After a month in Tokyo, the narrator discovers the city's 45 million people offer no external validation or judgment. A group of rockabilly dancers performing every Sunday in Harajuku without an audience shows what happens when no one's watching: you decide who you are.
This is the only place I've ever lived that forces you to figure out exactly who you are for yourself because no one else is going to decide for you. It's weird being one of 45 million people in a city where no one stares at you, but no one smiles either. Everyone just keeps moving. See, I took a train down to Harajuku and I walked through the park. I came across this group of rockabilly dancers, like straight out of the movie Grease. See, every Sunday they show up here in full denim with these custom iron-on patches and they dance and they party like it's 1959. They clearly don't need an audience. That's not the point. They are who they are, whether anyone's watching or not. Welcome to Tokyo, where you will always be welcomed, you will never fit in, and that's okay. Here, no one is watching you, but no one's reflecting you back either. I've spent years shaping the image I have of myself, my identity, with the people around me. But Tokyo gives you none of that. It's like looking through a one-way mirror. It's infinitely permissive, but there's no feedback. At first it was isolating and confusing, to the point that it made me self-conscious, like there was something I just wasn't getting, but I had to live it to realize that it's only when no one's watching that I get to finally decide who I am. And that's crazy because
