga Waterfall and Ryusei Waterfalls.
It was stunning. I made some beautiful shots, feels like it comes directly out of an anime.
On the way back, I checked for the ropeway, which was supposed to be working. Supposed. It didn’t.
Might as well say that the next day hike would be definitely longer than expected. But at the same time I was kinda happy: I knew that nobody would ever do this hike without the ropeway working!
Took me about 8h30 with 4,000 meters of cumulative elevation change and 24km. I was cooked at the end.
The great thing is that Kuro-dake enables you to do a loop at the top, with stunning views all across the other peaks of the region. I was so happy to be out there, on my own.
Butterflies landed on my hand during my break. Simply magical.
The different layers of rocks, red, blue-grey, green was impressive. Maybe because it is part of a volcanic system, not per-se an active “classic”, but still a lava dome.
Anyway, two days later, I did the peak just “in front”: Asahi-dake. I hesitated taking the ropeway – this time working for this hike. I eventually did, the weather wasn’t very friendly so I decided it wouldn’t be super smart to take longer to the top.
That day, on the way to the top, people were turning back. I had a brief exchange with a young couple: “it’s too windy, too much snow” blabla.
So I prepared myself mentally, like “hell like I’m not doing it, bring it on, I’ve done worse”. All the way up, I was like, “damned when is it going to be like they said, maybe I’m so far from the summit”.
Until I reached the summit all of a sudden, out from the clouds. Felt like… “Oh shit, already there?”. Well, always make your own appreciations of difficulty, as I said.
Like Kuro-dake, that day I was alone on the trails. I did kind of the same loop as on the Kuro-side. Like 25-30% of the same.
I found myself in some complicated snow areas, with trail running shoes. Slippery. Was fun. Kept telling myself “you’ve done way worse”. Which was true. It helps, believe me.
All the valley beneath was in clouds. The sun was hot for me. I felt like I was free, alive.
I love this feeling when everything is empty around you. You’re left on your own. You know where you’re going, you have a purpose. Life feels like it has meaning. Pure joy.
Often, when you’re traveling alone, you’re sometimes thinking “in that spot I would have liked to be with someone to be able to remember it differently”. But Hokkaido was mine and mine alone. I felt contempt.
I left the mountains and moved further south.
Noboribetsu was the destination.
On the way, I planned to pass through the flower valleys around Biei and Furano, and stop by Lake Tōya.
I drove a lot. But I didn’t mind.
The roads were empty, lined with trees and fields of flowers.
Lake Tōya is peaceful.
Not much happens there.
Just the lake. The silence.
It wasn’t crowded at all. I barely saw any tourists.
That made it even better.
I looked for the highest point nearby on the map and ended up near a hotel overlooking a golf course.
From there, you could see both the southern coast and the lake.
Foxes were roaming the grass. A few other animals too.
Japan really knows how to frame nature.
After a quick night by the lake, I headed to Noboribetsu.
Completely different atmosphere.
More crowded — understandably so.
It’s the kind of place you don’t see often outside Japan.
Sulfur rising from the earth, in shades of yellow, orange, brown.
The ground feels alive.
I took a short hike through a dry forest.
No wild onsen to soak in — just a small hot river where you can dip your feet.
Still enjoyable.
After the hike, I drove around aimlessly.
Found another lake.
Ate some grilled and fried fish.
Simple life.
That week in Hokkaido was coming to an end.
Time to head back to the city.
Sapporo.
If you talk to people who’ve been to Japan, they’ll tell you Tokyo is crazy.
Overwhelming. Something else entirely.
I actually think Sapporo is a good introduction.
The city doesn’t have a long list of must-see monuments.
But it has food. And bars.
If you ask me, that’s already more than enough.
Food is everywhere. Every corner, every building.
Probably some of the best value for money in Japan.
Not cheap, exactly — but I had some of the best donburi and curry there.
Sometimes, there’s a restaurant on each floor of a building.
You look up and see neon signs with logos or names. That’s your clue.
Pick a floor, take the elevator, and see what happens.
More than once, I entered a building after spotting a fish logo on a sign.
Found the right floor. Walked in.
No English menu. No English staff.
So it was either Google Translate with the camera…
or random orders.
I started preferring random orders.
More fun. Less control.
I also had the best milk ice cream of my life.
Can’t remember the name of the place.
