Japan is a beautiful place, full of history, creativity, and wonderful people. I discovered this on my first trip to this foreign land. What stands out to me is the excitement that filled me to the brim during the planning stages. I re-read the itinerary over and over again in the days leading up to the trip. All was planned out for me by TripADeal; flights and hotels were all taken care of with the click of a button. Insurance and worries were all carried by my mum.

There was a sense of safety with the group and my mum. We followed an itinerary that made me feel secure, with the foreknowledge of what was going to happen. I’m autistic and have many symptoms of ADHD. The strict itinerary, with its variations from temples to deer parks, allowed my anxiety to fade into the ether, and the variety ensured boredom was kept at bay.

On my second trip to Japan, I went with my friends. My anxiety was high, and my ADHD bombarded me with fears that the variety was lacking in the itinerary I created. It’s not that I don’t trust my friends—Bree and I can talk for hours, our conversation flowing like water from a faucet. Dylan and I can sit in silence and find enjoyment in the quiet same with Ashleigh.

The fault lay in the fact that I was filled with doubt that the plans I made would fall through: that the Owl Café wouldn’t have our reservation, that our Disneyland tickets were forgeries, that someone would get lost. These thoughts piled on top of each other and sunk into my bones, causing physical pain. When someone knocked into me by accident in Shibuya, a scream dwelled at the back of my throat. Only my self-restraint held it in, and my feet came to a sudden halt. I saw the woman who bumped me—she knew she had by the look on her face, wondering why I had stopped after that brief tap. Words of reassurance that I was fine filled my head, but I couldn’t eke out a lie or any other word; my body was frozen in pain.

I had a certain medication that helped me, but I had to ration it to ensure I had enough for the plane back. When I tell you all my bones hurt, I mean every single one vibrated in agony. In Japan, there aren’t many benches to sit on unless you’re in a park. The only places where I could find reliable comfort were the convenience stores.

Family Mart, Lawson, and 7/11 welcomed me with good food and chairs, offering a reprieve from the pain. I could have spent hours in them, just soaking up the ambiance as I read books on my phone and using the free wi-fi. These oases were a balm to my tortured bones that creaked on those harsh concrete streets. Moments there felt like living in a liminal space of comfort and safety, where everything I could possibly need or want surrounded me in a protective embrace. When I felt as if I were going to fall over, the oasis wasn’t far—just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

Now, I’m back in Australia, and my bones ache instead of throb, but I still miss those beautiful convenience stores where serenity could be bought and sold. They were places of peace in a strange new land where you didn’t need to speak the language to be understood, where all you wanted was a delicious sweet potato and a place to sit down.