In 2019, I travelled to Tokyo for a two-week study tour with my university. I booked a cubical in a twenty-eight-bed mixed dorm and read enough reviews online to know I wanted to be as far away from the door as possible because of all the late-night comers and goers. It was on the edge of Shibuya; close enough that you could walk to the scramble crossing but also far enough away that you weren’t disturbed by the crazy night life of the area.

It was cleaner than I thought it would be, and newer too. Polished concrete floors with scratched metals and white linen gave off the perfect industrial vibe, but the green vines curling around the furniture softened the environment. There was a bar in the reception and three different convenience stores across the road. Every night, the owner would sit and play his guitar on a small couch, setting the vibe for the guests as we drank and mingled before heading into Shibuya. It was an expectation that if you sat at the bar, you were wanting to chat with someone. I met someone new every night.

My first night there, I met a man called Tom. He was from Texas and he slept on the bunk above mine. His accent was so thick that I had trouble understanding him but at least we were speaking the same language. Two nights later, I was out clubbing whilst Tom projectile vomited down the stairs from his bed, past mine, and all the way down the hall to the bathroom. I found out three days later when he said sorry for getting some on my suitcase. Like I said, the place was clean. I hadn’t even known.

Another day, I was eating my breakfast from the convenience store when a Japanese guy came to sit at the table next to me. He was short and muscley, like a wrestler. I knew that Japanese people were usually shyer, so I said hello first. His name was Yuya and he was from Tokyo but had been studying in California. He’d flown back for a job interview. We spent the entire day together and he showed me his favourite spots and best restaurants.

Another night I met a cool guy from the UK, who was tall and funny and had the most beautiful melanin-dense skin I’d ever seen. To this day I can’t remember his name, but I see his posts on Instagram and remember he wants to be a chef, but his father isn’t supportive, and he had a girlfriend in Tokyo who broke up with him the day he flew in. I have a drunk video of us on Shibuya Scramble doing the Cha-cha that I look at from time-to-time.

Then I met three Korean Americans from New York who slept two bunks down from me. I joined them on their way to Asakusa and we wore yukatas and rode rickshaws together to different shrines. The photos we got that day remain my favourite. I still talk to them online and now one lives in South Korea. When I go back to Japan, I’ll be stopping by to visit.

The dorm in Shibuya was a risky move: it could have been dirty, old, loud, or maybe I could have ended up with a weird bunkmate. (Although Tom nearly fit that bill). But the people and memories made that trip worth it and I still close my eyes and imagine myself back there in those moments every now and then.