Grey Area Living

What defines living in versus visiting a country?

I’ve been in Japan for a month and a half now. Long enough for it to stop feeling like a holiday. But not long enough for it to feel like a life.

Three months is the maximum stay without a visa. A weird little ceiling. We were initially planning to travel more. Move around. Immerse ourselves in Japan from every angle. Up and down the coast. Island-to-island. Tick off the classics, plus the B-sides.

But recently we’ve done something much less exciting. We’ve gotten comfortable. We decided to stay in Ōsaka for another week. Not because we ran out of things to see. Not out of laziness. Simply because we like the shape of our days here.

It’s funny how quickly travel turns into normal.

We’re in an apartment. Not a lease. Short-term accommodation. Still technically staying and just passing through.

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like we’re just going about a new daily life. Except the daily life is in a different country. And I think that’s the grey area.

Are we living in Japan? Or just travelling? Is it a holiday?

I hesitate. Defining your existence has a blurry edge. Finding neat concepts for in-between states is difficult.

Being here has made me realise how much where and how we live weighs into our identity. When you’re in a transient state of living, without a certain home, your self-identity changes. It feels more malleable, but you sometimes get a glimpse into its fragility, too.

I don’t feel like I’m allowed to say I live here right now. I can’t sign a lease. I can’t open a proper bank account. I can’t do certain things without paperwork. Ultimately, residency is a legal category more than a feeling. Bureaucracy rules all at the end of the day.

We’re not really doing anything touristy anymore. We’re not temple-hopping. We’re not photographing every meal. We’re not standing in lines for the sake of it. We’re not ticking off a bucket list. That being said, we’re certainly still in awe of something new here every day.

Our days look something like: coffee; groceries; running a familiar route; reading; slow wander through side streets; laundry; cooking; some work; quiet night at home. It’s almost embarrassingly boring, but I love it.

Visiting is you imprinting on a country. You move through it like a highlighter, leaving you trace in photos, neon, and food.

Living is when the country starts imprinting on you instead. It edits you. It changes the way you move. The way you speak. The way you behave in public. The way you think about space and silence.

Yet, living is also somewhat mundane. Your week suddenly contains more errands than landmarks.

For now, we’re in an interstitial space. Lingering and striving to immerse, but lacking deep roots. We’re settled enough to have rhythms. But temporary enough to not fully invest. Not tourist. Not local. Not quite passing through. Not quite rooted. Just here. I don’t mind it.