Translating Life’s Signals in Tokyo
How one disrupted day taught me that even the missteps carry meaning
When I write my Tessera blogs, I tend to focus on the nudges and collisions that bear the most fruit and inspiration. In doing so, I often end up painting a sanguine picture of my travels devoid of their hiccups, disappointments and wrong turns. If I ever do talk about my setbacks, I am always reflecting on them from a headspace where time and distance have diffused the tension that charged them. By translating my experience with these agitators into exposition, I have learned I not only exorcise their remnants and lingering effects but ingest the full potential of their meaning and perspective.
In the moment, however? When I’m bunched up and frustrated? I find it especially challenging to reset my rhythm and climb out of the funk. Thankfully, the more I’ve traveled this year, the more readily I’ve recognized the sensation as it balloons inside me. I have even developed the self-awareness to identify the patterns that trigger it. But it wasn’t until I spent a rushed 24 hours in Tokyo, that I uncovered a way to work with instead of against my frustration.
It turns out in developing a practice of self-reflection, I had unexpectedly set up all the emotional scaffolding I needed. I had been developing the muscle memory to transform let down and annoyance into faith and opportunity. For the first time, I recognized turbulence for what it was and then for what it wasn’t.
The Japanese have a word, Mottainai, which feels like the best way to describe what overtook me that afternoon in Tokyo. Mottainai is a deep appreciation and calling to not squander that which is right in front of us. It is a call to move with intent, gratitude and reverence for every moment of life. At its core, mottainai expresses a deep sense of regret over waste and not just of material things, but of time, beauty, potential and life itself.
After arriving in Tokyo by bullet train from Kyoto, I dropped my bags at the hotel. I decided on a nearby ramen shop that was hectic and crowded when I got there. It had one seat left staring at the counter wall in the corner. My back would be to the restaurant, to the other diners and to what felt like all of Tokyo. I sat down and just as quickly got up. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend a meal let alone a minute in a vibrant city like this one.
I pressed on, striking out again and again. It was a national holiday in Japan, and my tagged spots were either closed in observance or booked. I was frustrated at the circumstances but mostly myself. Why hadn’t I made a reservation!? An ugly swell of self-criticism surfaced, but then inexplicably receded. I sensed a slowing down of things, a calming, a confidence. I felt it before I heard the voice inside me speak it. Taste, my compass would find the way.
Mottainai. At some point that afternoon, I had forgotten how ridiculously lucky I was to be standing in Tokyo again. I remembered how much I loved this city. Gazing through a lens of gratitude instead of privileged despair, I shifted my perspective and game plan. Rather than stew and simmer, I made a choice to trust the gut that has led me again and again to places where taste has fed, filled and moved me.
It was from this place of trust that I would feel an undeniable surge of patience, self-compassion and gratitude for being right where and how I was that fitful afternoon. All I had to do was trust the process I had already established years ago.
Eventually, I wandered into a row of bars and restaurants in the Ginza corridor called Hibiya Okuroji. I sipped through happy hour at Marugin. Having not eaten since breakfast, I also scarfed down a wagyu chateaubriand sandwich that was absolutely amazing. I took a Tokyo Monday night in from a community table that faced the full and lively room. I finished my Sochu and Green Tea and stepped back out onto the streets of Tokyo reinvigorated and refueled.
And then, three more strikeouts, one right after the other.
Just as my soulful travel with intent façade was in jeopardy of cracking in disgrace, I spotted a sign for a wine bar that I could only wish and hope would end with me in fact drinking a glass of wine. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I walked into what looked like a commercial office building and took the elevator to the 4th floor. It was unpromisingly quiet. I got out, pushed the suite door open and stepped forward much to my surprise into an elegant, cozy wine bar.
I felt like I had discovered a portal to another universe. The room was empty except for a trio of friendly older wine tasters at the end of the bar. All of them, including the owner and his bartender looked up, as stunned to see me as I was to find this beautiful hidden gem open on this quiet, sleepy street.
