Where Silence Speaks: Lessons from Japan

I had just poured a cup of tea during a break in our December all-staff meeting when Alana—one of the Swan family, a company owner, and a dear friend—sat beside me and said, “Would you and Antje like to be on our first-ever expedition to Japan? We’re partnering with Heritage Expeditions out of New Zealand, who have the ship charter, and we’d like you to represent Adventure Canada and serve as hosts for our guests.” 

Even though Antje and I have been on many Adventure Canada trips—far and wide—that request momentarily fried my circuitry. It was so unexpected, so overwhelming, so exciting! Japan hadn’t even been on our radar.  

Gobsmacked, I did my best to compose myself, thank Alana for the honour and her faith in us, and then added, “Please let us think about it.” Not my most eloquent moment. 

That evening, I phoned Antje to get her thoughts. She was incredulous. “Den,” she said—she always calls me Den—“you have to say yes!!” Despite the personal plans we’d already made for the spring, we immediately decided to defer them. 

So, Japan it was. 

We knew almost nothing. My only reference point was James Clavell’s Shogun, which I’d read decades ago. Antje, ever the linguist, began studying the language and the cultural essentials—we were determined not to show up as disrespectful buffoons. Meanwhile, I dove into researching the sites we were scheduled to visit. 

The journey was long and hard—St. John’s to Toronto, Toronto to Tokyo, Tokyo to Osaka. Long flights take a toll on me these days (don’t they for everyone?), but we made it. 

Backing up a step: as we were collecting our bags in Tokyo, a voice rang out through the crowd—“Dennis Minty!” Keep in mind that Tokyo has a population of thirty-seven million—just shy of Canada’s forty-two million. To hear someone call my name? Surreal. It was Francine, a frequent Adventure Canada traveller, who was also on her way to Osaka for the same expedition. We joined forces and finished the leg together. 

We had a couple of days before the official start, so Antje and I set out to explore the area around the hotel, right in the city centre. 

Our first evening walk was a sensory jolt. The modern city sparkled—like Christmas. (A sidebar: Christmas in Japan isn’t religious. It’s more like Valentine’s Day. And oddly enough, Kentucky Fried Chicken is the go-to holiday meal. Demand is so high, people place orders weeks in advance!) 

Despite the buzz of traffic and people, it felt incredibly safe—and spotless. I’ve never seen a city so clean! Not a cigarette butt in sight. I had a bit of trash in my pocket and started looking for a bin. There were none. Later, we learned that cleanliness is deeply rooted in Japanese culture. Children—yes, even in kindergarten—help clean their classrooms and school spaces. It fosters responsibility, environmental respect, and a strong sense of community. It’s moral education in action. If you generate waste, it’s your job to take care of it. That theme of collective responsibility would appear repeatedly throughout the trip. 

The infrastructure for pedestrians was impressive—walkways, overpasses, car-free lanes. Narrow passageways opened into crowded eateries, brimming with laughter and conversation. Conversation—not screen time. Phones stayed tucked away. Apparently, talking on the phone in public settings is considered rude. Another lesson for us in the West. 

We were on the hunt for a 7-Eleven—not because we were craving slushies, but because we were tired and wanted an easy meal. (Antje’s research had uncovered that 7-Elevens in Japan are everywhere, and they offer excellent snacks and surprisingly good ready-made meals. Plus, they have the best exchange rates for local currency.) Using GPS, we found ourselves at the supposed location, but the shop was nowhere in sight. It took a moment to realize that the store was directly above us. Navigating a multilayered city is an art form. 

The crowds were staggering—at crosswalks, hundreds of people moving like a tide towards each other would seamlessly merge and separate. And not one person jaywalked. We also noticed what wasn’t there: no one sleeping rough, no one aggressively selling trinkets or calling for attention. Just a shared sense of order, dignity, and quiet respect amid so much motion. 

That night we noticed another thing: nearly everyone wore black and white. Maybe eighty per cent. A few dressed in muted neutrals. Almost no one wore anything that stood out. The same was true of the cars. Later, one of our local guides, Junko Murata, explained that in downtown Osaka, we were mostly seeing office workers—and conformity in dress is part of the collective culture. Not standing out is a sign of respect. Besides, black and white is considered “cool.” 

