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The beast roars in the distance, an ominous sound that rapidly approaches. It swiftly comes to a screeching halt while its echo trails behind. Then suddenly, a stampede! It is rush hour on a Tuesday evening at the Shinagawa train station, and I’m a lone tourist amidst a sea of commuters. The shuffling of different shoes fills my ears and I feel the breeze generated by fast walkers. No one pushes or bumps into me, but rather they glide by like a school of fish swimming around a coral reef. A 2015 study performed by the Tokyo Metropolitan Government estimated that around 2.4 million people commute into the city each day for work. Tourists are encouraged to avoid using the trains during rush hour if possible. However when my tour wraps up at 5:30 that evening, feeling adventurous, I think: When in Tokyo... I have one task to complete: transfer from the Yokosuka line to the Yamanote line and get off at Shibuya. My next train is crowded and everyone has blank expressions, as routine commuters usually do. Unlike me, they all have their routes memorized. I check the trajectory displayed above the automatic doors, but Shibuya does not appear. Peeking out the window, I notice the backdrop has transitioned from tall buildings and bright lights to suburban neighborhoods. Toto, I sigh, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. I am embarrassed to fully open my map of the entire Japan Rail Line network of central Tokyo, but it has to be done. Having researched the city before my trip, I know crime rates are low. Vigilant but not fearful, all I want to do now is get back on track. Eventually, I realize that I accidentally got on the Keihin-Tohoku line. How did this happen? Maybe my brain is shot from the sensory overload of my all-day tour: the Tokyo Tower, the Happo-en Gardens, a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, the Imperial Palace, a cruise on the Sumida River, and the Senso-ji Buddhist temple. Maybe the stampede of polite commuters at Shinagawa caught me off guard. Maybe I need to accept that I have a poor sense of direction. I fold up the map and get out at the next station: Shin-Koyasu. I am not familiar with the train rules. The last thing I need is for a conductor to check my ticket on the ride back to Shinagawa and tell me I didn’t pay enough fare. I look for an information booth, only to quickly realize that if one exists, I may not be able to read the sign anyway. The station is packed. I take my chances and stand in an exit line staffed with a clerk. I feed my ticket into the machine; it buzzes because I owe fare. People are lining up behind me, and now they must wait. I tell the clerk that I’m lost and ask if I need to buy another ticket back to Shinagawa. Although she doesn’t speak much English, she understands my dilemma. With a warm disposition and gestures towards my map, she communicates that I don’t need to pay more if I simply turn around inside the station. I quickly thank her and excuse myself past those who have backed up behind me. There is no frustration in any of their faces, whether or not they actually feel it. No one glares or swears at me for holding up the line. The patience of saints, I think. Triple-checking that I’m on the correct route this time, I feel about 97% confident boarding my last train. Amazing grace, I chuckle. I once was lost, but now am found. Being in a foreign country is not just about historical monuments and exotic cuisine. It’s also about the unexpected experiences that catch us off guard and make us think on our feet. It’s about weaving the threads of our lives into the fabric of an unfamiliar place, if only for a moment in time. On the last leg of my commute, I recall the proverb I was taught earlier that day during the Japanese tea ceremony: Ichi-go Ichi-e. It means treasure this moment, for it will never repeat itself.