How do you tell if you’re having an existential crisis or you’re just terrible at making decisions?

Because ever since I made the incredibly impulsive decision to catapult myself halfway around the world, the sentiment that keeps running through my head is: I don’t know what I’m doing.

Not with this trip, not with my future, and not with my life.

I wish I could make that statement with gusto. I can totally see Atsuko doing that—in fact, I have seen Atsuko doing that, back when we were sophomores and snuck into senior prom, where we most definitely did not belong. I wasn’t quite in the zone with my Kimi Originals game yet and our plan had been sort of last-minute and haphazard anyway, so we’d “borrowed” these ridiculous long slips from Atsuko’s mom’s closet and strung piles of fake pearls around our necks and kept saying “We are such gla-mooooo-rous ladies” to each other in what we imagined to be high society–type voices. Of course as soon as we’d gotten there, I’d felt silly and childish and out of place. A kid playing dress-up among the throngs of actually gla-mooooo-rous seniors. I’d wanted to leave immediately. Atsuko, on the other hand, had plunged herself into the middle of the dance floor, flailing her arms with wild abandon. Her pearls whipped around her, clacking in time with the beat. Atsuko is not a good dancer. But she so obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about her, it kind of didn’t matter. She was mesmerizing.

“Kimi!” she’d cried out, throwing her head back and raising her hands in the air. “Come on, dance with me! I don’t know what I’m doing!”

She’d said it in a way that seemed to imply this was a good thing—breathless, enthusiastic, lost in the moment. Like there was so much fun to be had in the process of figuring out what she was doing. I’d danced awkwardly alongside her for the rest of the song, then convinced her to leave.

In the few days between deciding to go to Japan and leaving for Japan, I tried to convince myself that going on this journey of self-discovery and figuring out who I really am and where my passion really lies could be fun in that “Atsuko figuring stuff out on the dance floor” kind of way. I decided I needed to embrace this state of not knowing what I was doing, to treat it like I was going on a truly epic quest. Battle Kimi Finds Herself.

But right now, I’m feeling about as far from epic as you can get. I’m crammed into a packed train speeding from the airport and into Kyoto, my suitcase jammed between my knees. I’ve made it through a sleepless fifteen-hour flight, a seemingly endless customs line, and a heart-stopping moment wherein I thought my suitcase was lost. (It wasn’t, it got put on an earlier flight and was waiting for me at the little office next to baggage claim, its cheery floral exterior an insolent blotch against the sea of black and navy blue bags.)

I’m in a jet-lagged haze—I think it’s late afternoon here? And I’m clutching the piece of paper with the instructions detailing where to meet up with my grandparents in my sweaty hand. I’m also starving because I was too nervous to eat on the plane and then I was freaking out about my bag being lost and the end result is that I haven’t had food since breakfast. The train is packed to the gills, but eerily quiet. I remember this tidbit from the hasty reading I did on Japan before I left—that you’re not supposed to talk loudly on the train, and you’re definitely not supposed to talk on the phone. There are plenty of signs posted—complete with helpful cartoons—just in case anyone forgets. It amazes me that people actually follow this rule. I can’t see this happening in the States, where talking loudly on your phone in public spaces seems to be some people’s chief joy in life.

The quiet is nice, though, and I try to let it soothe me. To remind me that this trip is going to be my escape from the chaos of school and my messy life and the near silent treatment my mother’s been giving me since our fight …

Okay, so thinking about all that stuff is not very soothing. I focus instead on the colorful presence of my suitcase, remember how I packed it full of my favorite outfits. The ensembles that give me confidence. After all, if I’m going to be finding my passion, it’s best to start from a confident place, right? A place where even if I don’t know what I’m doing, at least I sort of look like I do. A place where—

BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZ!!!

My phone chooses this moment to make the loudest noise in the history of ever. I nearly jump out of my seat. The noise pierces the peaceful silence and suddenly I’m frantically fumbling around, stuffing my sweaty piece of paper into one pocket and trying to get my phone out of the other.

“Oh … crap …” I murmur to myself, my heart rate ratcheting upward as some of the older people on the train turn to stare, casting irritated looks at me, then at the signs that forbid talking on the phone.

My phone slides around in my sweaty hands as I struggle to unlock it—it looks like someone’s trying to call me on Skype?—and my face gets all hot and is this really the first beautiful memory I’m making in Japan?

I try to hit “decline,” but my finger slips and lands on “accept,” and suddenly Atsuko’s and Bex’s faces are filling the phone screen and really, there’s no way this could get any worse. Maybe if Mom was with them? Although, at least then, she’d be talking to me.

