Of this particular demographic I've defined, and of which I am a part—that is, the average American Joe stationed in Japan—I am slightly unique. This is because I was sent there twice, which is perhaps not so unusual for those guys that do an entire career in the Navy. But see, I was sent there twice, first as a dependent on my Dad's military orders, and then (more than a decade later) on my own orders. It was thrilling to partake in the journey once more—but the second time as an adult, on my own accord. I went full circle in a way that few people ever do.

The first time I was a little kid in elementary school. We lived on the Navy base in Yokosuka, which was not really Japan, but instead, a strange quasi-Japanese-American-Filipino mishmash. I never thought about how unique or interesting this place was in its own right—I never thought about anything at all. It was simply home. As a little kid, the base was my entire world and I rode my bike over every square inch of it. I was satisfied enough—it doesn't take much to make a nine-year-old happy. But I did greatly look forward to any excursions off-base, out into real Japan, which was utterly enthralling and very impressionable to me.

Each time I felt like I was walking into a futuristic world, with all the bright colors and sounds, the rivers of people flowing everywhere, and the fascinating infrastructure built to nicely accommodate it all. Endless series of shopping malls and train stations packed close together and atop one another, and all of these structures rife with platforms and walkways, rooted with elevators and intertwining escalators that connected everything, the movement and the flow of people seamless and efficient. And in, through, and around it all were the trains that rocketed by with a great rush of air. Or, sometimes those trains stopped, and you got on, and shortly thereafter you exited into a new complex megastructure every bit as massive and impressive as the last one. These were apparently endless, I realized. This fascinated me then, and still does now, frankly. I can never get over it.

I also noticed how, when going off-base, we never, ever drove anywhere—instead we rode the trains, each and every time. I loved this.

Then, quite suddenly, we moved back to the States, and the nine-year-old me was miserable. I couldn't put it into words, but what I really wanted to ask my parents was: what did we do that for?

So, you'd think I would have learned something from this lesson, but no. I repeated this same mistake over a decade later.

Being back in the States may have been the moment when I first experienced culture shock. I remember seeing a drug store and panicking—my whole life people had told me that drugs were bad, but in this country, apparently you could just walk into a store and buy them! My parents told me to calm down, that not all drugs were bad.

I acclimated to the States soon enough. As a young kid this process probably took somewhere between 20 and 40 minutes.

Over the next decade and a half, I lived my life in the U.S. and rarely thought about Japan, which was so distant and far away it seemed fictional and unreal.

Whatever seed had been planted within me awoke though, quite suddenly and forcefully. I remember the exact moment very clearly. I was in my early twenties and in the midst of my own military service. I was negotiating orders with my detailer. When he, speaking quite casually, proposed Japan to me—specifically, Yokosuka—I almost lost my mind. I actually surprised myself, by how excited I was, at the mere prospect of this opportunity. He presented other duty stations too, and some that were attractive. But, for me, this wasn't even a choice. I jumped on Japan right away—I couldn't do it fast enough. Soon after, when I became officially locked into duty in Japan, I started jumping around my apartment like I'd just won the Super Bowl. I was out of my mind.

During those couple of months when I was preparing for the move, I happily told all of my friends about my plans, and about where I was going. I received some interesting responses: an old college buddy said it was great, that I used to always talk about living there again. Then, an ex-girlfriend whom I still kept in touch with said she was proud of me—she said it was cool I was actually doing it.

See, I genuinely did not remember saying those things over the years, to them or anyone else. I suppose that subconsciously Japan had been very much alive within me, all those years. I was already predisposed, to an extent. I already knew what most people on their way there had yet to discover:

That this was going to be awesome.