It started with a simple, passing conversation I overheard online. Someone was recalling the first time they ate at McDonald’s in Japan, sometime in the 1970s. That triggered something in me. I remembered hearing stories about the first McDonald’s in Nara, my hometown, which, according to records, opened in 1973. I could almost imagine it; how it must have felt to taste a Big Mac or sip a vanilla shake for the first time, not just as a meal, but as a direct contact with something utterly new.
For those who grew up in Japan during that time, McDonald’s wasn’t just a foreign brand. It was a symbol of a larger world. It tasted like American movies, like something dreamed up in a different reality and suddenly made real. The idea that food could arrive in such a fast, uniform, and brightly packaged way. This was more than culinary. It was emotional. Something shifted. And it stayed with them.
Though I wasn’t there in the 1970s, I had my own McDonald’s moment years later. The first time I bit into a Big Mac, I remember the weight of it in my hands, the layered richness, the unfamiliar tang of the sauce. It wasn’t just food. It was a marker of something different. I also remember my first Mac Shake, sweet, heavy, almost indulgent. The taste lingered long after the cup was empty. It was more than a treat. It was an impression, made through flavor.
Living Through Firsts
That conversation brought back a series of memories. Like threads, each one tugged at another. I began recalling other moments when something arrived and left a lasting imprint, not just on culture, but in the core of personal experience.
Not all of these moments were American. But many were tied to a particular vision of modernity that America exported, consciously or not, during the second half of the 20th century. The taste of Coca-Cola, the smell of a new Nike sneaker, the glow of a CRT monitor running Windows 95. None of these things were only products. They were moments. They were emotional bookmarks.
There is something universal about this: the excitement of first contact with something unfamiliar and life-changing. Everyone, in any country, at any time, has felt it in some form. And though the context changes, the emotional signature remains the same.
When Culture Arrives as a Shock
I think back to my parents’ generation. For them, the emotional bookmarks were different, yet no less powerful. I remember hearing about their first time watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. It wasn’t just another movie; it was a rupture. The silence of space, the mysterious monolith, the slow rotation of spacecraft, and the haunting, almost sacred music. This was no ordinary sci-fi adventure. It was something that made you sit still and wonder.
In that same window of time, something even more astonishing occurred in real life. Apollo 11 touched down on the moon. Suddenly, humanity was there. On the moon. Live on television. It’s hard to imagine a more stunning contrast: a visionary film about our cosmic future and, at nearly the same time, a real-world achievement that turned science fiction into fact.
Yet these events were so advanced, so far ahead of the everyday, that they didn’t leave behind a lifestyle. They didn’t create a culture of moon visits or meditative space travel. They were admired from afar. In a way, they were too advanced to follow.
The Difference Between What Changes Us and What Escapes Us
Some firsts change how we live. Others change how we imagine. McDonald’s, Windows 95, email, iPhone; these shaped daily behavior. They slipped into our routines and stayed there. We began using them without thinking. The future became familiar.
But 2001: A Space Odyssey and Apollo 11 didn’t do that. They were breakthroughs, but they were not followed by continuity. There were no second acts. They lit up the sky, then faded into memory. Their greatness came from being singular, not habitual.
This is worth recognizing. Not every breakthrough leads to a new norm. Some arrive to make us marvel, and then leave us standing in awe, with no obvious next step. These are emotional bookmarks too, but of a different sort. They don’t anchor us; they hover above.
Email and the Age of Waiting
Before Gmail and smartphone push notifications, there was Hotmail. Then Yahoo Mail. When I first signed up, I remember how it felt like opening a private doorway into another world. Even the act of waiting for an email had meaning. You’d log in, hear the modem whine and buzz, and check your inbox with the quiet hope of a message from someone unknown. It was like having pen pals at the speed of light.
That world is gone. Now, most email is noise. Newsletters, promotions, and spam have drowned out the quiet intimacy that once defined the medium. Back then, even a subject line held mystery. You clicked slowly. You read fully. There was patience, even romance, in the exchange.
Movies like You’ve Got Mail captured this spirit. The story made sense back then: two people falling in love through email. It wasn’t laughable; it was believable. And for me, that movie introduced something else too, Starbucks. There’s a scene where Meg Ryan is sitting inside the café, reading a book, surrounded by warm light and coffee steam. That was the first time I heard of Starbucks. It wasn’t just a store. It was a mood. A setting. A lifestyle.
The Ritual of Browsing and Booting
The early days of the web were like exploring a city built on curiosity. Netscape Navigator and Internet Explorer were not just browsers; they were tools for discovery. Pages loaded slowly, images unfolded line by line, and search results came with the excitement of finding buried treasure.
When Windows 95 launched, the start button became a symbol of beginning something new. Its interface was friendly, colorful, and clickable in a way that made computing feel personal. You didn’t have to be a technician anymore; you just had to be curious.
People lined up to buy software. They opened boxed sets with booklets. Even installing something felt ceremonial. The future arrived in floppy disks and CDs, not clouds and QR codes. It was slower, but somehow richer.
The Global Café
It’s hard to remember a time when Starbucks wasn’t everywhere. But in the late 1990s and early 2000s, it was still a novelty in many places. Seeing one in a Hollywood movie or discovering one in your own city gave a sense of arrival. You weren’t just drinking coffee; you were entering a lifestyle. A third place, as they called it, between home and work.
Starbucks wasn’t just about caffeine. It was about identity. You chose a drink that said something about who you were. You sat there with a laptop or a notebook and became part of a quiet, global ritual of being alone together.
Now, it’s background noise. But back then, it was the sound of something new. Like email, like McDonald’s, like Windows; it felt like touching the edge of tomorrow.
When the World Fit in Your Pocket
The first iPhone didn’t just change phones. It changed us. Suddenly, the world was always with you. You could take a photo, check the weather, talk to a friend, find your way; all from a small rectangle in your hand.
That moment of holding it for the first time, swiping through the icons, hearing the soft clicks of the keyboard; those sensations became part of the cultural memory. They were personal, tactile, and immediate.
And again, it was more than utility. It was emotional. It was the first time a device felt not like a tool, but like a companion.
Talking to the Machine That Thinks
And now we have AI. In late 2022, when I first tried ChatGPT 3.5, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t just new; it was strange. A voice in the machine that didn’t feel mechanical. Something that answered, remembered, reflected.
I asked it questions. I had conversations. I saw it write with style, not just structure. It was more than smart; it was thoughtful. It didn’t feel like search. It felt like dialogue.
This wasn’t the future of work or tech alone. It was the future of thinking. A mirror, a muse, a silent collaborator. And for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely surprised. Genuinely moved.
What Comes After the Firsts
Each of these emotional bookmarks reminds us that progress isn’t just technological, it’s personal. It lands in our lives in specific ways. Through a taste, a sound, a sight, or a sensation.
And yet, not everything that stuns us leads to something sustainable. Some things remain singular events. Others become part of us, absorbed into habit.
What matters most, perhaps, is that we remember how it felt. The moment of first contact. The quiet awe. The shift in perception. Because these feelings tell us something not just about innovation, but about ourselves.
We live in a time where updates are constant, where surprise feels rare. But still, every now and then, something breaks through. Something speaks. And for a brief moment, we hear the future knocking, and remember what it feels like to open the door.
Image by Michal Jarmoluk
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