Japan, As I Lived It: A Ton of New Concepts
During my 15 day journey through Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, exploring the cities, hunting for games, and simply enjoying the adventure of discovering new places with my fiancée, I came across ideas that helped me better understand why Japanese society functions the way it does. What struck me most wasn’t just the culture itself, but the underlying philosophies that shape it. Just like in other parts of the world, where we live by ideas like Carpe Diem, Memento Mori, Amor Fati, or even YOLO, Japan has its own set of cultural principles. And the same is true for my home country, Brazil. We’re shaped by concepts like Gambiarra, Saudade, and Zueira. These ideas don’t just describe behavior, they reflect how you see life.
Prologue
In my hometown of São Paulo, the temperatures I’m used to range from 10°C to 28°C. Anything above that feels uncomfortably hot, and anything below feels ice cold to me. Since Brazil is in South America, on the other side of the globe, we spent around 30 hours traveling, with a connection in Zurich, Switzerland, to finally arrive in Japan.
Just a few hours after we landed in Zurich, a blizzard hit. It wasn’t my first time seeing snow, but it was my first time witnessing a full-on blizzard. And I have to say, while it might look beautiful in a movie, experiencing it in real life, especially while waiting for the plane’s engines to be defrosted because of the snow, is actually pretty unsettling.
The airplane food was surprisingly decent. Even considering that my bride is vegetarian, it was okay. Crossing so many time zones completely threw off our sense of time. Luckily, my fiancée came up with a sleep schedule for the flight, and by following it, we managed to arrive in Japan without being too tired.
The arrival was magical. Seeing Mount Fuji for the first time and being welcomed by Mario at Narita Airport, I really can’t complain.
These Welcome Suica cards were the first thing we got after landing in Japan. From trains to vending machines, they opened the door to our journey, literally and symbolically.
Chapter 1 - Tokyo: Where Precision Feels Natural
What I love most about Tokyo is how effortlessly it blends the future with tradition. You feel the pulse of high tech city life, but also find peaceful moments in places like Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden. One minute you’re walking through neon lit streets, and the next, you’re at the Meiji Shrine surrounded by forest or exploring the charm of Nezu Shrine with its quiet atmosphere and red torii gates.
Everything in Tokyo feels organized. You want luxury and designer stores? Go to Ginza. Into hobby culture and games? Akihabara is the place. Want a mall experience? Sunshine City has you covered. Prefer alternative style? Harajuku has your back. And if you’re into immersive art or pop culture, places like teamLab Planets in Toyosu or the Gundam Base with a sea view in Koto are unforgettable. Tokyo really feels like a city built to match every kind of curiosity.
Okyakusama wa Kami-sama (お客様は神様)
One of the biggest differences between social species and others is our ability to serve and be served. When it comes to love, education, and friendship, this act of serving can create gratitude, one of the most powerful and important feelings in human history.
While in Tokyo, I experienced the concept of Okyakusama wa Kami-sama (お客様は神様), which means "The customer is god." Within Japanese hospitality, known as omotenashi, service is taken to another level. From convenience store clerks bowing respectfully to Michelin star ramen chefs perfecting every bowl, Okyakusama wa Kami-sama is more than just a phrase. It is a deeply ingrained way of serving, where those being served are treated with the utmost respect... and you genuinely feel cared for.
One of the places where I felt that spirit of service most consistently? This FamilyMart near our hotel in Tokyo. I started most mornings with a Famichiki and a Tamago Sando. Even in a convenience store, there was care and consistency that made me feel welcome, it became my favorite konbini.
However, I also noticed moments where the person being served acted rudely, ignoring the fact that the other person was simply doing their job. Ironically, the same rude person would later be seen working in a store, serving others with a forced but polite smile. It is hard to spot, but sometimes you can tell when kindness is coming from the heart and when it is just part of the cultural expectation.
The most memorable moment of hospitality for me happened after a long day of walking, around 25 thousand steps, when I was exhausted and starting to get a cold in Nakano Broadway. We decided to rest at an arcade to relax and warm up. While I was chilling there, my fiancée went to a nearby pharmacy. She didn’t speak Japanese, and the pharmacist didn’t speak English. But using Google Translate, the pharmacist asked about our symptoms, our age, and even what our plans were for the next few days. Despite the language barrier, she made a genuine effort to understand the situation and thoughtfully recommended some medicines, explaining which ones were the best, the cheapest, and the available alternatives.
