Teenage Kaito lives with his mother on Amami Oshima, an island in the Amami archipelago located in Kagoshima Prefecture, Southwest Japan, known for its clear waters and offshore reefs. A series of events coinciding with Kaito's adolescent development has led him to Tokyo to visit his father, Atsushi, who works as an assistant at a tattoo parlour in the city and from whom his mother is separated.
Eating together at an izakaya, Kaito asks why his parents split up. A restrained yet tender father-son bonding session unfolds, and the pair stroll home along a narrow yokochō alleyway lined with the kanban signs of snack bars, the chōchin lanterns of small restaurants, and the twinkling of fairy lights. Atsushi opens up to his son, revealing that what he wants in life is to pursue his passion for painting. Kaito, wishing his father lived closer, responds that you don't need to be in Tokyo to do that. Atsushi then launches into his feelings about the metropolis:
There's energy here in Tokyo that you can't find elsewhere, a warmth only Tokyo has. I haven't travelled the world, but I feel an abundance in Tokyo, and not in the material sense. It's busy and tiring, and time passes quickly, but it is also a city that amplifies my desire to express myself.
Cinematic scenes of city life unfold to a quietly emotive backing track of strings and piano as Atsushi gives his account of the city's inspirational power. Father and son emerge from the backstreets and retire to a local sentō bathhouse. This sequence is from Kawase Naomi's 2014 Cannes-nominated Futatsume no Mado (Second Window), released outside Japan under the English title Still the Water. It's a slow-burning, soul-searching film. Atsushi's quote touches on Tokyo's ephemeral qualities, which cannot be easily explained by analysing the material aspects of the city.
Time passes quickly for Atsushi and tires him out, a sentiment felt at some point by inhabitants of all big cities. We might nod along with aphorisms like "time flies" and "time is money." You'd need to have deftly evaded contemporary discourse over the past decade not to have been informed that we live in an "increasingly fast-paced world."
For a period, I commuted daily along the length of the Keio Line from my home in the Greater Tokyo city of Hachioji to Shinjuku, where I'd transfer to continue the journey east toward my workplace. It is no understatement to describe an interchange at Shinjuku station during rush hour as hectic—a veritable case of big city "hustle and bustle." This often-referenced example of Tokyo's scale is the setting for many a meme of lost foreigners.
Seasoned commuters, however, know which door of which carriage to wait by to gain a few footsteps on the crowd when their train pulls in. They know the best shortcuts through the labyrinthine station to reduce their transfer time. They walk briskly, according to an internal timer developed over years of making the same journey daily. All this happens with innumerable calculations in the subconscious related to possible obstacles like not fitting on the first available train, the current weather conditions, and the day of the week. It is not a smooth flow with river-like qualities; it's a sea of activity where human bodies crisscross in all directions, and the act of cutting across another's path is an art that requires timing, patience, and a polite yet confident execution.
Partaking in a 1.5-hour commute each way to fulfil the nine-hour workday—eight legal hours of work plus one for lunch—leaves you with a palpable sense of scarcity about the time in your life. To wrestle a more plentiful feeling of time back from the system, I would wake up as early as possible, 5 AM, and shift the start of my workday to 8 AM. I'd slot personal tasks between my morning routine and the long commute to free up hours in the evening. This desperate orchestration of daily activities is the essence of the adage "time flies."
It turned out not to be the solution I had hoped for. Shifting your mornings also means going to bed earlier unless you can operate well on minimal sleep. I do not, and I was also interfering with my natural rhythms. Research exists to show that genetic variations influence individual sleep patterns, with specific genes affecting preferences for morning or evening activities. I was contorting my natural tendencies with the modified commuter schedule, and it was not tenable in the long term.
My employer was fair, agreeable, and compliant with employment laws, and overtime was not ingrained in the workplace culture. Yet, the nine-hour day is not the end for many Tokyo workers. People often bring up some knowledge of the long Japanese working hours in passing conversations about Japan. Anecdotally, it is as well-known a fact as the beauty of sakura trees in spring. Many have heard the harrowing story of the salaried worker who feels unable to leave the office until their superior does so first and is then expected to attend dinner and drinks, spending precious personal time with the boss rather than with family and friends, following their pursuits, or simply relaxing.
The narrative is present in pop culture and visual communication: in the animated comedy TV series Aggretsuko, Retsuko, a 25-year-old red panda, experiences escalating exasperation with her accounting role at a Tokyo trading company. Her sole desire is to complete her tasks and survive the workday. Yet, her aggravation frequently peaks, triggered by overbearing bosses. When it does, she unleashes her pent-up feelings through death metal in a karaoke booth.
