🛩️ Tokyo, NY

I never sleep well the night before a trip. Ever since I was a child, the nights before family vacations were always sleepless. I didn’t even have to plan anything back then!

Now I do, now I need to plan everything. Naturally, I thought that was the primary reason for my anxiety and insomnia. So over time, I learned how to get everything sorted out, every little detail in advance. I packed two days before departure, checked in to the flight exactly 24 hours before its scheduled time, and prebooked the ride to and from the airport. I even set several alarms—on my wristwatch and a battery-operated alarm clock I inherited from my parents.

Still, if I were lucky enough to fall asleep the night before, I would wake up countless times, checking the time.

When it was time to get ready for my big journey to Japan, I knew there was no way to escape the anxiety and insomnia. Still, I prepared everything ahead of time. The reservations had been made six months in advance and the itinerary was finalized one month before the departure. The night before, I looked at my checklist one last time—the suitcases were packed, the plants watered, the taxi booked for 9:00 AM. I set three alarms for 8:00 AM, 8:03 AM, and 8:07 AM. Before going to sleep, I read short stories by Hemingway for an hour and avoided any screens three hours before my planned bedtime. I did all I learned from a recent article I read on sleep hygiene. I even went one step beyond—Hemingway was my own little addition.

Then I spent hours finding a comfortable position in bed, completely sleepless. The last time I checked the time, it was about 4:00 AM, and apparently, shortly after that, I finally fell asleep. When the alarm woke me, I felt terrible. My head hurt and my body was weak and tense. At least I knew I could catch up on my sleep during the 15-hour flight to Tokyo.

The road to the airport was smooth, and after going through all pre-flight formalities, I finally settled in my seat—15C. I checked the movie library, opting for Casablanca. I’d seen the movie many times before, and hoped its leisurely pacing, gentle music, and Bogart’s calm voice would help me fall asleep—at least for a bit.

Rick Blaine still let his love leave to achieve the greater good. 

I kept checking the remaining flight time on my neighbor’s screen, who dozed off to the map showing a tiny plane flying over Canada. There is always a neighbor on the flight who turns their screen to the journey map. Whatever the length of the flight, such a person can entertain themselves with just the map and dry flight statistics.

When I entered the Tokyo airport, I felt as if I had stepped onto another planet. I was pretty sure I was still on Earth; there was no doubt about that, but there were subtle differences that proved I wasn’t in New York anymore. As I followed the arrows on the spotless floors, I realized how quiet it was. There was no music in the building, not even in the cafes or shops. People around were either silent or whispering. The silence was eerie.

When the luggage started appearing on the carousel, I wasn’t surprised to see it sorted by size. First, tiny bags that could definitely have been carry-ons appeared, and every subsequent bag was slightly larger. The passengers waiting for their luggage lined up nearby, also based on their height. The tiny, old Japanese lady picked up the first bag, which was the size of a purse. Each person approached the carousel in the correct order while I stood nearby, amused by their efficiency.

After the small bags were served, the medium-sized bags followed. I am 5’9”, so my bag was medium-sized. However, after some time, the bags got bigger in size, significantly bigger than my 27” suitcase, and all the people in the line were taller than me. Did I miss my bag because I didn’t join them? I decided to wait and see if my luggage was late or served separately since I was a foreigner who apparently wasn’t aware of the local customs. But when a six-foot-six man picked up his giant suitcase, there were no more bags left on the carousel. I looked around, only to find that all the other passengers were gone. 

While waiting for more luggage to appear on the carousel, I watched the TV screen showing a Japanese game show. I’d seen it before—in “Candy or not candy,” the contestants needed to guess if an object was real or made of candy. On the screen, a man was taking a bite of black oxford shoes. It was candy. Next, it was an electric shaver, just like mine. Candy again. Then the screen showed an open suitcase, from which they had been taking those candies. It was my suitcase! The man took a bite of the luggage—my black suitcase was made of dark chocolate. The man started laughing, the host was laughing, the entire audience was laughing, and staring straight into my eyes. The laughter grew louder, even after the screen had gone dark.

I awoke to a black screen in front of me. Did I really sleep for two hours? The neighbor’s screen showed “12 hr 35 min” left to our destination. The steward was rolling a cart three rows in front of me, serving food. I suddenly realized I was hungry and hadn’t eaten anything that day. I knew that I would be able to eat the delicious Japanese dishes soon enough—all the sushi, ramen, tempura, yakitori, udon, donburi, and okonomiyaki. But for now, I was ready for some airplane breakfast.

While eating the Japanese egg sandwich, I decided to put on Casablanca again, since I missed nearly the entire movie when falling asleep. I still had time to watch a bunch of other movies, but it felt good to start with the classics.

I have always been fascinated by the sight of Ingrid Bergman appearing on the screen for the first time. She looked like a fresh breeze in the morning amid the Moroccan heat. I figured I’d watch the movie on repeat until we landed in Tokyo.

The Tokyo airport was nothing like my dream. It was crowded and loud. Passengers’ conversations were interrupted by constant announcements from loudspeakers. Each store or restaurant played its own music, adding to the cacophony of airport noise.

The line at customs was long and chaotic. People seemed to cut in front of me, extending the wait even more. People started arguing and screaming in different languages I couldn’t recognize. When the officer finally stamped my passport, I went to the luggage claim section where identical black suitcases lay scattered on the floor, as if a giant toddler had thrown them from the carousel in a tantrum.

I picked the closest suitcase and rushed towards the exit, stunned by the banner above the doors.

It said: “WELCOME TO NEW YORK”

As I entered the terminal, I noticed my parents waving at me. They each held balloons—a rooster and a salmon—and chanted, “Chicken or fish?”

I opened my eyes to see the steward serving lunch to my neighbor. His screen showed “10 hr 07 min” till our destination.

I smiled at the idea of turning on Casablanca again. At least I knew I wasn’t sleeping when I had it on.

I pressed the button on the screen, but instead of the movie starting, it produced a high-pitched, repetitive tone.

When I tapped my alarm clock, it showed 8:00 AM. My black suitcase was next to the bed. Time to leave for the airport.