I went to the upper reaches of Japan in search of a break from the recommendation-industrial complex.
As the light dimmed over Sōya Bay , the townspeople itself seemed much vacant . In this part of Japan , there was none of the near - constant , pounding energy that permeate a urban center likeTokyo . There were nobamboo forestsor blossomingsakuraor roving work party of spotted deer , either . rather , some teens squatted on side street , grill essence on miniature charcoal grills , and cracking cans of beer as cars intermittently passed by .
It was this past May , and like pretty much every North American traveller eager to work a depressed hankering and the ballooning post - COVID tourism industry , I ’d decided to take a trip to Japan . And I ’d determine the gauzy surfeit of info — and peculiarly the recent detonation of TikTok and Instagram round - ups of thing - to - do — had been a snatch overwhelming . And sort of samey . Everyoneseemingly had passport for some “ little - know ” izakaya , or hole - in - the - paries ramen shop , or insert - away television plot coffeehouse , efficaciously spoiling the very quality of obscureness that was the essence of their charm . But with a few idle Day in the middle of an otherwise kettle of fish - throng travel guidebook , I decided to go somewhere that I had n’t heard about from a listicle , or Instagram reel , orParts Unknownepisode , but from a map .
So I picked a point — the furthest , most northern point — and went there .
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“ Why do you want to go to Wakkanai ? ” Hajime , an exceptionally well-disposed barman at a dive in Sapporo enquire me , the night before I light upon out . I shrugged , and he laughed , because in Japanese , Wakkanaisounds a lot likewakannai , which translates informally to , “ I do n’t bang . ” Anyway , it was on-key ; I did n’t really have a decipherable word picture of why I wanted to make the trip . It was just … there . And Hajime - san ’s mixture of discombobulation and disbelief only encouraged me .
Here ’s what I did : Starting in Tokyo , I followed the easterly edge of Honshu as it curve north , then leapfrogged across the Tsugaru Strait and onto the island of Hokkaido . I curved back around a large alcove , then cut northward to Sapporo . From there , the Soya Limited Express run a once - a - daylight - income tax return head trip for ¥ 14,000 ( or $ 97 USD , one manner ) through the rural landscape of northern Hokkaido . I jumped on that , though I found the “ Express ” tag a bit of a misnomer ; we ’re not talking about one of those gamy - speedShinkansenbullet trains that can blast you from Kyoto to Tokyo in a few hours , as exurban landscapes and glimpses of Mt. Fuji whip yesteryear . It ’s more a unbendable trundle , though the 60 - sea mile - per - hourka - chunk - ka - chunkexcursion acclimatize you to the irksome , practically icy , speed of life in Japan ’s far N .
Five 60 minutes on a ( comparatively ) dull go train , grinding across a ( relatively ) dull landscape contrive in the dewey green - ish brown chromaticity of tardy leaping offered flock of time to reflect on why , exactly , I wanted to go to Wakkanai . Or rather , to rationalise that decision , having already commit to it . certainly , when I returned from Wakkanai , and was involve why I ’d bothered to go there , “ I do n’t know ” would n’t cut it as a reception — even if it would give me a chance to wow people with my new acquired bit of Nipponese wordplay .
Photos by John Semley
But before I was able to fare up with an solution , there it was : Japan ’s uppermost point , a city of some 30,000 souls , swerve into a bay that looks like some enormous animal take a big bite out of it .
Actually , one thing that had immediately piqued my interest , beyond the far - northness of it all , was its adjacency to Russia . From Cape Sōya , I study that you could see — with the naked eye — the southern coast of Sakhalin , just 25 miles off , on a decipherable day . founder the current geopolitical situation , I could n’t really imagine myself visit Russia proper anytime shortly . mayhap being capable to spy this island on its southward - easterly perimeter , dangle down into the Sea of Japan , would scratch some sort of itchiness .
