I wrote this down when I first came to Japan:

The flight was gorgeous. My best friend, who lives here, told me about flying over Alaska, but I wasn’t prepared for it. It was so clear that you could see every frozen lake, mountain, and glacier, and they were all reflecting the sun. The icebergs in the Bering Sea were gorgeous as well. The sun never sets when you fly to Japan, because you’re racing it from the moment you leave. It just stays in the brilliant time capsule of “just risen” for fourteen hours straight. I couldn't sleep, though I tried. I kept opening the shade to keep track of where we were. I've been up since 6 a.m. American time. It is now 8 p.m. Japan time, the next. day. You do the math. I'm exhausted.

But I’m actually in Tokyo now, settled into my nice, hotel-provided kimono and making use of the free internet. My bathroom is too high-tech for me. The toilet has its own remote control, and some of the buttons scare me. Other than that, it's a beautiful hotel to begin with, but they also bumped me up to a princess suite the likes of which make me wish I had someone to be with in. This was the moment I realized I had made it to Japan all by myself. There was no one to hold my hand anymore; I was on my own from there on out. I wasn’t scared yet. But I hadn’t seen anything yet, either.

The following morning, I had my first encounter with the fairy tales of Japan that I’d as of that time only read about in books:

It's very cold and the sky is overcast in Tokyo. Too cold for me to put my hands in the water at the entrance of the shrine to wash, even though I'd have liked to respect the kami housed there. Since I hadn't washed, I didn't feel I should clap and bow, either. It seemed too insulting. It looked like an alley as I passed by, but as I turned and noticed the stone gates, I felt pulled in. Here between the concrete towers, a wooden torii, a path, guarded by stone animals and a tiny shrine. There were still New Year's rice balls inside. I stared in for a long time, alone in my little alleyway shrine, before deciding I couldn't bow. I felt, not that I didn't belong, but that I shouldn't use the hands I'd just eaten with. It was a very welcoming little shrine, even. I respect the culture too much. I promised myself I would return when it grew warmer.

I don't feel as out of place in Japan as I thought I would.

Later in the day you get a better impression of how I’m doing:

So, I went to Shibuya this afternoon. Oh god, I went to Shibuya. It’s one of the largest, busiest districts in Tokyo. It took me fifteen minutes just to find my way out of Shibuya station. That was fun. When the green “walk” sign appears over Hachiko Square, the main square at Shibuya (think Time’s Square), it’s a literally sea of people coming at you from all directions.

 
I can't read the signs for shops, so forget all the stacked up stores—I wandered around alone for about an hour searching for an electronics shop before it struck me: I speak Japanese. Out of the blue, I found the courage to march into a record store to pick up the latest Ayumi Hamasaki CD. I asked the cashier where I could find what I was looking for and directions. There I managed to chat away with another cashier until he revealed his English skills when trying to sell me a warrantee. Jerk. Back at the station, after getting lost therein a second time, I managed to ask for help there, too. I can speak this language. It just takes a little courage and a little more urgency. But I can do it.

So when I met my family, my Japanese only faltered once. I wasn't even nervous. Even now, at home, I understand most of what my mother says to me, but the little girls still haven't figured out how to go easy. Nonetheless, it's very comfortable here, house-wise and people-wise. I like it. I'm going to do well.

Oh, and I made a friend today, already. Remember what I said about study abroad being a jump-start for your self-confidence? That’s how fast it works.

And there you have day one of the best decision I ever made.