Everyone who’s been says Japan is perfect for traveling with a baby—there are so many convenient facilities. Indeed, on the streets of Osaka, you see young moms pushing strollers everywhere, many also carrying another child in a carrier, moving about swiftly. Every subway station has a nursing room, and department stores’ baby sections usually have a rest area too.
Even so, I was completely exhausted by the second day. There are so many people in Japan, and they walk fast—not like in Southeast Asia or Dali, where you can stroll at your own pace without anyone hurrying you. There, carrying my child, I was practically sprinting all day. Then there were the constant subway stairs and escalators—I often couldn’t find the elevators, and sometimes I just couldn’t be bothered squeezing into crowded lifts with everyone else.
Back in the hotel room that evening, my son happily ate cherries. Just as I’d rested for five minutes, I suddenly saw him wiping his hands on the white bedsheets—the whole thing was covered in bright red cherry juice. I completely broke down. The hotel room, booked during peak season, cost 1,000 yuan a night, was so tiny you could barely turn around, and if I had to pay extra for staining the sheets, I just couldn’t take it. I had to take him back downstairs, buy some bleach from a convenience store, then come back, get him to sleep, and scrub the sheets myself until midnight.
I couldn’t take it anymore—I’d never been so tired. The next morning, I headed straight for the stroller shop mentioned in the guidebook and bought one no matter what. It didn’t even matter that it was made in China. As soon as I got the stroller, I realized the second benefit: just like the Japanese moms, I could load all my shopping bags onto it, along with snacks from the convenience store, water, toys I spotted randomly, and any trash I couldn’t find a place for. My hands were completely free—I just had to push the stroller lightly. But when I saw those elegant Japanese moms wearing cool sun hats and big pearl necklaces, I still felt I was nowhere near as graceful—you could never be as elegant as them.
Most of the time, I felt more like a big clumsy bear. In Nara, when he stepped in fresh deer poop with both feet, I was about to scold him, then looked down and saw my own feet were just as dirty. In Kyoto, when we went to see the temples, he fell asleep as soon as I pushed him inside, so I had no choice but to wheel him back out and head to a small park to feed the fat pigeons instead. At restaurants, he’d bang his spoon on the table and laugh loudly, and I’d keep waving my hands, telling him to keep it down and not embarrass us in front of the Chinese, until I heard the local Japanese kids doing the same thing—and finally relaxed. Passing by department stores, I couldn’t help but want to go in for some retail therapy, but he’d just sit in the stroller and scream: “Go, go!”
I’d thought the trip was too short—just six days—but on the last day, I realized how good it was to be going home. This country is just too hardworking and efficient—even the sun rises before 4:30 a.m., and almost no women are overweight; they’re all slim and slender. Who could put on weight living such a hectic life? Back home, I finally relaxed, eating and lying around all day, just trying to recover.
It turned out that I thought the trip was too short—just six days—but on the day of departure, I realized how good it was to be going back home. This country is just too diligent and efficient; the sky starts brightening as early as 4 a.m., and almost no women are overweight here—they’re all slim and slender. Living such a hard life, there’s no way anyone could get fat. After returning, I indulged in eating and lying around for a whole day before I finally felt recharged.