“Kimi!” Atsuko bellows, and I wince alongside everyone else on the train. I look up and mouth “sorry,” trying to make eye contact with everyone, but the train is so packed, it’s impossible. “My mom told me that your mom told her that you went to freaking Japan for spring break?!”

“Without even telling us!” Bex chimes in. “What about our plans? I made spreadsheets, remember? Color-coded?”

“And … and what are you even doing in Japan anyway, Kimi?!” Atsuko says. “How could you not tell us anything—”

“SorryIhavetogobyeeeee!” I finally manage, hitting “end call” as firmly as I can.

I stuff the phone back in my pocket, mouth “sorry” again, and slide down in my seat, attempting to get my galloping heartbeat under control. I kept trying to find the right time to tell them I was flaking on all our plans, that I needed to go figure stuff out. That I couldn’t be in the same room as my mom at the moment, couldn’t take her silent, disapproving stares. With every stare, I felt the weight of her disappointment crushing me.

Somehow, it was never the right time. And as the days melted away, as my friends’ excitement over big spring break fun grew … I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them. It was yet another thing I couldn’t stand to make real—but in this case, it was because I knew how awful that moment would be. They would ask me zillions of questions I didn’t have answers to, then stare back at me in disappointment.

I couldn’t deal with disappointing anyone else.

So, I’d retreated to my comfy continent of Denial. And I hadn’t thought past that.

But now I guess I have to think about it, because my friends know what’s up, my friends are pissed, and I need to figure out how to tell them I have basically no solid answers to any of their inevitable questions. Because I am on a quest of self-discovery and all.

Although it may not matter if I find the answers I’m looking for here in Japan. At the rate I’m going, I may not have anything—or anyone—to return to.

I want to catapult myself off the train as soon as it arrives at my stop, but I force myself to stand and walk out in a calm, collected manner, hauling my suitcase behind me. My stomach lets out an angry growl and I quicken my step, trying to call as little attention to myself as possible. As I step off the train, I am once again struck by how orderly everyone is—there’s none of the usual pushing and shoving and jostling that inevitably springs from being part of a crowd. The sheer mass of people is overwhelming, though, and my stomach’s growling intensifies, like it was just waiting for me to exit one embarrassing situation so it could cause another. I scan the train station wildly, but in my hungry, panicked state, it mostly just looks like a big blur of people.

“Sumimasen!” a young boy calls out as he scurries by me, his tiny backpack bouncing up and down. He doesn’t even come close to bumping into me, but I jump back instinctively and nearly knock into someone else. I do a double take as I watch his tiny form winding its way through the crowd, on a mission. He doesn’t appear to have a parent, guardian, or any other grown-up-type figure with him, and as I scan the station, I realize there are a bunch of unaccompanied kids, just going about their business like tiny adults. I am struck by the fact that Japanese schoolchildren are already way more responsible and mature and in control of their lives than I can ever hope to be.

My stomach lets out a particularly enraged growl and I nearly jump out of my skin.

My gaze finally lands on a food stand selling a variety of snacks, many of which appear to be breaded in panko. Mmm, panko. Suddenly I can smell its fried richness wafting through the air. Calling to me like a beacon.

I detour over to the food stand and even though I want to order everything, I restrict myself to a pair of perfect, golden-brown croquettes positioned at the front of the display rack. I manage to do the necessary yen/food exchange without making a total fool of myself. The chipper man behind the counter deposits my croquettes into a paper sleeve with gusto and passes them to me. I nod and say, “arigato,” and then I cram one of the croquettes directly into my mouth. It’s lava-level hot and I let out a little whimper as it burns my tongue. It’s also so, so good—rich and hearty, the crunch of the panko giving way to that soft, potato-y center. I take another bite, even though I know I’m going to get burned again.

My stomach finally stops growling as I polish off one croquette and start in on another, and I feel better as I move through the crowd, heading toward the spot where my grandparents suggested we meet. A few people throw me odd looks as I stride through the station and I wonder if there’s something I’m doing that gives me away as, well … super American. I suppose it could be the big freakin’ suitcase I’m hauling behind me. At least my stomach isn’t making noise anymore, and my friends aren’t hitting me up on Skype in the most disruptive manner possible.

As I approach the designated meeting spot—near the train station’s exit, next to a stand selling postcards—I spy a pair of figures I’ve only ever seen in old photos, and my heart starts to beat faster.

My grandfather sees me first. A slight smile crosses his face and he raises a hand in tentative greeting—like he’s not sure it’s actually me. I raise a hand in return and quicken my step, trying to snarf down the rest of my croquette. I manage to pop the last bite in my mouth just as I reach them. I paste a big smile on my face, realizing too late there’s a smattering of crumbs dotting the left corner of my mouth.

