Tokyo is a fast-paced, yet curiously silent place. At certain crossroads, sound is measured in decibels reminding you of the stillness embedded in the city’s rhythm. People stroll quietly, in a contemplative way, yet everything moves at high speed.

 

I’ve romanticized Tokyo for years. Two good friends of mine lived here after college, and they would tell me about their adventures: amusing, sometimes lonely, always fascinating. Being there, I felt that paradox so welcome, and at the same time, somewhat unwelcome.

We were a group of eight traveling together, which in Tokyo is considered quite large. Bars often turned us away at the door, spaces are small, intimacy is the norm, and perhaps the fear was that we’d be too loud. It was a clash of cultures: hospitality extended warmly to foreigners, yet restraint when the group size challenged their customs.

 

But these contrasts became the portal. I had never been to a listening bar where silence is absolute, and angelic music floats in the air. To simply sit there, not speaking, just listening… it was one of the dreamiest places I’ve ever been.

 

And then, the dining experience: food enjoyed quietly, without phones or cameras, no endless sobremesas like in Mexico. A meal here is quick, present, sacred. It added a new layer to the way I think about eating, walking, drinking, and simply being.

 

What stood out was a way of doing, a level of focus I´m not used to seeing on my side of the world. The way a cocktail is prepared, the precision of how a table is set, how clothing is made, and here objects feel alive. They seem to carry a soul to them, and in rare instances certain objects start to feel like subjects. As if their maker imbued something deeper in them. 

 

Tokyo reminds me that everyday exchanges can be experienced as portals to slowness and fastness. I take home these contrasts and contemplate how both can co-exist simultaneously.