LINE, Japan's premier instant messaging app, offers virtual stickers for purchase that capture a gamut of emotions that users might need to express digitally. There is an extensive selection of the bear and rabbit couple, Brown and Cony, in various states of overwork and office-related stress and sadness. Cony passes out on her sofa—still in her work outfit—in exhaustion, dropping her handbag to the floor. Meanwhile, Brown has a melancholy cigarette on his company's roof terrace as the sun sets, surely to return to the office for a late session.
The expression burakku kigyō (black company) surfaced in Japan's public discourse in the early 2000s, pinpointing firms notorious for exploitative conduct. The Japanese Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare categorises these enterprises based on three principal indicators: the imposition of excessively prolonged working hours, a disregard for Japan's Labor Standards Act and a systematic undermining of employees in corporate policymaking. This term originated in the IT industry and now applies broadly across sectors to denote companies engaging in such practices. Despite widespread recognition of the problem, evidence still suggests that it persists.
The Black Company Awards were established to list burakku kigyō and draw attention to the matter by an organising committee of non-profit organisations, activists, academics, lawyers, and journalists. The "awards" were suspended in 2020 due to COVID-19 and have yet to return, but the most recent winners list is quite shocking. From the government's definition, you might think that burakku kigyō would mostly be shady companies in backstreet zakkyo buildings. However, the nominees include Mitsubishi, Rakuten, and the seemingly innocuous izakaya chain Uotami—indeed the scene of many an obligatory evening with the boss for Tokyo office workers.
The societal issue reaches its lowest ebb in karōshi—death caused by overwork or job-related exhaustion. In a paper for the Journal of Business Ethics, Dr. Walter Tubbs provides several heartbreaking real-world cases to illustrate the phenomenon:
Some karōshi victims were working fifty days straight and more than 100 hours of overtime per month. Nakamura, an employee of a construction company, had recorded 135 hours of overtime a month around the time of his collapse. He was barely able to squeeze in five hours of sleep a night. Assigned to a job in Tokyo, he had to commute daily from Osaka for more than two months. Some days, he worked so late that he spent the night at his office, rather than trying to go home.
Tubbs theorises that in cases of karōshi, the cause of death transcends the physical exertion associated with overwork; it is the despair of being ensnared in a relentless cycle that one cannot influence or exit, offering no opportunity for alteration or relief. For me, it is the erosion of one's time and space to the ultimate, fatal conclusion: death by time deprivation. From the perspective of the corporate entity, time may be money, but that is both hard-bitten and reductive. Time is life itself.
The distinction between the wholesome work ethic that built the nation and overwork necessitates a delicate balance, though, and we should recognise the connection between human effort and the aspects of Japanese culture that the world reveres. In the first Tokyothèque newsletter, I referenced art director Hara Kenya's impressions upon arrival at Narita Airport. Allow me to call upon Hara's insights yet again:
Whenever I get off a flight at Narita airport and pass through that impersonal space, walking toward passport control, I have the same feeling. While it is boring and lifeless, I can't help but admire how scrupulously clean and well kept it is. All the floor tiles gleam; it makes you think that you could roll on them without even dirtying your clothes. The carpet is immaculate too. You see traces of the best efforts to remove even minor stains. I am certain that the cleaners who work here never put away their mops and vacuums the minute their shift ends; they continue until they complete the task. Returning from another country, I'm always keenly aware of their attentiveness, their consideration.
During the Edo period, work was seen as a family business, signifying a family's means of sustenance and their societal role. All societal classes, including samurai, farmers, artisans, and merchants, were ascribed roles that gave their work significance. Post-Edo, despite the collapse of the feudal system and the rise of corporate work, the ethos of working for one's family and society persisted. In the post-war economic boom, companies began to adopt a quasi-family position with the lifetime employment system. It led to a corporate-centric work ethic and created a culture where diligent work is an end in itself. Workers became enmeshed in corporate structures without considering their labour's true purpose or value.
It is possible to discern the enduring framework of old Edo beneath Tokyo's present-day urban fabric. Similarly, Edo values can still be found in the social fabric, too. I believe this is what Hara Kenya's optimistic view of work ethic identifies in the cleaners of Narita Airport. The meaning of work is not entirely eroded for all. Anyone who enjoys Japan's outstanding cleanliness, safety, and service has benefited from these more wholesome hours of dedication.
