For three of us, it was the first steps on Japanese soil. The kids ran ahead, eyes already scanning for the novelty — and Narita, surprisingly, didn’t deliver. The airport felt muted, almost dull, and I wondered if the whole trip was going to start on a flat note.
Then immigration moved like a conveyor belt. Bags appeared in minutes. And the moment we pushed through the final doors, our Four Seasons driver was already there — name card in hand — ready to whisk us into the city.
The Four Seasons Hotel Tokyo at Otemachi hides behind a small, easy-to-miss entrance — and then the elevator opens on the 39th-floor lobby, where a tall sakura arrangement stops you cold.
Check-in was quick. Our connecting rooms were five floors below, on the 34th, and the first curtain-pull revealed Tokyo Tower glowing in the distance. First shared breath: okay, this is worth it.
Dinner didn’t need thinking. Everyone was running on fumes. The lounge one floor up had live music, so we grabbed a table by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The menu was Western, the playlist surprisingly mellow, and the city twinkled on and on beyond the glass.
The only Japan on our plates tonight was the dessert: a delicate strawberry-topped dome crowned with an edible flower, resting on a wafer thin as rice paper. Japan introducing itself politely, one bite at a time.
The kids made it through to the end of dinner, just barely. Tomorrow we’d meet Miyu — our guide — and actually see Tokyo. For now, pillows.