Canon's Diary

Wednesday, September 10, 2025.
Today, I was scheduled to visit a client in Toyosu, Tokyo, on a business trip. Dressed in a white shirt without a tie, I left Settsu-Tonda Station at 8 a.m., boarded the Shinkansen from Kyoto, and headed toward Shinagawa. Just yesterday, I had wrapped up a kickoff meeting with another client near Yumeshima in Osaka, leaving me with a mountain of tasks. On top of that, I now had another project meeting with a different client, pressing down on me.

I was supposed to review the meeting documents on the morning train, but my body was worn out, and I found it hard to concentrate. Two passengers behind me kept chatting loudly, further scattering my focus. To drown out their voices, I put on my earphones, listened to quiet music, and stared at my laptop—but in the end, I slumped into my seat and dozed off.

At Shinagawa, I transferred to the Yamanote Line and made my way to Yurakucho. Earlier in the day, a linear rainband had formed over western Japan, causing delays on the Sanyo Shinkansen. But by around 10:30 a.m., central Tokyo was sweltering under harsh sunlight. The station platforms were stifling, humid, and exhausting to walk through. Compared to Osaka, Tokyo’s central stations are far more labyrinthine, with endless underground passages.

I got off the Yamanote Line at Yurakucho, and before switching to the Yurakucho Line, I wandered around in search of lunch. Though still in the heart of the city, the slightly aging streets carried a different feel. Beneath the elevated tracks, rows of eateries stood as if they had been there forever. I chose a soba shop, stepped inside, and ordered a soba-and-curry rice bowl set.

The shop owner, an older man, was gruff. “Hot or cold?” he barked.
“Hot, please,” I replied, taking a seat at the narrow counter. Water was self-service, and after eating, you were expected to hand your dishes back to the owner and wipe down the table yourself. Yet, somehow, the place carried a nostalgic charm—a true downtown Tokyo atmosphere. In contrast to the brusque owner, the friendly female staff member left a lasting impression.

Leaving the shop with a toothpick between my teeth, I boarded the Yurakucho Line and arrived at Toyosu. Compared to Yurakucho, Toyosu was a polished office district. Emerging from Exit 1C, modern buildings lined the streets. Walking about 200 meters north, I found myself captivated—not by the stone pavement beneath my feet, but by the leafy green archway woven overhead between the towers. Food trucks sold kebabs, and even glasses of wine were available at street stalls, showcasing a very different face of the city than Yurakucho.

I joined my colleagues and attended a two-hour kickoff meeting. My boss, though younger, had more industry experience, and he handled this high-stakes kickoff with ease. He carefully presented the materials I had prepared beforehand. We hadn’t rehearsed, yet he spoke fluently as if he knew the contents inside and out. Even small contradictions in the documents, he patched up smoothly with his own insights. I thought to myself, He’s got this today. Fatigued, I refrained from adding much and simply observed the meeting in silence.

The meeting ended successfully, and I left Toyosu. Parting ways with my boss—who had somewhere to stop by in Shinagawa—I bought a fried chicken bento and a can of highball, then boarded the Shinkansen. On a weekday evening, the train bound for Osaka wasn’t too crowded: just a scattering of office workers in white shirts and women with suitcases. Fewer foreign tourists than usual, I noticed. Outside, the sky was dark, and the fluorescent lights inside the carriage felt especially bright.

Finally, I could switch into off-mode. I opened my bento and began to eat. Yes, it’s moments like this—quietly eating—that I feel most at ease. At home, a brand-new tennis racket awaited me, still untouched in its box. I imagined myself trying it out over the weekend, and as the train sped through the darkness, I closed my eyes for a while.