They’re extremely proud of “Hokkaido milk.” It’s everywhere. Milk this, milk that.
To be fair — it’s deserved. The ice cream is incredible.
If you’re into nightlife, Susukino is the place.
It’s the louder side of Sapporo.
Neon lights, themed clubs, some places a bit more… ambiguous.
It was my first time in an area like that.
Girls dressed in the shortest, most elaborate outfits.
Japanese men seem to love it.
For me, it felt awkward.
You can select a girl from a screen, rent her company for a set amount of time.
Drinks, conversation. Apparently nothing sexual.
There’s a version for women too, but let’s be honest — the market is clearly aimed at men.
I’m not sure whether I find it creepy or clever.
Clever, maybe, in the sense that it’s structured and probably safer for the girls.
I don’t know. Not really my thing.
For my last weekend in Hokkaido, I went to Otaru.
Easy train ride from Sapporo.
Like Sapporo, the town doesn’t overwhelm you with things to see.
But it has something better.
The best fish I’ve ever eaten.
I had lunch at Otaru Masazushi, the restaurant linked to the local sushi academy.
Took the opportunity to learn a bit more about sushi masters and their craft.
You discover slightly insane things.
Like the fact that, as an apprentice, you may not touch fish for two years.
Only rice.
Two years.
That alone says a lot about their relationship to perfection.
Rice is considered one of the hardest parts to master — the cooking, the temperature, the texture, keeping it at the right state once prepared.
Everything matters.
The city is also famous for LeTAO.
LeTAO this, LeTAO that. It’s everywhere.
Not cheese in the French sense, obviously.
Cheesecake cheese.
But to be fair, even plain, their cheesecake was excellent.
Sweet, light, slightly tangy.
Balanced.
Otaru is simple.
You stroll along the canal.
Eat along the way.
Find a fish market.
Sit at a tiny counter.
Eat more.
Climb to a higher point and watch the city fade into the sea.
Walk through a covered market.
Eat again.
All in all, if you’re looking for nature, a bit of adventure, and great — if not excellent — food, Hokkaido has it all.
Bright colors, almost unreal.
Nature as delicate as fresh fish laid over a donburi.
Sweets everywhere. Small wonders at every corner.
I’d love to come back in winter.
To enjoy the onsens while snow falls quietly around.
To see the national parks covered in white.
And why not ski there too — off-piste, through meters of light, untouched powder.
Tokyo: Bustling
It’s time to wrap up this chapter on Japan’s landscapes and cities with what might be the most astonishing city in the world.
In recent years, I’ve felt less and less drawn to cities.
I find more joy in the wild now.
But Tokyo… hits differently.
Around 40 million inhabitants.
Four times Paris and its suburbs.
And yet, it doesn’t feel like one single city. More like ten different ones, each with its own rhythm and mood.
New York and Paris have always been my favorites.
Tokyo didn’t disappoint. It’s now in my top three.
Could I live there?
Probably not. Too big. Too impersonal.
But it’s one of those places you need to experience at least once.
So where do you even start?
I don’t think you can really go wrong with Tokyo.
I stayed two weeks in Shibuya. I had to work during the week, but it still gave me enough time to explore.
Choosing where to stay matters, though.
The city is vast. Distances add up quickly.
Shibuya was a good base — roughly thirty minutes from almost anywhere.
And in Tokyo, that’s considered close.
I won’t go through every neighborhood.
Plenty of guides already do that well.
If I had one piece of advice, it would be simple: wander.
Have a vague direction in mind.
Then close Google Maps and just walk.
You’ll stumble upon small shops, pop-ups, random events, things you didn’t plan for.
That’s when the city feels alive.
And sometimes, it’s surprisingly quiet.
You turn a corner, and the noise fades.
You almost forget you’re in one of the biggest cities in the world.
Japan has this ability to place the most intense spots right next to the calmest ones.
They know how to balance it.
I went to the SkyTree, for example.
Crowded. Bright. Almost overwhelming.
Stores everywhere selling both amazing and completely useless things.
A Pokémon store, obviously.
It felt like the pinnacle of modern Japanese culture — anime references, mascots, neon lights.
All of it concentrated in one vertical space.
If you’ve read me so far, you know it’s not really my thing.
Too much. Too loud. Too bright.
So I left.
