Why You Should Think Multiple Times Before Visiting Japan

Reason 9: The generosity of the unforeseen

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There are destinations that reward planning. Japan rewards surrender. It is a land governed not merely by itinerary, but by encounter. Here, the finest moments are not scheduled. They arrive. Unannounced. Unbargained. Unrepeatable.

This is the living truth of Ichigo Ichie, the knowledge that each moment is singular, unreturnable, and therefore sacred. Yet in Japan, this impermanence does not feel like loss. It feels like privilege.

I saw Mount Fuji three times, that famously elusive sovereign of the horizon, as though the mountain itself had chosen to be kind. Summer yielded lavender fields in bloom, improbably vivid, almost theatrical in their colour. In Fukuoka and Osaka, I encountered dances and cultural performances I had not sought, did not anticipate, and could never have planned. There was unexpected piano music, drifting through spaces not designed for concert. There was the raw theatre of Sakurajima stirring itself, and the quiet astonishment of ice in Sapporo during the sakura season and during the summer season at Asahidake, as though seasons themselves had forgotten their script.

Then there is history, not preserved behind glass, but breathing. The Shogunate, the lost samurai, the weight of memory carried in places like Kumamoto Castle and Ritsurin Garden, where the past is not narrated but felt. One does not study history here. One inhabits it.

This is not coincidence.
This is Japan’s temperament.

A country that delights in subtle surprise. A civilisation that understands the art of withholding, so that when it gives, it gives profoundly. You come expecting to see. You leave having been gifted. Gifted moments. Gifted emotions. Gifted memories that will not submit to repetition.

And that is the danger.

Because once you have tasted a place that offers itself in such quiet abundance, such unearned richness, the world elsewhere begins to feel parsimonious. Predictable. Thin. You begin to long for that gentle unpredictability, that disciplined serendipity, that generosity of the unforeseen.

Japan does not entertain.
It bestows.

And it does so without warning.

Reason 10: The dangerous intimacy of being understood, bringing seasoned introverts out of their shells

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Japan possesses a rare and disarming gift. It invites depth without demanding disclosure. It creates space without prying. It welcomes conversation without intrusion. Even for the most resolutely introverted, it offers a peculiar safety, a quiet permission to speak, to share, to reveal, without fear of being exposed or misunderstood.

I encountered this first at the Shinbetsu Caves, where the taxi driver struck up a conversation partly because Indian travellers are almost unknown in that corner of the country. What followed was not polite chatter. It was not transactional pleasantry. It was a long, sincere and thoughtful exchange about undiscovered Japan, about hidden beauty, about the tragedy of places that deserve to be seen yet remain unseen. I found myself speaking with a candour that surprised even me, expressing a genuine desire to see travellers explore beyond the obvious, to honour the quieter landscapes, to know Japan in its less celebrated moods.

Japan had done something subtle.
It had lowered my guard.

Then, in Asahikawa, a modest sushi bar became a forum. The owner began speaking to me about Rausu konbu, Maguro, Ikura and the culinary prowess of Hokkaido. He was visibly astonished by the depth of knowledge coming from an Indian visitor, and I was equally struck by the seriousness with which he engaged. There was no condescension. No novelty-seeking. Only mutual respect, curiosity and craft. What unfolded was not a conversation about food, but a dialogue about heritage, sea, discipline and pride.

These are not encounters.
They are exchanges of civilisation.

There have been many such moments. Unplanned. Unforced. Intimate. Human.

Japan does not interrogate. It listens. It does not demand personality. It receives it. And in that receiving, it draws out parts of you that you did not know you were willing to offer.

This is the quiet peril of Japan.

Because once you have experienced a society that meets your mind with dignity, your curiosity with seriousness, and your presence with respect, the world elsewhere begins to feel shallow. Rushed. Impatient. You begin to hunger for conversations that do not skim, for people who do not hurry, for cultures that do not trivialise.

Japan does not merely allow conversation.
It honours meaningful conversations.

And when a country honours the inner life of a stranger, it is no longer merely a destination. It becomes a refuge.

And there lies the danger – you may never want to leave such a refuge.

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