And get in Wakkanai — where the tracks of the northern - stick to JR Hokkaido rails transmission line simply end — I was surprised to find justhowproximal it was to the Russian glide , both geographically and culturally . Many of the street sign featured Cyrillic theatrical role . I quickly learn the town even used to boast an actual Russian restaurant , though it had latterly close aspart of a larger movement across Japan . Riding a metropolis jalopy from Wakkanai Station to Cape Sōya ( another leisurely trundle ) , I was pleased to learn that all the hoopla was true . Sitting on a jolty outcropping on the sharpness of the shore , enjoying a can of beer from a nearby vendition motorcar , I feel a little bite like Sarah Palin , who excellently claimed she could see Russia from her backyard . “ Well , ” I thought to myself . “ There she is . ”
Photos courtesy of John Semley
Having seen some vague , Russia - like landmass , I felt quenched . I drive a photograph of the pyramidal “ Monument of Peace , ” memorialize the sinking of US and Japanese ships during WWII , and their doomed sailor drowned at sea . Then I crossed the barely - trafficked two - lane highway , to enjoy a bowling ball of ramen at asmall , empty shop , administered by a fleet of ancient , bent - over granny who did n’t speak a lick of English . ( The stock was inculcate with seaweed cull from the local coastline , and was vastly refreshing . ) I loaded up on some souvenirs from the Cape Sōya souvenir depot , as proof of my northerly conquest , and rode the bus back to central Wakkanai .
There , I learn into a lowly , Japanese - style hotel ( the one with the tatami mattress on the level ; hell for a lifelong side - sleeper ) , and roll around take care for something else to eat up . At Wakkanai Station ’s natural endowment shop , you may buy cannister of cervid and bear . I consider myself a moderately adventurous — or at least undiscriminating — eater , but I could n’t quite get myself there . Something about the image of myself seated cross - legged on my hotel way floor , hunched over , scarfing potted bear meat out of a can struck me as a piffling cheerless .
I also passed anizakayawith an English sign posit that they only cater to Nipponese - speakers . While I getthat this is a wider issueassociated with overtourism , and the result difficulty of local ma - and - pa shop class to ply to the regulars who typically make up the bulk of their business , I could n’t consider it was much of a problem in Wakkanai , specifically . Overtourism did n’t really strike me as a vast problem there . By the estimateof one local guidebook , only 160 people pass along through Wakkanai Station every Clarence Day . ( Kyoto Station , by comparison , see about 630,000 daily visitors . Tokyo ’s Shinjuku wangle the menstruation of some 3.6millionevery single day . )
Photo by John Semley
Nevertheless , I was resolved not to take it personally , alternatively opting foranother pip nearbythat I figured was belike estimable , since its name on Google was in Japanese . The stave helped me sail the menus and even pretended to be impressed at the pathetically few Japanese Good Book I could muster . But , most importantly , they helped me regularise the delicacytako crank , a traditional hot kitty dish ( shabu glass ) , where the usual beef is replaced by meaty piece of the elephantine Sōya octopus ( tako ) . Long regarded across the repose of Japan as a less flavorful cut , the local grooming is a testament to the sort of ingenuity that abounds in remote communities like the one in Wakkanai . The softer , more soft essence did n’t compress as gravely in heat as most octopus does . just dipping it in a bubbling kelp broth rendered it perfectly tenderise while also soak it with more flavor . Accompanied by some sashimi , fried chicken , and a glass of draft beer , it made for a not bad meal .
After dinner party , there was not a whole lot else to do . I putter around around the empty streets . I walked under the curvature of the North Breakwater Dome , a Roman - inspired structure put up in the wake of the Russo - Japanese War , in an exertion to develop diplomatic relations between Japan ’s northernmost and Russia ’s southernmost fishing community . The prevailing temper , if I ’m being honest , was not just peace - and - hushed , but boredom . liken with the unrelenting ado and hustle of Japan ’s metropolis , the pace of things in Wakkanai dig to a stop .
For the first workweek - or - so I spend racing through Tokyo and Sapporo , the very idea that Japan could be deadening — that I would n’t bump some bombilation to jolt my skunk around every corner — was a little unthinkable . But there , in a town unburdened by great expectation and my own personal tendency to overplan , I felt costless . Truth be told , visiting Wakkanai was one of the most memorable parts of a trip positively litter with great memories .
Photo by John Semley
Hitting Japan ’s northernmost breaker point , riding some metropolis heap back - and - forward , swishing some slices of giant octopus through boil stock was not precisely the poppycock of Fermor or Theroux . But it was a badge of some kind ; like one of those digital medallions award for accomplishing a comparatively rare feat in a PlayStation plot . And one thing ’s for certain : Nipponese hoi polloi sure seem to get a kick out of it when I severalise them I ’ve been there . That initial , incredulous response of , “ Why are you going to Wakkanai ? ” has been remodel with amusement and enthusiasm . “ You ’ve been to Wakkanai ? ! ” they now ask rather . It ’s a blunt but reasonable question , to which I reply that I was just doing what most mass do when they travel — perish somewhere just to say they ’ve been .
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As an introvert, it shocks me to realize that I love all of this.
