"I'm sorry," Ms Nakada said with a hint of regret, "I didn't intend for the conversation to go that way." But there was no need for an apology; I had thoroughly enjoyed our encounter. The events leading to Ms Nakada’s apology began earlier that evening.

From my modest apartment hotel in Shintomi, a lesser-known neighbourhood between Ginza to the west and Tsukiji to the south, I'm preparing for an evening visit to the Shinjuku branch of "Hands," formerly known as Tokyu Hands—Japan's comprehensive destination for DIY, hobby, and lifestyle shopping. No trip to Tokyo feels complete without a stop at Hands, but I'd left it to the last moment this time.

The journey from Shintomi to Shinjuku is easily manageable by subway—just a brief walk to Hatchōbori Station to catch the Hibiya Line, transfer at Kasumigaseki to the Marunouchi Line, and alight at Shinjuku Sanchōme Station. From there, it's a short stroll to Takashimaya Times Square, the 16-storey shopping cathedral that houses Hands. Yet, with the clock approaching 8 PM, I have less than an hour before the department store closes at 9 PM. My flight leaves early tomorrow, making this my last opportunity. Every minute is precious. Outside, heavy rain pelts the window, with beads and droplets diffusing the city lights into a bokeh of soft, blurred colour. The downpour makes my decision clear—only a private car will do, taking me straight from door to door.

I head downstairs and step outside, where my driver is already waiting with the door open. Her car is parked so near the building's entrance that I won't need to raise my umbrella to stay dry as I enter. The vehicle is a pristine black mid-size sedan, adorned with a golden "N" within a sakura petal outline on the door and a silver crown emblem shining on the front grille. Its angular silhouette contrasts with the rounded shapes of modern car design. The dark, lustrous black paint catches only faint reflections from the dim light of street lamps and vending machines along this quiet side street, scattered by a cascade of tiny raindrops. The polished hubcaps shine from under the wheel wells, while the solid and worn tyres seem to carry the weight of countless rides through Tokyo's alleyways and avenues. The steady hum of the idling engine accompanies flickers of rain as they dance in the glow of the headlights—oblong, practical, and unpretentious.

Car designers often anthropomorphise vehicles, intentionally or not, giving the front of the car a face-like appearance. The grille serves as a mouth, the headlights as eyes, and the bumper might even resemble a chin. Consider the BMW Gran Coupé, with its sharply angled headlights creating a subtly menacing expression as if the car is snarling. In contrast, the Mini Cooper presents an entirely different face, with its softer, rounder shapes. The gentle curve of its headlights and the slight downward tilt of the grille evoke a friendly, almost whimsical character.

This vehicle's headlights are lamps, not eyes—practical guiding tools, not expressions. They give the car a cool, impartial look that mirrors its years of reliable service in the metropolis. It's old-school—a Toyota Crown Comfort, a mid-size sedan series manufactured between 1995 and 2018. Designed primarily for fleet buyers, especially taxicab operators, the Crown Comfort has left its iconic mark in the minds of Tokyo's residents and visitors alike, and I'm always pleased when one arrives for me. I spot the 'Super Deluxe' badge, signifying an upgraded trim level, with luxury seats featuring a fold-down armrest in the back, cupholders, an enhanced audio system with door-mounted speakers, faux wood accents, and high-quality cloth upholstery.

I step inside, settling onto the white lace seat cover as the door closes behind me with a reassuring click. My driver, or untenshu (運転手), confirms my identity and destination before setting off at a measured pace. She expertly navigates a tight corner, circling the block's one-way system to orient us properly before carefully progressing through a narrow street. As she does so, I notice her driver's certification on display: It reads 仲田 (Nakada) 文子 (Fumiko)¹.

Motorists, pedestrians, cyclists, and urban obstacles occupy the same plane here, with no clear delineation between curb, road, pavement, or cycle lane—an everyday reality on Tokyo backstreets. Shortly after, Ms Nakada signals right, and we merge onto Heisei-dōri, an arterial road stretching northeast from Tsukiji to Nihonbashi Kabutochō, eventually linking with the Shin Ōhashi bridge. At this point, she offers me a choice: with moderate traffic already in place around 8 PM on a Friday, we could stick to the city streets and risk getting caught in congestion or take the expressway. Though she doesn't say it outright, her tone suggests that the expressway is the wiser option. On a good day, it can transform a 30-minute crawl through traffic into a swift 10-minute glide along its raised roads—Tokyo's closest answer to the flying car when it comes to bypassing traffic. So, I opt for the expressway.

