Departure

The alarm went off. It was still dark outside, but it was time to start the day. Today’s the day we inevitably must return to the U.S. None of it feels real. We arrived here chasing a dream because we dared to believe that we should pursue a rich life filled with meaning in our later years. We’re leaving after having tasted a bit of that dream, and it’s hard to walk away from building something you started. Especially when you know it’s exactly what you want.

Still, there will be time for deep reflections later. For now, it’s a travel day, and we have a bit of a schedule we have to keep this morning. We take our morning showers, check out, and head to check-in and baggage drop. Our flight out of Sapporo is early enough that the hotel breakfast isn’t being served yet. This leg of the journey is the shortest and easiest—mostly.

We walk from the hotel to the bag drop at the airline’s counter, check our bags, get our boarding passes, and head off to security. This process took all of about ten minutes; we were prepared for two hours. The thing about flying domestically here in Japan versus flying anywhere in the U.S. is that getting checked in and through security is a pretty easy process that doesn’t require the same amount of time as it does in America. The reasons for this are myriad, the least of which is security.

Through Security

Yet, when it comes to Japanese security to get on the plane, they are quick, efficient, and don’t play around when it comes to the rules. As I have done many times over the years, I set my black backpack on the conveyor belt to be scanned, confident that I have zero contraband in my backpack. Joy and I walked through the security screening. She passed with flying colors and easily retrieved her stuff waiting at the end of the conveyor belt. Me… not so much. I walked through the scanner easily enough and passed the test with flying colors. My backpack, on the other hand, did not.

The security folks scanned my Marshall backpack. Stopped. Ran it through the scanner again. The agent called her colleagues over to look at the monitor. It appeared that something in my backpack caught their eye. Then they started side‑eyeing me as they stared at the contents of my backpack through their scanner monitor.

I’m getting nervous.

Finally, they ran my backpack through one more time, then pulled it off the belt for manual inspection. The guy closest to me asked if that was my backpack. I nodded. He picked it up and apologized while gesturing for me to step aside. He looked about as uncomfortable as I felt. What was in my backpack that was causing so much trouble?

He apologized again.

I smiled and said, “No worries. Safety first!” The smile felt forced.

He rummaged around inside, took things out, examined them carefully, apologized again (the Japanese are exceptionally polite), and kept going. A colleague of his came up behind him and handed him a piece of paper.

Going to Jail

My mind is racing. Fuck me. I just know I’m going to jail. I don’t know why, but I know it’s real. I mean, if we’re being honest, I really didn’t want to leave Japan, but this is not how I envisioned I would be staying in the country either. Do I even want to know what the inside of a Japanese prison cell looks like? What does hard labor look like here? On the plus side, I’d probably shed a few pounds. So, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Eventually, he found the thing that started this whole thing. He apologized again and pulled the culprit out of my bag. It was my tiny DeWalt screwdriver that I’ve kept in my bag since my days in IT. If there’s anything I’ve learned from all the Doctor Who shows, it’s that you never know when a screwdriver will save your life.

He asked about it, and I chuckled, relieved that I wasn’t going to jail. I told him it was my screwdriver. He pulled it apart, examined all the little heads, apologized again, and put it back in my bag.

He fidgeted. Apparently, we still had business to conduct, and jail wasn’t out of the realm of possibility yet. He apologized again. This time, without hesitation, he pulled out my solar-powered battery pack. He examined it closely, like it was a puzzle box, poking and prodding at different corners of it. Eventually, he flipped it over and read the specs written on the back of it. He then pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket, showing me the rules, and pointed at the battery. It was precisely 0.01 milliamps over the specifications and therefore not allowed on the airplane. He asked what I wanted to do with it. I asked him what I could do with it, and he said to leave it there.

Not Going to Jail

Relieved that I wasn’t going to jail, I gave him the okay signal and smiled. He apologized again and handed me my backpack. I apologized, bowed, and accepted it, then looked over and found Joy, once again, smiling. She ribbed me a little bit—that I, the seasoned traveler, apparently wasn’t as experienced as I like to think I am. I smiled. Perhaps she’s right, and I needed to be knocked down a few notches. Still, I couldn’t tell her that. Admitting defeat under these circumstances meant I’d never hear the end of it.

