It's been a long five years since I was last in Nihon. The land where money does grow on Fuji apple trees; decade-long studies for sushi chef qualification and where Armani suited men sleeping on streets propped up by their briefcases, is entirely acceptable.

Tokyo is where I learned the tricks of the DJ trade. Where I steadfastly polished my  chaotic beat matching, experimented with progressive house and sat up late watching my mentors work the crowd and machinery.

Tokyo is also where I adopted a bicycle and discovered concrete paths of memories, walked miles among the Lego-like houses and sat at restaurants of half a dozen capacity. Spoke sign language with random Japanese who were too proud to test their English. Even shared meals with them, pointing and gesturing descriptively. It was the loneliest, most enriching two years of my life.

And now I was going back.