An Exchange of Cards

On a cold Sunday afternoon in December, a few months after returning to England from Japan, I finally got around to unpacking in my new home. As I worked steadily through the boxes, I felt optimistic about my decision to move back. Then, I came across my “Japan box.” Inside were documents, residency booklets, travel pamphlets, keepsakes, and meishi (名刺), or business cards I’d collected during my time in Tokyo.

Business cards are relatively rare in the UK, but the meishi remains a staple in business and social settings in Japan. The exchange of cards, often ritualistic, symbolises respect and formalises introductions—a vital gesture in building relationships. However, a shift may be occurring, and the gesture can sometimes feel overly formal, pushing young people into an etiquette mode they’d rather skip. Offering a business card to someone from the second-wave millennial or Gen-Z cohorts in a social situation might lead to a pocket search for a meishi they don’t own, followed by an apology that it was left at home.

Older generations will likely have meishi ready, and in Tokyo in the 2010s, we all carried them, which explains my extensive collection. I laid the cards out across my empty living room floor. Some had been handed to me in the context of business or customer service. In contrast, others were exchanged during late nights in the city after chance encounters when I only discovered someone’s full name and profession after hours of conversation. And, of course, I had the meishi of every person I’d called a friend in Japan. Each card sparked a memory, and at that moment, I realised what I had left behind to return home.

As I settled back into life in England, gradually overcoming the reverse culture shock, I found myself reading more about Japan than ever before, especially Tokyo—its history and design. I also deepened my interest in Japanese cinema and music. I had initially learned Japanese while living in the country, focusing on practical communication and socialising. Now, from afar, I shifted my attention to refining my skills, concentrating on kanji and grammar to address the technical gaps in my knowledge—something that felt natural to do from a distance. I soon started travelling back to Japan regularly to maintain my connection to the country and ease my longing for it.

During a 2019 trip, I visited an exhibition by the design studio Nendo titled Information or Inspiration. It divided the Suntory Gallery in Roppongi Midtown into two distinct corridors, each displaying various objets d’art. One corridor, brightly lit in white, allowed you to view the objects fully, accompanied by detailed descriptions. The other, shrouded in black, offered small windows that cropped, obscured, and mirrored the pieces, revealing only their essence. You could choose your path: gain a detailed understanding of the items before experiencing their impressionistic form, or immerse yourself in the intuitive experience first and then uncover the facts and stories afterwards.

To extend the metaphor, my time living in Japan was much like the “inspiration” corridor. After returning home, deep reading became my way of shining that bright white light on everything I had experienced, helping me process it. Reconciling my memories and emotions with a fuller understanding allowed me to do this while transporting me back to Tokyo. Still, with each book I finished, I was left with a quiet emptiness, as though my time had run out again—until the next. What I truly longed for was something I could read endlessly.

With the rise in travel to Japan following the reopening of its borders after nearly two years without tourism due to COVID-19, I noticed a growing demand from three groups: those on the information route—seeking trusted sources to learn about the country ahead of their trips; those on the inspiration route, eager to relive and make sense of their trips after the fact; and those for whom visiting Japan isn’t yet possible, but who remain curious, dreaming of it through cultural exports and vivid online imagery.

I felt it was time to put everything I’ve experienced and learned into words, so at the start of 2024, I launched the Tokyothèque weekly newsletter. Each edition is crafted to deepen readers’ understanding of the metropolis, from its intricate alleyways to peaceful coffee spots. Tokyothèque is a companion for the discerning explorer, engaging with the city’s creativity and essence. Every week, we navigate Tokyo’s urban landscape through art, design, architecture, and the personal experiences of books, walks, and moments of quiet reflection.

Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring

This month, I released the first Tokyothèque eBook, Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring, for readers keen to explore another layer. The book comprises 160 pages and is illustrated with 80 photographs. It takes you across the hills and valleys of western Tokyo, passing through historic mountains and backwater suburbs in pursuit of solitude, inner peace, and design perfection. The book is less about what to do in Japan and more about how to approach the journey.

If any of this interests you, I invite you to take my meishi and visit Tokyothèque.com. There, you can join a steadily growing group of pioneering subscribers who receive a small piece of Tokyo in their inbox each week, allowing themselves to be transported to the Japanese capital—something I look forward to continuing for readers in the years ahead.

Until we meet in Tokyo,

AJ