On my recent trip to Japan, I was awestruck. I saw wonders such as wooden temples shrouded in the early morning mist, bordered by metal Goliaths, office complexes with sprawling webworks of steel and glass. Down the dim alleyways of the bustling city appears an idyllic garden, which feels like it was straight out of a Ghibli feature. I discovered a culture that embraces the traditions and roots of its past with as much fervor as it reaches for the future. 

But I found this to be a contradiction. Where did this dual spirit come from? How could both the flaxen yukata and the silver robotics originate from the same place?

I found a hint of an answer in the streets of Nara City.

As I awaken, the morning sun dawns. I look out the apartment window and see the fog of the early morning settling, melting away under the rays of glowing orange, with the air glistening as if in anticipation of the new day.

We get off at the bus station in front of the World Heritage Museum, smiling when we find ourselves surrounded by the famous mascots of the Nara Park. The roaming white and brown colored shika deer are everywhere. Indigenous and friendly, these deer live in the Todai-ji, Kofuku-ji, and Kasuga Shrines, buildings dating back to the seventh century. Inquisitive toddlers waddle down the streets in pursuit of the approaching deer. One girl giggles as a shika nuzzles her cheek.

We continue on into the massive temple, where the tourist bustle turns to hush under the grand shadow of the fifteen-meter-tall Buddha statue. Kokuzo Bosatsu and Nyoirin Kannon, two serene bodhisattvas, flank the statue, an honorary guard of dignity. The orange light, gentle shadows, and red tones set a peaceful mood. Calm seemed to settle around us. The experience was surreal; I felt as if I was, in that moment, indelibly touched by a beauty hundreds of years in the making.

 After emerging from the shadowy depths of the temple, the spell breaks upon exiting. Rolling hills turn into cement sidewalks. The blossoming sakura turn into neon signs of flashing purple. Down the famous Higashimuki street is the life of the city, a packed street where the smell of okonomiyaki wafts, mixed in with the scent of raw wagyu and fresh seafood. Traffic controllers in orange and green wave intrepid cyclists through crowds of people.

   The shopping mall was hectic. Display cases tower over us, sucking us into a world of manga, merchandising, and technology. Inside the stores await salesmen, showcasing digital television sets, displaying vlogs of Tokyo in dizzying detail. A man in a suit speaks, chattering rapid-fire into his cell while his wife bobs and ducks through aisles, shopping cart piled up high with discount merchandise.

 Returning to the solitude of our hotels, we find peace at long last.

   A month of vacation passes in a flash. The airplane lifts off, and a tiny city on a small island shrinks from memory.

Back in my apartment in New York City, life goes on. The scent of home evokes a familiar feeling, where the trusty alarm clock on the nightstand desk stands guard as it has for the past month, unattended. A few weeks pass, and soon routine and work pine for attention, dampening those ephemeral memories of the land of the rising sun.

Yet one day, when I passed by Columbus Circle, I glanced up from my thoughts and saw Central Park. I remembered that beautiful unity of nature and progress in that small city in Japan, and felt inspired to compose this memoir.

In the end, Nara blends past and future in a way that feels both familiar and new. The city rests at a crossroads, caught between tranquility and activity, tradition and change. That tension reflects something deeply human: we are full of contradictions, each living with differences, yet sharing the same basic needs and hopes. In every heart, there is a steady rhythm and a sense of life that connects us. Like the city itself, each of us holds moments of quiet and solitude, and moments filled with the noise, rumble, and color that belong to a city that lights up the night.