Moving to Tokyo
Got maybe two real emails asking about the Tokyo move. I like to imagine 176, but two feels more honest.
The whole thing started because I was that Sailor Moon kid. The one who spent lunch money on anime magazines and somehow got convinced Japan was this mythical place at the end of the world—all impossible TV and weird machines and culture doing eight things at once. Unreachable. That’s what it felt like.
Then at some point I thought: actually, it’s not that unreachable. I work online. I have enough money. I’m not yet at the age where I’m too embarrassed to leave the house. Flights, paperwork, finding a place—none of it’s impossible. So why not.
Turned out that knowing people there made everything possible. I’d already been in touch with other bloggers, photographers, and artists online, and met them when I visited before. Real connections matter because the practical stuff is impossible without them. Japanese has three writing systems. I barely speak any. Bank accounts, subway cards, ordering from a chain restaurant—you need someone for that. Worth building relationships first.
I was German and between 18 and 30, which meant I could get a Working Holiday visa for a year. Just needed proof of money, travel insurance, and flights. Took about a week from application to approval.
I sold or got rid of most of my stuff before I went. The Terminal was the place I’d work sometimes—a coworking space and café wedged above a clothing store in Harajuku. Three euros an hour, ten a day, and I could just sit and work without anyone bothering me. Free coffee, tea, juice. Food if I wanted it. Exhibitions sometimes, the occasional talk. Clean, expensive-feeling place, everyone genuinely nice.
I ended up at Sakura House, the outfit that rents to foreigners and temporary residents. Hannah had done the same thing years earlier. My apartment was in Setagaya, apartment 203, a small one-room, and with a discount I was paying around 700 euros a month. More than Berlin. Everything costs more than Berlin.
Tokyo’s expensive if you’re eating at restaurants every night and paying for nice hotels. But eat lunch instead of dinner—way cheaper. Learn to cook a little. Use the transit smartly. Skip the places that charge you just for showing up. The convenience stores are absurdly cheap and open 24 hours. Fresh fruit is another story. That costs like an entire month’s rent. Not exaggerating.
Japanese: I barely spoke it. Had years of lessons, somehow learned exactly three sentences that all say the same thing about my blue umbrella having asthma. I grabbed a travel phrasebook before I left. The basics matter. English doesn’t work anywhere except the Apple Store.
The whole thing about Tokyo vending machines selling used women’s underwear—yeah, that exists. Wouldn’t waste money on it though. Probably smells weird. Better to talk to actual women. Better smell. Better everything.
I started posting updates every week once I got there—Tokyo Diary entries with photos and whatever was happening. Also started a separate blog, Friends in Tokyo, which was more like a real journal. Pictures from Akihabara, conversations with artists, weird music videos. The whole thing suddenly felt possible in a way it really hadn’t before.