Tokyo's taxis follow a standard fare structure. For a standard-sized taxi, the initial fare is 500 yen, covering the first 1,096 meters of your journey. Beyond that, 100 yen is added for every 255 meters travelled. So, after the first kilometre, the fare increases in small increments based on distance. It's not cheap, but the rates are the same for everyone—foreigners aren't overcharged. The only times you'll pay extra are between 10:00 PM and 5:00 AM when a 20% surcharge is added, or when you take one of the city's toll expressways. The standard toll is ¥300, so drivers typically ask if you'd prefer to use the expressway, though they may not mention the fee directly, as locals implicitly understand it.

We exit Heisei-dōri at the Sakurabashi junction, turning left onto Kajibashi-dori. Ms Nakada's white-gloved hands guide the wheel with ease, and with a gentle grip, she lets the power steering return it effortlessly to the centre—a motion that speaks to her deep familiarity with the vehicle. In his book 100 Whites, designer and art director Kenya Hara reflects on white fabric, particularly in the medical profession, noting that it takes courage to wear "that which is easily dirtied." He argues that the effort required to keep a white gown spotless conveys an image of a well-managed hospital or clinic, reassuring patients. Hara also applies this symbolism to white tablecloths in restaurants, suggesting they serve as both an elegant visual choice and a signal of the establishment's cleanliness. I find myself extending this concept to the white gloves and lace seat covers of taxi drivers. I feel I am in safe hands.

Turning north off Kajibashi-dōri, we enter a slender, darkened road lined with office buildings, most of which have already closed for the night. Having safely completed the focused tasks of welcoming her passenger, setting the course, and navigating the initial turns and junctions, Ms Nakada takes the chance to engage in light conversation, asking whether I'm here for work or holiday. A little of both, I reply, and then ask if she's from Tokyo. I don't ask people where they're from to form assumptions, but it's a question that can lead to insights into their lifestyle, interests, upbringing, and worldview. People often talk with enthusiasm about their cities—whether where they were born or where they live. For city dwellers, the city serves as the vessel that contains all aspects of life.

Taxi rides through cities often resemble something from a film—these fleeting conversations, much like the one unfolding now, feel like a cinematic device. Taxis in films are frequently used for exposition, where passengers reveal key details or respond to the driver's probing questions. And just like in the movies, these brief exchanges, set against the backdrop of a city in motion, can be revealing. A friend of mine, who drove a taxi for years, often speaks of this—his mental Rolodex full of personal stories that passengers had shared with him, providing surprising glimpses into their lives.

The roles are reversed for now, as Ms Nakada tells me she isn't from one of the 23 special wards, but hails from Saitama, the neighbouring prefecture to the north, which is included in the Greater Tokyo Area. Transit hubs along the border between Saitama and Tokyo Metropolis often resemble built-up urban centres, gradually giving way to suburban bed towns (ベッドタウン)—the commuter towns that orbit Tokyo—before opening up into more rural expanses beyond.

We cross Yaesu-dōri and, at the Takarachō Gate, ascend onto the Shuto Expressway Inner Circular Route, a major expressway loop that encircles central Tokyo. We glide through the toll barriers, which open automatically, signalling that the vehicle is fitted with an ETC (Electronic Toll Collection) device. With the driver's ETC card inserted, the toll is deducted automatically. Clearing the gates, we motor along at a restrained 50 km/h—the speed limit on this part of the expressway—yet it feels almost like taking flight after the city streets' speed restrictions, traffic controls, and congestion.

A straight but gently undulating stretch of tarmac leads us to the Nihonbashi River, where we navigate a sweeping curve in the road. The route then carries us over the Nihonbashi Bridge, in front of the original Mitsukoshi Department Store. Nihonbashi served as Edo’s main commercial hub during the Tokugawa Period (1603–1868) and rose to prominence in the 17th century, with its iconic bridge marking the eastern terminus of the Nakasendō and Tōkaidō, two major routes connecting Edo to Kyoto. From street level, the expressway's proximity to the Nihonbashi Bridge is bewildering—a modern structure looming directly over such a historic site. However, by 2040, the Nihonbashi Bridge will once again see daylight. Work is underway to remove the elevated expressway that has overshadowed the area for decades. As part of a 320 billion yen renewal project, the expressway will be rerouted underground, restoring the bridge's prominence.

