I landed in Tokyo with the quiet hope that the city would fix something in me. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way—just enough structure, silence, and strange efficiency to reset my brain after a few months of street food, scooter traffic, and a very close call with dengue in Southeast Asia.

Let’s just say… it delivered. And then some.

Arrival: A City That Works (Almost Too Well)

First impressions? Tokyo doesn’t just run—it glides. Everything is in place. The subway arrives down to the second. There are arrows on the pavement telling you where to stand. The taxi doors open automatically, which took me way too long to stop trying to do manually. It’s like the whole city has trust issues with human error—so they just removed the human part. Respect.

After a string of countries where “yes, we have WiFi” was more of a suggestion than a guarantee, Tokyo felt like entering a parallel universe where everything... works. Public bathrooms are spotless. People queue in perfect lines. No one speaks loudly. No one jaywalks. I spent the first few days whispering out of habit and second-guessing every social interaction.

And yet, I loved it.

My apartment was in Nakameguro—quiet, stylish, and slightly hipster, which made me feel at home without the pressure of being cool. The building had heated toilet seats, a toaster that cost more than my Airbnb in Chiang Mai, and a balcony view that somehow made even the laundry look cinematic. Tokyo is like that—it romanticizes the mundane. In a good way.

Work Mode: Activated

I didn’t come here to vacation. I came to get my act together.

After months of working from hammocks, jungle cafés, and beach bungalows that looked better on Airbnb than in real life, I needed structure. Tokyo gave me that. The silence, the order, the way people respect time—it made me feel like I should be doing more. Not out of guilt, but out of alignment.

Most mornings, I started early. Coffee from a machine (yes, a machine), a konbini breakfast—usually an egg sandwich that’s 10x better than it has any right to be—and then to work. There’s a café in Daikanyama with solid WiFi, soft jazz, and zero small talk. I became a regular. They didn’t learn my name. That’s how I knew I belonged.

My output doubled. Emails actually got answered. Decks got finished. I even organized my Google Drive, which should tell you where my mental state was. Tokyo didn’t just help me focus—it reminded me what focus feels like.

Culture Shock (and Vending Machine Therapy)

That said, Tokyo isn’t all aesthetic cafes and perfect workflows. It’s also deeply foreign. Which is the point.

I’ve been to a lot of countries, and I can usually pick up on cultural rhythms pretty fast. But Tokyo is different. The politeness is real—but so is the distance. People are kind, helpful, respectful… and also completely uninterested in your existence, which is honestly kind of refreshing.

The hardest part? The unspoken rules. You don’t talk on the train. You don’t eat while walking. You don’t blow your nose in public. And if you mess up the recycling system? May God help you.

I learned quickly. Mostly through trial and error—and watching what the locals did before making any moves. One time, I accidentally bowed at a vending machine. No one saw. I hope.

Speaking of vending machines: Tokyo’s are a personality. Need hot green tea in a can? Done. A cold corn soup? Weird, but okay. Umbrellas, toys, ties, pancakes in a jar—it’s all there. One of the highlights of my day became picking a new machine and seeing what it wanted me to try. That’s how lost I was. That’s how found I felt.

Work Culture vs. My Sanity

Even as a remote worker, you feel the pulse of Japan’s work culture. Everyone is working. All the time. The trains at 7am are packed. People fall asleep in suits on the subway, wake up at their stop, and do it all over again the next day.

It’s admirable, but exhausting. And from the outside, a little heartbreaking.

There’s this idea of “gaman” in Japanese culture—enduring hardship without complaint. It’s everywhere. People show up, they stay late, they don’t quit. It made me reflect a lot on my own habits. Am I working too little? Or just differently? Is hustle only valid if it hurts?

After two weeks of trying to keep up, I had to slow down. I reminded myself that I didn’t move to Tokyo to become a salaryman. I came to recalibrate—not disappear into a routine that isn’t mine.

Still, I picked up some good habits. I started waking up earlier. Taking meetings more seriously. Dressing better. (You can’t be in Tokyo looking like you just rolled off a surfboard.)

Dating? Ha.

Look, I tried. Sort of.

Dating in Tokyo as a foreigner is like playing a video game in hard mode without knowing the rules or language. I downloaded the apps. Swiped a bit. Matched with someone who responded in perfect English... once, three days later. We chatted for five minutes before she asked, “What are your intentions in Japan?”

I said, “Honestly? I’m just here to work and try every version of matcha.”
She unmatched me. Fair.

I didn’t take it personally. This wasn’t a wife-hunting destination. It was a tune-up. A solo mission. And to be honest, the vending machines were more emotionally available.

A Mindset Reset

By week three, something clicked. I stopped trying to figure it all out. I leaned into the routine. I stopped feeling weird for doing nothing on a Friday night. I ate dinner alone in a ramen shop with 12 seats and no music. I sat at the park with a canned coffee and didn’t check my phone. I started walking slower, dressing neater, thinking clearer.

I stopped needing to document everything. Tokyo has a way of making you quietly present. There’s no performance here. No chasing. You show up, you follow the rules, and you learn to notice the details.

And in that quiet, I found flow.

It didn’t look like productivity hacks or back-to-back meetings. It looked like doing one thing at a time. Fully. Without noise. Without interruption. That was the reset I didn’t know I needed.

Would I Go Back?

Absolutely.
Would I live here? No.
It’s too perfect. Too quiet. Too polished for someone like me who still forgets to separate the recycling.

But would I return for a month, once a year, just to clean out my mental hard drive? 100%.

Tokyo gave me space to think. Without distraction. Without performance.
And it gave me the best egg sandwich of my life—for under $2.

Not bad for a city where even the vending machines are more organized than I am.

Tokyo: Work Culture Shock, Vending Machines, and a Mindset Reset