I Lost My Wallet in Japan. Here’s How I Found It.

Every morning before leaving my hotel in Japan, I do the same thing.

Passport.

Phone.

Wallet.

It's a habit I've carried with me since my student days in the UK.

Except one morning in Tokyo, there was a problem.

Passport.

Phone.

No wallet.

I checked again.

Then again.

Empty pockets. Bags opened. Everything moved around the hotel room.

Nothing.

I was in Japan leading one of our Beyond Tokyo journeys.

And somewhere during the previous day's travels through Kamakura, my wallet had disappeared.

The Last Place I Remembered Having It

This was during one of our Immersive Japan journeys.

We'd recently reworked the journey after spending more time scouting Japan, and I was excited to finally experience it with travellers.

By the third day, we'd already spent two days travelling around Tokyo together and had quickly become friends.

That morning we'd travelled south to Kamakura.

I was doing what I usually do on our journeys — showing our travellers around while simultaneously taking photographs, filming bits of Japan and gathering content for Beyond Tokyo.

Somewhere around lunchtime, we stopped at a 7-Eleven near Hase Station.

I bought an ice cream.

I paid.

Put my wallet away.

And thought absolutely nothing of it.

The day continued.

By evening we were back in Tokyo.

I hadn't needed my wallet again.

Most of our everyday transport payments were happening through IC cards we'd already loaded, so there was no obvious moment when I would have noticed it was missing.

It wasn't until the following morning that I did.

First, Panic

There was an initial rush of adrenaline.

Cards.

Cash.

Everything that had been inside.

And then the slightly more uncomfortable thought:

I'm supposed to be leading a journey.

But something I'd learnt years earlier kicked in fairly quickly.

Panicking wasn't going to find the wallet.

So I started working through solutions instead.

Our accommodation and major journey expenses were already paid.

Our travellers' transport cards were loaded.

Shivani, my co-founder, would be joining us in a few days and could bring another card.

If everything else failed, I could arrange an international money transfer.

The journey itself didn't need to change.

Then I told our travellers what had happened.

Their response still makes me smile.

They immediately offered me cash if I needed it. I could simply transfer the equivalent to them through UPI.

Of all the contingency plans I'd been running through my head in Japan, perhaps the most Indian solution was also the simplest.

With that reassurance, I could stop worrying about the practicalities and start looking for my wallet.

Where Do You Even Start Looking for a Lost Wallet in Japan?

My first stop was the police.

I went to a police station near Shimbashi and explained what had happened.

This became my first lesson in Japan's lost-property system.

Japan doesn't have one magical national database where every missing wallet instantly appears.

Police lost-property information and searches are organised through prefectural police systems.

I was standing in Tokyo.

But I'd spent the previous day in Kamakura, in Kanagawa Prefecture.

And at that point, I wasn't even certain where I'd lost the wallet.

After navigating some fairly complicated Japanese vocabulary, I filed a lost-property report.

Then I started reconstructing the previous day.

Where had I definitely had the wallet?

Where had we stopped?

Where had I taken things out of my pockets?

One place kept coming back to me.

The 7-Eleven at Hase.

That was the last place I could clearly remember using it.

But before assuming it was there, I wanted to retrace everything I could.

Retracing Tokyo

The previous night we'd also stopped around Akabanebashi to take photographs near Tokyo Tower.

So I began asking station staff.

Shimbashi.

Akabanebashi.

Anywhere the wallet might conceivably have been handed in.

Nothing.

By then I'd also called my old university friend Yuta.

Yuta and I studied together at Cambridge, UK years ago, and he lives in Japan.

He joined me at Akabanebashi and helped with some of the more complicated conversations in Japanese.

We checked with the local police there too.

Still nothing.

It's moments like these when old friendships — and local relationships — suddenly matter in ways you never planned for.

Then We Called the 7-Eleven

It was around 8 in the morning when we tried the store again.

I explained when I'd visited and what I was looking for.

There was a pause.

A little conversation at the other end.

And then the words I'd been waiting for.

They had a wallet.

I can't adequately describe the relief.

But there was still one question.

Was it mine?

Yuta had already done more than enough.

The problem was essentially solved. I knew where the wallet probably was.

He could easily have gone home.

Instead, he came all the way back to Kamakura with me.

Tokyo to Kamakura. Again.

We took the train south from Tokyo towards Kamakura and then changed for Hase.

Along the way, Yuta wasn't quite as confident as I was.

Hase receives travellers from all over the world.

Humans are humans everywhere, he reminded me.

Japan included.

If somebody had simply taken the wallet, there wasn't much the famous Japanese lost-property system could do about it.

I understood his point.

But I remember telling him:

If there is one country where I believe a lost object has a reasonable chance of finding its way back to you, it's Japan.

The journey gave us plenty of time to talk.

About our university days.

About the time Yuta had lost his own wallet in the UK.

About Beyond Tokyo.

About the curated journeys he creates in Scandinavia.

And, inevitably these days, about how AI might change the world.

Eventually the familiar green trains brought us back towards Hase.

And we walked towards the 7-Eleven where, less than 24 hours earlier, I'd innocently bought an ice cream.

There It Was

Yuta spoke to the lady behind the counter.

She disappeared for a moment.

Then came back holding a wallet.

Mine.

I think my face gave away exactly how relieved I was.

I thanked her far more enthusiastically than was probably necessary.

Then I decided I needed to give her something.

There wasn't exactly a gift shop nearby.

So I did the only thing available to me.

I bought some chocolate from her own 7-Eleven and tried to give it back to her.

She refused.

I insisted.

She refused again.

I continued insisting until eventually she accepted it.

The chocolate meant very little.

But it was the only way I could think of to express what getting that wallet back meant to me.

Outside, I handed Yuta my phone.

I needed a photograph.

Me.

My wallet.

And the 7-Eleven that had somehow become an important place in my personal geography of Japan.

I still visit that store when I'm back in Kamakura.

And occasionally take another photograph outside with the wallet.

Just to make sure neither of us forgets.

Losing a Wallet Gave Us Somewhere Else

I owed Yuta lunch.

So after recovering the wallet, we went looking for somewhere to eat.

And completely by accident, we found an exceptional little Japanese vegan restaurant.

We loved it.

So much that it later became somewhere I started taking Beyond Tokyo travellers.

I'm not going to tell you which one.

Some places are still reserved for the people travelling with us.

On the way back, Yuta also stopped to buy shirasu for his family.

I'd never really paid attention to it before.

Shirasu are tiny whitebait caught around Sagami Bay and are one of the foods associated with Kamakura and the surrounding coast.

You'll see them served in several ways around the region, including over rice.

It was another tiny piece of Kamakura I'd somehow missed until a friend pointed it out.

By the time we finally made it back to Tokyo, a morning that had started with panic had become one of those strange travel days I knew I'd remember.

And Then I Remembered the Omikuji

There was one final detail.

The previous day, I'd drawn an omikuji at Sensoji temple in Asakusa, Tokyo.

Omikuji are the little paper fortunes you'll find at shrines and temples across Japan.

Among the various predictions on mine was something about a lost item being found.

I hadn't given it much thought.

Why would I?

I hadn't lost anything.

Yet.

Twenty-four hours later, standing outside a 7-Eleven in Hase with my wallet back in my hands, I wasn't quite so dismissive.

Lost Something in Japan? Here's What I'd Do

My story had a happy ending.

That doesn't mean every lost wallet, phone or bag in Japan automatically comes back.

But Japan does have organised systems for handling lost property, and knowing where to start can make an already stressful situation much easier.

1. Start with the last place you know you had it.

Don't immediately try to reconstruct an entire day.

Think about your last transaction, photograph, train ride or moment when you physically remember holding the item.

In my case, that one ice cream purchase eventually led me straight back to the wallet.

2. If you lost it inside a shop, hotel or attraction, contact them directly.

If you know you may have left something inside a particular business or facility, start with the people running it.

My wallet never needed to travel through the police system because the 7-Eleven had kept it safely at the store.

3. If you think you lost it on a train or at a station, contact the railway operator.

Different railway companies have their own lost-property processes.

For example, JR East registers items handed to its stations or found by staff in its lost-property system. You can ask station staff or use its lost-property enquiry services.

One useful thing to know: an item may not appear in the system immediately after it is found.

4. File a lost-property report with the police.

If the item isn't quickly found, report it to the police.

Japan's National Police Agency recommends filing a Lost Property Report as soon as you realise something is missing.

A report doesn't mean the police begin physically searching for your wallet. It creates a record that can be matched if the item is subsequently handed in.

5. Remember that location matters.

Japan's police lost-property information is organised by prefecture.

If your day crossed prefectural boundaries — Tokyo to Kamakura, for example — don't assume checking in one place necessarily covers everywhere you travelled.

The National Police Agency provides links to the lost-property systems of the different prefectural police forces.

6. Be very specific.

Know the colour, brand, shape and contents of what you've lost.

Remember approximately when and where you last had it.

For something lost on public transport, note the railway line, stations and approximate travel time if you can.

JR East specifically asks travellers to provide details such as the date, route, suspected location and distinguishing features of the missing item.

7. If it isn't there immediately, check again.

Lost property can take time to be handed in, transported and registered.

An unsuccessful enquiry shortly after losing something doesn't necessarily mean it won't appear later.

And if the railway doesn't have it, remember that somebody may instead have handed it directly to the police.

What I Changed After Losing My Wallet

The biggest lesson wasn't that Japan is some magical country where nothing ever gets stolen.

It isn't.

My wallet coming back doesn't prove yours will.

The better lesson was much more practical.

Never keep every way of accessing your money in one place.

I don't anymore.

When I'm travelling now, cards and cash are divided.

Some stay with me.

A backup remains separately with my luggage at the hotel.

If one wallet disappears, it should be an inconvenience rather than a crisis.

And I've upgraded my morning check.

Japan's railway workers are famous for pointing at things and calling them out as part of their safety routines.

My version is considerably less sophisticated.

But I now physically check and say the important things aloud before leaving.

Passport.

Wallet.

Loud enough that someone else hears me.

Our Worst Travel Days Sometimes Give Us the Best Stories

I lost a wallet that day.

I got it back.

But somewhere between Shimbashi, Akabanebashi and Hase, I was reminded of a few other things too.

That systems matter.

That having a backup matters.

That people will sometimes help you when they have absolutely no obligation to.

And that friendships built years ago can suddenly become very important on an ordinary morning in Tokyo.

Losing my wallet also led us to a restaurant we now take our travellers to.

It gave Yuta and me an unexpected day together.

And it gave me a completely ordinary 7-Eleven in Kamakura that I now struggle to walk past without taking a photograph.

Travel doesn't always give you its best memories when everything goes right.

Sometimes they begin with something going very wrong.

Although these days, I prefer not to leave the important things to an omikuji.

Every morning before we leave:

Passport. Wallet.

Loud and clear.



For Yaswanth, Sejal and Yuta — for the kindness, friendship and a day in Japan I'll always remember.