Beyond Nihonbashi, we pass above the tracks of the Chūō Line, practically intersecting with the railway, which leads directly to Tokyo Station, less than half a kilometre away. It's an urban symphony of infrastructure performed right in the city's heart. The expressway's historical tour of Tokyo continues as we skirt the Imperial Palace grounds, the Emperor's primary residence. While Tokyo now boasts several city centres, this was once the undisputed centre of Edo, with the city radiating outward from here. As we weave through high-walled sections and tunnels on the expressway, it seems there's little chance to catch a view, but then a sudden opening appears, offering a bird's-eye perspective of Takebashi Bridge, a historic crossing over the Imperial Palace's moat. The elevated toll road isn't designed with aesthetics in mind, but I think of this moment as a small instance of Expressway Shakkei².

Continuing our conversation, I ask Ms Nakada which part of Saitama she's from. She describes it as a rural area, one I likely wouldn't know. She grew up as the daughter of local farmers in the far reaches of the prefecture, where she still lives in the old farmhouse. It was once assumed that her parents would work into late retirement, by which time she'd be married and, with a good husband to help, would inherit the farm. But when her father passed away suddenly, an unmarried Ms Nakada and her grieving mother found themselves unable to keep the farm going. This unexpected turn led her to reassess her skills and find a way to support the household, ultimately starting her career as a Tokyo taxi driver.

It wouldn't have been an easy path. Becoming a taxi driver in Japan requires a thorough training process. First, aspiring drivers must obtain a second-class driver's license, which is mandatory for transporting passengers commercially. They then receive customer service and legal training, learning polite greetings, appropriate language, and how to handle situations like dealing with unwell passengers or accidents. The practical aspect of training includes role-playing exercises where trainees practice operating the meter and navigating restricted areas. Following this, new drivers undergo on-the-job training, often riding alongside experienced drivers. They must also pass a geography test to demonstrate their knowledge of local streets and routes—a requirement that's gradually being phased out in some areas with the rise of GPS, but one that was undoubtedly essential for my driver.

I estimate Ms Nakada to be in her mid-60s. Older taxi drivers are a common sight in Japan. It's not unusual to see a genuine Rolex watch wrapped around the white-gloved wrist of a driver in his 60s or 70s. Many of these men were once salarymen during the 1980s bubble economy, fuelled by Japan's Economic Miracle in the preceding decades. But when the Lost Decade hit in the 1990s, they were suddenly made redundant, forcing them to find new livelihoods. For many, the taxi driver training programmes offered a way forward.

Seeing older women, or women in general, behind the wheel of a Tokyo taxicab is slightly less common. Still, in these cases, economic concerns, such as those of Ms Nakada, are often at the root. It's a scenario that finds its way into television dramas and films. In the Netflix series First Love, the story follows Harumichi Namiki and Yae Noguchi, who meet as teenagers in the late 1990s and grow up together in the early 2000s, only to be separated by tragedy. Yae, who once dreamed of becoming a flight attendant, is forced to abandon her ambitions, eventually becoming a housewife. After further setbacks, she regains her footing and starts working as a taxi driver. Fifteen years later, Harumichi re-enters her life. Yae's taxi becomes the backdrop for their slowly rekindling relationship, set to the sound of Utada Hikaru's 1999 hit song, also titled First Love.

Ms Nakada begins to open up about her life story. She now lives in the farmhouse alone—her mother fell ill with a respiratory disease just two years ago. Illnesses of the heart and lungs can cause a rapid decline, and with little time to process it all, her mother passed away. I'm momentarily taken aback. It feels especially poignant, as my mother passed away around the same time from the same illness. A quiet sense of shared understanding settles in the taxi as I relate this, and a long pause follows. We leave the expressway and join Daikanchō-dōri, emerging on the northwest side of the palace. From there, we drive south towards the Hanzomon Gate, where Ms Nakada charts a path west to Shinjuku via Yotsuya—a direct shot along Shinjuku-dōri.

The road is swarming with taxis around this time, and I watch them approach on the other side of the dual carriageway. Every car has a compact LED panel visible through the windshield, displaying illuminated kanji characters. This is the taxi availability system, known as the Super Sign (スーパーサイン), which indicates a taxi's status. It can vary by region, but in Tokyo, a red light displaying 空車 (kūsha) signals that the cab is available for hire. Conversely, a green light with 賃走 (chinsō) or 実車 (jitsuka) indicates the taxi is occupied. This may seem counterintuitive, as red usually signifies "stop" in traffic systems. The Super Sign can also display other niche statuses, primarily orange, such as 貸切 (kashikiri) for a chartered ride, 回送 (kaisō) for a taxi in transit without passengers, or even SOS for a driver in distress. The essential detail is that only red indicates a taxi can be hailed in Tokyo.

