001—Tokyo9 Act I: Who said anything about easy?

Prologue

This is the account of the events leading to, during, and following the first of nine trips to Japan that I decided to take as part of my Tokyo9 project.

Let me say this out front: things didn’t go as planned—not even close.

This trip was initially conceived in the late summer of 2023 as a one-off reward journey for making it through to the other side of a relocation from China to Italy that took almost two years. However, during the days I spent preparing, and through what surfaced thanks to the endless journaling I was inspired to do by the very idea of the trip, it soon began to show significance beyond a simple end-of-year prize.

In July 2023, my wife, I, and our two furry family members had just moved into our new home in Milan—the first house I ever bought—and Christmas 2023 was going to be the first significant holiday we would spend together in a non-temporary address.

The previous two years were nothing short of a whirlwind of events, starting from the summer of 2021 when, within 28 days of each other, I lost both my grandfather and my mother’s second husband, Dante, both extraordinary people in my life.

My mother’s entire life revolved around Dante. He was her one person, and now that he was gone, she had to restart arranging the pieces of her life (not the first time she had to go through this.) At that time, because of widespread COVID-19 lockdowns, with travel severely restricted—particularly from China—I could not be close to her during the initial days of emotional distress, nor could I offer any practical help. It became, however, unequivocal that the time had come for my wife and I to move back to Italy to be closer to my parents for a while—nearly two decades after I left the country on a one-way ticket.

We started to work on the relocation right away, in August 2021, but the circumstances presented more than one challenge, and it took us almost two years to finally settle in a new home. Picture this process: navigating harsh, unannounced lockdowns as the Chinese Government was impossibly secretive when coordinating the shutdown of isolated buildings or entire cities, and no one would know up to the moment doors were locked or compounds fenced, as it happend to us multiple times; 22 days of draconian quarantine in China upon our return from the only time we left the country during those two years (my wife and I each had one single room, one bed, one desk, one stool, one toilet, one soap for both body and laundry, three lunchboxes per day, no room service, slow and restricted-access Internet connection, for 22 days straight); immigration procedures for my wife in times when even embassies and consulates were shut down and we weren’t allowed to physically leave the compound; fighting out terms with the airlines, the China General Administration of Customs, their various local bureaus, and third party agents for the intercontinental relocation of our two furry family members (eventually negotiating questionable fees to obtain questionablly produced documentation); legal, compliance, and banking complexities for the relocation of my businesses; tax domicile requirements for my family and me across four different territories each of which could have potentially laid a claim to part of our global income; and after we finally landed in Europe—the first city we set foot on was Frankfurt, due to logistic necessities—living in several temporary accommodations in Italy for months while searching for a permanent property to buy; moving finally to Milan, working on the renovation and installation of all furniture; and all while handling multiple shockwaves at work, including a sudden interruption of working capital in January 2022 and a consequent brutal staff downsizing due to growing tensions with our investors. And I have scratched the surface.

In the wake of all of this—which in my journal came to be symbolically named “The Great Transition” (I like to give a title to each major period of my life. It helps me see the overall narrative arc more clearly)—I felt the newly acquired stability was a success that called for celebration.

December 2023 was also a special time in other parts of my life. Having recently resigned, it was the first time I could travel without being tied to a work schedule or feeling guilty for being absent from a job.

Over the course of six years, since launching my last entrepreneurial venture in 2017, I built my business, a Hong Kong-domiciled consultancy of two (me and my historical business partner), into a cross-border, heavily regulated system, raising funding from A-list institutional investors, comprising dozens of vehicles located throughout Europe and the US, in which I held dozens of directorships and other roles that kept me legally tethered. 

Even after selling the business in 2020 to an asset manager (while remaining on the company's board and a member of the senior management), the buyer’s toxic, micromanaging company culture didn’t benefit my lifestyle. In fact, I had all the same responsibilities from before, plus someone whose only interest was squeezing every last drop of energy out of me while holding tightly onto the economic interests I was creating. Eventually, I resolved to leave in 2022, and it took me almost a year to successfully negotiate and secure reasonable exit terms that reflected my years of dedication, which took effect on October 1, 2023. 

Finally, after six long years of uncompromising devotion to my work obligations (picture 7 a.m. through after-midnight, including most weekends, although COVID-19 changed many things for the better…), I could comfortably set up an auto-reply email that said (paraphrasing), “Your email won't matter to me. You’ll have to wait while I reclaim my sanity. Thank you.”

“Living life as an artist is a practice. You are either engaging in the practice or you’re not. It makes no sense to say you’re not good at it. It’s like saying, “I’m not good at being a monk." You are either living as a monk or you’re not.”

- Rick Rubin

Tokyo9 was also going to be my first time returning to Asia after living there for nearly 20 years. Any Westerner with experience living in that part of the world for an extended period will understand how special it is and how strong and lasting the bonds can be.