The bartender took my coat and I sat down. Everything looked very expensive, but I was tired and thirsty. And I had a sneaking suspicion Taste, my compass already knew that. I ordered a glass of French white. I was sipping on it when the owner approached and thanked me for coming. Through Google Translate he asked me how I had heard about his Salon du Vin Ivresse. I admitted, the good old fashioned way. I walked past and reacted to the sign on the street. As the marketer in me laughed at the simplicity of that, I realized there was actually so much more to it. This discovery was not just a single collision of circumstance; it was a lesson in signals of disruption.
The bartender was kind enough to help me find a spot for dinner. First, she recommended a traditional but prohibitively expensive restaurant that was available only for its tasting menu that evening. I settled instead on her second more practical recommendation, Sanada a soba noodle restaurant close to my hotel. While I still regret passing on the first place on account of its price alone, I ordered a second glass of wine at Ivresse as a gesture of gratitude to my hosts for their over and above hospitality.
I didn’t find the sushi or the ramen I was hungry for that day. And Sanada was perfectly fine, if not a little bland and basic. But the randomness of that collision in the wine bar and of the path I took to get there stayed with me long after that last sip of 2019 Les Charmes Dessus Meursault. Not every encounter when we travel redefines the trajectory of our lives, leads us to our calling or invites us to walk with purpose toward movement and meaning.
Sometimes an encounter is a signal to slow down, step outside of our comfort zones or tune in. Sometimes these signals are soft and subtle and sometimes they are loud and jarring. Still other times they act as mile markers of progress made and alignment achieved. I do wholeheartedly believe every one of them deserves our attention and presence, and each has something unique and important to tell us. During my one and only evening in Tokyo, when I was finally sitting in front of a bowl of noodles, it was suddenly – so compelling, connected and clear – exactly what that message was.
The morning I left for Asia I finished Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act. In doing so, I accidentally snapped a streak of self-discovery and self-connection through reading that I had been auspiciously riding since Sharon Salzburg’s Lovingkindness in Slovenia. I tried again and again… and again to find the right text to inspire and motivate me. I realized as I struck out three times in a row I had taken that epic stretch of synchronicity for granted and now even though the titles and topics felt right, I wasn’t connecting with the writers, their words or their styles. It was maddening. But as I sat with sake and soba in Ginza, how I came to take that third swing and a miss rushed back to me.
Just before closing out a chat to resolve a technical issue inside the Audible app, the Amazon customer service rep had recommended his favorite book to me. Even if he had seen my queue of books and was merely following Audible protocol, it was too meaningful a collision for me to ignore. At the time, I was deeply struck by finding a spark of human connection inside such a utilitarian virtual chore.
Perhaps if I had first done my research, I wouldn’t have wasted a third credit on Mr. Audible’s recommendation. But then in that moment, I wouldn’t have been moving on faith alone. So I did download the book. And it was a spectacularly colossal miss. But only… if I consider the outcome of liking the book as the reason I had come into contact with it at all. This recommendation was in fact a loud, brash signal. After three misses in a row I was finally ready to tune in.
What was I really craving? If I am honest with myself, I had known the answer long before I was asked to answer the question and that was the wild thing about this signal. It gave me the permission I needed to go where my heart had already been calling me.
After learning more about her in Stephen Cope’s The Great Work of Your Life: A Guide for the Journey to Your True Calling, I was determined to soak up more about the bold, brilliant Jane Goodall. I was finally ready now to listen to the right voice put what I’d been reading about into practice. At times Goodall’s voice – humble, soft and confident – could almost quiet the noisy, angry world around me. I didn’t just read A Reason for Hope, I took refuge in it. Goodall changed the world behind pointed, purposeful action and restrained, refined wisdom. When she chose to speak she said something. And there it was again, mottainai.
All the closed doors, friction and strikeouts in Tokyo, weren’t superfluous distractions meant to slow me down and frustrate me. They weren’t tests of my resolve or dedication. They were invitations to see meaning in what I had been consistently ignoring. Inside the colliding of two random signals, from one of the biggest cities in the world, I was able to glimpse a peek at the bigger board, where no chance encounter, no misstep, no passed-over possibility ever goes to waste. And that I thought is the real transformative power of intentional travel. Every moment, every movement matters.
Mottainai.
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