I’m actually leaving. I have to keep reminding myself that, as Tokyo has become something of a home these past few months. In ten days, I’ll be packed up, anxiously waiting at Narita Airport, leaving behind this inimitable experience. Sure, there have been some low moments—I miss my friends from home and my family. But I’ve been living in Tokyo. I don’t see how I can complain about that. And while I’ve been studying, partying, and exploring what is by some measurements the biggest city in the world, the whole novelty of the study abroad experience has, in a good way, gradually worn off. I’ve stopped thinking of myself as an American in Tokyo and become just a person, just a member of Japanese society. The fact that I’m white and probably talk like a Japanese 12 year old can’t change that; those are just minor details in the scheme of my cultural assimilation. But it’ll all be over in ten days: I’m actually leaving.

Four and a half months ago, I flew into Narita International Airport ready to be blown away. I wanted to see the famous temples of Japan, I wanted to interact with native Japanese - whether that meant buying gum at the convenience store or making Japanese friends - and I wanted my life to be changed. People seem to always tout the marvels that a study abroad experience will do for you -you know, the lifelong friendships you’ll develop, the intellectual and emotional maturity you’ll undergo - and it was all those hackneyed experiences that I sought. I know it was trite, but I wanted to experience Japan, and I didn’t know how else to go about it.

At first, Japan was miraculous. It was a drug. Every neon sign I saw amazed me, every time a stranger apologized with a “sumimasen” instead of “excuse me,” I quietly gasped, and every bite of ramen, sukiyaki, or sushi was orgasmic. I was living in an intellectually stimulating paradise. Of course, I was so revved up for life-altering experiences that I overlooked all of the difficulties I faced. It was, in some sense, like freshman year all over again. There were other Penn students here, but none I really knew, so I had to endure and provide the nonstop smiles and niceties that come with the start of such new experiences.  All that social bullshit has never been my forte, but I think I weathered the storm decently; armed with a decent group of friends (acquaintances?) and endless hope, I was ready to take on Tokyo.

The thing is, the Tokyo I wanted to find doesn’t really exist. Since starting my Japanese study freshman year, I had developed a romantic image of the country. It was this Shangri-la of temples, bowing, politeness, and tradition with a good deal of sushi thrown into the mix. Modern Japan, and especially Tokyo, isn’t anything like that. The traditional respect and kindness still pervade, but there’s an unavoidable modernity that makes it so unique. For instance, there’s actually a place in Tokyo called “The Electric City” where you can buy any electronic you can imagine and many more that you can’t. The tradition remains, but mostly as a backdrop to the rapidly changing present. Just behind the Electric City is a centuries-old Shinto Temple that nobody seems to notice.

So while my collision with modern Japan might have shattered my cliché preconceptions, it didn’t mean my experience was ruined. I still got my fill of tradition, like spending 6 hours praying at a temple or participating in a tea ceremony. But my understanding of Japan as a modern nation definitely changed. I began to see this dark underbelly to what was previously an ideal. There’s so much politeness and attention to image that it seems a great deal goes unexpressed; everyday, Japanese salarymen jump in front of oncoming trains to escape it all. It’s dark, it’s mysterious, and it’s often depressing, but it was all an unexpected and integral part of the experience.

As odd as it seems, I’ve learned more about myself and Japan through disappointment than through fulfillment. The Tokyo train system no longer provides the intrigue it once did, and I hardly notice the crazy Tokyo fashions anymore. I ride my bike everywhere, but I’ve stopped noticing the assortment of shops along the way or the kanji characters that adorn every window. I often forget that I’m speaking in Japanese, and 3000 Yen no longer seems like a small fortune. Essentially, Tokyo has in many ways lost its exotic appeal to me.

But just as Philly became my home, so has Tokyo. It has become my place of learning and playing, and I’ve come to understand and appreciate its varied districts and wards. I see Tokyo’s beauty and fault, and it’s been incredible becoming a part of that. I forget, sometimes, that I’m living in a homestay with home-cooked Japanese meals every day;  those facts have become cores of my Japanese life. Through normalization, Tokyo and Japan have become a greater part of me than I imagined. Despite all of its good and bad, Tokyo is my home away from my home away from home.

So with ten days left, I’m nothing but melancholy. I can’t wait to see my family and friends in America; I’ll be showering them with souvenirs, and I’m eager to share my experiences with them in a way that Skype won’t allow. But I realize that what I can’t wait to share—what is now just quotidian, boring almost—will be gone. I’ll be sharing it because it’s over. So as I now prepare for finals and write my papers, it’s hard to think about my inevitable departure. Tokyo has been incredible, but the truth is I’m actually leaving.