I found another neighborhood on the map — where the Sumida Hokusai Museum is located — and headed south, following a small stream.
And once again, I found my peace.
With the SkyTree still visible behind me, framing the skyline.
Good contrast. Good photos.
The Hokusai Museum is genuinely worth it.
It explains a lot about the roots of manga and anime — not directly, but through traditional techniques from ancient Japan.
You start to see the connection.
The lines. The movement. The composition.
What we now associate with manga has deeper origins.
If you’re into that world, it’s definitely a place to visit.
If you’re looking to work, co-working spaces in Japan are usually a bit tricky to find.
Tokyo makes it easier, though.
I even ended up working on the 40-something floor of a tower in Shibuya, overlooking the famous crossing.
Not a bad office for a few hours.
Speaking of work, I should mention Roppongi.
That’s where the salarymen go after long days.
Drinks. More drinks.
You’ve probably seen the images — men in suits, passed out on the train.
Or asleep on the pavement after missing the last one home.
It sounds dramatic, but it’s part of the city’s rhythm.
Work hard. Release hard.
And repeat the next morning.
I could go on and on.
Really.
But at some point, I have to publish this.
There’s still Ueno — with its small market streets and fresh fish stalls.
Akihabara — completely crazy about video games and anime.
Meguro worth mentioning, too.
Shimokitazawa — thrift shops everywhere, a kind of Tokyo “bobo-land.”
Ebisu, just south of Shibuya — quieter, elegant, easy to like.
Each neighborhood feels like a different city.
But Tokyo isn’t something you can fully explain.
You have to walk it.
Get lost in it.
You need to experience it yourself to really get it.
Mt Fuji: Heights
Oh. Before I forget.
How could I not end with Japan’s most famous mountain — Mister Fuji.
Up to 100,000 people visit every summer season.
Will you see it emerging from the clouds?
Honestly, chances are slim. It’s hidden most of the year.
You need a bit of luck.
Should you hike it? Yes.
But not via the main trails.
There are several routes, and I can only recommend the Gotemba trail.
It accounts for roughly 10% of all visitors.
Much less crowded. More space. More silence.
I wanted to open the trail the day the refuges opened — July 10th.
You can technically hike it in June. There’s usually no snow, even at 3,700 meters.
But without the huts open, you have to go up and down in a single day.
The trail itself isn’t technical.
Just frustrating.
Loose volcanic sand.
One step up, half a step back.
You can sleep in huts around 3,000 meters.
Then leave around 2:30 a.m. to reach the summit for sunrise.
If you’re in good shape, it takes about 1h30 from the hut.
No need to rush.
Otherwise you’ll just freeze at the top, waiting.
The sunrise is worth it.
Red. Then orange. Then yellow.
And finally the sky turns deep blue.
And if the sky is clear enough, you’ll see something special: Fuji’s shadow projected perfectly onto the land below.
A perfect cone, drawn by the sun.
For once, you also see the valleys clearly.
Early morning usually means fewer clouds.
Ironically, once I was back down in Gotemba city, Fuji had disappeared again.
Hidden.
As if it had never been there at all.
Final Thoughts
Arigatou gozaimasu for reading!
That’s a wrap.
Japan has been one of the highlights of my 2025 travels.
There was so much I wanted to see, to understand, to experience.
I know I couldn’t live there.
Too many rules. Too many unspoken codes. Too much rigidity for me.
But this country, and its people, have something rare.
You don’t often find such a defined and layered culture on an island of that size.
Not small, no, but still remarkable given its richness and diversity.
I’ll be back.
Probably not alone.
It’s hard to truly connect there. People are kind, polite, helpful, but friendships don’t come easily.
There’s a certain solitude woven into the culture.
Perfectionism. Restraint. Respect.
To experience it fully, you almost have to be Japanese.
And at the same time, being a gaijin frees you from the pressure they live under.
I enjoyed it for what it was.
And it’s fine that some parts remain out of reach.
Maybe that’s what makes it even more compelling.
More intriguing.
It’s a real culture shock — even if we think we already know Japan.
It’s a bit like the United States.
We believe we understand it because we consume its culture daily.
Movies. Music. Brands. Stories.
But living it is different.
There’s always more beneath the surface.
You can experience it.
You can observe it.
But you’ll never fully grasp it.
And maybe that’s the point.
