Being a reflective traveler: identity, community, place

Location #1: The NYC

When I exit Building D and pause for a moment outside, I am struck by how quiet the campus is. Even though the NYC seems well-used by international students and local Japanese community members, it retains a sense of stillness that sets me at ease. Perhaps I am comforted by the aged faces of the buildings I pass, which offer me an ironic sense of nostalgia for an Olympic Games I have no memories of. Removed from the hustle and bustle of the crowds at Shinjuku train station, I feel a sense of relief, as I take a moment to catch my breath. Oddly, the NYC has a strange familiarity that reminds me of the UW Quad at night when it is bathed in the soft, orange glow of lamps shining on bricks. Even the overcast sky reminds me of Seattle. As I leave for the stairs to the front gate, a raven calls out a “ha-ha” behind me. I feel like the raven is trying to let me in on an inside joke, much like how Tokyo is revealing its own little inside jokes with its small alleyways, hidden underground cafes, and pockets of greenery nestled against skyscrapers.

Location #2: Yoyogi Park

Yoyogi Park is not so much a pocket as it is a whole other world that seems to expand more and more the further I walk inside it. I sit at the end of a row of wooden benches in front of a pond with a fountain (and many mosquitos). To my surprise, I find myself surrounded by a multitude of sounds. What a difference from the NYC! To my left, I hear conversations in Japanese that break off into laughter. In front of me, the water creates bursts of sound as it gushes upwards and then falls back onto the surface, forming ripples. People walk by, sometimes speaking Japanese, sometimes English, sometimes an entirely different language, yet all whose footsteps I hear on the pavement. In the distance to my right, I hear the clickety-clack of the trains, a reminder that I am still in Tokyo even if visually surrounded by greenery. From behind, the constant laughter of ravens echoes. Together, these noises paint a soundscape of a typical Monday afternoon in Yoyogi Park. 

The view of the pond and fountain in Yoyogi Park from my bench.

As I listen to the many voices of Yoyogi Park, I keep noticing an older Japanese man with a white baseball cap standing in front of me by the edge of the pond. He does not sit down but just stands looking out onto the water. No one else seems as captivated by the water—they are either engaged in conversation or lost in their phones. Some have their heads bent as they concentrate on getting to their destination, reminding me of yesterday when I rushed past the pond to hurry back for our meeting at the NYC, too distracted to take in the park around me. The older man only takes out his phone to take a picture of the pond before walking away. I wonder, what does he see in the water that is so captivating? Is he looking at the people sitting or lying on the grass across the pond from us? Is he watching the rings of ripples spread out from the fountain before they collide with the current of another fountain? Maybe he is looking at the small island in the middle of the pond with a tree and tall, feathery plants. Or, perhaps, he is simply enjoying a moment of stillness surrounded by water and greenery. As I observe this man observing the water, I begin to recognize the beauty in both the evident and more obscure little details of the pond. He helps enrich how I view and experience this space in Yoyogi Park. 

The view from where the older Japanese man stood.

Alternate view of the pond and fountain.