Although this is a book review, I will mostly focus on my own memories. Letâs rewind to 2017 when I was still training to become a photographer. At that time, if you wanted to become an advertising photographer in Japan, there was a general theory to follow (though it’s likely collapsed by now). You graduate from a photography school, work as an assistant at a rental studio, then find a mentor and become an apprentice. Under this person, you hone your skills and become independent after a few years. Unintentionally, I followed this path, and at the age of 24, I was on the brink of realizing my dream since I was 15: âI want to make a living through photography.â
However, my contrarian side kicked in. If I continued down this path, a nearly guaranteed future awaited me. But the moment I became an apprentice, I secretly harbored a new dream. I wanted to live abroad. I longed to go somewhere far away, anywhere but here. The feeling grew stronger each day. Fortunately, I had a supportive mentor and parents, so convincing those close to me wasnât a challenge.
Now, it was time to choose a country. The first idea that came to mind was New York in the U.S., for the simple reason that my mentor had lived there. However, if I spent my meager savings, my dream of living abroad would burst within a month. The cost of living was just too high. Side note: if you remember who became the U.S. president around that time, you can probably understand why my desire to go to America quickly faded. And so, the land of freedom was eliminated from my options.
Next, I turned my attention to Europe. (Looking back, I laugh at my foolishness.) Europe, honestly, I had no idea what it was about. London, Paris, and Berlin seemed like good choices, but they didnât really resonate with me. Paradoxically, I became tired of agonizing over it and decided to take a literal break in my room.
Iâll save my history of love for books for another time, but back then, I lived alone in Tokyo and had converted my closet into a mini-library. I still clearly remember that moment: on a clear, sunny afternoon, I wanted to read something, so I opened the closet door. Facing a mountain of books, I started touching the spines, pulling one out without much thought. It was Franz Kafkaâs The Metamorphosis. âWhen did I buy this?â I wondered but didnât think much of it. It was thin, and it felt just right for the moment. Unaware that my fate was about to change, I casually thought this as I sat down.
Lying on my bed, I opened the pages of The Metamorphosis. I encountered the worldâs most famous shocking opening, and it may not have taken me more than an hour to finish reading. Time seemed to melt away. He was a genius. When I finished, with a buzz in my head, the first thing I thought was, âThis person was born in the country where I want to go.â That was the moment my destination was decided. I didnât care where it was. I would go to the place where he was born and raised, and live there. I opened the book again and looked at the inside cover. It said, âBorn in Prague, Czech Republic.â âŠAh, I see. Czech Republic⊠where is that?
I laugh now, thinking back to how clueless I was. Thanks to the internet, I quickly learned that the Czech Republic is located in Central Europe. I also discovered that the Czech embassy in Japan was in the district where I lived. So, my destination became clear. I put my phone and wallet in my coat pocket, left my house, jumped on my bicycle, and headed for the embassy. Please, dear readers, do not try this. At the time, I thought I would find some information if I just went to the embassy. I canât help but shake my head at my younger self.
With frequent checks on Google Maps, I arrived at my destination in about 20 minutes. The Czech flag was fluttering in the wind, so I knew I was in the right place. I parked my bicycle and, naturally, as an outsider, I couldnât even enter. I wandered in front of the glass doors (thankfully, I wasnât reported), and when it seemed like I couldnât get in, I opened the door to an attached facility. It turned out to be a cultural center run by the embassy. Inside, a small woman was organizing bookshelves. She turned around when she noticed me and, apologetically, said, âIâm sorry, weâre on a break between events, so nothingâs happening right nowâŠâ I cut her off and asked, âI want to go to the Czech Republic. Just for about a year. What should I do?â
I repeat, dear readers, please do not try this. (Though I doubt anyone would). The kind woman, though surprised by the sudden appearance of a stranger, suggested that if I didnât have any specific plans, studying abroad might be a good option. She also gave me information about language schools and even her recommendations. So, I decided to go to one of them. Just like that, in a few hours, I had decided on the country and my destination.
As for my dazzling life in Prague, Czech Republic (I ended up enrolling in the school the woman recommended and lived there for a year), I will talk about it in future posts. For now, this story serves as my answer to the million times Iâve been asked, âWhy did you choose to live in the Czech Republic?â One day, I was captivated by Kafka, and my life changed. Those who love his works will understand that such power is more than enough to transform a personâs life. Also, those who have visited the Czech Republic will understand the mysterious charm the country holds.
One more story to add: the moment I truly realized that âin the end, humans can only express what is within them.â Finally having moved to the Czech Republic, I became obsessed with the Czech language and long walks. With my camera hanging from my neck, I kept walking endlessly, thinking about Kafkaâs works and all kinds of âworksâ and âauthorsâ in general. It was during a random moment in a random place on an ordinary day.
Until then, I had firmly believed that writing and other âartsâ were formed through training and skill. Of course, those are essential elements. However, I realized that my fundamental hypothesis was deeply flawed. Kafkaâs works were the quiet cries of his soul. If that wasnât the case, they wouldnât have had the power to change a young personâs life. For Kafka, The Metamorphosis was surely the world he saw, the very world itself.
In a near-meditative state, I learned this lesson at the edge of a nameless sidewalk. Under the blue sky, I smiled ironically. And as if to say, âThis is all I can do,â I pointed my camera at the landscape before me and, without hesitation, pressed the shutter.