THE END OF THE year has never felt so meaningful, but my life has never looked quite like this. I have my partner, Coco, here with me for my final few months in Tokyo.

Our relationship is unique and new and fuckin’ awesome. Coco and I met at Burning Man in August (find the full Burning Man story at the bottom of the article), spent about a month together in the States, then in November moved in together on the other side of the world.

We knew there would be challenges. Yet the stars aligned too perfectly to let this moment in time slip away. No matter what would happen, it would be an adventure.

Out of the gates, I wanted Coco to glimpse the magic that I’ve found over the past two and a half years while living here, assuming this country would have a similar effect on her.

As the weeks wore on, however, I realized more and more that I couldn’t force it. She’d have to discover her own sort of magic, perhaps drawn from entirely different sources than my own. Our journeys entwine, yet we’re different people, dancing souls.

We won’t experience everything in the same way, and it’s those distinctions that make a relationship dynamic, interesting, able to evolve.

I dropped my expectations so we could simply be here and appreciate the highs, lows, and everything in between without feeling that things needed to be a certain way. It took some time to find our flow, but things are wonderful. Life is good.

Throughout my twenties, New Year’s Eve has meant partying and a worthy hangover to ring in the new year. It’s fun, sure, but the holiday has never felt particularly significant.

This year was different. Coco and I are embracing an alcohol-free lifestyle, and this year instead of making New Year’s a holiday about partying, we welcomed a couple of Japanese rituals and established one or two of our own.

On New Year’s Eve, the Japanese practice the centuries old tradition of eating Toshikoshi soba, believing that the long and thin noodles bring good luck in longevity. Looking to take part in the tradition, Coco and I wandered our neighborhood with our hearts set on finding noodles.

We got turned away once . . . Twice . . .

Most shops were full, but we wouldn’t be deterred.

On the side of the main drag, we passed a propped-up stand where steam flowed from two large pots into the chilly night. The man behind the stall noticed us glancing from across the street (the menu was in Japanese, so I didn’t know what they were selling) and waved us over.

It was perfect. No frills, just a styrofoam bowl of salty, delicious broth, long chewy noodles, a couple slices of pork, a fish cake, and green onions. We downed our bowls, took a picture in front of the stand, and were on our merry way.

Later, we’d meet our friends at Oji Inari-Jinja, a Shinto shrine that holds a New Year’s Eve parade based on a Japanese folktale. Legend has it that a band of foxes once dressed as humans, trying to gain access to Oji Inari-Jinja, a shrine dedicated to the deity of foxes. Now humans do the opposite, dressing as foxes with lanterns, spookily roaming the moonlit streets.

Coco and I traversed the crowds, nibbled on onigiri (rice balls) and other konbini (convenient store) snacks, and admired the array of fox costumes until the clock struck midnight.

After meeting more friends at a small and smoky club in Shibuya, the night concluded with another steaming bowl of noodles back at home, this time from the local konbini, slurped down in our pajamas as the sun came up.

We slept until midday, hangover-free and happy.

Last May, on the day I moved from Osaka to Tokyo, I took a tour around the neighborhood to get my bearings. This included stopping for a kebab at an old-school shop in the center of my neighborhood, run by a Bangladeshi man with a charming smile and a head of orange hair whom I chatted with briefly.

Now, I wave to him whenever I pass the intersection. He waves back, grinning through the shop window. It’s the little things like this that have made me feel at home in this foreign country.

I then strolled into Araiyakushi Baishouin, a Buddhist temple near the kebab shop that’s one of the most quaint and lovely temples I’ve seen in Japan, right in my neighborhood. I admire its simplicity, comprising several statues, a pagoda, and a very large tree.

On New Year’s Day, Coco and I strolled over to the temple to experience the Japanese tradition of hatsumode, the first shrine or temple visit of the year.

I figured most shops and restaurants would be closed, imagining that people would be home with their families and the streets would be empty.

It was quite the opposite.

The temple grounds and surrounding streets felt like a block party. The day was sunny and blue, and revelry filled the crisp winter air.

Outside of the temple, vendors had stalls set up in front of their stores just as the soba shop from the night before did, dishing out traditional foods for the occasion.

My man was out in front of his kebab shop with his family, selling samosas and other Bangladeshi New Year’s treats. As I bought a couple, he relayed with sincerity that he has family living in the Netherlands and Belgium, as I think I told him my ancestors are Dutch when we first met. This felt profound. He was excited, and I was too.

Across the street was another stall selling oshiruko, sweet red bean soup with mochi. Coco and I devoured a bowl, perfect for the brisk day.

We then stood in line for about thirty minutes to enter the temple, feeling like part of the community, there on January 1st waiting in line with all the rest.

I guess that’s because we are part of the community. Nakano is home. People smiled when they saw us there, perhaps because we couldn’t stop smiling.

As we got closer to the hondō, the main structure of the temple, drums beat louder from inside. Incense smoke blew from the jokoro, the large incense holder, filling the air with its warm scent.

Inside the hondō fire burned, men chanted, drums resounded. I shut my eyes and imagined it being 500 years ago or even 1,000. The feeling perceived by the senses would be the same: the woodsy smell of incense and fire in the air; the animalistic sound of chanting and drums; the taste of mochi and amazake — a sweet rice drink — on the tongue . . .

Coco and I tossed in our yen, bowed, clapped, and stepped off the platform. We hugged, and Coco had tears in her eyes. The experience energized our spirits and touched something deep within both of us.

This tradition that clearly meant so much to the locals was extra special to me — this wasn’t a famous temple in the heart of the city, flocked by tourists on holiday.

Rather, it was a temple in my neighborhood where I’ve had many a wander beneath the moon and sun, the first temple I’ve felt a connection to, the first where I’ve gone with a heart full of questions, not always needing answers.

That Coco and I could share a personal experience like this felt meant to be. I love this place — Nakano, Tokyo, Japan, home. I revere our rituals, our traditions, the differences and similarities between our cultures. I love being a part of something ancient and eternal.

It would take time, but this is the feeling I wished to impart, a sense of awe gleaned not from climbing Mt. Fuji or having the meal of a lifetime at a Michelin star restaurant, but from the everyday moments, the ones you can’t plan for, the simple ones that make you stop and reflect or smile and laugh, or in my case, cry.

I wanted to show Coco the wonder of everyday life in Japan, because shit, I’m gonna miss it. On New Year’s Day, however, I wasn’t trying to prove anything. We were simply there, both unexpectedly experiencing something new, and the magic rocked us to our core.

This is my last month living in Japan, and while it’s undoubtedly bittersweet, I’m ready. I get to move somewhere new with Coco. What more could I want? We purchased omomori, amulets denoting luck and protection for the year, and enjoyed the festivities before strolling home.

Vinny Goes to Burning Man