Each green-lit taxi has a different driver and a different passenger, each with their own unique circumstances and web of concerns. This line of thought is a cornerstone of urban romanticism—delightfully impossible to fully grasp in a city as vast as Tokyo, but one that humbles you, putting your own situation into perspective.

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Many of these vehicles are not sedans like ours but newer models. Most notably, I see the Toyota JPN Taxi, which resembles a London black cab with sleeker lines and a more compact frame. The JPN Taxi began appearing on Tokyo's streets in 2017, introduced in response to a 2012 government mandate to reduce emissions and improve accessibility. This initiative was developed in consultation with car manufacturers, taxi companies, and disability advocates to meet the universal design goals set for the 2020 Summer Olympics. Some argue that the JPN Taxi lacks the photogenic charm of the Crown models, but it excels in smoothness, quietness, and spaciousness, almost perfecting the taxi experience. While the Crown may be more attractive from the outside, it's hard to beat the comfort of being inside a Toyota JPN Taxi.

As we wait at a long traffic light at the Yotsuya-sanchōme junction, we pick up our conversation again, sharing perspectives only fully understood by others who have endured such a loss. Our focus is less on the pain and more on the difficult-to-express emotions—the sense of relief that the suffering has ended and the guilt that often accompanies that feeling. The lights turn green, and we're off again, with a slight scare as a schoolgirl on a mamachari (ママチャリ)—a casual bicycle used for everyday errands—rides flagrantly through the intersection, talking on her mobile phone, seemingly oblivious to the traffic.

Settling back into my seat, my eyes follow the taxis along Shinjuku-dōri, their roofs crowned with andon (行灯) lights. Traditionally, 'andon' refers to a type of lantern made by attaching paper to a wooden or metal frame, protecting the flame from the wind. An electric bulb replaces the flame now, though the structure remains unchanged. I usually associate andon with the delicate lanterns outside upscale restaurants, but the rooftop light of a taxi also qualifies as one. The design of these taxi signs is shaped by each company's brand identity, with the freedom to customise everything from the frame's shape to the logo and overall aesthetic.

As illuminated andons glide by, the ones I most frequently notice belong to the four biggest companies: Daiwa Jidōsha Kōtsu (大和自動車交通), whose andon features its name in simple, rounded kanji; Kokusai Jidōsha (国際自動車交通), marked with "KM" in Roman letters; and Teito Jidōsha Kōtsu (帝都自動車交通), with an intricately stylised kanji for 帝 (tei). Lastly, there's Ms Nakada's company, Nihon Kōtsu (日本交通)—easily recognised by the "N" inside a sakura petal. Nihon Kōtsu has over 90 years of history and the industry's highest number of drivers and taxis.

All these major taxi companies operate through a shared radio dispatch system that links them to central dispatch centres, ensuring efficient distribution of passenger requests across the city. This system allows Tokyo's roughly 40,000 licensed taxis to be dispatched based on proximity to passengers, whether the request comes by phone, app, or street hailing. These companies also comprise the Tokyo Hire-Taxi Association, a cooperative network that monitors taxi standards and operations, ensuring reliable and consistent service throughout the metropolis.

We drive parallel to Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, once the residence of an Edo-period feudal lord and now regarded as one of the world's most beautiful flower gardens, and begin to talk about time. As the adage goes—it is the only true healer. Ms Nakada tells me that in the days and weeks after her mother's death, reminders of her mother were everywhere, especially in the farmhouse. Each reminder brought a wave of emotion. I can only nod in agreement. The constant rhythm of these waves can upend your life, but as the months pass, the sensations gradually become fewer and farther apart. As months turn into years, they become so rare that you eventually begin to treasure them. 

It won't be long until we reach Times Square, and as I glance at the meter, my thoughts shift quickly from bereavement to paying the fare. Cash is always an option, as are debit or credit cards, the PayPay app, and the IC cards Pasmo and Suica. But then I remember I booked my ride tonight via Uber, so there's no need to worry about that. Tokyo resisted the introduction of Uber for quite some time, but it's now a standard way to book taxis, alongside other ride-hailing services like the GO Taxi App, Japan's most widely used platform.