When my fiancée brought the medicine to me, I was reluctant to take it at first. I usually don’t take things I can’t even pronounce. But after trying it, I felt so much better. I’m genuinely grateful for that experience.
Ganbaru (頑張る)
Have you ever considered yourself a mediocre person?
It’s an interesting word. If you look at its roots, "mediocre" comes from the Latin mediocris, which is made up of medius, meaning "middle," and ocris, meaning "rugged mountain." Originally, it described someone who was halfway up a mountain. Not at the bottom, but not yet at the top. It wasn’t meant to be negative. It suggested someone making progress, someone on the climb.
Today, however, the word carries a much different tone. Now it often means something like, "you’re not terrible, but you’re not good either." It suggests being forgettable or uninspired, average in the worst possible way. In that sense, it can feel deeply insulting. This isn’t about being awful or exceptional. When we consider the context or sample size, it’s easier to recognize when someone is above or below a certain threshold. While traveling, I met people who weren’t the best or the worst, but something more meaningful. They showed an inspiring kind of in-between. They weren’t mediocre in the modern sense, but instead, they were striving, honest, and real.
That’s when I began to understand Ganbaru, the concept of giving your all no matter how hard the challenge is. It’s about resilience, persistence, and giving your full effort to reach your goals. Whether it was students studying late at night in a McDonald’s, construction workers focused completely on their tasks, or the relentless determination of anime protagonists striving toward something, Tokyo showed me Ganbaru in everyday life. It reminded me that hard work and commitment often deserve more respect than talent or luck.
One day after exploring Shinjuku, we stopped at a McDonald’s. On the first floor, people were eating as usual. But on the second floor, I was surprised. It was 8 PM on a Tuesday, and the place was filled with students studying and salarymen working on their laptops. Only one table had people just hanging out. I’ve visited Brazil, Chile, and Switzerland, and I’ve never seen anything quite like that.
The day before, after playing Pokémon TCG with my fiancée in Shibuya, we headed to get a drink and took the escalator down. As I reached into my pocket, my Suica card slipped and started sliding toward the moving steps. Before I could react, a " salarywoman" nearby jumped forward and caught it just before it disappeared. My bride and I instinctively bowed several times, repeating “Arigatou gozaimasu” with sincere gratitude. That moment, simple as it was, reflected something deeper: attentiveness, responsibility, and care for others, even strangers.
These people weren’t just doing their jobs or studying. They were giving it their all, heart and soul. Hard work only beats talent when talent doesn't work hard. Ganbaru!
Musubi (結び)
One of the first moments that truly made us feel we were in Japan happened at a subway station in Ueno. We saw a child, no older than six, calmly walking alone and asking for directions to transfer trains. It struck both of us. In my hometown, it is common for parents to accompany their kids to school until they are well into their teens. Seeing that level of independence at such a young age made us pause. You obviously need a very low crime rate for that to be possible, but it was not just about safety. There was something more. A quiet, collective trust. A belief that others will help, that the environment will protect, and that the child will find their way. In that moment, I felt something close to Musubi. An invisible thread of connection, not just between people, but between the individual and the community. A society built on high trust, where even a child is expected to move forward on their own, reveals a powerful kind of bond.
So, Musubi. This one is easy to recognize. If you've watched "Your Name" or "Kimi no na wa" you probably already know it. I knew this one years before landing in Tokyo, because I had already found my soulmate. Since I wasn’t traveling alone, my experience of Japan was deeply intertwined with my bride’s. In the film, Musubi is described as the act of tying knots, symbolizing time, relationships, and destiny. As we wandered through temples and tied our own omikuji fortunes, I felt that same Musubi, the idea that our paths, choices, and shared experiences were weaving together, making our trip even more meaningful.
As beautifully explained in Your Name, it represents the invisible threads connecting people, places, and moments.
I don’t have much to add, but I can share that we did visit the area near Suga Shrine and took some pictures that reminded us of scenes from the movie. And I just felt something different in the way the wind hit my face after we completed a shrine fortune plate (ema), writing, “A long life full of love and health”.
Life is just more meaningful when experienced together.
