Up until about 1870 Japan lived in a state of relative isolation. After centuries of bloody civil war, the military Tokugawa government ensured the unification of Japan, bringing peace and stability to the country. To ensure no external chaos could upset this hard-fought balance, the Tokugawa dynasty tried to close down the national border as best they could. However, they didn’t foresee the arrival of an American fleet in 1853, which swiftly upset any pretences the archaic government still had.

After a short interlude of rebellion, civil war, and failed counter-revolution, the emperor was reconfirmed as the head of Japan, now based in Tokyo, a city which quickly began to modernise. Modernise meant westernise, which meant railroads, telegram lines, and coal mines. It meant bureaucracy, ministries, and commissions. And, hopefully to no one’s surprise, it meant colonial expansion.

Japanese explorers, followed by opportunistic traders and government-sent surveyors had been present in the southern reaches of Hokkaido for generations. Now, empowered by new technologies and hungry for resources, this peripheral toehold quickly expanded. The new Meiji government was eager to learn, and to this end they invited a group of American engineers. Capron and Clark helped the Japanese remodel the island, pushing the native Ainu people deeper into the forests, further up the mountains.

After reflecting on this history on the plane, my Australian neighbour and I started to explore the capital city of Sapporo. Immediately upon leaving the train, he remarked that he felt at home, despite the cold. A continuous grid structures the city, with wide boulevards serving as firebreaks, as advised by the Americans. This could be Adelaide, or any Australian city for that matter, just look at all those sleek buildings. He was right, this sure did feel different. Neither did we walk the narrow, chaotic alleyways of Tokyo, nor did we see Kyoto’s thousands of temples.

In between my hours at the archives, during which Matt explored the city on his own, we shared our meals together. And because of those same Americans, most of the food felt quite foreign to us. Considering the cold plains that stretch between the rugged mountains of Hokkaido, they had brought not only corn, potatoes, and bell peppers, but also cattle and plenty of sheep. Walk into any supermarket in Japan, and you’ll find premium milk from Hokkaido, next to marbled mutton, and a beautiful assortment of not-so-very-Japanese vegetables. After a cold day out, Matt confessed he preferred the creamy pastries over the curry soup.

On our last day we took the train to Otaru, a small coastal community which serves as the port of Sapporo. An old man charmed us with his impressive English, pointing out a set of defunct rail tracks running through the town. These were the first on the island, but instead of moving people, these tracks used to carry carts heavy with coal from the interior to the coast, to power the growing industrial centres further South. As the man explained, Matt chuckled at my genuine interest, because recently, in moments of weakness, I had revealed to him some of my favourite train-related facts.

Further down the softly sloping coast we walked along Otaru Canal, a frigid breeze rippling its otherwise calm water. Old stone warehouses line both banks, and as stone buildings of this age are rare in Japan, the place felt quite European to me. Matt confirmed my confusion, pointing out the many glass workshops, and not much further, the tall spire of a clocktower. At four in the afternoon, the time of sunset this far North, its bells marked the hour with their joyful jingles, a sound I hadn’t heard since leaving Europe almost a year before.

And as the frontier the Americans imagined merged with the Japan the Meiji leaders rebuilt, Matt raised his Sapporo Black Label; proof that this strange, improvised new world had truly taken root.