Whenever people talk about summer in Japan, the first thing they mention is usually the heat. And fair enough. Japanese summers are not subtle. The air feels thick, shirts stick to your back within seconds, and even the cicadas seem to be screaming about the temperature.

But what I always loved was how communities seemed to have developed hundreds of little ways to make summer not just bearable, but enjoyable.

When I lived in Yamanouchi, a neighborhood in Kita-Kamakura tucked between temples, forests, and narrow winding roads, one of my favorite signs that summer had truly arrived was hearing drums in the distance. Eventually, a tiny truck would emerge from somewhere in the greenery, carrying musicians and festival lanterns, somehow navigating roads that looked barely wide enough for the truck itself.

To this day, I have no idea how they managed some of those corners.

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I love that this is one of those classic Japan moments where something is supposed to be very profound and artistic, but an entire nation has quietly agreed on a completely different interpretation.

Walking through Asakusa, it is impossible to miss the giant golden object perched on top of the black building across the Sumida River. Officially, it is called the "Flamme d'Or" or Golden Flame, and it was designed by French designer Philippe Starck as part of the Asahi Beer headquarters complex. The flame is meant to represent the burning heart of Asahi's brewing spirit.

Which is a lovely idea.

Unfortunately, to many people, including me, it looks much less like a blazing flame and much more like something a very large golden dog may have left behind.

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For years I walked past this building and never once understood it.

It sits there in Otemachi surrounded by glass towers trying very hard to look modern, and then there’s this thing. Solid, ribbed concrete, barely any windows, just kind of looming like it knows something the rest of us don’t. I always thought it looked completely out of place, like it had been dropped in from a different version of Tokyo.

In my head I called it the Dark Tower. It felt like the kind of place where something important was happening, but no one was supposed to ask questions. Not a normal office, not a hotel, definitely not somewhere you casually walk into.

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The United States turns 250 this year, which sounds both very old and somehow still quite young at the same time.

What I always find interesting, living in Japan, is how that timeline overlaps in slightly unexpected ways.

When the US was founded in 1776, Japan was deep in the Edo period. Closed off, stable, and not particularly interested in what was happening across the ocean. For a while, the two countries mostly existed side by side.

And then Commodore Perry showed up in 1853.

Black ships, a very direct request to open up, and suddenly things moved quickly. What followed was not just the opening of Japan, but the beginning of a relationship that has evolved into something that now feels completely normal.

That is the part that still surprises me.

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Every time I see a koban like this, I do a double take. A koban is basically a small neighborhood police box, usually simple, practical, and easy to spot when you need help. You’ll find them all over Japan, and they’re the place you go for directions, lost items, or just general “I’m a bit stuck” moments.

And then there are koban like this one in Ginza 1‑chome. Brick base, round window, and that curved, almost cone-shaped top that looks more like it belongs in a design museum than on a street corner. It’s been a bit of a local landmark for years, with its current look dating back to the Showa era when there was a push to give even small public buildings a bit more architectural personality. It has been updated over time, but it has kept that distinctive shape that makes people notice it.

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There is a very specific kind of luxury in Japan that starts with almost no planning at all.

You just get on a train.

Atami was always that place for me. Close enough to Tokyo that it barely feels like a trip, but just far enough for something to shift. In under an hour, the city drops away, the air turns softer with the sea nearby, and a weekend suddenly feels within reach.

I used to go there more often than I had any real reason to. Not for sightseeing, not for a checklist, but for onsen.

There is something about hot spring water that resets you faster than anything else. You arrive carrying a bit of Tokyo with you, and within minutes, that background noise fades.

What I always liked about Atami is how easily that starts. Even at the station.

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I have a confession to make. I have a sock addiction. And more specifically, a tabi sock addiction.

It started innocently enough. One pair became two. Two became a small collection. And now, opening my sock drawer feels a bit like flipping through a travel journal of Japan, told entirely in patterns, colors, and split toes.

Tabi socks, with their distinctive separation of the big toe, are practical by design, originally meant for traditional footwear like geta and zori. But in Japan, practicality never excludes personality. Over time, tabi socks have evolved into canvases for creativity, seasonal motifs, regional humor, and quiet elegance. And somehow, I keep finding reasons to bring home “just one more pair.”

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It’s Fun Friday, and today I’m celebrating two small things on my desk that quietly set the tone for my day.

First up is my perpetual Totoro calendar. Solid, cheerful, and endlessly reusable, it sits there calmly marking the date with its little wooden blocks, completely unbothered by deadlines or meetings. There’s something deeply comforting about it. No flipping pages, no pressure. Just a gentle reminder of what day it is, delivered with Studio Ghibli charm. Totoro has a way of making even the most ordinary morning feel a little softer.

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