Ikigai (生き甲斐)
I had already heard about Ikigai before arriving in Japan. It was on my mind during the 30-hour flight, again while walking near Skytree and Tokyo Tower, and once more on the Nozomi bullet train, the fastest one with fewer stops, from Tokyo to Kyoto, where I caught my first glimpse of Mount Fuji. There are plenty of books about Ikigai in Brazil, so I imagine it is fairly well known. Still, I’m not sure I fully understand it or if I have ever truly experienced it.
Ikigai is often described as the philosophy of living with purpose. It is where what you love, what you are good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for come together. Whether it is a CEO leading a company with vision and integrity or a sea offshore worker braving long shifts away from home to keep the world moving, some people seem to live with that sense of alignment. But I can’t say I saw it present in every situation. What I find challenging is the idea of tying your purpose to a single role or accomplishment. If you reach that point, does it mean your journey is over? That have you fulfilled your destiny? It makes the concept feel distant and almost unreachable.
Some of these days, I tried a vending machine coffee, a big thanks to my friend Willian Peixoto, who told me to try this BOSS coffee. I grabbed it during one of our walks, and while thinking about Western philosophy, Schopenhauer wrote in The World as Will and Representation that much of our suffering comes from constantly chasing new goals without ever feeling satisfied. Instead of searching for a final destination, we might find peace by learning to enjoy the process itself.
While I was sitting on the bullet train, I had a quiet realization. Maybe I don’t need to pinpoint my Ikigai right now. I’m fine simply enjoying the journey. And perhaps that is already a part of what Ikigai truly means. I’ll keep exploring it and deepening my understanding over time.
Chapter 2 - Kyoto: Honor, Discipline, and the Beauty of the Moment
It was where I had my best game hunt, found my favorite bowl of ramen, trained in Kendo, and shared a peaceful tea ceremony with my fiancée. Each of those moments felt meaningful. But Kyoto also made me think. We got a lot of stares from locals, more than anywhere else. Maybe tourists are not always well received there, or maybe people just are not used to seeing Brazilians around. Still, despite that distance, I will remember Kyoto as the city where tradition met some of my favorite passions in the most unexpected ways.
Kodawari (こだわり)
When I arrived in Kyoto, I tried to visit the Manga Museum, but I got there just one minute after the last entry time and couldn’t get in. Luckily, there was a café nearby called Maeda Coffee, so we decided to stop there. The coffee was good, but the coolest part was seeing the sketches on the walls. They were drawings left by professional manga artists who had eaten there. It felt like a hidden gem.
As I mentioned before, I was also on a mission to hunt for games during my trip to Japan. In Kyoto, specifically in the Katsura area, I found what ended up being my favorite game hunting spot of the whole trip. I was especially looking for Bleach related items and other things from Japanese anime pop culture that I enjoy. It was a bit challenging to figure out which games were worth buying and which ones were just old or broken, especially since my Japanese is still pretty basic. And since it was far from downtown, nobody there spoke English. Even so, I had a great experience at Furuhon Ichiba, the Kyoto Katsura store. The customer service was amazing. I gave it my all and said:
"私は地球の反対側から来ました。ブラジル出身です。この店は日本でも最高の店の一つでした。"("I came from the other side of the world. I’m from Brazil. This shop is one of the best I’ve visited in Japan.")
They smiled, bowed, and even gave me a few games and manga for just 80 yen, since the condition wasn’t as good as they would have liked to offer me. It was one of those small moments that made the whole trip even more special. And if you are planning to hunt for games in Japan, don’t skip Surugaya, Sofmap, Hard-Off, and even some Hobby-Off stores. The farther you go from downtown and into less touristy spots, the better your chances of finding hidden gems. In Tokyo, I also visited places like Super Potato, Retro Gaming Camp, and Akiba Culture Zone. They were incredible to explore, with just about everything you can imagine, but the prices often felt more like collector pieces, sometimes even higher than eBay. Be sure to check some tucked-away stores inside Nakano Broadway too, where I actually found some great deals while in Tokyo. It was hard to get that far from downtown Kyoto, but it paid off in the end.
Game hunting there is very different from back home. Most stores organize their shelves by console, condition, or price. Some games are brand new, others are in plastic wrap with handwritten labels, and a lot are sold without original cases.
You often have to sit on the floor or crouch for a while to go through everything. It takes time, but it is part of the fun. Many stores have a “junk” section where items are cheaper, sometimes just because the box is damaged or a manual is missing. That section is where you can find the best surprises. Since most staff do not speak English, you rely a lot on your instincts and a bit of research. I started checking things like disc condition and region codes just by habit.
