As the sakura trees bloom
When I came to Japan, I thought I was supposed to feel ecstatic. Who wouldn’t be? It was the end of March, and spring was drawing its curtains. I kept telling myself I ought to be happy: I had escaped the hellish heat of the metro, the long queues of cars in what would probably be the worst traffic, the inefficient public transportation. But weeks before my departure I couldn’t find myself excited—at least, not my usual enthusiasm whenever I was set to travel elsewhere—and I reasoned out, okay, maybe I’m just too busy to feel thrilled, hence I let myself work in what seemed to be a state of dread.
Like all international students, I had a few firsts upon my arrival, like taking the train from Narita to Shin-Koiwa at the expense of embarrassing myself because I couldn’t purchase from the ticket machine—however high-tech it was. I didn’t speak Japanese, so I ended up going back and forth trying to get help from the staff.
We carried our big, heavy luggage about the streets, and the supposed 10-minute walk to our dorm took 10 minutes more, probably another extra 10 if our coresidents hadn’t found us struggling on the sidewalk like the obvious tourists we were. We went out with them to grab some dinner—an onigiri from 7-11—and with good people around, I was having the best time of my life.
But when I returned to my dorm to retire, all of a sudden, I was alone.
The walls were hospital-white, the plainest I’ve ever seen. It was 9 in the evening, and if I were in my hometown I would still hear my front neighbor’s gangster music and women gossiping outside my house. But I was in Shin-Koiwa—in a hushed, cold place. For a moment, I wanted the humid heat back home, only if it meant I’d be with my family.
I started asking myself if I did the right thing. I thought of how I prayed and worked hard for this opportunity, all the piled-up stress and anxiety, only for me to seek the comfort of an unmade bed because, in those moments, I regretted flying to another country; I regretted having this great, big dream; I regretted wanting to experience being independent, to study abroad, to see the sakura trees bloom, only they haven’t yet despite it being early April. Half the cherry blossom flowers were still green, still trying to grow into a most-awaited white and pink.
I cried for an hour. Maybe two. When my parents called, my make-up was ruined, and I looked like a broken-hearted 20-something who partied in the club, got drunk, and cried over her situation, except I was only homesick 15 hours after I left home. I asked myself again: Was it worth flying here? Was it worth stepping out of my comfort zone to see new horizons—to leave my country and live in an entirely foreign place?
And yet, I am here three weeks in, the city lights are shining, and Tokyo is alive—a vibrant new home for me to live and explore, where the morning weather is welcoming, and the evenings offer more life than I could ever imagine. In Shinjuku Gyoen I came to see the cherry blossoms in their glory, the cold breeze on my face, the golden hour upon me and my little circle of friends. I have memorized my train rides to heart, even my weekly long journeys to church. My friends and I stop by the grocery—we cook and eat together. Ice cream for dessert. I love my new university, the beautiful library, which I have already claimed as my haven.
In class, I hear the Westminster chime, which I only used to hear in anime shows. I could dress myself in cozy, thick clothes. Because I won a cat plushie, I love claw machines now. On my way home, I hear the loud caws of crows—my first time hearing them in person, not just in “Haikyu!!”—and I look forward to reading Charlotte Brontë in my room, just before I take my afternoon nap. I can now accomplish more chores alone, and I’m sure my parents are proud; I try to keep my room clean as much as possible since I thrash it every time I go out. Oh, and I tasted crepes for the first time—the strawberry brownie from Dipper Dan in Shibuya—and the world turned pink.
I once feared that I was falling behind. I wanted to arrive in Tokyo early so I could adjust swiftly and, of course, so I could witness the blossoming of the sakura. However, akin to the cherry blossoms that did not bloom as predicted, I realized that I, too, just needed more time. It was as if the sakuras waited for me so we could, eventually, blossom together.
And while I miss everything back home—my family, sinigang, afternoon bus rides, and even the scorching summer sun and loud music outside my house—I, too, much like the sakura trees, blossom into someone new, and experience fresh beginnings: new friends, now like family; tendon, udon, and sushi; cool morning walks and easy train rides, the steady screeching of its wheels on the tracks. Here, my cardigans comfort me. At night, I sleep in tranquility, with just the soft whirs of the air conditioner, and the moonlight streaming past my window.
As the sakura trees bloom, so do I.
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Angel Beatrice Baleña, 21, is an undergraduate at the University of the Philippines Diliman taking up creative writing. She finds solace in reading historical romance and fantasy novels, and never tires of her plushies.
