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Unfamiliar writings at every corner. An empty, unassuming side street framed by ordinary buildings. The sun high in the sky, my heart was pounding, body tense, and eyes darting around. I scrutinized the code on my phone for the tenth time and entered it into the black lockbox dangling in front of me. Looped around a metal pipe against the side of a building, it was in a awkward position. Rotating the dials with the utmost care, I moved my hands to get a better grip. Pulling with all of my strength, mockingly, it did not open. “Do you see any other lockboxes?” I called out to my dad. He didn’t respond immediately; that’s when the bleak reality of our situation hit me. Unsure what else to do except ask someone for help, I knocked on the brown steel metal door an arm’s length away from the lockbox to no response. With nothing left to lose, I tried and succeeded in sliding the door open. Artificial yellow light flooded my eyes. A shōji was open in front of me, leading to a mint green traditional room and white tablecloths thrown on the floor. To my right, wooden stairs led up and down, paint rollers and buckets lying around. No one was in sight. Suddenly, a slender young man in their late teens, early twenties dressed in a black waiter uniform appeared. Eyes wide open, he paused for a moment before closing the shōji behind him and gesturing for us to leave, speaking in Japanese. Hopeful at seeing another person, I started speaking in English believing we could communicate without a shared language. “Wait please” he replied, sneaking glances at us as he went back through the closed door. Eventually he returned, lightly pushing a similarly dressed young man towards us. Nervously, the newcomer asked, “Do you need help?” Grateful and exhilarated to meet someone who spoke English, I explained our situation again, but with more hope and a smile on my face this time. Even though his English skills were better, it was still hard to understand each other. I didn’t know how to explain Airbnb, the cause of our situation. As he did his best to help, being told that the lockbox we found was theirs, the address I was given was for a restaurant, and the given phone number did not exist, I began to think the worst again. At some point an older coworker, a woman in her early thirties, joined. She seemed to understand when I spoke in English to her, but didn’t reply back in English, only speaking Japanese to her younger coworker while casually leaning against the doorframe. Pulling up the address for the fourth time on his phone, she examined the screen. Abruptly, the woman pointed behind us and said, “Is that it?” Looking away from his phone, he turned towards her, both speaking with fervor. He translated that the address is for the building across from where we were standing and should be the third floor. Moving towards the archway of the building across, I noticed a rusted black metal gate was open. As I stepped up on the first cement step, all of my hope came rushing back. I flew up several flights of stairs, my backpack and suitcase lighter than before. The grey cement steps were narrow and dirty, littered with cigarettes and occasional McDonald’s bag. At the very top landing, a black lockbox hung around the handrail. I input the code I knew by heart and pulled with all my strength. It unclicked so easily, and I gingerly took the key in my hand. Closing my fist around it, I turned around to peer over the ledge. My parents were still standing on the street with the workers in the doorway. “Arigato gozaimasu!” I cried out over and over, waving my hands. My dad hurried to help my mom carry up the suitcases while I held the door open. By the time we finished, the workers were gone, the brown metal door closed.