Meticulous yet prompt provision of service is crucial in Tokyo. I watched a World's Busiest Stations TV documentary about Shinjuku Station that covered the topic satisfactorily. It is a crowd-pleasing, slightly cliché-laden celebration of the mega-station. The documentary is replete with statistics that reflect the time-sensitive nature of Shinjuku's operations. 3,000 passengers per minute; trains arriving every second; an average delay of 0.4 seconds with public apologies issued after five minutes; more people in the station at any given time than across the entire London Underground network in a day. In a symbolic moment, station staff complete their morning meeting by synchronising watches before heading out onto the station's concourses and platforms to marshal the day's activities.
The documentary also provides recorded evidence of the human effort that Hara Kenya felt in his bones at Narita Airport. Cleaning squad leader Kobayashi Yoshimune's team begins its overnight shift the moment the last passenger leaves the station. "Overnight" might sound lengthy, but Kobayashi explains to the producers that the time between the last train and the first train is only around three hours, necessitating high-speed work. Yet, as Hara predicted, utmost efforts are still made to remove even minor stains. In a scene I found unexpectedly moving, Kobayashi is shown treating the last piece of gum stuck to the platform, manually scraping it off before cheerfully ending his shift, satisfied with his contribution to the well-being of Shinjuku Station's passengers. It encapsulates the essence of finding meaning in one's work while also highlighting the unique aspects of public spaces in Japan that I miss living abroad.
Kobayashi Muneyoshi's attitude toward work is evident across Tokyo, including in the city's 24-hour convenience. In a particularly well-shared video clip, a convenience store clerk runs across the shop, jumping over the vacant counter like it was a hurdle to serve waiting customers. After years of admiring konbini, the novel Konbini Ningen (Convenience Store Woman) by Murata Sayaka provided a beautifully written insight into the workings of a konbini, with years of konbini work experience on the author's CV. The novel presents the narrative of Keiko Furukura, a 36-year-old inhabitant of Tokyo, who has consistently struggled with social conformity in familial settings and throughout her schooling. Many readers, including myself, have noted that Furukura is subtly portrayed with nuances suggesting neurodivergence. Aged eighteen, she secures a position at "Smile Mart," where her attention to detail and talent for repetition serve her well, and she finds a semblance of calm and purpose.
Murata sheds light on the imperfections within the celebrated narrative of the industrious Japanese worker. Analytical Furukura is critical of several of her co-workers, a realistic portrayal of shop assistants who wish to sail through with low effort—far from the sprint-hurdling konbini worker adored on social media. In general, I've felt uneasy about the status of Tokyo konbini in recent years. Their range is contracting, with many branches of the more interesting, lesser-seen chains like Daily Yamazaki and Sankus folding into the ubiquitous Family Mart. At night, shelves and hot food cabinets are no longer so well-stocked, and rubbish bags might be left out on the shop floor. Crucially, the sight of a konbini closed for the night, formerly impossible, is no longer uncommon. I might have taken high-quality 24-hour service all over the city for granted—it is no longer a given. Franchise owners find it hard to keep a shop staffed 24 hours daily.
At least we have the assurance of coin laundries illuminating the streetscape through the night, alongside the ceaseless, steady pattern of city traffic lights and the semblance of calm they offer. Ōdan hodo, as pedestrian crossings are known in Japanese, embody a more soothing aspect of the city, especially at night, far removed from the time-sensitive operations and dense crowds of Shinjuku Station. Time spent waiting at ōdan hodo is distinct to Japan in my experience. They are unassuming moments that punctuate long days of exploration and journeys from A to B. The waiting time accumulates in built-up areas with many roads to cross.
The level of social order is such that, in almost every instance, individuals at pedestrian crossings wait patiently, regardless of whether traffic is present. Research published in Accident Analysis & Prevention compared pedestrian behaviour at two analogous crossings, one in Strasbourg, France, and the other in Inuyama, Japan. In Strasbourg, approximately 67% of pedestrians were observed crossing during the red signal, in contrast to just 7% in Inuyama. The study attributed these behavioural variances to the social context and how individuals assimilate road-crossing practices through observation. Additional scenarios involving unmarked road crossings indicated that in Japan, individuals also tend to wait for more significant gaps in traffic and exhibit more caution.