I took my first Uber in Tokyo around 2015—unaware of how quickly the company was expanding back in London, where the appeal lay in plain-clothed drivers offering low fares in standard vehicles. However, booking an Uber in Tokyo meant getting a high-spec SUV or van driven by a sharply suited driver who would open the door for you, chauffeur-style. Inside, you'd find a drink rest, temperature controls, a mobile docking station, and the option to play your own music. This was partly to set Uber apart from traditional taxis without directly competing, as had happened with London's black cabs. Eventually, Uber integrated by enabling the booking of regular taxis through their app, offering rides at standard taxi rates regulated locally.

We reach the Shinjuku Sanchōme intersection and head south, staying on the east side of the train tracks, inching through the thick traffic. The closer we get to Shinjuku Station, the more palpable the sense of being in Tokyo—the brightly lit megacity of global imagination. Shinjuku's lights are in full force, and the sheen of the black taxi's well-maintained body seems to absorb the neon shower, reflecting it like a work of art made up of what feels like millions of raindrops—another Bob Harris Moment for my collection³. 

The conversation naturally shifts to our inevitable demise—the fate we all share as humans. In countless late-night talks with older Japanese people—baby boomers and their parents—I’ve consistently found a candid openness when discussing death, in contrast to the British tendency to sidestep the subject. It’s not an uncommon topic to explore with strangers at the counter of a wayside izakaya. This openness stems in part from cultural influences. The concept of mujō (無常), the Buddhist view of life’s impermanence, encourages accepting death as part of the natural order. Shintoism, too, emphasises reverence for ancestors and the cycle of life and death, viewing death as a return to nature. Postwar hardships have further shaped these generations, making them deeply familiar with the realities of loss.

In part, knowing we are unlikely to meet again might make it easier—talking about death with those closest to you brings up the more difficult thought of losing one another, a reality many would rather not acknowledge. This ties into the concept of ichigo ichie (一期一会)—"one time, one meeting" or "one chance in a lifetime." Rooted in the tea ceremony, the idiom reflects the idea that every encounter is unique and will never happen in the same way again. It also highlights life's impermanence, reminding us to treasure each moment as though it were our last.

After navigating a loop of backstreets, we reach a discreet side entrance to Takashimaya Times Square. Though the complex is sprawling, this hidden flight of spiralling steps leads almost directly to the revolving doors of Hands. Ms Nakada knew precisely where to go. It spares me a walk through what will undoubtedly be a crowded Shinjuku Station at this hour—we’ve made it in good time. In the distance, I see the vertical green Hands sign on the main building. It’s time to shift from contemplating life’s most profound questions to stocking up on V60 coffee filter papers, uni-ball pens, and spatula heads.

The car comes to a smooth stop. We sit briefly just beyond the pedestrian crossing, hazard lights blinking, as we wind down the conversation. Ms Nakada apologises for the weight of the discussion, but I reassure her that I feel fortunate to have crossed paths with her. As I step out, raising my umbrella, she reminds me to check for lost belongings. It's a mistake I've made before—leaving my iPhone 4, complete with its planimetrically framed photos⁴, in the back of a taxi after a late Friday night out. That mistake led to a Saturday afternoon trek to the city's outskirts, where I retrieved the phone from the bottom of a desk drawer in a remote taxi control office. I’m not sure retrieving a phone that way would be as easy now, so when your driver says some version of "wasuremono no nai yō go chūi kudasai" (忘れ物のないようご注意ください), take it seriously—do check.

The automatic door swings shut once again with that satisfying click. Despite being in a bit of a rush, I pause in the rain for a moment, watching the silver Super Deluxe emblem on Ms Nakada's Toyota Crown Comfort sedan, its Nihon Kōtsu andon glowing, as it rolls into the Shinjuku night, merging with a sea of red tail lights in the mid-evening traffic.

Every so often, I think about Ms Nakada. I’d email her to see how she’s doing in her farmhouse in Saitama, but of course, we didn’t exchange details. It’s another encounter consigned to the book of ichigo ichie.

Until we meet in the back of a Tokyo taxi,

AJ

Footnotes

¹ This name has been changed to protect the individual’s identity. Furthermore, as of August 2023, drivers are no longer legally required to display their licences in their vehicles due to similar privacy concerns.

² Tokyothèque #5: Expressway Shakkei

³ Tokyothèque #3: Tokyo’s Vertical Streets

⁴ Tokyothèque #30: Tokyography

Links

100 Whites
Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring