I saw “Lost in Translation” this weekend. I’m not sure how many of you know this, because I don’t write about it much, but my family and I lived in Tokyo for three years, from 1988 to 1991. We moved there because of my dad’s job. I was 14 when we moved there and 17 when we left; I went to an American high school there.

So I appreciated “Lost in Translation” on different levels.

It was a sweet, smart movie, and Bill Murray was perfect in his role (indeed, he was Sofia Coppola’s first and only choice for it). But on top of that, there were little wonderful moments in the movie that brought back memories. The subway announcements; Tokyo Tower; Japanese television commercials with American movie stars; problems in multilingual communication. The movie captured Tokyo so accurately. It was even more resonant for me and my parents (with whom I saw it) because it brought back those disorienting feelings we had when we first moved there. We spent our first few nights living at the Imperial Hotel because we hadn’t rented furniture for our apartment yet; we were in this strange, almost alien city; we were suffering from jetlag because of the 13-hour time difference. What the hell were we doing here? My brother and I discussed sneaking back to the airport, flying home to the U.S., and living with our aunt and uncle. But you know what? We really came to love it there.

On our first night in Tokyo, my dad, my brother and I went to a McDonald’s, and my dad spilled a Coke.

It’s weird, the things you remember.