We walked to our gate with plenty of time to spare, then walked to the little restaurant outside the gate, got some coffee and breakfast, and enjoyed the last of our morning in Sapporo before heading off to Tokyo. We slowly drank our coffee and enjoyed a pastry as the sea of people walked by. The first major hurdle is cleared, and I’m still coming down from the realization that I’m not going to jail.

Joy had been scrolling through her phone when suddenly she put it down and asked, “How will we recognize our driver and car when we transfer from Haneda to Narita?”

I smiled. “I don’t know.”

I booked our return flight through Hawaiian Airlines, and one of the services they offered was a personal driver to shuttle us between Haneda and Narita. For a first-time experience, this felt like a good idea, and I was happy to pay the price. I’m sure we would have figured it out had it all fallen through, but I also knew we wanted to do as little thinking as possible about how to get from one place to another while dragging suitcases with us.

Her face froze. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Joy looked terrified. Her ADHD was in full panic mode at this point, triggered by the lack of details falling out of my mouth.

I reassured her, “Look, I’m sure it’ll be obvious when we get there. If I remember, I told Hawaiian to have the driver hold up a sign with our names on it.”

She didn’t look assured, but accepted it. Silently, I could see this was the moment she reaffirmed why she’s the one who does the trip planning and scheduling in our world.

The part I didn’t tell her was that I was secretly a little worried about this, too. We hadn’t received any reminders from the airline confirming that this part went through. I figured this was probably a minor oversight related to Hawaiian’s recent merger with Alaska Airlines. Still, as we say all the time, I don’t know—but we’ll figure it out.

Our flight was announced, and it was time to start boarding. Joy and I walked to the plane. I was excited that we were flying to Tokyo on board one of Japan Airlines’ A350‑900s. Coming from America, flights of this duration usually aren’t handled by such a massive airplane. Normally, we’d all be stuffed on board some variation of a 737 or an A320. I guess this is what’s possible when runways are able to handle something of this size (that’s what she said).

The flight pushed back on time, and because this leg was code-shared with Hawaiian Airlines, we did not get to pick our seats. Joy and I sat in different rows, but the flight was smooth, and the service was excellent. After landing at Haneda, we got off the flight and went to baggage claim to retrieve our luggage. Once again, we were humbled and impressed with Japanese efficiency and mindfulness. Everyone silently queued up around the luggage carousel, waiting their turn while leaving enough space between people that nobody was crowded. Retrieving our luggage was an orderly affair that, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear it was orchestrated. This is peak Japanese culture—being mindful in a shared space and everyone in it.

Between Airports

We got our luggage and walked toward the exit. This was the moment of truth—whether I deserved the title of travel genius or would suffer humiliation for the next sixteen hours. Almost as soon as we stepped into the terminal, we saw him: our driver, holding a sign that read Scott and Joy. We were rock-star VIPs! He bowed, we bowed, then we followed him through the parking lot to the chariot that would carry us through the forty-five-minute trip from Haneda to Narita.

Along the way, we passed the only American car we saw in Japan, and it was beautiful—a vintage circa‑1970 Chevrolet Chevelle with a 350 under the hood. The car was in mint condition and looked like it had rolled off the showroom floor earlier that day. I stood in awe and felt a swell of pride at the sight of that classic bit of Americana.

We got into the van, which was sleek, black, and well-stocked. The driver carefully stowed our luggage, and then we were ushered off toward Narita. The trip was smooth and uneventful, which is exactly what you want in an airport transfer. What stood out most to me was how uncrowded the highway felt. It wasn’t empty—after all, this route connects two of the busiest airports in one of the largest cities on the planet. Still, traffic flowed smoothly, spaced appropriately, and free of stop-and-go congestion. The road was immaculate. I can’t recall seeing any graffiti, trash, or broken-down vehicles along the way. Given the volume of traffic the road could handle, this felt almost unbelievable.

As an American observer, another thing stood out: there weren’t many private vehicles on the road. Most of the traffic consisted of buses or tractor-trailers heading to their next destination. It suggested that people in Tokyo rely far less on personal cars than Americans do—if they need them at all.