The first reaction to this is usually to point out how peculiar it is. Why pause at an empty crossing? Indeed, the British mindset, aligning with findings from Strasbourg, would likely struggle with this contradiction and take umbrage with the act of patiently waiting. Of course, not every Japanese national adheres strictly to these norms—in high-traffic areas, certain pedestrian lights feature timers that indicate the time left for the signal to switch from red to green or vice versa. Including a countdown during the red signal phase specifically aims to mitigate the frustration associated with waiting, highlighting a clear use case. The sight of a salaryman determinedly crossing the ōdan hodo's red signal without hesitation is notable and often results in others following along.
Yet, most wait, which exerts a quiet social pressure on you to do the same. You can perceive this in two ways—as a frustrating obstacle to your progress or an opportunity for rest. For me, it always presents a chance to rest. Try experiencing the low-stress levels of standing mindfully for a few minutes, then breezing across the road to the soundscape of the "piyo piyo" chirping audio signal or, in some rarer instances, the melody of the Edo period nursery rhyme Tōriyanse. This experience contrasts with the anxiety of scanning for gaps in traffic and dashing across at the first opportunity, triggering a mini-surge of adrenaline and cortisol. Waiting is particularly enjoyable for those who appreciate Tokyo's urban aesthetic. I use these moments to observe the intricacies of the surrounding architecture, the diversity of greenery, the people waiting alongside me, and the ongoing activities in the vicinity. When the signal finally turns green, you might wish for a few more moments to savour the scene.
Brief opportunities for quiet respite amidst the urban sprawl also come in the form of small shrines. Grand shrines like Meiji Jingu, with its 70 hectares of surrounding manufactured forest and an entire avenue, Omotesandō, as its dedicated approach, take time to navigate. However, micro shrines behind office blocks, rooftops, adjoining schoolyards, and down alleyways offer a moment's spirituality en route elsewhere. I appreciate the Japanese phrase pawā supotto (power spot), which refers to locations where spiritual power is said to flow. These typically include Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples, but also sacred mountains, hot springs, waterfalls, and forests. The term seems particularly well-suited to tiny inner-city shrines where, against expectations, a highly concentrated oasis of rejuvenation can suddenly appear.
You can only briefly linger in front of most shrines since a regular flow of visitors passes beneath the torii gates of even the most minor backstreet power spots. But time flows differently within the enclosure of a shrine. On days when multiple commitments pull me in various directions, I do not want to leave their embrace once I've entered. On such days, two bows, two claps, and one bow are over too quickly. Would becoming a monk give me more time on this wavelength? Indeed, Shinto and Buddhism are intertwined with an older Japanese conception of time, observed before the Gregorian calendar became standard.
During the Tokugawa Period (1603–1868), timekeeping was governed by a variable time system, more attuned to the rhythmic flow of natural time. The futeijihō, or seasonal hour system, divided the day into twelve periods, each referred to as an ittoki (one toki). Day and night span equal lengths at the equinoxes of spring and autumn. However, days stretch longer in summer and shorten in winter, leading to varied durations of each toki throughout the day and night, influenced by the calendar date and geographical latitude. The hours were named after animals from the Chinese zodiac; for example, midnight was ne no koku—the hour of the rat, a time purportedly active with spirits.
Before the introduction of mechanical timekeeping, Edo's residents relied on an innate sense of time, but as the city's administrative complexity increased, punctuality began to preside over daily routines. So, the seasonal time system was marked by the sound of a time bell, which included different types, such as castle bells, temple bells, and town bells, each serving specific functions. In Edo, meticulous timekeeping efforts, foreshadowing the precision operations of Shinjuku Station, were already forming, with a remarkable synchronisation of nine bells. The first bell, under shogunate jurisdiction, was installed in Honjō Machi (now Nihonbashi Kodemmachō), surrounded by nine locations around Edo Castle, including Sensō-ji, the ancient Buddhist temple located in Asakusa—a staple of all Tokyo itineraries. Each bell rang in sequence upon hearing the previous bell's sound, creating a city-wide recognition of the time.
Those with the means may have owned a fine wadokei (Japanese clock) in their residence, like the one I featured in my social media post earlier this week, seen at the Nihon Mingeikan, or Japan Folk Crafts Museum. Horologists innovated mechanical timepieces to adapt to the seasonal system. These clocks featured dual oscillators—weighted pendulums called foliots, whose swinging pace could be adjusted through movable weights, thus modifying the clock's timing. Adjusting the time display was a bi-monthly commitment. This ritual suggests a deliberate and thoughtful engagement with time itself. For anyone able to read basic kanji who saw my photograph and wondered why their knowledge of Japanese numerals was failing them: the characters on the outer ring of the clock are those of the Chinese zodiac, not numbers. The numbers you might recognise on the inside ring are also disarming since toki were counted down from 9 to 4 twice daily—seriously arcane stuff.
