Tokyo in Translation
When I first visited Japan in 2019, I traveled through Kyoto, Osaka, and Nara—cities that left a strong impression through their beauty, history, and cultural depth. But as I left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I hadn’t seen Tokyo. As Japan’s capital and mega city, Tokyo seemed essential to understanding the country in full. I left eager to return—and this summer, I finally did.
Tokyo’s size is difficult to grasp. With more than 40 million people in its metropolitan area—four times the population of Greater London—it can feel overwhelming at first. But as I arrived, the questions racing through my mind weren’t necessarily about Tokyo’s size, rather its character. I began to wonder: could Tokyo truly live up to its global reputation? Known for its sleek architecture, spotless trains, and celebrated food culture, the city often feels more imagined than understood. How much of that image holds true? And more personally—how much of Tokyo’s everyday life could I begin to understand in just a few days?
Tokyo Skytree. Photo by Alexander Parini.
That may sound surprising coming from someone who’s lived over half a decade in Asia—between Beijing and Ho Chi Minh City—and traveled to cities like Hong Kong, Seoul, and Taipei. I’ve grown familiar with how large cities in the region operate. But Tokyo still felt different. It’s a city that’s easy to move through, but hard to read.
On the surface, Tokyo is convenient. English is available in most tourist areas. I paid using Apple Pay or a credit card. Google Maps and translation apps worked without issue. In contrast to places like mainland China—where domestic platforms tend to define daily life and global tools are less prevalent—Tokyo feels more navigable.
And yet, that sense of smoothness doesn’t erase the feeling of being at a distance. A friend once told me that being in Japan feels like stepping into a movie. That analogy stayed with me. There’s a kind of aesthetic clarity to the city—spaces are thoughtfully designed, public interactions are composed, and small moments seem intentional in a way that can feel cinematic. One afternoon, I passed a construction site where an older worker stood at the edge of the sidewalk, bowing gently to each passerby to signal it was safe to continue walking. It was a simple gesture, but choreographed with such care that it felt less like a routine and more like a scene—quiet, deliberate, and completely in character with the world around it.
Tokyo fashion after dark.
I felt the cinematic experience especially during a brunch at a small café called Der Koffer. On paper, it could have been any cosmopolitan café: a foreign name, carefully plated dishes, stylish branding. But the longer I sat there, the more the differences surfaced. The furniture had a quiet eccentricity—modern but slightly offbeat. My coffee came in a delicate cup with a matching saucer, clearly chosen with care. Around me, customers spoke softly, dressed in ways that caught the eye—not because they were loud, but because they were distinct. There’s a form of individual style in Tokyo that’s hard to pin down: not trendy in a global sense, but not traditional either. It feels personal and studied—subtle but unmistakably expressive.
And then came the menu. Offered in English, which I appreciated, but prefaced with large, bold rules: "MUST BUY ONE FOOD AND ONE DRINK". I smiled. The tone clashed with the quiet warmth of the staff and the low-key elegance of the space. But this kind of contrast felt oddly characteristic—part of what makes Tokyo hard to sum up in a single impression.
Brunch at Der Koffer. Photo by Alexander Parini.
Some of this disconnect, I know, comes from my own background. My academic and professional work has focused on China, Vietnam, and Taiwan—places geographically close to Japan, but culturally and historically distinct. I’ve never studied Japan as deeply, and that unfamiliarity showed. But in a way, that’s what made the experience more compelling. The not-knowing was part of the draw.
Tokyo’s major sights—the Imperial Palace East Gardens, the Shibuya crossing, Tokyo Skytree—are worth visiting, and they live up to expectations. But those weren’t the moments that stayed with me. What lingered were the quiet details: a perfectly timed bow, the soft silence of a crowded train, the careful presentation of a simple meal. These small, intentional gestures revealed a deeper cultural continuity that ran beneath the city’s modern infrastructure. For me, that was where Tokyo felt most meaningful—and where I’d encourage others to look more closely.
Alexander Parini is an academic, writer, and international relations specialist in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. He works as an international relations lecturer and global engagement liaison for the University of Economics and Finance. Alexander is an active member of the American Chamber of Commerce in Vietnam and the Council of Taiwanese Chambers of Commerce in Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh City Branch). He currently serves as a vice chair on AmCham Vietnam’s Education and Training Committee.
Alexander holds master's degrees from SOAS University of London and Peking University. Before moving to Asia, he worked in U.S. politics and studied political science at Portland State University.
He is active on both LinkedIn and X (Twitter).