It was pitch black by the time I had arrived in Harajuku. I had climbed a flight of at least twenty steps with my luggage like a deadlift workout and felt my tendons tear over and over again. All around passerbys hemmed me in like a ship caught in the throes of ice. They grew younger and younger, and shorts grew shorter and shorter as I reached Harajuku. Faces were pleasant to look at and bodies became more fit. Heads and hair gained saturation. I passed by a girl with a guitar and her friend with what should be a snare drum and they nearly caught my eye. But no one else looked in my direction - social etiquette was in play; still, I could tell they were curious. There had to be an elevator somewhere, but I couldn't find it at the time.

When I managed to find my way out, I waited out in front of the gates facing the street, bathed in a yellow glow under the sign, Harajuku Station, and stared down Takeshita. It welcomed me with that great familiar candycane arch and coloured lights as if it was Christmas all year round. Underneath, flocks of people passed. The sound of secret chatter and muted giggles panned left and right. I felt out of place with my luggage. No one else had luggage. I was clearly a tourist.

I hid behind the safety of my cell phone screen like the many others, walking and talking, walking and typing, standing and reading, standing and staring. There weren't many but people who were waiting alongside me came and went, smiling when they saw someone they knew. "Omatase! Ikou ikou!" People had places to go, things to do. Coming, the email message had said. The air is chilly, and I could almost see the white puffs in front of my face.

Eventually I see what appears to be a woman and her daughter, who seems to be the Hiromi-san I am waiting for. She has a bicycle. They wave and I wave awkwardly from across the street. The light's still red. There are no cars but most of us don't J-walk. I look at the girl next to me with brown hair and a fedora hat and up at the sign again. It says Takeshita Street. On one side, orange Yoshinoya beef rice stands guard. In front of it a few men are smoking. I don't feel anything magical yet. I'm here and not quite here yet. But I'm here.

I bow a little when I've reached the other side, as she starts walking her bicycle down the street, under the archway, down the cobblestone-looking pedestrian path. There are still a steady number of people meandering through, vibrating with nightlife, heads bobbing this way and that but all in the same way that I wonder if I look like them. Nice to meet you, I tell her. "Korekara yoroshiku onegaishimasu," I say.

"Kochira koso, yoroshiku ne," she has a kind smile. Can't forget the niceties. "This is my daughter, Aya."

"Nice to meet you, welcome to Japan," the nine year-old says, a brave attempt at English. I grin and thank her.

"Are you okay with the luggage?"

"Yes, quite alright."

"Can you keep up?" Hiromi-san is pedalling on her bicycle slowly, Aya sitting on the back.

"Hai, daijoubu." It might be a stretch, but I think I can at least. It doesn't really matter anyway. This strange peace and fatigue engulfs me and all of a sudden everything around looks poetic. My eyes burn but I'm busy watching the signs as they pass by, the colours that pixelate and dash around me in a choral display. Digital blossoms billowing. Like Chuck Close, then Mondrian. We pass store names I both recognize and don't, most with this ridiculous dose of pink. But every one seems to speak words of hushed celebration. For me, or for something else I can't tell. They are small but flashy - outrageously flamboyant fashion boutiques and specialty gifts wedged between dessert stops and fast food. At this time however, some of the shops are closing, and white shutters pulled down. The street beneath my feet is impeccably clean, not a single piece of garbage in sight.

I don't know how to explain in Japanese, the sense of relief to have found my way somehow, from an oppressive office job in Toronto to Harajuku, with a guitar, alone, into the hands of my new family. It's as if time had been compressed into a single point, its ends tied together into a loop. It had been a journey from one dimension into another in the span of a day. In retrospect, it seems both incredibly simple and a staggering feat. I begin to wonder how I had ever gotten here. In itself, I had become a part of a miracle. In the grander scope of things, I am just a small number, a speck in the thousands of people flying and blinking in and out, crossing airspace and datelines. But to me, here I am.

"How was the flight?"

"Long but wonderful." I don't quite admit I flew first class.

"Tired?"

"Yes, jet-lagged."

"I've prepared dinner for you."

"Oh, thank you." I smile as my head swims and I try to keep up. My arms are losing their strength.

Hiromi-san doesn't notice my dwindling pace. "This is Takeshita Street, very famous." She says in English. Her accent is musical.

"Yes, I've been here before."

"Oh, yes? That's good."

Aya is speaking in Japanese to her mother now, something about school and her friends. I can't catch much of it because she's speaking like an electric sewing machine. Then she's pointing at something.

The sign says Sweets Paradise in a cute red font and I know it isn't exactly a place for me. But Hiromi-san looks at me over her shoulder as if she knows what I'm thinking. "Maybe we can come here one day."

"What is this?"

"Desserts and buffet. I take many visitors here."

"Oh, that sounds nice," I say without meaning it.

We did end up having dinner there one time. Inside was a lot of pink and white, floral chandeliers and white Ikea tables and sofas. J-pop was playing all night as we loaded up on the desserts and pastries. Aya was truly enthusiastic.

To reach Hiromi-san's apartment, we have to pass through Takeshita Street, cross the wide girth of Meiji-dori with its swath of brand flagship stores and malls onto a narrow road that slanted off awkwardly like an illegitimate child. It's much quieter here, older haphazard three-storey buildings, less people, less signs, darker and toned down, but there are a lot more izakaya bars and restaurants. Every now and then, I hear laughter from within, colleagues and friends clinking drinks. Their windows glow warm.

When we make it through and hit the residential area, it suddenly becomes eerily quiet, as if the air itself were soundproof quilts for a studio. Hiromi-san's bicycle is oddly silent, not even a squeak. But my luggage is, on the contrary, deafening. The plastic wheels sound like they are being scraped off. In front of us, a green taxi, green like the 1960s, stops for a passenger and we J-walk.

Hushed whispers still manage to squeeze by occasionally, disembodied voices, usually a young couple or two girl friends. The single company workers returning home generally don't talk to themselves, but I could almost hear every distinct footstep that mark each. Dress shoes, boots, sneakers, heels and pumps. In the darkness you can't see faces but from their attire and the way they walk, you can tell where they are headed. Two months later in fact, I was adept enough at profiling like a local, I could tell apart the residents and the visitors, the tourists and the Japanese and who was in the neighbourhood.

The neighbourhood is complex and confusing the first time through. I have completely lost track of how many turns we've made and all the streets begin to look the same. Houses are stacked on top of each other, most white and grey and the same size, uniform at first glance, like cardboard boxes during a move, and in the distance rises the only apartment building. On every corner, like little lighthouses, vending machines continue their watch. The colours inside stand at attention on backlit LED screens. Just a swipe of a card or a few yen coins and easily, a hot coffee to keep you company. But they won't help much in navigation. Even the taxi drivers have issues with the lack of proper street names and number code addresses. The only thing that Hiromi-san tells me to remember is this cafe we pass by, constructed like a glass light box, two-storeys with floor-to-ceiling windows and its contents entirely exposed. There are still a number of people at the bar and dimly lit pairs dining with delicate movements. They are young and well-dressed. They laugh and smile. I notice half of the second storey is open-air. She tells me the whole window slides open and transforms into a patio and balcony. On the shopfront banner sign, there is no name. Instead, against a warm ochre glow, it says: "THERE IS ALWAYS MUSIC AMONGST THE TREES AND IN THE GARDEN." On the other corner, "BUT OUR HEARTS MUST BE QUIET TO HEAR IT." It instantly became home to me.