Canon's Diary

Monday, September 15, 2025. A cloudy sky. The air was pleasantly cool, and for the first time in weeks I turned off the air conditioner, opened the window, and let the outside breeze drift in. In Japan, today is Respect-for-the-Aged Day, a national holiday. The scaffolding that had long surrounded the exterior walls of my building is finally set to be dismantled tomorrow. Through the open window came the many sounds of daily life. At regular intervals I could hear the Hankyu trains pass by—the local train clattering lazily, the express rushing past with a high-pitched urgency. The jarring clang of the railway crossing, so familiar on my commute, does not seem to reach my sixth-floor room. A scooter rattled down the street in front of the building, and now and then the voices of children floated up from below.

It was a quiet morning. Breakfast was already finished, the dishes washed. Only the kitchen light, forgotten, still shone. Beside me, a black fan turned slowly. In front of me, the 55-inch television sat dark, a silent black rectangle that disturbed the balance of the room.

After two days of tennis, fatigue lingered in my body. My muscles ached. Sitting still posed no problem, but if I so much as began to tidy the room, my thighs and abs cried out, “Please, not today—give us a break!” My neck felt stiff as well. Perhaps I had gripped too tightly during practice, still unaccustomed to the heavier racket.

At noon I began preparing lunch. I set one pot to boil buckwheat noodles made entirely from soba flour. In another pot, I cooked cabbage, pork, and the last of the enoki mushrooms. I flavored the broth with soba sauce and white dashi, then placed the noodles and chopped green onions into a bowl, pouring the hot soup over them. The cloudy cooking water became soba-yu, poured into a cup to drink. As always, I added a raw egg. The distinctive thickness of 100% soba matched well with the crisp bite of the mushrooms. This meal has become my holiday staple.

After lunch, warmth spread through my body. In the afternoon, a little sunlight broke through, heating the room again. I closed the window, turned on the air conditioner, and sank into my chair, heavy with post-meal drowsiness and lingering fatigue. I had made no plans for the day. I intended simply to drift through it.

That morning I had watched a satellite program introducing A Coruña, the “glass city” in northwestern Spain. The camera wandered at eye level through the streets, chatting warmly with locals while revealing the region’s culture and its people’s affection for their city. Facing the ocean, A Coruña shimmered with beauty. Its buildings carried both sunlit vibrancy and centuries of history. It was a life unlike anything in Japan—unique, breathing, irreplaceable. At open-air cafés, people laughed in conversation. At nine in the evening, the streets were still bright, lined with bars, alive with dancing and song. Southern Europeans seemed cheerful, open, and deeply proud of the places they called home.

By comparison, my own life may feel somewhat solitary. Perhaps only when playing tennis do I sense true communication with others. Japanese people are often described as quiet, reserved, hesitant to show emotion. To us, holding back one’s assertions is not weakness but a way of sparing others unnecessary agitation. Yet in countries where self-expression is expected, such restraint may be difficult to understand. In my younger years, I could not embrace that quietness; I immersed myself in foreign companies, hungry for cross-cultural exchange. But now, at this age, I finally find beauty in the modesty and humility of Japanese culture. I no longer envy the exuberance of southern Europe. Instead, I accept the flow of my own culture, and in doing so, I no longer feel out of place within it. Strangely, this shift has made it easier to endure petty office politics or the broader unfairness of society.

In the late afternoon I went shopping for dinner. By four o’clock the heat had eased. I wove through the usual crowd of people and bicycles along the Tomita shopping street. There were no greetings exchanged. For dinner I planned to make pasta, so I placed spinach and bacon in my basket, along with a grilled fish I had not eaten in some time. At the checkout, the cashier asked me the familiar questions.

“Would you like a bag?”
“No.”
“How will you pay?”
“Credit card.”

It was a formulaic exchange, absent of overt emotion. Yet we both knew: when you look someone in the eye, you can usually glimpse what lies behind their words. Today, the cashier offered me a faint smile.

Back home, I set water to boil for the pasta. On another burner I sautéed spinach and bacon with a touch of garlic, then added milk and seasoned with consommé before tossing everything with the pasta. Simple, but satisfying.

It had been a long while since I allowed myself such a leisurely day. I felt restored, ready to face the week ahead.