Matthew Speiser

A person on Instagram recently informed me of a psychological ailment known as “post-Japan depression” (“Japression” for short). Sitting on a heated toilet seat in my Kyoto Airbnb, I nodded along understandingly as he lamented how it feels to return home to your pathetic society after experiencing Japanese culture. It reminded me of how, when I told various men in my life that I was planning a trip to Japan, their faces lit up. The conversation instantly became more lively. They were interested in my itinerary. They had a restaurant where they’d eaten “the best meal of their life.” Sometimes they were wearing a shirt they had bought on their own trip to Japan. And yes they could give me the name of the store, along with a Google Maps List of other places I had to hit. Had these men all suffered from Japression? Were they still suffering from Japression? Languishing in America with nothing but memories of their own Japanese vacation to bring them joy? Eagerly awaiting their next opportunity to discuss Japanese cuisine, fashion, design, architecture, anime, public transportation, social norms, cleanliness, whiskey, and toilets — always the toilets. And then another thought occurred to me: had I been suffering from Japression too? This was my second trip to Japan — a fact I proudly pointed out to all those ready to inundate me with their recommendations. I had origianlly visited as a starry eyed 26-year-old in 2018, which makes me feel better than the post-COVID crowds stomping around in their kimono. I came home convinced that Japan was the peak of human civilization, and I told anyone who would listen. A common refrain was “it’s as close to visiting a foreign planet as you can get while still staying on earth.” This is how easily moved I am by clean subway stations. No amount of travel in the intervening years has dissuaded me from my belief that Japan is the best place on earth — including my second trip to Japan. Or their new right-wing government. But was it Japression that had lured me back? A subconscious belief that anywhere else I went wasn’t quite “right.” That when I first touched Japanese grass, my life split in two: one half being the days I spent in Japan, and the other half all the other days of my life, where I yearned to be in Japan? Or did I just want to take my wife to a really nice place during our Asia honeymoon? It’s impossible to say. My wife is a vegetarian and she had a really hard time finding a decent meal during our trip, which sorta fucked things up. But I put that on her, and not Japan. Never Japan ❤️