Each day, we offered guests a choice of outings, so the guides—Antje and I included—were divided accordingly. That meant our experiences often differed. On the first day, I visited Nara Park, where dozens of Sika deer nuzzled at our hands, hoping for snacks. But the real marvel was Todai-ji Temple, once the largest wooden building in the world and home to the world’s largest bronze Buddha. Built in 738 CE and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site—it was quite the way to begin. 

(Don’t worry—I won’t walk you through the trip day by day. Just a few highlights.) 

We visited several castles, beginning with Osaka Castle. Unlike the stone fortresses of Europe—Japanese castles have an entirely different elegance. Most are wooden, multi-storied structures, each tier smaller than the one below, their graceful karahafu rooflines rippling like waves. These were military fortresses, yes, but they were also expressions of beauty and craftsmanship. 

Many were adorned with shachihoko—mythical creatures with the head of a tiger and the body of a carp. They were said to summon rain or protect from fire—a serious concern for wooden structures. Function and myth braided together. 

One thing that began to gently unfold, day by day, was Japan’s quiet reverence for nature and space. It was most evident in the gardens. 

Even in late spring, after the cherry blossoms had bloomed, the gardens were breathtaking. These weren’t showy landscapes but contemplative ones. Each stone, each moss-covered lantern, each rake mark in a patch of sand—it all felt intentionally placed. There’s a concept in Japanese aesthetics called wabi-sabi—an appreciation of the imperfect, the transient, the incomplete. You don’t just see the gardens. You feel them. They slow you down. 

Often, I would pause in these spaces and just listen. The gurgle of water, the rustle of bamboo, and stillness. In the West, we tend to fill silence. In Japan, they make room for it. 

This same spirit permeated the Buddhist temples we visited. Whether in the rural landscapes or nestled within cities, they were sanctuaries of calm. The smell of incense, the worn wood of ancient beams, the sound of a temple bell echoing across the courtyard—it was grounding. 

One morning, we arrived early at a temple. Mist hung low over the tiled rooftops. A monk passed by, nodding gently, not breaking stride. It reminded me of something I’d read: that in Buddhism, enlightenment isn’t a grand moment—it’s found in the ordinary, repeated act. Walking. Breathing. Being. 

What touched us just as deeply as the landscapes and temples were the people we met along the way. 

There’s a courtesy that permeates everyday life in Japan. It’s not forced or formal—it’s embodied. Bowing, for instance, is more than a greeting. It’s a gesture of mutual respect. We bowed a lot, sometimes awkwardly at first, but with growing sincerity as the days went on. 

Everywhere we went, people seemed genuinely pleased to share their world with us, even if only for a fleeting moment. There was a generosity of spirit that we’ll never forget. 

Some of the most meaningful insights came not from castles or temples, but from conversations with our local guides. They helped us see the Japan beneath the surface—the values that shape daily life. 

Family is foundational. We learned how deeply ingrained the idea of honouring one’s parents and elders is, not just in ritual but in routine. Even something as subtle as a sticker on the back of a car—indicating that an older driver is behind the wheel—speaks volumes. It’s not a warning, but a request: please, exercise patience. And people do. That kind of social consideration seems woven into the fabric of everyday life. 

Food, too, is revered. It’s not just about nourishment, but respect—for the ingredients, for the presentation, and for the shared moment. From exquisite seafood to humble bento boxes, meals were approached with care and gratitude. You won’t find anyone walking down the street eating a sandwich. And in restaurants, strong perfume is discouraged—it might interfere with someone else’s enjoyment of their meal. It all reflects a quiet ethic: be mindful of others. 

We also noticed a fierce protectiveness of cultural identity. But it wasn’t exclusionary—in fact, the opposite. Our efforts to speak even a few halting phrases in Japanese were always met with warmth and encouragement. There’s a deep appreciation for those who try, however imperfectly, to meet Japan on its own terms. That, too, was a lesson in humility and grace. 

One of the more unexpected delights of our journey? KitKats. Yes, the humble chocolate bar. In Japan, KitKats are a full-blown phenomenon. Each region offers its own exclusive flavours—some you’d never imagine. We sampled matcha (green tea), yuzu citrus, sake, purple sweet potato, and even wasabi. Antje turned KitKat tracking into an art form, displaying and sharing her harvest at the end of a day. 
 

One of the most fascinating visits on our journey was to a pearl farm near Uwajima, on Shikoku Island. 

