My family came to see me off at the Detroit International airport; there weren’t as many non-stop flights out of the Cleveland area. This was July 1995. My sister was leaving the nest to be a freshman at college, and my brother was steps from his entrepreneurial destiny, but I was the focus of attention that day. Mom was holding back tears. Dad was proud, maybe jealous of my impending journey.

Our carrier was Northwest. It wasn’t my first international trip, but certainly the first to take me across an ocean. We flew Business class, and our seats were up a small flight of stairs. Big plane. There were probably 5-10 of us JET ALTs flying out of Detroit. The flight was much smoother than I’d expected, I appreciated my seat being so near the nose instead of all the way aft like I’m used to.

It was a 16-hours in the sky - a space of suspended anticipation. The inflight menu was what struck me to the reality of what I was getting into for the next three years: tempura, noodles, fish, and so many brand new flavors that I have loved ever since. Mmmm. In addition to the food, I remember the in-flight entertainment experience was beyond what I’d ever imagined. I was mesmerized by a little airplane icon creeping a gentle arc over the Pacific on the small, seatback display. (Ironically, exactly 9 years later, in the summer of 2004 I began working at Matsushita Avionics where my first task was filling in as Product Manager of our own IFE Map application. Echoes through time and place.)

On the ground in another nation and out from the maze of pathways and checkpoints, following our guide who corralled us along. We may have exchanged some dollars for yen in the airport before heading to the station under one of Narita’s two terminals.

The train ride was brilliant. Not a shinkansen, but the now familiar Narita Express. Flying like a bullet itself, past blur after blur of green rice fields and through tunnels. Anything close to the window left your sight faster than it appeared, but the villages beyond the paddies moved at a more forgiving pace, allowing us to take in the scenery. The mountains further beyond took their own stately time, not in much of a hurry to go anywhere.

And then it happened: the arrival. Right into the busiest part of this very busy world capital. Shinjuku eki. The Keio Plaza. Grand, imposing, Japanese.

Our full cohort had been arriving from all over the English-speaking world, and we were beginning to scuttle about the hotel and leak out into the Tokyo streets - sharing excited observations, making early connections, squealing with delight and anticipation. Most of the group (over 100 in that year) were ALTs like me, though a handful were known as CIRs (Coordinators for International Relations). They were the ones who needed Japanese fluency and did cultural liaison work. ALTs were merely classroom ambassadors who didn’t need to speak Japanese at all, or even have real teaching experience.

There was a whirlwind of sessions covering all things from language, customs, and etiquette to more nuts-and-bolts of the assignment. The highpoint was getting introduced to the others assigned to Yamanashi-ken. On our second night in Tokyo, a large portion of team Yamanashi made our way to an izakaya, and what happened could not have been scripted: near the end of an amazing party getting to know these other gaijin (I barely know these people) with so much great food and drink, my own kocho-sensei (the principal from one of my two tiny schools hours into the countryside) just happens to walk by our party in this bustling establishment. Coincidences be darned, we made quick intros, and he drops three crisp ichi-man bills on the table to cover our tab! Banzai! It’s the Japan version of the universe confirming my decision, and I instantly became the hero at our table.

Before arriving at my post in Tsuru-shi (where I would be living, my base of operations for traversing my daily mountain to teach in one of two hamlets), each cohort was delivered by train to the seat of their prefecture for another round of orientation and a formal JET welcome ceremony. Here’s where I tried out my new aisatsu (“Watakushi wa…“) to a large foreign audience. I killed, of course, despite having truly awful pronunciation. Later that evening, two ambassadors from Aki-chu drove me to my new apato where I proceeded to plop down onto a real futon and dream about what could be coming next.