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The Sakura (cherry-blossom) trees are in full bloom outside my window and in the rest of Tokyo. They have been for just about a week now. The image of the pinkish bloom reminds me of when I first arrived in Tokyo three years ago: I was looking out a taxi cab window headed towards my dormitory, into the night sky of Tokyo that failed to conceal Japan’s pink Spring. I didn’t speak any Japanese back at the time and couldn’t communicate with the taxi driver, but I did get a grunt of approval when I pointed at the trees passing us by and asked, “Sakura?”.

Three years later, I’m finally into (what most probably seems like) my last year here. Over the last few months, I’ve been toiling through all the options I have available as choices for my next step in life. I do feel lucky to have such opportunities, but I also feel overwhelmed with the pressure I’m under. I think I’ve come to a decision about what I want to do next, but it’s still too early to tell for sure.

Yesterday, I went for a walk around town with some friends visiting from Bahrain (would you believe it; Bahraini tourists in Japan?). We met in Shinjuku Station, which I affectionately call “The Octopus Station” because of how messy and pseudo organic it is, and then headed off to Shibuya. Shibuya is a hot spot for youth and fashion. There are advertisements in virtually every single angle you turn your eyes to (enough to give an unsuspecting visitor seizures). Shibuya, I always laugh to myself, is what it would feel like if commercialized ‘pop culture’ phyisically caved in on you: what a nightmare.

In Shibuya, there are endless lines of people waiting to get into cafes and restaurants. There are thousands of heads bobbing around, and you can almost categorize everyone and everything you see there: you have the girls with the ultra-mini miniskirts (or whatever they’re called) and Oedipal eye-bleeding blond hair, guys in black suits trying to pick up those girls in ultra-mini miniskirt, stray packs of broke college students (easy to make out from the way they dress), there are the surprised tourists (who look like they’re about to have a panic attack from all the lights, sounds and people), there is the straggling street busker whose guitar probably weights more than he does (but he seems happy nevertheless - oh, how jealous that makes me).. and then, there are the marching colonies of those who offer free hugs holding up signs that simply say, ‘Free Hugs’ (much to the amusement of the world around them).

I’ve heard rumors that there were many groups that go to different crowded stations around Tokyo to offer free hugs, but I’ve never actually seen any in person. In Japan, physical contact that reveals affection is something most people shy away from. I can only imagine how shocking it is for a complete stranger to approach a Japanese person, offering a ‘FREE HUG’. Actually, when my two friends and I walked by the ‘FREE HUGS’ group, there was a crowd of young Japanese guys who were in the middle of a fierce battle of Janken (Rock, Paper, Scissors) to see who would go and get a free hug. My two visiting friends just laughed at the scene and thought to themselves, “what the hey, let’s go get hugs!”. I stood from a distance, feeling a little unsure as I saw my friends getting their complementary, environmentally-friendly hugs. I didn’t understand what it is that pushed me away from following in suit. I mean, the Free-Huggers seemed hygienically and aesthetically safe (I’ll probably get murdered over this sentence one day), but I still stayed clear. I also had images of this group of young people giving out hugs belonging to some cult or malevolent army that was about to bring the lights of Tokyo crashing down upon my head - highly unlikely, I know. Once the young Japanese guys saw my friends get their free hugs, they all just decided to run up to the group offering free hugs and give each one of them a big group-hug. I guess they just needed a little prodding.

I wonder, have the three years I’ve spent here changed me that much in that I’ve adopted some of the social habits of people here. Regardless, I still feel that I will always be an outsider here, just because of my face and name.

When one of the people giving out free hugs looked at me in the eye and yelled out, “Free Hugs,” I asked her, “Who’s Hugs? What’s he in jail for?”. Needless to say, I received no answer but got a hug anyway. I guess my three years here haven’t changed me all that much after all.