My very first trip to Japan was anything but ideal. My husband and I landed in Tokyo – on the first leg of our honeymoon – and I had brought a severe case of food poisoning with me. Confined to our hotel room, I spent days watching the neon lights through the curtains, unable to explore the city. It was miserable, but in a strange way, magnetic. Little did I know that this feeling of missing out would shape my relationship with Japan for years. As we left the country on that first trip, I knew I would be back. And I did go back, year after year. That inauspicious beginning ended up igniting a long love affair, obsession even, with Japan. I even lived there for three years.
Over time, I discovered that Japan isn’t a once-in-a-lifetime trip – it’s a “do it as soon as you can” trip.
Whenever I mention that I lived in Tokyo, people say, “I’d love to visit one day”. For many, Japan often sits on a distant pedestal, beautiful, but perceived as too expensive or too foreign, something that requires effort, time, or even one’s life savings. But here’s the truth – it’s wonderfully accessible if approached with the right attitude.
Take accommodation, for example. What sets Japan apart is the range of places to stay that fit every budget, often located in neighbourhoods that feel safe, welcoming and beautiful. Even the humblest three-star hotels offer a level of cleanliness and service that rivals higher-end options elsewhere in the world. The attention to detail – including slippers waiting for you by the door, Japanese nightgowns neatly folded on your pillow each evening, and thoughtful touches such as Japanese face masks in the amenities kit, is something you won’t forget. These hotels, often located in central neighbourhoods, allow you to experience Japan’s charm without sacrificing comfort or accessibility.
And then, of course, there are the convenience stores. Exploring them feels like stepping into a treasure trove of small joys. FamilyMart, 7-Eleven and Lawson are nothing like their Western counterparts. They’re an essential part of the Japanese experience, offering everything from perfectly seasoned onigiri (rice balls) to cool toiletries and things you never thought you needed, such as cooling wipes during the summer or foot warmers in the winter. It has become a ritual for me – grabbing a snack, a fun gimmick and maybe a dessert to enjoy during my walks. And then there are the drugstores such as Matsumoto Kiyoshi, where you can lose yourself in aisles of quirky, innovative products – from skincare wonders to unique candies and herbal remedies. Pair this with a visit to Tokyu Hands, a multi-floor haven for crafts, tools, and yet more things you didn’t know you needed, and eight-floor stationery paradise in Ginza, called Itoya, where each level focuses on a specific theme such as pens, paper, or design, and you have the perfect introduction to Japan’s everyday magic.
Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need two full weeks or a massive budget to enjoy it. If you can swing a long weekend (or even four days as I did on a recent trip from the UAE), you’ll still find magic. Over seven years of repeat visits, I realised how each trip, no matter how short or long, uncovers new layers. Even after living there, I’m still left with the nagging sense that I’ve missed out on something. That’s the magic of Japan – the more you see, the more you realise there’s an entire world beyond what you’ve just glimpsed.
One striking contrast hit me when I stayed in central Shibuya, only a 15-minute walk from the whisper-quiet residential neighbourhood of Hiroo that I used to call home. Shibuya is all neon and towering screens and chaotic intersections. My old neighbourhood was the opposite – lanes lined with potted plants, the gentle smell of incense in the air, and people whispering in hushed voices. How could such different atmospheres sit so close together? Japan constantly plays with these contradictions – loud meets soft, modern meets ancient, hyper organised meets beautiful chaos.
On my earliest trips, I couldn’t read Japanese, so my senses were overwhelmed by the indecipherable signs. Over the years, I started to learn the language. Soon, that extra layer of noise vanished as characters that were once foreign started coming into focus. I hadn’t realised how much mental energy went into not understanding. That’s when I began to appreciate Japan’s subtle touches – the respectful bows, the meticulous bento boxes, the quiet side streets. Each return visit became a calmer and deeper exploration.
