Originally published on metropolis.co.jp on March 2013

I recently stumbled across a rather strange Tumblr blog called Things Fitting Perfectly Into Other Things. Its creator has discovered an endless list of household items that slot together perfectly—for example soft-drink bottles with caps that lock together, toothpicks that slide smoothly into the gaps of a garlic crusher, and several examples involving a Pringles tube.

This strangely mesmerizing blog got me thinking about my place here. Japan and I are nothing like the happily joined telephone buttons and staples or the wine bottle and poster tubes—we just don’t fit. While my big picture involves delicious food, friendly people and beautiful scenery, my day-to-day life is plagued with the curse of mild discomfort.

I’m not talking culturally or linguistically (though I’ll never forget the screams the first time I went into a store changing room and forgot to take my shoes off)—Japan and I physically don’t fit. Rather, we grudgingly accommodate each other, even as we bump elbows and step on each other’s toes.

Growing up on a farm in a remote Welsh village, I became accustomed to open spaces and rolling hills—walking for miles without seeing a soul, skipping through the grass, tipping cows when boredom set in. The roomy farmhouse had a slab-tiled kitchen and a giant Rayburn range used for cooking hearty Welsh stew, or, when we were pushed for time, frozen pizza.

Life in Tokyo is a little different. As anyone who’s tried to catch the rush-hour train and surfed to work on a crowd of salarymen will attest, Japan is a shoulder-to-shoulder kind of place, a place where you really get to know your neighbors. My current apartment is the shoebox that every expat moans about once before everyone stops listening. The closest I get to skipping through the rolling hills of my childhood is pacing the five steps of my tiny slice of balcony.

But it’s not just size that takes getting used to—the difficulty of cutting a Welsh woman’s shape into somewhere designed for Japanese people is why shopping here fills me with nervous dread. I’d be lying if I said the same activity back home was a breeze—I still have traumatic memories of visiting Topshop in the ’90s and being faced with a communal changing room—but in Japan you have the added worry of fit.

Actually, I found my size without too much trouble, but soon discovered everything was just giving the illusion of fitting. The shape is always just a little bit off. Dresses are slightly too clingy around the hips, or the waist sits an inch off where it’s supposed to, leaving bunching material or strained seams making me look like an angry (but color-coordinated) She-Hulk. Having given up on clothing, I’ve turned to shoes for support.

Shoes are traditionally the antidote to a miserable day’s shopping. And, sure enough, I found a perfect pair. Or so I thought. The more I walked in them, the more uncomfortable they became. Were they too narrow? Was the heel too far back? The height a little unusual? All I could work out was that something wasn’t right.

Clothes might be tough, but they’re nothing compared to the dangers of entering a souvenir shop. These tiny stores save space on their winding, narrow aisles and pile the merchandise high: on my last outing I was forced to edge through sideways with my hands in the air, afraid to turn around too quickly lest my arse clear a shelf of delicate crafted teapots.

Negotiating the leg-numbing wonder of Tokyo’s tatami restaurants, paying attention to eye-level hotel showerheads waiting to lobotomize an unsuspecting foreigner, literally rolling out of bed in the morning… All these are just another part of the Japanese experience, and I look forward to the day when I no longer have to consciously adapt.

As for clothing, I think I’ll stick to internet shopping for now.