In my case, if this was true for any country in Asia, and Japan in particular, it was overwhelmingly the case when it came to Tokyo. The city distilled so many of the things I fell in love with during my two-decade adventure in the continent—it was clean, modern, safe, punctual to a fault, uncompromising on aesthetics and yet uncompromising on function too, forward-looking, diverse as only the center of a greater urban area of 40 million residents can be, stocked with all the best products and services from around the world—are you looking for a traditional Bitto cheese produced in mountain pastures on the Orobie Pre-Alps between June and September from Orobica goats milk? Try Isetan, not Milan—a daily masterclass in taste, the largest urban center of the world and yet without a single neighborhood lacking a warm and familiar café, a set of poetic Noren (fabric dividers) signaling the entrance to a ramen shop where the local ramenya (ramen chef) has been honing his secret soup recipe for a generation, or a well-kept green respite from the glass, steel, and concrete that make our cities, or a small, privately owned shop showing the hand-made work of a local brilliant artisan. Last but not least, you don’t need to study a word of Japanese to decipher the word “welcome,” as it’s apparent in everyone’s body language. (You do need to study Japanese for most everything else, though.)

Tokyo was also poignantly connected to my special memories of the place, starting from my first time there in July 2009, when I experienced an urban adventure of 48 sleepless hours, accompanied by my dearest and most significant friend. Within that time—wandering the streets counting on sheer serendipity—we experienced an outdoor rock concert-cum-dance; got invited to a private house party complete with an open bar, strobe lights, lasers, and the whole shebang; we indulged in world-class ramen and barbecue joints; we crashed in the East Gardens of the Imperial Palace (which I’m sure is pretty illegal); we navigated the endless labyrinths of a local onsen (hot springs); explored obsessive shops of manga figures, videogames, and hats (totally a Japanese thing…), and, obviously, pachinko parlors—the list goes on. I could not name one movie that depicts a weekend so intense (the Hangover is a close match, but only because I did not temporarily lose my buddy).

This city consistently provided some of the most beautiful experiences of my life. No matter who I was with at any given moment, I would see in them the replica expressions of wonder and awe that my face showed during my first trip there. Each time, I felt I had magic powers and was about to take them on a journey into another miraculous dimension.

Finally, Tokyo would be the perfect opportunity to recenter myself and reorganize my thoughts in preparation for what lay ahead in the next cycle of my life’s renewal. I moved to a new continent, the culmination of my two decades living in Asia, and I got closure with my last iteration of business creation.  Looking at my career and life ahead, I was determined to get involved only with things that would add to my physical and spiritual well-being. It was time to reinvent myself yet again to continue being the lead character in my life—the way I already did several times in the past. And what place was better suited to putting you in the right headspace to open up your mind and refresh your vision? Tokyo was that place.

This trip was going to be a celebration 20 years in the making.

And all of this has been not. Or has it?

Preparation

I put things in motion in September 2023 with the ceremonious opening of a new folder in my laptop’s note-taking app and the cracking of the spine of a brand-new paper notebook dedicated solely to the trip. In my system, very few things clear the bar for using a separate notebook entirely dedicated to one project. In fact, to mark the significance of this voyage, I picked one of my four limited-edition creme-yellow A5 Stalogy notebooks (hopeless stationary nerds will understand…)

Next, I bought Tokyo travel guides and maps (also paper) with varying levels of detail. My plan was to photocopy these sources in black and white so that I could freely mark them up with my own color coding system, highlighting routes and landmarks to follow, photograph, or note for reference, and later take with me during my shooting sessions. Carrying paper copies allows me to get off my phone and nudges my headspace deeper into the meditative state I experience during my photoshoots.

Though Tokyo was already quite a familiar destination for me, given the number and range of subjects I intended to cover, I needed this trip to be far from the typical traveler experience. I needed it to be meticulous, exacting, and highly calculated—the paragon of a Navy SEAL mission. I compiled a catalog of shooting subjects, organized by theme and location, and ran imaginary simulations of how each planned photography session would fit into each day. Finally, I created a daily session schedule, divided into “Early AM” (6 to 9 a.m.), “AM/noon” (9 a.m. to 3 p.m.), “Golden Hour” (3 to 5 p.m.), “Evening” (5 to 9 p.m.), “Night” (9 p.m. to 1 a.m.), and “Deep Night” (1 to 6 a.m.).

I created a checklist of all the equipment I needed and then took myself shopping at various photographic equipment stores, DIY stores, and clothing stores. In a few instances, I had to source some items from overseas, waiting patiently for their delivery. I ran an inventory multiple times, carefully placing everything on the floor, like in a flatlay scene, to appease my incurable packing OCD.

I also worked with my physiotherapist to strengthen the muscle groups used in the body movements I knew I’d use the most. You might not think about the physical demands of a committed photographer, but the constant repositioning and multiple movements during photographic sessions can be quite taxing over time. The last thing I wanted was a relapse of my L5-S1 disc herniation while on the road.