Set against a sheltered bay framed by steep green hills, the farm felt more like an artist’s studio than an industrial site. Here, pearls weren’t just commodities—they were carefully cultivated treasures. We learned how technicians delicately insert a nucleus into each oyster, then return them to the sea where they’ll live for two or more years, slowly building layer upon layer of iridescent nacre. 

The owner held one in his hand, still wet from the ocean. It shimmered faintly in the light—so luminous, born of patience and protection. 

The farmers were gracious and humble. They spoke of their work with quiet pride. It made me reflect on the idea of stewardship—of the sea, of traditions, of time. 

Everywhere we turned, there was a deep reverence for craftsmanship—whether in a hand-folded origami crane, a lacquered bowl, a porcelain sculpture, or a wooden beam fitted without a single nail. We learned that many traditional crafts require apprenticeships that span a decade or more. But no one seemed in a rush. There was pride in precision, in mastery earned slowly. In Japan, creating something well—whether it’s a meal, a garden, or a temple roof—isn’t just a skill. It’s a form of respect. For the work. For the tools. For the people who will receive it. 

Religion in Japan isn’t always visible in the way we might expect. It’s often less about doctrine and more about practice—woven into rituals, seasonal festivals, and everyday gestures. Many people blend elements of Shinto and Buddhism without conflict, visiting shrines for blessings or temples for quiet reflection. We saw no loud proclamations of faith, just a deep, quiet reverence—for ancestors, for nature, for life. 

There are moments in travel when the tone shifts completely—and rightly so. 

Visiting the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum was one such moment. It was a sobering, visceral experience. The exhibits were detailed, respectful, and deeply moving. Twisted debris, seared clothing, stories of lives lost or forever altered—it brought the horror of that day into sharp focus. 

But what struck us even more was the museum’s underlying message: peace. Not blame. Not anger. Just a collective, unshakeable call for peace. 

Outside, in the Peace Park, a statue reached skyward, one hand extended to the heavens, the other stretched outward in peace. Near it, was a small hut where visitors could hang braids of paper cranes—thousands of them. It was heartbreaking. And it was hopeful. 

Tucked into the Japanese Alps lies Shirakawa-go, a traditional village that feels lifted from a storybook. As we entered the village, a gentle rain fell and wisps of mist veiled the hillsides. It was my favourite site of our entire visit. 

Here, the homes are built in the gassho-zukuri style—steeply pitched thatched roofs shaped like hands in prayer. These ingenious structures are perfectly adapted to the region’s heavy snowfall. Inside, dark wooden beams crisscross the ceilings and irori hearths still burn. No wonder this place has been designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.  

Wandering the village was like stepping into the past. No neon signs, no traffic noise. Just the sound of water running through irrigation channels, here and there with carp or char swimming upstream, the scent of woodsmoke, and the muffled crunch of gravel paths underfoot. 

I sat by a small riverbank and watched as a few villagers tended to their gardens. Everything moved slowly. Intentionally. With care. 

Midway through our expedition, we reached Yakushima Island—a subtropical forest wonder and another UNESCO World Heritage Site. 

This island is home to Japan’s oldest trees, the yakusugi cedars, some of which are over 2,000 years old. Hiking beneath their twisted, moss-draped limbs was like entering a living cathedral. Shafts of sunlight pierced the mist. The air was rich with the smell of wet earth and cedar. Although I did not see it, it is here that you find the Jomon Sugi, a massive cedar whose exact age remains uncertain—possibly 7,000 years old. 

Someone murmured, “There’s a wisdom here that we can’t begin to understand.” She was right. 

Japan is a land of paradox, where opposites live in harmony. Towering cities pulse with cutting-edge technology, yet beyond the urban sprawl lie ancient forests and sacred temples. Public spaces are immaculately clean—even as convenience culture generates mountains of plastic. Silence is sacred but neon never sleeps. It’s a place that holds tradition and innovation side by side, and somehow makes it work. 

Travel doesn’t just change what we know—it changes how we see. Japan expanded something in us. It challenged our habits, refreshed our curiosity, and reminded us of the power of respect—in design, in culture, in family, in community. The spirit of this journey—moving with care, embracing the unfamiliar, honouring place and people—echoes what Adventure Canada stands for. 

When we boarded our flight back home, I felt tired, full, and humbled. And I realized that the real gift of this journey wasn’t the itinerary. It was the invitation—to listen, to learn, to walk softly. 

And that’s something we’ll carry with us, long after the jet lag fades. 

Journeys for the Curious