There is a particular expression that crosses the faces of Japanese immigration officers when a British traveller fumbles with their landing card—a sublime mixture of patient disdain and quiet despair, as though they've seen everything this chaotic world has to offer and found it wanting. Soon, rather a lot more of us will have the privilege of witnessing that expression firsthand.

Japan has announced it will extend visa-free entry to citizens of fifty additional countries, a generous gesture that transforms the nation's traditionally formidable immigration fortress into something almost welcoming. Starting next month, eligible travellers will be permitted to remain for up to ninety days—three whole months in which to consume absurd amounts of ramen, get hopelessly lost in Osaka's underground shopping passages, and stand in line at convenience stores while locals execute transactions with frightening efficiency.

The timing is, one suspects, not coincidental. Japan's tourism sector spent the pandemic years staring at empty hotel lobbies and silent shrines, watching the 32 million visitors of 2019 evaporate like morning mist off Mount Fuji. The government now eyes 60 million annual arrivals by 2030, a number so ambitious it sounds almost like a dare. One imagines some bureaucrat in a wood-panelled office, staring at spreadsheets, and saying "you know what this country needs? More tourists blocking the escalators at Shinjuku Station."

To be fair—and I do try to be fair, though fairness is in short supply these days—Japan's reasoning is not difficult to discern. Tourism represents cold, hard currency. The pound sterling, the euro, the American dollar: they all convert rather nicely into sushi, sake, and those peculiar toilets that wash and dry you with clinical precision. European and Southeast Asian travellers, historically requiring visas that involved paperwork, patience, and a willingness to accept small humiliations, will now simply arrive. Border control will process them. Life will continue.

What strikes me, though, is the peculiar bargain nations make when they liberalise their visa policies. Countries like Japan, long governed by the principle that visitors must earn their entry through bureaucratic ordeal, are essentially admitting that the old ways no longer suffice. The world has become a place where borders are negotiateable, where access is a form of soft power, where the threat of "simply going elsewhere" carries genuine weight. Japan has looked at its tourism statistics, done some arithmetic, and concluded that it can no longer afford to be quite so gloriously inaccessible.

One cannot help but note the delicious irony. For decades, the visa application process served as a kind of cultural gatekeeper—a message that read, in essence, "we know you want to come, but first you must prove you are the sort of person who can follow instructions." The consulate official who reviewed your application held your travel dreams in their hands and could, with a single stamp, crush them entirely. Now that same system is being dismantled, not through protest or political pressure, but through the simple calculation that tourists spend money and visas, frankly, get in the way of spending.

Other nations have arrived at similar conclusions through their own painful reckonings. Thailand's long-standing visa exemptions for passport holders from dozens of countries have transformed Bangkok from a destination for the adventurous into one of the most visited cities on Earth. Indonesia's recent visa-free arrangements for citizens of dozens of nations have sent arrivals soaring. The global competition for tourists has intensified to the point where even countries with robust border control philosophies are reconsidering their positions.

And yet—and here I must confess to a certain melancholy, the sort that settles in around 2 AM in a Tokyo hotel room when the neon has finally dimmed—there is something lost in all this accessibility. The Japan that existed in my imagination before I first visited was a place one had to earn, a destination that rewarded effort with revelation. The visa application felt like a rite of passage, a small price for admission to a world that did not particularly want me. The queues at Narita, the Forms, the questions about "purpose of visit"—these inconveniences paradoxically enhanced the experience. I had been vetted. I had been approved. Japan had looked at my paperwork and decided I was, at minimum, acceptable.

The Japan that now beckons to fifty additional nations offers no such validation. Anyone can come. Everyone can come. The doors are open, the welcome mat is out, and the immigration officer's expression of patient disdain will be distributed more generously than ever before. This is, objectively, wonderful news for anyone who has ever wanted to wander through Kyoto's Gion district without the bother of visa applications. It is also, in some small and perhaps irrational way, a loss.

Perhaps this is simply what it means to travel in the modern age. The world grows smaller, the borders grow more permeable, and the adventures that once required planning, patience, and a certain fortitude become instead a matter of booking a flight and showing up. Japan, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that the economic benefits of mass tourism outweigh the cultural costs of accessibility. One cannot argue with the logic. One can only mourn, quietly, the passing of a world where certain places remained stubbornly, magnificently out of reach.

Still. Ninety days. No visa. The ryokan doors are open, the onsen is steaming, and somewhere in Kyoto, a geiko is preparing for her evening's performance.

I suppose I should stop complaining and book my flight.