Even when I did not buy anything, I still enjoyed looking through everything and spotting familiar titles. It is not about rushing, just looking carefully and enjoying the process.
Before I even explain what Kodawari is, I should mention that we went on a bit of a ramen pilgrimage during the trip. We were eating ramen almost every day. We tried it at restaurants, pubs, and all sorts of places. I got some great recommendations from my coworkers. The best ramen I had in Japan was at Kyoto Ramen Engine. Big thanks to Mohammed Izzy for the awesome tip. We went there for lunch after a morning spent training in Kendo and learning about samurai and ninja history. That bowl of ramen became my favorite from the entire trip.
My fiancée is vegetarian, and her favorite was AFURI in Roppongi, Tokyo. We visited it during a romantic walk and both really enjoyed the place. Another memorable place was Jikasei Mensho in the Shibuya Parco mall. It is an underground spot where I had Wagyu ramen that really impressed me. My boss once told me to always try underground places in Tokyo, and this one definitely proved him right. I even took some notes while eating, and maybe one day I will put together a Japan ramen tier list based on broth, noodles, toppings, aroma, balance, and overall craft.
On my last vacation, I just went sightseeing, and while it was nice, something felt different this time. In separate conversations with my friends Marcelo Andrade and Marcos Matos, they both shared how they enjoy adding something personal to their trips instead of just doing typical tourist activities. For example, Marcelo loves tennis, so on his next trip to Alaska, he plans to play tennis no matter the weather. That idea stuck with me.
This trip helped me realize that travel becomes more meaningful when you mix in things you already love. For me, that meant hunting games and exploring ramen culture in Japan with my fiancée. Some people might find eating ramen every day for two weeks exhausting, but for me it was a pleasure. It was about the experience, the shared moments, and even the small rewards like finding a game I enjoy. It all added up to something really special.
You've probably noticed by now that Kodawari is not just about having a hyper focus on something. It is about meticulous, almost artisanal dedication to something you truly love or value, even if no one else notices or appreciates it. It is the attention to detail driven by personal pride and passion for what you're doing. For some people, it shows up in their hobbies, where they put in extra care simply because it matters to them.
Kendō (剣道)
After game hunting in Katsura, we started the next day at a Kendo dojo. It was just a morning session, and I still have many questions about Kendo. We practiced some movements and a lot of footwork. It is not just about combat but about mastering oneself. Kendo is a practice rooted in precision, discipline, and the ongoing pursuit of personal improvement.
I had a quick match with my sensei. After that, we visited the Kyoto Ninja and Samurai Museum. Do not worry, no spoilers here. I will not get into the historical conflict that led to the Meiji Restoration or the fall of the samurai class. There, we learned that the samurai class was strictly hereditary. Only about 5% to 10% of clans held noble status, and the title of samurai was passed down almost exclusively from father to son. During our tours, we were told that there were only three common ways to become a samurai: to be born as a son, to be adopted by a samurai family, or to marry a samurai’s daughter. In rare cases, a daimyō (feudal lord) could grant the title to a highly skilled warrior, but this was extremely uncommon, especially during the Edo period when society became rigid. By the year 1603, such changes were nearly impossible without major political motivations.
In practice, the most common paths were through birth, adoption, or marriage. Being granted the title by a lord was incredibly rare and usually reserved for legendary warriors. These were the only widely accepted ways to become a samurai. Most of the fighters in large battles were ronin, warriors without noble status or a master. Being a samurai was not just about wielding swords. It was about being part of the noble class. Near the end of the Sengoku period, there was more flexibility. Some feudal lords promoted peasants and ronin to samurai status to strengthen their armies. But after Tokugawa Ieyasu unified Japan and began the Edo period in 1603, the social structure became much more rigid. From then on, becoming a samurai was almost entirely limited to being born into, adopted by, or marrying into a samurai family.
This means that when you see a figure wearing traditional armor from feudal Japan and carrying only a katana without a wakizashi, it is likely a ronin. Mercenaries often took up arms for survival, and while their gear might look similar to that of a samurai, their social status was very different. To the untrained eye, the two can be hard to distinguish. Samurai usually carried two swords, a longer katana and a shorter wakizashi. This pair was called daishō, which means "big and small", and it symbolized their rank and purpose. The katana was used in open spaces or during combat, while the wakizashi served as a companion weapon for indoor defense and solemn moments such as seppuku. Together, they were more than tools. They represented honor, responsibility, and a way of life where readiness and discipline were always present.
Still, it is worth explaining what Kendo actually is. Kendo, which means "the way of the sword", is a modern martial art that evolved from traditional Japanese swordsmanship known as Kenjutsu. It uses bamboo swords called shinai and protective armor called bōgu. It focuses not only on technique but also on mental discipline and respect. While Kendo in its current form did not exist during the time of the samurai, sword training was an essential part of a samurai’s life. It was not optional. Mastery of the sword was deeply tied to their identity and duty.
While the samurai no longer exist as a social class, their cultural legacy remains. I was told by my sensei that even some descendants of samurai today do not practice Kendo. It is not a requirement, but modern Kendo is the closest sport to what swordsmanship once was.
Seppuku (切腹)
After hiking more than 10 kilometers (~6.2 miles), including the return, climbing over two 230 meters in elevation, and walking 10 thousand steps under the Kyoto sun, we finally reached the summit of Mount Inari (Inariyama), the sacred mountain that has watched over the city for centuries. I'm proud of how quickly we finished the hike. It was not easy. The trail winds through more than 10 thousand vibrant vermilion torii gates, each one donated by individuals or businesses as offerings to Inari, the Shinto god of rice, prosperity, and protection. Fushimi Inari Taisha was founded in the year 711, making it one of Japan’s oldest and most culturally significant shrines.
But at the entrance, after returning, instead of a quiet moment of awe or reflection, we saw what seemed to be a couple of Western tourists livestreaming and laughing loudly. We even overheard something about them carving their initials into the back of a torii gate. It genuinely hurt to see. We were some distance away, and it was difficult to make out, but even harder to believe. After hours of physical effort and anticipation, that moment lost its meaning. Worse, I began to wonder whether my own presence, even with respectful intentions, might also be seen as part of the disruption rather than an act of appreciation. Fushimi Inari is not just a scenic trail or a tourist attraction. It is a sacred path walked by emperors, monks, and generations of people in search of blessings and purpose. What saddened me was not only the lack of respect, but also the reminder that modern tourism can sometimes forget it is stepping into something ancient and deeply meaningful.
This moment led me to reflect on one of the most solemn parts of Japanese tradition, something we had just learned about the day before at a museum: seppuku. To many people in the West, it may sound harsh or extreme. But in Japanese culture, it symbolized something much deeper. It was about honor, responsibility, and the readiness to take full accountability for one’s actions. It was not just about death. It was a powerful expression of integrity. While many Western values emphasize personal freedom and individual rights, seppuku reflected a belief that duty and reputation could be more important than life itself. Even today, that sense of honor can still be felt in Japan. Not through swords or rituals, but in more subtle ways. Sometimes it appears in the quiet struggles of those who carry problems alone, not because they are too proud, but because they feel responsible for finding their own solutions. The swords may be gone, but the weight of honor has not disappeared for some.
Ichigo Ichie (一期一会)
During one of our four days in Kyoto, my fiancée and I had the opportunity to take part in a tea ceremony at a quiet teahouse near Nishiki Market. We were both dressed in traditional attire. I wore a hakama, and she wore a beautiful kimono. Together, we stepped into a peaceful space that felt far removed from the busy streets just outside.
The ceremony took place in a tatami room filled with soft natural light filtering through shoji screens. In the center of the room was a large iron kettle resting on bamboo supports. The air was warm, with steam gently rising as the host and a maiko began preparing the tea. Every movement had a purpose. From the careful folding of the cloth to the quiet swirls of the whisk. We shared the space with a couple from Singapore and their young son, a couple from India, a couple from Australia, and the two of us from Brazil. There was not much talking, but none was needed. The atmosphere encouraged stillness and attention. First came a small seasonal sweet, followed by a bowl of matcha served in handcrafted ceramics. The tea was strong and earthy, but more than the flavor, what stayed with me was the calm and fullness of the moment.
Then it was our turn to prepare the matcha. My fiancée followed the maiko’s demonstration with ease, whisking the tea smoothly on her first try. I, on the other hand, struggled a bit with the technique. Thankfully, the maiko stepped in to guide me patiently. With her help, I managed to get it right, and the bowl I prepared ended up tasting just as it should. That moment of learning, with her kindness and attention, made the experience even more memorable.
On the wall, a single scroll displayed the phrase Ichigo Ichie. It means "one time, one meeting." It is a reminder that every moment is unique and will never happen in the same way again. That awareness gave meaning to everything around us. The tea, the silence, the shared presence, a room filled with different nationalities. It was not just a ceremony. It was a chance to be completely present. While exploring Kyoto, we also saw a few geishas moving quietly through the streets. Out of respect for the challenges they currently face, including being followed and harassed by tourists, I chose not to take any photos. Some districts have even placed restrictions on photography to protect their privacy. Appreciating their presence without turning it into a spectacle felt like the right thing to do.
That is what Ichigo Ichie showed me. To value each interaction, each shared space, and each fleeting moment as something precious. When you know how to do that, even a simple cup of tea can become a lasting memory, if you are fully there when it happens.
It would be dishonorable if I didn't mention this. Near the hotel where we stayed in Kyoto, in the Omiya area and not far from the subway station, my fiancée and I came across a tiny place after finishing our hike at Fushimi Inari Taisha. We were starving and decided to follow the smell of the most delicious food. It led us to a small restaurant with just one table and a long counter. Inside, a grandmother and her granddaughter were cooking and serving together. I do not know if it was the exhaustion from the hike or the fact that we had only snacked on a few Japanese treats throughout the day, but the Katsu Curry they served was unforgettable. Rich, warm, and comforting. Easily one of the best meals I had in Japan. Since then, it has become one of my favorite dishes. Every now and then, we cook it at home as a way to relive that special moment.
Chapter 3 - Osaka - Appreciating What We Have
Osaka was not one of my favorite stops on the trip, but to be fair, it had a tough act to follow after everything I experienced and felt in Kyoto and Tokyo. That said, I still found things to enjoy. The food lived up to the city’s reputation as the kitchen of Japan. The Omurice, Okonomiyaki, and Takoyaki were all genuinely delicious and memorable. Even if the vibe did not resonate with me as strongly, the flavors certainly did. Also, a big thanks to Benoit Boure for recommending the Omurice. It was definitely a worthwhile experience.
Mottainai (もったいない)
Walking through the vibrant streets of Dotonbori at night, everything felt alive. Neon lights glowed from every building, the scent of grilled seafood and sweet takoyaki floated in the air, and reflections from glowing signs danced across the canal. It’s an area full of movement, sound, and personality. And even in this place of entertainment and consumption. I had read once in a philosophical essay that Mottainai is more than a simple word. But it wasn’t until later that the meaning truly started to settle in. On the surface, it refers to the idea of not wasting, whether it be food, time, objects, or even emotions. But in a broader, or even more philosophical sense, it’s about appreciating everything you have and treating it with respect. It’s the awareness that everything holds value, and that value should not be wasted. So more than just feeling gratitude, you act on it by not wasting what was given or created!
At first, I’ll admit I didn’t reflect much on Mottainai. That part of the journey felt more like normal sightseeing than majestical. Osaka, for me, was a different experience compared to Tokyo or Kyoto. I felt like I had been transported back to São Paulo, my hometown. The energy in the streets was louder, more raw, and familiar. People talked loudly, laughed in groups, threw their trash in the wrong places. It felt western, fiery, emotional. And while it was a bit of a shock after the stillness of Kyoto or the orderliness of Tokyo, I came to appreciate that this was just a different expression of life. The people of Osaka have what I would call a fire in their hearts. They speak with intensity, they live more publicly, and their warmth is more immediate. It reminded me of how we are in Brazil: direct, animated, expressive. If you like night life you'll love Osaka.
I had dinner at Ichiran Ramen. I went many times to this food chain in Kyoto and Tokyo, where the process of choosing and enjoying your ramen feels almost ceremonial. I filled out the paper with my preferences, and soon I was eating one of the greatest bowls of the trip. The broth was rich, the noodles perfect, and yes I ate everything on table from the image above! My fiancée, who is vegetarian, loved a nearby ramen shop with a great vegan menu. In both places, you could tell that no flavor was wasted. We explored Round1 and Gigo, a massive arcade where you play everything from rhythm games to claw machines. It was a fun experience. Thanks to Jonathan DeGroot for the recommendation. It might not seem like a place where you feel life lessons, but Mottainai was there too because you do not waste joy. You dive into the games and let it recharge you.