“Konnichiwa, Ojiisan, Obaasan,” I say, bowing. “Grandpa and Grandma.” I realize then that I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to call them. Atsuko calls her Japanese grandparents Ojiichan and Obaachan, but since I barely know mine, pretty much anything feels too familiar, too affectionate. But is the more formal address even weirder? Ugh, I don’t know. I try to cover my awkwardness by stepping forward to hug them.

“Kimiko-chan,” my grandmother says, leaning back a bit, just out of reach—as if to discourage the hug in the politest way possible. Oh, right: Dad told me being all huggy and affectionate—particularly in public—doesn’t tend to happen as much in Japan, especially among older people. And hand shaking isn’t really a thing either, which is probably for the best since I’m still clutching my greasy croquette wrapper. I attempt to crumple it further, to make it as small as possible, but of course that makes a loud, obnoxious noise and Grandma’s brow crinkles.

Just like Mom’s does, I can’t help but think.

“Sorry,” I blurt out. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and the flight was really long and I was starting to feel like I was going to, I don’t know, eat my suitcase or something, so I stopped to get a snack and … sorry.” I hastily stuff the wrapper into my coat pocket. I’m wearing a coat I inherited from my paternal grandmother. It’s light wool with a bright red-and-blue check pattern and was originally cut in a flowing style that overwhelmed my shrimpy frame. I reconstructed it to fit me better—giving it darts at the waist for a more tailored silhouette and adding little fake fur cuffs and a collar for maximum whimsy. It was my first legit Kimi Original. The coat is a bit too warm for spring in the States or Japan, but wearing it while traveling always makes me feel sophisticated and jet-setting. Grandma seems to be studying the coat—or maybe she’s just studying me?—but her expression gives away nothing and I find myself shifting uncomfortably.

“Snacking is good for maintaining the healthy biorhythm,” my grandfather says, smiling at me. “I change what is in my snack drawer every month—keeps life interesting, ne?” He holds out his hand.

“Oh …” I say, fishing around in my pocket. I pull out the croquette wrapper and hand it to him. He gives me a little nod and tucks it into his own jacket pocket and I feel a stab of warmth—he took the wrapper from me just to soothe my embarrassment.

“Let’s go home so you can rest before dinner,” my grandfather says, reaching for my suitcase. “I know that flight is long.”

“Thank you,” I say, passing the suitcase to him and giving him a tentative smile. “I definitely need to, um, freshen up a little. I’ve been getting some weird stares—I must have plane hair.”

“It is more likely because you were eating while walking,” my grandmother says. She’s still studying me in a way I can’t quite crack. “That is seen as impolite here.”

“Mostly just to old folks like us,” my grandfather says, gesturing for us to follow as he pulls my suitcase along behind him. “You will likely want to consult some of the young people around here, Kimiko-chan, on what is and is not considered ‘impolite’ these days.”

“ ‘Young people’ are the last people you should consult about being polite,” my grandmother grumbles, shaking her head.

My grandfather turns and winks at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. I feel another stab of warmth so visceral, I nearly tear up. I already feel so lost. And clearly I’m making cultural faux pas all over the place—from getting a call on the train to walking and eating to trying to get all huggy—that highlight the fact that I came here completely unprepared. I wish I’d had more time to research … well. Everything. But especially customs and etiquette and stuff that would help me feel less out of place. It strikes me how discombobulating it is to be in a place where so many of the faces look like mine, but where I clearly don’t belong.

My grandfather’s gentle humor soothes me, though, makes me feel like maybe things will be okay. (Also, it must be said that the way he teases my grandmother reminds me a bit of my dad teasing my mom.)

I study my grandparents as we exit the station onto the street. My grandfather’s twinkly manner is enhanced by his tufty white hair and his rumpled, mismatched outfit—polo shirt a few sizes too big, wrinkled khaki jacket, neatly tied sneakers. I can totally picture him at the lunch counter at Suehiro, a no-frills Japanese comfort food place in LA’s Little Tokyo that attracts a big cross-section of local Aunties and Uncles. Atsuko, Bex, and I sometimes eat there on weekends. One time, I thought an Auntie with particularly notable side-eye technique was judging me for taking a picture of my food. But then her food came, and she whipped out an actual camera—like, not a phone—to snap a pic, so maybe she was merely judging my not-very-impressive photography skills.