After repeated trips, I began to notice the concept of shokunin, often translated as “craftsman” or “artisan”. But it means so much more. It’s a lifelong devotion to one’s craft. It means giving oneself fully to mastering a craft with patience and humility, treating every small detail – whether in work or daily moments – as an opportunity to create something beautiful. We often think of sushi chefs and baristas in this category, but the same dedication applies to vinyl pressers, perfumers and even the gift-wrappers at shops.
It made me wonder, why don’t we travel the same way? With intention, depth and respect for detail. Why not apply the concept of shokunin to travel? Slowing down and feeling more connected to each place we visit. To make travel less about crossing items off a list and more about perfecting the craft of experiencing Japan moment by moment.
There is a shokunin for everything you can imagine in Japan. The Japanese feel like master curators of everyday life – whether you’re wandering the backstreets of Aoyama, strolling the alleys of Naka Meguro, flipping through carefully arranged books in Tsutaya Books Daikanyama, or marvelling at fruit displays in lit vitrines in a depachika. Speaking of which, food is often a gateway to this world of detail. Some of the most spectacular culinary experiences aren’t found in fancy restaurants, but in those department store basements, the domain of the depachikas (a word formed from “depa,” short for department store, and “chika”, meaning basement). Here, you’ll discover artisanal pastries, hand-wrapped sweets and fruit grown with exacting precision.
Perhaps the best example of a simple ingredient made with meticulous care can be found at Ginza Tsuboyaki-imo, a tiny shop entirely devoted to sweet potatoes that I accidentally stumbled upon during one of my long walks in Ginza’s alleyways during the pandemic. The shop is so small, I could have missed it had the streets not been completely empty. By roasting sweet potatoes in ceramic jars (a process known as tsuboyaki-imo), they achieve a caramelised exterior and a custard-like interior unlike anything you’ll ever taste. They focus on specific varieties such as beni haruka or anno imo, each with a unique flavour; this shows how even the simplest food can become extraordinary when crafted with care.
Tea offers another window into Japan’s depth. Early in my travels, I assumed matcha would be my go-to, but, after many trials, I found it too intense and slightly bitter for my taste. That’s when I discovered gyokuro, a shade-grown green tea with a smoother, more umami-driven sweetness. It took time and several visits to figure out what I truly enjoyed. This trial-and-error reflects how experiencing Japan is an ongoing process of self-discovery. You can’t – and won’t – figure it all out in one go.
High-end sushi counters remain some of the most impressive examples of shokunin. Sushi Saito is among the most revered. I spent 10 years trying to secure a seat there – which I finally did earlier this year. On the morning of my reservation, I met Tokyo’s “King of Tuna”, Yamaguchi-san, at Toyosu Market and watched him assign cuts based on the chef’s style and preferences – an intimate dance of relationships. At Sushi Saito’s tiny nine-seat counter, chef Takashi Saito adjusts the temperature of the rice for each fish, slightly warmer for fatty cuts, cooler for lean ones. Every motion is precise, yet full of care, and that first bite made me realise how little I’d known about sushi. The decade of waiting was instantly worth it.
Elsewhere at Koffee Mameya, a tiny speciality coffee bar, I saw just how deep attention to detail can be. On my most recent visit, I asked the barista, Taka-san, for beans for my husband and started to describe his preferences. Taka-san turned around and pulled out a card that listed every bag of beans and cup of coffee we’d ever ordered there since 2014. In that simple moment, I was floored, but I also understood I wasn’t just another face in the crowd. I was part of the fabric of their quiet way of doing things there.
Japan is both easy and difficult to explain. On one hand, its all skyscrapers, neon billboards and the roar of Shibuya crossing. On the other, it is the old shrines, quaint alleys and the silent Zen of a hidden garden. That constant dance of slow and fast, ancient and futuristic, means every trip feels fresh. I’ve left Japan several times full of sadness and thinking, “I barely scratched the surface”. It’s that sense of unfinished exploration that pulls you back. When you catch yourself saying, “I’d love to go one day,” consider making it, “I’ll go as soon as I can”. Because once you do, you’ll realise that you won’t want to bother with anywhere else until you’ve perfected visiting Japan.