The seasonal hour system's timekeeping methods expanded nationwide by the mid-17th century and eventually faced decline with the Meiji era's modernisation efforts, including the separation of Shinto and Buddhism and the adoption of the Gregorian calendar, fixed time, and the proliferation of clock turrets. Experts estimate that Japanese clock-making techniques originated from the teachings of Father Giovanni Nicolao, a Jesuit Italian painter who, in 1583, was sent to Japan to found a seminary of painting. The first clock turret in Japan was built in 1603 within a church in Nagasaki, a hub of Christian culture during that era. Despite the Tokugawa shogunate's anti-Christian edicts leading to its dismantling, clock towers dramatically returned in the Meiji Period and became a symbol of modernisation and Westernisation.
Tokyo's clock turret supreme sits atop the Wakō Building at the Ginza 4-chōme intersection. This neo-Renaissance building, with its Seiko clock, is Ginza's most recognisable landmark. There's a joy to hearing its chime at midday on one of Ginza's pedestrianised Sundays or viewing it lit up as the backdrop to scenes of taxis cruising by, accompanied by the sound of an alto saxophonist who has been busking at the intersection in the evenings in recent years. The timepiece maker Seiko, a long-term market leader, pioneered the production of watches on a significant scale in Japan in 1892. They aimed to create the world's premier clock tower with the construction in Ginza but found themselves at an impasse, unable to settle on a design. This indecision led to delays, and architect Mitsuo Watanabe was eventually brought in to handle the design.
Here is the thing about the iconic Seiko clock turret: desperate to succeed on this high-profile project, Watanabe entered into an iterative process, drafting designs, constructing model towers, integrating them into the building's model, and repeating the process to perfection. He recounted in a memoir that this intense period of work led to a nervous breakdown. He would sleep beside his sketchbook at night. The building, with its world-class clock turret, was completed in 1932, but the world never knew about the toll it took on the designer.
Watanabe worked to his limits to design the iconic store that would go on to put watches on the wrists of Tokyo's workforce in the century ahead. I'm confident that Seiko watches are among those synchronised every morning by the attendants of Shinjuku Station. Watanabe's endeavour leaves me questioning whether this intensity is just what is necessary for building and maintaining a city like Tokyo. A similar blend of artistry, technical precision, and perfectionism, pursued through long hours, emerges as a recurring theme with each facet of the city we analyse.
I relate to Kaito's dad, Atsushi, longing to be an artist—to write, photograph, and create. His reasons for living in Tokyo resonate with me, not just in terms of the city's energy but also his ambition. When I began this newsletter two months ago, I was uncertain whether anybody would be interested in a long-form, text-only newsletter about a single city. But this humble weekly publication now has many readers.
Like Atsushi, I am also short of time and am often exhausted from living in a metropolis. Still, I wish to continue writing and to pursue my curiosities to their fullest. The idea for this week's newsletter began with an old Tokugawa Period clock seen at a quaint crafts museum in Meguro City, followed by a moment waiting at the ōdan hodo on the way home. As subsequent thoughts and research findings emerged, shaping the work, I couldn't shake off a feeling of haste as I pushed myself to compose all of this amidst the demands of a typical working week.
Writing these weekly dispatches has become the high point of my week creatively, and I want to continue sharing them with you. But I don't want to rush it. So, if my work offers solace or comfort as you recover from the week's demands; if it entertains, enriches your understanding of Tokyo, or inspires your travels in Japan, your support would be immensely appreciated. I have gingerly set up a Ko-fi page, hoping it will enable that support.
I'm looking for the cost of a coffee at the kissaten each month. But if you can't afford that, don't worry. My preferred approach is universal access, supported by those who can contribute, allowing others to continue reading for free. In principle, it ensures that everyone receives the same newsletter and that I get to dedicate my time to it. The ethos behind supporting me on Ko-fi is a mix of generosity and a commitment to access for all—an approach I find both admirable and, hopefully, sustainable.
Until we meet at the pedestrian crossing of a narrow Tokyo road with no passing traffic, but wait for the green signal together anyway,
AJ
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World’s Busiest Station: Shinjuku Station Tokyo