Namiki Michiko's wartime experience reflected the struggles many of her fans endured. Her mother was killed in the Bombing of Tokyo on March 10, 1945, and Michiko herself had to be pulled from the Sumida River in its aftermath. Following the Emperor's announcement of Japan's defeat on August 15, neither her father nor elder brother returned from duty. At just 23 years old, she was left to face the post-war world alone, having lost her entire family.
Within two months, Namiki, who had started acting before the war, found herself starring in Japan's first film of the new era, Soyokaze. She also performed its theme, Ringo no Uta (りんごの歌), meaning The Apple Song. Conceived as a cheerful track to reflect the newfound liberation from wartime burdens, its lyrics captured the carefree emotions of a young woman, symbolised by the simple image of a red apple enjoyed beneath a blue sky.
During the recording sessions, accounts recall that the song's writer, Manjome Tadashi, frequently halted progress, urging Namiki to "sing more brightly" to uplift the public. It was a problematic demand for an artist in trauma and bereavement, but Manjome remained insistent. The resulting performance conveyed less the carefree joy of a girl savouring an apple but more the resilience of a woman confronting pain to uncover hope. Namiki's delivery resonated with audiences, capturing the nation's mood—the essence of bittersweetness had been cut into the grooves of a 10-inch record. Manjome's unrelenting approach proved a masterstroke.
In the aftermath of war, people found diverse ways to cope amid physical destruction and existential turmoil. Many turned to the spiritual grounding of Buddhism and Shinto, while others sought escape in entertainment and media. Yet, the nation's primary focus remained on reconstruction, driven by a prevailing ethos of akarui (明るい)—a "bright" and optimistic embrace of the future. Like Namiki's performance, this outward display of positivity concealed loss and sorrow. A complex tension between a longing for the past and a forward-looking spirit marked the era.
This state of mind became a cultural undercurrent, rippling through Japan’s post-war history from the recovery era and economic miracle to the bubble era and beyond. The effects of the subsequent "lost decade" and the Great East Japan Earthquake further complicated the national psyche. Poignant films, novels, evocative music, and anime, often imbued with an ephemeral happy-sad tone, contend with the lasting legacy of the war, whether directly or indirectly. Numerous academic studies, including those by widely recognised scholars like Takeo Doi and Shunya Yoshimi, have examined how these historical and cultural factors continue to shape Japan’s emotional and social identity.
And so, when we arrive in Japan, we step, perhaps unwittingly, into such a cultural space-time continuum—a dimension where the layers of history, memory, and modernity coalesce. For foreign visitors who develop a profound and enduring affection for the country, the connection often feels deeply personal. Yet, this bond is not formed in isolation; it emerges from Japan's own introspective relationship with its past. As visitors, we are not at the centre of this experience but participants in a narrative that predates us and extends far beyond our presence. With that in mind, let us begin exploring today’s topic—why travellers to the country tend to miss Japan quite so much.
Our journey starts at Haneda International Airport. Bound for Shinjuku, where our hotel awaits, we board the Tokyo Monorail. The ride takes us to JR Hamamatsuchō Station, where we transfer to the Yamanote Line to continue toward our destination. Stepping off the monorail and navigating the interchange gate, we are immediately immersed in a swirl of visual impressions.
The concourse unfurls before us, a polished grid of tiles reflecting the flat glow of overhead lights. Rows of blinking vending machines and coin lockers line the walls. At the same time, digital signboards flicker with arrivals and departures in a complex green-and-amber dot matrix of kanji characters that we do not understand. Iconic Japan Rail signage punctuates the orderly layout, directing the flow of human traffic while competing with the displays of shops and cafés that aim to divert us. Movement fills the air: suited workers stride purposefully, maintenance staff clean tirelessly, and station attendants offer dutiful assistance.
It is a cascade of novelty. The brain, wired to encode curiosity and awe, responds eagerly to the sensory onslaught of the concourse. The continuous stream of new sights and sounds releases an abundance of dopamine, the brain's reward chemical, perhaps more than it has in quite some time. Each unfamiliar image engages the hippocampus, a seahorse-shaped structure in the temporal lobes responsible for forming and storing new memories, which it does vividly.
At the same time, the amygdala, an almond-shaped cluster near the hippocampus, amplifies emotional responses, ensuring that these moments are also deeply felt. Novelty activates the brain's neuroplasticity—the capacity to adapt and learn—helping to embed experiences into long-term memory with clarity. Despite the frenetic energy of the station, the space seems to absorb and manage the chaos and, immersed in an environment where the unfamiliar feels strangely harmonious, the brain becomes a sponge, absorbing the contrasts.
The visual immersion plays in concert with a symphony of audio cues, which deepen the imprint. The ticket gates' pi-pi-pi creates a staccato rhythm as commuters tap their IC cards to pass through. Each train line contributes its unique melody to the soundscape: the playful, whimsical jingle of the Yamanote Line and the slightly baroque-inspired tune of the Keihin-Tōhoku Line. Adding to this are the friendly ding-dong chimes of elevator doors and the steady hum of escalators.
Down on the Yamanote Line platform, a crescendo of high-pitched brakes and the hiss of sliding doors set the stage. Then, your ears catch an English announcement delivered in the distinctive international accent of French-Japanese voice actress Christelle Ciari, whose reassuring timbre guides non-Japanese speaking passengers through the city's JR lines daily. Each of these cues activates the temporal lobe, a teardrop-shaped region above the ears. Within it, the primary auditory cortex decodes sounds and connects them profoundly to memory and emotion.
Our cognitive functions operate wherever we travel, but I posit that Japan's designed environment provides a particularly potent catalyst. For example, as we search for our train platform, the chirping of birds becomes audible, cutting through the noise. At first, we may barely notice it and press onward, but the sound design is deliberately intended to slow your breathing. It originates from a forested area at an altitude of 700 meters in Yamanashi Prefecture, west of Tokyo, where ambient musician and sound designer Kokubo Takashi recorded it in 3D.
During the 1980s, at the peak of the bubble era, Kokubo recalls how Tokyo's urban environment had grown overly stressful. In response, he experimented with creating soundscapes that could promote calm and reduce tension by stimulating the parasympathetic nervous system, which governs relaxation and recovery. Reflecting on his sound design for public spaces, Kokubo explains, "You can control the physiological movements of people in the space—pulse, breathing, concentration, and relaxation—to some extent." This philosophy informs much of his work, which is quietly present in various areas of daily public life, down to the design of earthquake alerts.
This example is just one small element of environmental design contributing to a broader effort to make a metropolis as vast as Tokyo feel manageable and softened at the edges. Behind the scenes, deliberate interventions by invisible stagehands like Kokubo shape much of what we encounter: pristine streets, intuitive signage, calming hospitals, and carefully maintained public spaces that balance practicality with aesthetic appeal. These elements resonate with Takeo Doi’s theory of amae—the psychological need he identified within the Japanese populace to feel understood and cared for—creating a sense of comfort and emotional security within the urban environment.
Individuals feel respected and accommodated in these surroundings, moving easily and safely from A to B. While the brain's emotional centre processes the mass of novel sensory input, spatial harmony and societal calm work to regulate stress responses, reducing the risk of overstimulation. With stress levels decreased, the prefrontal cortex—a curved sliver of soft grey matter at the front of the brain—remains fully engaged. This vital region, which governs decision-making, focus, and emotional regulation, ensures the brain can absorb and encode our new experiences effectively. If, like me, you are prone to some degree of overstimulation in busy environments but somehow feel at ease on the transport networks of Tokyo, the world's most populous metropolis, I hope a picture is starting to emerge as to why.
There's more to consider, though. Long before setting foot in the country, its cultural exports have quietly primed visitors for a deeper-than-usual connection over the span of decades. From the Sony Walkman in the late 1970s to the Nintendo and Sega gaming systems of the 80s and 90s, the golden age of Japanese electronics packed and delivered technological innovation infused with emotional resonance. For those old enough to remember, their smooth, compact casings marked the first encounter with those inviting soft edges.
At the same time, video games delivered distinctive visuals and evocative soundtracks. Consider the wistful theme from Starlight Zone in Sonic the Hedgehog—its bittersweet melody and chord changes will likely still tug at the heartstrings of those who encountered it during childhood or adolescence. Markers like these brought a generation's emotional world into Japan's creative influence. If you're among that cohort, try revisiting Starlight Zone and sitting mindfully with whatever feelings arise.
Adolescence is a period of significant brain development, once more, in those regions associated with emotion, memory, and decision-making. During this phase, heightened neuroplasticity makes the brain particularly responsive to emotionally charged stimuli and novel experiences. The golden age's entertainment technologies directly accessed these pathways through music, visuals, and storytelling. Today, I wager, ever more immersive gaming, anime's global popularity, and the proliferation of algorithmically curated Japan-related content on social media platforms have an even greater impact. One could plausibly long for Japan before having ever been there.
All of this brings with it the risk of idealisation. Whether zen and minimalist or neon-drenched and futuristic, media depictions create a mental image that accentuates the country's most appealing traits while obscuring its complexities. Issues like social pressures, an ageing population, economic inequality, and historical trauma are often overshadowed by this idealised vision.
It is worth noting at this juncture that Japanese individuals who grew up in the country and have lived or travelled abroad can, too, come to see their homeland through a lens similar to that of foreign visitors. Anecdotally, several of my Japanese friends who have returned home after time abroad have expressed their newfound appreciation for the clean, safe streets, efficient transportation, exceptional customer service, and effortless access to outstanding food—qualities they once took to be universal.
Natsume Sōseki, in the preface to his Bungakuron (The Criticism of Literature), famously described his two years in London as the most unpleasant of his life. Yet this period abroad sharpened his perspective on Japan, influencing his literary exploration of cultural identity. In this sense, idealisation is not solely an external phenomenon; it also serves as a medium through which natives may reevaluate their own culture when juxtaposed with life elsewhere.
On a higher level, Japan has been operative in crafting its own idealised image through an intentional soft power strategy. Post-war constitutional restrictions, particularly Article 9, curtailed Japan's capacity to project military power, steering its focus toward cultural diplomacy instead. Aesthetics have helped construct a global narrative that showcases serenity, technological innovation, and design sophistication. Initiatives like the government's "Cool Japan" campaign deliberately market these qualities to attract tourists and bolster international influence.
After everything is considered, however, Japan reliably fulfils its promises to visitors. Hamamatsuchō Station exemplifies how sensory-rich the simple act of stepping off a train can be. From there, our journey unfolds as an ever-expanding sequence of novel and awe-inspiring experiences. And then, all too soon, it is over. In a poignant moment we always knew would arrive, the flight home beckons, and the familiar routines of daily life await on the other side. Not every visitor feels this deflation, but for many, it is a melancholic transition. Upon returning home, memories planted are left to grow into nostalgia.
Nostalgia, a complex emotional state, intertwines positive feelings with bittersweet undertones and is often sparked by sensory cues like music, scents, or photographs. Typically, such feelings arise only with time and distance from an event, but the vividness of a trip to Japan often accelerates this process. While the standard post-holiday blues are a factor, the striking disparity between Japanese surroundings and home's mundane or chaotic realities leaves the deepest cut. The virtual impossibility of replicating Japan's unique qualities elsewhere heightens the sense of yearning. It all conspires to make the imprint indelible. Months or even years later, the fleeting sound of a sensory trigger—like the pi-pi-pi of IC barriers—can transport you right back to the concourse at Hamamatsuchō Station.
In the broader context of travel, factors of personal discovery continue to strengthen these connections. The trip, in its entirety, will have sparked curiosity and self-reflection, engaging the default mode network—a brain system active during introspection and the construction of personal narratives. This allows visitors to connect with a more present and self-aware version of themselves. In this way, travel becomes part of a personal story—one of seeking refuge, inspiration, or clarity. It gives rise to a dual nostalgia for the destination and for the mindset it cultivated—an interconnection between place and self that keeps the bond alive, igniting a craving to return.
After spending much of my 20s living in Tokyo, I eventually returned to the UK for various personal reasons. Every foreign resident in Japan is issued a residence card or zairyū kādo, and at the time, the standard practice when denouncing resident status was to punch a hole in its corner to void it. "Sabishii desu ne—we'll miss you," said the immigration officer at the airport as the hole puncher clicked, piercing the card's thin plastic. Indeed, it was a small hole punched in my heart.
Last year, I came across a reel by Australian comedian Nick White, parodying the "person who just got back from Japan." Set in a supermarket, the character incessantly references his transformative Japan experiences—despite no one asking—while peppering in passive-aggressive critiques of his home country. The video has been viewed over a million times and is painfully accurate. I've shared it with returnee friends, and while we laugh at the insufferable character on screen, we can't help but recognise traces of ourselves in it. Perhaps these constant, unsolicited Japan references are a form of self-soothing for White's character—a way to process the loss of a place that felt like a second home.
Returning to my hometown's unchanged surroundings—characterised by plain municipal green spaces, declining shopping centres, and rows of buff-brick terraced houses—I observed a sense of loneliness as I tried to process my emotions. This period coincided with the early stages of Japan's first dramatic tourism boom, as visitor numbers rose from 10 million in 2013 to 30 million by 2019, with the Tokyo 2020 Olympics set to solidify its status as a top global travel destination.
The COVID-19 pandemic soon followed. Japan entered the global coronavirus narrative early with the quarantine of the Diamond Princess, a British-registered luxury cruise ship docked in Yokohama Bay for over two weeks. On April 3, 2020, the government banned inbound tourism—a restriction that would persist for nearly two years. Meanwhile, TikTok was gaining momentum. The app launched internationally in 2017 and surpassed one billion users in 2021 as the pandemic continued. Countless videos showcasing Japan's beauty spawned and, paired with the prolonged ban, fuelled a widespread, pent-up desire to visit the country. Tourism resumed in 2022 with modest growth, but by 2024, demand surged: Japan welcomed a record-breaking 36 million visitors.
As waves of holidaymakers and travellers returned home, sharing their newfound love for Japan online, the internet began to give tangible shape to a collective longing for the country. It reassured me that my feelings after returning to the UK were not disproportionate. Today, a short video showcasing Tokyo's streetscapes, paired with fragments of sound, can strike a chord with tens of thousands, prompting reposts and comments that, with complete sincerity, express an aching to go back. This kind of digital expression can offer comfort, especially when those in your vicinity do not quite understand. It is a virtual "campfire" where people can share their memories with those who relate.
Evolutionary theories propose nostalgia developed as a mechanism for reinforcing social bonds and group cohesion, critical for survival in communal settings. Reflecting on cherished past experiences can provide an anchor in times of adversity, increasing resilience and prosocial behaviours such as empathy and altruism. Its richness exemplifies emotional granularity—the ability to identify and experience nuanced emotions—which helps us process complex feelings more effectively. When used constructively, it becomes an antidote to loneliness, anxiety, or sadness. As well as being a multifaceted psychological function, it is a feeling worth savouring.
Fittingly, Nostalgia can even cultivate a forward-looking spirit. It could, for example, serve as both a coping mechanism for the loss of the past and a way to process ongoing societal change. This may help explain why Japan’s post-war generation found solace in Ringo no Uta, why these sentiments colour so many aspects of the culture—and, perhaps, why we miss Japan so much
Until we meet in Tokyo,
AJ
This newsletter is funded by readers, which preserves both editorial independence and creative freedom—making takes like today’s possible. That said, I’m still working towards financial sustainability for this project. Every paying subscriber truly contributes to this goal. If you’re enjoying the weekly Tokyothèque dispatch, please consider supporting my work by becoming a member. As a perk, members also gain to access to my ever expanding Tokyo master map, walking guide collection, and reading list. Your support keeps this project alive and growing.