In contrast to my grandfather, I can’t get a read on Grandma. Except that she still seems to be shooting me deep, probing looks, like she’s trying to figure something out. She’s not what I expected, though. I had drawn up a vivid image of a stern, faded woman with a steel-gray hair bun and a penchant for muted floral prints. Someone who, I guess, had certain elements of Mom’s demeanor, but was also clearly opposed to the vivid, artsy way she lives her life. But I don’t think that’s Grandma. Her hair is short and snow white and she has sweeping bangs that fall over her forehead. She’s wearing all black—an interesting, blouse-like garment with asymmetrical ruffles layered along the front and a long skirt.

“Obaasan,” I blurt out, and she cocks her head at me. “I like your outfit.”

I feel instantly dorky. I’m talking to my grandmother, not some fellow fashionista I chatted up at my thrift store job and then hearted on Instagram.

She studies me for a few moments more in that deeply uncomfortable way, her brow furrowed.

“This outfit, not so good,” she finally says, waving a dismissive hand at her ensemble. “The skirt is old and frayed at the bottom.”

With that, she sweeps toward the station’s exit. I follow along, my sense of dorky out-of-placeness growing. And I realize I don’t have to choose between having an existential crisis and making bad decisions—because I’m definitely really good at accomplishing both of those things at the same time.

Dinner is a fairly uneventful affair. Grandma and Grandpa cook together and then we all sit on tatami mats around a low table, eating fish and rice and miso soup. The flavors are gentle and familiar, and I allow my exhausted brain to luxuriate in their soothing qualities. I keep apologizing for my zonked-out state, but Grandpa and Grandma don’t seem to mind. In fact, they seem comfortable in companionable silence, which is refreshing since I can’t, for the life of me, think of anything smart to say. It’s weird, I have this sudden desire to impress them. Maybe I want to show them that Mom’s life turned out okay. That I turned out okay—since I am the result of all the decisions she made that they disapproved of so hard.

I keep wanting to ask Grandma about her cool blouse thing from earlier. But I feel shy even bringing it up since she dismissed my compliment so quickly. And anyway, she seems uncomfortable looking at me—whenever I try to catch her eye, she finds something else to look at.

Grandpa tries to ask a few questions about Mom, which makes Grandma stiffen and stare down at her bowl extra hard. So I answer in quick, clipped sentences, not giving much away. I realize I also need to divert them around the subject of my future, which seemed pretty set up until recently. But now … I don’t know.

That’s what you’re here to figure out, remember? a little voice in the back of my head pipes up. Battle Kimi. Get your self-discovery quest on, girl. Rawr!

Ugh, I’m too tired to rawr.

Grandpa also enthusiastically shows me some tourist spots I should most definitely visit while I’m here, pointing them out in a clearly brand-new guidebook.

“Your grandmother and I have our boring old-people routines during the day,” he says, his eyes sparkling again with that irresistible mischief. “I suggest you find fun young-people things to do, then come home for dinner and tell us all about your adventures.” He taps a spot on one of the guidebook maps. “Maybe start with Philosopher’s Path in Kyoto. Good for clearing the mind of a tired traveler, ne?”

Hmm. That does sound like the right place to start a quest of self-discovery.

Later, I collapse onto the futon in the guest room and pull the covers tightly around me, wrapping myself up until only my eyes are peeking out. My dad calls this “burrito-ing.” It makes me feel secure and protected, although sometimes rolling over is a chore. I attempt to roll my whole burrito self over anyway, squishing into a corner of the bed. As I roll, though, I feel something weird—a lump right in the middle of the mattress. I disentangle myself from my burrito and feel around on the sheets, trying to locate this mysterious foreign object. My hand lands on something fuzzy—a stuffed animal of some kind? I pick it up and scrabble around for my phone on the nightstand. I flick on the flashlight app and hold the fuzzy thing up to my face. It is a stuffed animal—a tiny black and white pig with both eyes missing and a front foot that’s been chewed within an inch of its life.

My heart stops beating for a moment. I know this pig—I’ve heard about this pig. It’s Mom’s favorite childhood stuffed animal, Meiko. She’s told me the story a million times, how she couldn’t take very much with her when she came to the States for school, and her parents kept telling her, “Don’t worry, Meiko will be here when you get back.” She assumed they’d eventually just gotten rid of Meiko, along with all the other things she was clearly never coming back for.

I realize then that I’m sleeping in my mother’s childhood bedroom. And that Grandma and Grandpa have actually kept Meiko around all these years.

I cuddle the pig to my chest and burrito back up, tears pricking my eyeballs. I’m not sure what I’m crying for. Maybe for the years of misunderstandings between people who are supposed to love each other more than anything—and the fact that I’m carrying on that fine tradition by hurting my mother so much, she can’t even look at me.