Then we found ourselves in a secondhand store around DenDen Town, filled with electronics, figures, games, and anime collectibles. Items that once belonged to others were now being given a second chance. The good prices felt like a celebration of reuse and respect. Most of the things were in mint condition, not just poor leftovers. If Ichigo Ichie reminded me to cherish each unrepeatable moment, Mottainai reminded me to honor what I already had. One taught me presence. The other taught me responsibility. And maybe that was Osaka’s real gift to me. At first, it felt too familiar. I did not notice anything particularly cool right away. But beneath the noise, I found something meaningful. Even if it is loud, fast, and a little messy by Kyoto and Tokyo standards, there is beauty in the way Osaka lives fully. Mottainai is not just about keeping things tidy. It is about not letting value slip through your fingers. Even laughter, ramen, old toys, or a night walk by the river can hold that value.
If you stop and really look, you’ll find that nothing is wasted unless you choose to ignore it.
That same day in Osaka, we witnessed two moments that caught us off guard. In front of a 7-Eleven, a mother had left her baby in a stroller outside while she shopped inside. It was about 3°C. My fiancée instinctively pulled my arm and said, “We are not leaving this baby alone.” So we stayed nearby, watching quietly for nearly twelve minutes until the mother returned with her groceries. At first, we felt protective, maybe even uneasy. But then came the questions. If this woman, who had likely lived here her entire life, was not worried, was she being careless, or were we just projecting our own fears? What does it mean to feel safe enough to trust others like that? And what does it take for a society to create those conditions?
Later, as we walked toward DenDen Town, we saw a young boy stop to tie his shoes while his parents continued walking and turned a corner. They did not look back. When he finished, he calmly looked around, figured out the direction, and followed them. That kind of independence was unfamiliar to us, but it was powerful in its own quiet way. There is something meaningful in this quiet confidence. In a society where people genuinely trust one another, you do not need to spend your energy constantly preparing for the worst. You are not wasting mental space on suspicion, fear, or the kind of problems people create for personal gain. Instead, your mind is freer to focus on what matters.
Chapter 4 - The Hidden Struggles of Japan
There is no perfect place on Earth. Every country has its strengths and its shadows, and Japan is no exception. Behind the beauty, order, and traditions that inspired me throughout my journey, I also began to notice signs of quiet struggle. Not everything was peaceful. Not everything was balanced.
Hikikomori (引きこもり)
Hikikomori is a term used to describe individuals who withdraw from society, often confining themselves to their homes for 6 months or more while avoiding work, school, and social interactions. A survey by Japan’s Cabinet Office estimated that approximately 1.46 million people between the ages of 15 and 64 live as hikikomori, representing about two percent of the working age population. This phenomenon is not simply a personal choice. It often emerges as a response to intense societal pressure. Japan's rigid hierarchical structures and cultural expectations, including values like Ganbaru, which means perseverance, and Gaman, which means enduring hardship without complaint, can create environments where vulnerability is discouraged. When individuals feel unable to meet these expectations, withdrawing may seem like the only way to avoid shame or perceived failure. Earlier in this journey, we explored values such as Omotenashi, or hospitality, and Kodawari, a dedication to detail and craft. These traits show the admirable side of Japanese culture. But the hikikomori phenomenon reveals a different side. When these cultural ideals are taken to extremes, they can isolate and overwhelm. It serves as a reminder that even the most celebrated values need balance, and that emotional well-being depends on a society’s ability to care for its people, not just expect effort from them.
Karōshi (過労死)
Karōshi is "death from overwork." The term emerged in Japan in the late 1970s to describe sudden deaths caused by heart attacks, strokes, or suicides linked to extreme stress and exhaustion from work. While it might sound rare or outdated, karōshi is still very much a modern reality. In 2022, the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare reported more than 2,900 cases of mental health issues and suicides that could be tied to long working hours and job-related pressure. As I understand it, this issue stems from post-war economic values where lifetime employment and loyalty to one's company became ideals. Many workers feel obligated to stay late, even when not directly asked, driven by a cultural desire to maintain group harmony and avoid inconveniencing colleagues. In contrast to Western approaches that emphasize individual well-being and work-life balance, Japanese work culture often views commitment as something proven through personal sacrifice. I witnessed signs of this mindset during my trip, especially in Tokyo. Whether it was commuters asleep in their suits on late trains or convenience store employees clearly exhausted but still bowing politely, there was a quiet pressure that you could feel. One man we came across worked three shifts a day, Morning at a 7-Eleven, Afternoon at a Family Mart, and night at a Ministop; I know it because I decided to try 3 different convenience stores on this day in the same street and he was in all of them.