Learning How to Wait

When we arrived at Narita, the driver delivered us directly to the departure terminal. We thanked him and offered a tip, which he politely refused. We walked through the main doors and approached the Hawaiian Airlines counter to check in and proceed through security. It was here that we encountered Americans en masse for the first time since arriving—and for the first time, we felt mildly repulsed by our own people.

Many in the line looked irritated, and the small talk we overheard was difficult to endure—conversations without direction, spoken simply to fill silence. For the first time in my travels abroad, I began to understand why Americans often leave poor impressions outside our borders. We also took up a remarkable amount of space. Not Joy and me, but Americans generally: leaning on fixtures, slumping against one another, sighing loudly, complaining about waits.

Apparently, Joy and I weren’t the only ones to notice. Hawaiian Airlines had outsourced the counter operations to Japan Airlines, and the agents approaching the desk looked less than thrilled. Their body language suggested short straws had been drawn in the break room and they were going to have to deal with us. Still, in true Japanese fashion, they remained stoic, professional, and courteous throughout. Props to them for dealing with us.

When it was our turn, we greeted the agent in the little Japanese we knew. She smiled—a clear look of relief crossing her face. She checked our bags, handed us our boarding passes, bowed, and sent us on our way. After bowing and thanking her in return, we headed off to security, which was once again quick and efficient.

Because we held first-class tickets, we had access to the Sakura Lounge at Narita. It was a welcome respite—comfortable seating, good food, a little booze, and a quiet place to relax before boarding. Five stars. If you ever have the option to access a lounge, it’s far better than waiting at the gate. For an airplane enthusiast, why watch one plane when you can observe them all from a real chair?

Cleared for Boarding

As departure time approached, we left the lounge and walked toward the gate. We heard the Americans before we saw them. The scene was… jarring. People sprawled across floors, belongings scattered everywhere, conversations roaring across the space. Again, the word dirty came to mind. Some were walking around barefoot; others looked like they had come to Japan for esoteric reasons but somehow failed to glean whatever spiritual message the universe had for them. Tone-deaf is the right term here. In the middle of it all sat an Asian couple, conservatively dressed, keeping to themselves, occupying as little space as possible—visibly uncomfortable. I felt that moment deeply. It was unsettling to view ourselves through the eyes of others.

Eventually, boarding began. I knew this would be the final time we boarded a Hawaiian Airlines plane still wearing its original livery. Soon, the aircraft would be repainted in Alaska’s colors. Though I hold nothing against Alaska Airlines—in fact, they’re my preferred carrier out of Seattle—I appreciated Hawaiian’s practice of naming their planes. We happened to be flying aboard the A330 Kumau. As someone who names their cars, this detail mattered. It gave the aircraft a sense of spirit, fitting for Hawaii and Asia alike. I took a moment to thank the plane for the ride and for caring for us on our journey.

First Class, This Time

In my international travels, I’ve never flown first class. The closest I’d come was premium economy, which often feels like first class on domestic U.S. flights. It’s luxury without feeling unhinged, like drinking champagne from a red party cup. Flying at the front of a wide-body aircraft, complete with lay-flat seats, real glassware, and privacy screens, is a whole new level unto itself—one that felt borderline blasphemous for those waiting behind the curtain.

I never expected my bid for the first-class upgrade to be accepted. I low-balled it so severely that the app questioned my sanity. Still, going all-in on the theme of indulgence for this trip felt right. And as it turned out, the upgrade came with perks that made travel easier on a day that otherwise might have felt heavy.

The cabin service was exceptional. Watching the flight attendants manage challenging personalities that would make a priest lose his temper with grace deepened my respect for them. These professionals are among the best in the world, and I was grateful to be in their care.

Cleared for Departure

The plane pushed back slightly late, though it hardly mattered. What’s twenty minutes in a ten-hour flight? As we sat on the tarmac waiting our turn, I thought about everything we had experienced—the dream that began the journey, the people we met, and the changes that followed. There is no doubt that we grew in every sense of the word. We shed tears of joy and pain, celebrated new milestones and achievements, and learned more about ourselves and how we move through the world. And for the first time in my life, I felt something I hadn’t known before: alignment.

Mind. Body. Soul. In a place that felt like home.

We were finally cleared for takeoff. Kumau leapt down the runway, eager to be airborne and heading back across the Pacific. There will be more trips back here.

I smile at the thought.