(2) Same, but different
In November my brother and I visited Tokyo. He took a few days off work, and I have just graduated college.
Back then, I was at a stage that I could only describe as transitional, and very, very odd.
That Autumn was about final grades. Then moving countries. Giving the apartment keys back to my mean landlord, while thinking that perhaps I could stay a month or two more. Realising that this is it, this is the point where there is an entire, wide world ahead and I am not bound to anything anymore, except, of course, the intense need to be successful and I cannot, simply cannot, waste that precious time. No matter that my personal idea of success was still elusive and hard to precisely define. I just needed it to happen.
So in between sealing my portfolio and unpacking suitcases, in dreadful November weather, I sat at the airport gate with my brother. He’s four years older than me, blessed with a mind much more logical than mine. That’s why it feels only right, sitting there, watching planes take off, to ask him how it all works. Reporting for the little sister duty. And he dutifully explains, and once again when I say I don’t understand. He sighs. And tells me that it’s actually more complicated than it seems.
***
Thirteen hours later we landed at Haneda. Two bus rides later we were in Shinjuku. Our hotel room had a view of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government building. Right by, there was a Chinese restaurant we went to for dinner. Walls were red-yellow, tables sticky and mostly empty, pictures on the laminated menu cards faded, drinks served huge and icy. The waiter wore a tee with a Bart Simpson graphic.
And my brother and I, over a steaming bowl of viscous sweet and sour soup, with glasses filled with Sapporo to the brim. We sat on chairs with wooden frames and maroon leathery pillows, chit chatting about the flight, how cold it was, how good the beer tasted. We took pictures to send to our parents. One with beer, one with the view, now one with us. Make it a wide-angle selfie.
It was windy and dark outside. I swiped around a map of Tokyo on my phone, taking notes on where to go tomorrow.
I think I remember this dinner so particularly not only because it was the first night in Tokyo and naturally, everything around was interesting and exciting and felt just so special. But it was also a dinner that made me feel something I was not expecting, not there, and certainly not at that time.
There, sitting with a bowl of soup I’ve never had before, nine thousand kilometres away from home, in a slightly shady restaurant, talking about weather, I felt something like a rare, deep comfort. There it was, finally, something I’ve been missing for so long, lost in between a career and my things being constantly stuffed in a suitcase.
***
Here’s what it’s like: you can’t pretend around a sibling. They could see right through it. They just know you, no matter what. There’s something about growing up together. About being kids together. Sharing imaginary worlds. Arguing over the TV remote. Sitting in the back of your parents’ car, always on your respective sides. Splitting a chocolate bar exactly in half.
In the meantime, growing into separate people, with distinctive personalities. My brother is stoic, while I cry and yell for whatever reason. He ponders, while I’m impulsive. He knows, while I don’t and honestly, rarely want to.
Eventually, your lives are no longer intertwined. At one point, the road you share splits into two and all you can do is walk your own path, waving at your sibling, further and further away, and yet, the bond is still there. No matter how faint it might seem to become as you grow older, it’s always there, it’s intense and unique and it evolves, but it remains, unchangeably crucial to who you are.
And with a crisp sip of my Sapporo, I felt like this is exactly how it’s supposed to be; me, undoubtedly lost, nowhere close to having it all figured out, in a place so foreign, with someone who knows me through and through. Someone who couldn’t be more different, yet so essentially identical. Being with whom helps me see myself much more clearly.
***
We spent the following days roaming through Tokyo’s districts. We would get up early, excruciatingly early. Then we’d get lost trying to find the right platform at the Tochomae station. On the metro, we’d be stunned by the silence in the cart, which we’d sometimes, shamefully, break with sibling banter. The Odakyu line to Shimokitazawa; Ginza or Oedo lines to everywhere else. And then, we’d just walk around, soak up the atmosphere, take pictures, no hurry whatsoever, no pressure, just sipping coffee near the Meguro Canal and bird watching at Yoyogi Park. There we were, unable to choose snacks at a FamilyMart, constantly topping up metro cards, looking through the hole of a one yen coin.
Spending time together felt so natural. Being in the unknown with someone you know so well. Being lost and trying to understand together. Something like when we were kids. The two of us, and then the world around us. For us to explore and make sense of. Like a unit, except we have been living in different countries for almost a decade, pursued different things, walked paths so separate that it almost became difficult to see each other from there, and yet, those two weeks felt like they’ve crossed, once again.
***
One night, somewhere towards the end of our trip we went to a bar. It was tiny, with a low ceilling, dim lights and a narrow bar alongside a couple of tables. On the menu, there were local wines and snacks. Soy glazed peanuts and sesame coriander salad. Crammed in the corner, on uncomfortable bar seats, we sipped and talked, about this and that, until I broke down, overwhelmed, because how strange it all was. How strange to be there, in this bar seat, in bustling Ginza. How strange to be so far away. How strange to somehow, somehow feel a tinge of peace, that it’s alright, and what’s important in life is precisely, this. Only this, what is happening now. Feeling slightly warm from the Japanese wine, slightly sad that our trip comes to an end, mostly worried about what’s to come when we return to reality, when I’ll have to face this bold future I have been planning for myself, and what if it turns out to be something I am not prepared for, at all?
At some point my stream of thoughts must have turned into words, because as I spiral down the worry, my brother says that it’s fine. He says that it’s fine if I let myself try and it’s even better if I fail. That I will be alright, even if I screw it up, even if I fight with my boss, even if I quit or get fired, and even if I spend all my money on something stupid. That it’s how it’s supposed to be, and it is scary, but so, so normal. That this is life, and it just happens. And he knows, as always, much better than I do, because he’s the older brother. And I can never argue with that.
***
When we boarded our flight back home, the purser told us that we will be flying over the North Pole and if we’re just lucky enough, we might see northern lights. It was about to be a long and sleepy night flight.
I spent the initial hours looking at the route map, then out the window, then asking my brother “are we supposed to look now? Is that it?”- my little sister duty, of course.
And sure enough, the moment I got tired and closed my eyes, he poked my shoulder and there it was. It was completely dark in the cabin, with the exception of a few reading lights used by fellow sleepless passengers. The northern lights were almost white against the dark blue sky. Unlike anything I could imagine. It felt surreal. The quiet, sleepy atmosphere. High above all else. Most people fast asleep, unaware of what they’re missing. It felt like we were let on a sort of a secret. And I might have missed it, if not for my brother.