Values like Ganbaru and Gaman show how perseverance and resilience are respected in Japan. But taken to the extreme, these values can come at a serious personal cost. Even within the idea of Ikigai, where people seek purpose in their work, there is a danger of tying identity too closely to productivity. When that happens, burnout or failure can feel like losing a sense of self. In that sense, karōshi is not just a public health issue. It is also a cultural warning sign. It reveals what can happen when a society rewards effort without limits and praises sacrifice without pause.
Gaman (我慢)
Gaman means enduring difficult situations with patience, dignity, and self control. It is one of the quiet virtues in Japanese culture. The strength to tolerate hardship without complaint. Whether it is working long hours without expressing fatigue, or staying calm during a personal struggle, gaman reflects a cultural expectation to persevere silently for the sake of harmony. During my trip, I noticed this in small moments: long queues where no one complained, employees calmly handling stress, and even commuters standing in packed trains without a word. Gaman is not about ignoring pain, but about carrying it with grace. Yet, while this mindset promotes resilience, it can sometimes lead people to hide their struggles rather than seek help, especially when combined with social pressure to appear composed.
Final Thoughts
Looking back, this trip to Japan was everything I hoped for and more. I expected it to be good, and it turned out to be great. I didn’t follow a checklist of tourist spots or try to take every iconic photo. This post isn’t about landmarks, though I did visit places like Osaka Castle, Tokyo Skytree, and so on. My focus was on what genuinely sparked my curiosity. From hunting for games and tasting bowls of ramen to learning about samurai history and joining a tea ceremony, I chose experiences that felt personal and meaningful. I traveled with the person I love, explored places that matched my interests, and lived moments that were truly my own.
Japan didn’t just impress me with beauty or order. It challenged how I see things. Of course, they have problems like anywhere else in the world. I didn’t even mention the declining birthrate or natural disasters. I’m not saying everyone there is fully aware of these cultural concepts, but they did help me understand things better, not through idealized images, but through real contrasts, ideas, people and philosophy.
From the quiet train rides in Tokyo to the vibrant streets of Osaka, from ancient rituals to everyday details in Kyoto, I witnessed a Japan that felt both new and familiar. I didn’t try to do everything. I did what mattered to me, and that is what made the trip unforgettable. I'm glad to share a glimpse of what I experienced, and I hope to return one day with the people I care about most.
Epilogue
Everything I wrote here reflects my own experience. It was shaped by my background, my interests, and the moments I lived alongside my fiancée while exploring Japan. Someone else might visit the same places and come away with completely different impressions. That is part of what makes travel so special. It is not just about where you go, but how you experience and interpret what you find.
Before wrapping things up, I thought it’d be fun to share a few uniquely Brazilian concepts that are part of everyday life where I come from. They’re not always easy to translate:
Gambiarra is when you fix something using creativity and whatever you have on hand. It might look strange and definitely not elegant, but it works. It is a workaround using a makeshift method and/or resource.
Jeitinho Brasileiro is the art of finding a way. It means bending the rules a little, not in a bad way, but to make things work when the system gets in the way. These days, it sometimes has a negative meaning, associated with bending rules for personal gain. But you can still see it used with good intentions. It is just the process of creating a creative, unconventional workaround.
Saudade is a deep, emotional kind of missing. It’s the feeling of longing for a person, a place, or even a moment that meant something, it's really hard to explain but is not just 'miss' someone, in a deep Saudade state, you're incomplete.
Zueira is all about playful teasing and good humor. It’s that joking spirit that keeps things light and brings people together, joking together and having fun with the spirit of playful mischief making jokes about places, situation, people, anything.
These are just part of the flavor of where I’m from. They’re fun, and if you ever visit Brazil, you’ll probably see them in action without anyone needing to explain.
Sapere Aude.