Throughout the process, I also kept a daily journal (pen and paper) of my free-flowing inspirations and anticipations of my time in Tokyo.

Finally, and inevitably, I downloaded Duolingo (for the nth time in my life) and set up daily calendar reminders so that I wouldn’t miss a single day of studies. It was not the first time I tried to study Japanese, but I was far more consistent this time, which got me through the course much farther than ever.

“Plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”

- Dwight D. Eisenhower

This was also when I came up with the final name of this project.

From the very beginning, I wanted this project to create a greater sense of presence and purpose, rather than a “one-and-done” project with a quick start, an abrupt finish, and then life carries on. Besides, the practice of my particular style of photography—documentary—has taught me the value of a long-form project, something you don’t do for the sake of producing and publishing content as often as possible (the much more common go-to way of those who are trying to be relevant in our times). In documentary photography, the focus is on how deep and comprehensive you can go into the subject as you research and expose yourself to it repeatedly under different circumstances. Looking at things through a 10-year lens seemed appropriate. And so, I was determined to take one trip a year for ten years to ensure this particular part of the world that resonated with me so early on in my life—and for so long after that—would remain a substantial, meaningful, and lasting part of my life despite the course of the events that kept me chained to my business first and brought me back to Italy later.

Accordingly, Tokyo10 was the name I initially chose.

It was during my Japanese language studies when I learned that the number “nine” in Japanese is kyū, which is pronounced like the letter “Q,” also the first initial of my wife’s first name, that I closed the loop: this was going to be a nine-year exploration of Tokyo’s inspirations, interwoven with my new quest for a life renewed, it was going to encompass and symbolize everything meaningful I am lucky to have and be dedicated to the woman I fell in love with and married in 2018.

Mission: Tokyo9.

ETD: November 30th.

Day One

Everything was building up according to plan, but, as with any attempt to ignore fate, beginning on November 19th, things started happening that threatened to delay my departure in two weeks.

For starters, I came down with a bad cold that made me feel lethargic, not to mention overwhelmed by my own fast-paced agenda. While most people today might default to COVID-19 concerns, despite showing some pretty convincing symptoms, I decided not to test for it. Due to my poor health, however, I was forced to stop going to the gym for the remainder of November, which hardly put me in the best physical and mental condition to start the adventure of a lifetime.

As if that wasn’t enough, on November 30th, the day of my departure, I also woke up to an unfortunate toothache. It wasn’t something that just popped up out of nowhere. I had it coming, but I neglected it for a while because it wasn’t a persistent pain. On the plus side, the pain presented only while eating hot foods. On the other side, however, Japan isn’t famous for cold turkey sandwiches and salty pretzels—my tooth condition wasn’t exactly an invitation to the endless supply of earth’s most amazing selection of grilled meats and hot ramen bowls. Praying it wouldn’t get worse, I decided I could live with it.

On Thursday, November 30th, I boarded my flight.

“Showing up is 80% of life.”

- Woody Allen

I didn’t fly directly from Milan to Tokyo. Nor did I find the closest European transfer to minimize travel time. Instead, I was mindful of my budget and used some of the hundreds of thousands of miles I accumulated over the years with Cathay Pacific flying through Hong Kong. I figured using my frequent flyer miles and a small cash top-up to secure business class en route to Tokyo would justify the ten extra hours of travel time. Besides, having passed through Hong Kong International Airport going to or coming from many other adventures over the past 20 years, I didn’t mind the layover: going through Hong Kong would only add to the positive vibes of this trip.

This is when things started to spiral down quickly.

The entire trip consisted of a 13-hour flight to Hong Kong, a four-hour layover, and another six hours to my final destination—Tokyo. As I was climbing out from under two weeks of sickness and wasn’t anywhere near feeling better, the extended travel time sucked every last bit of energy out of my body.

As well, keep in mind the time of year. It was the beginning of winter when, in Tokyo, the weather gets close to zero degrees and the days are shortest—the sun sets by 4:55 p.m. By the time I landed, my body’s circadian rhythm was still on Central European Time—10:08 a.m., to be precise. But my watch was saying otherwise, 5:08 p.m. And then again, my senses were experiencing total darkness—as if it was time to sleep.

It was also brutally cold, and my wardrobe didn’t help: I wanted to travel with minimal luggage, but part of my plan was to spend at least a whole full-nighter on the streets, with temperatures close to zero. My only choice of coat to withstand such adventure was a professional mountaineering down jacket with sealed sleeves. Technically speaking, I was prepared for -30°C. Now, this worked perfectly for the long hours of night shoots, but during the day, getting around the city while wearing this jacket, especially when riding public transportation, felt like wearing a space suit on Miami Beach in July.

Despite all the adversities I was facing, my adrenaline from finally arriving in Tokyo kept me alert and happy during the commute from the airport to the hotel. It wasn’t until I arrived at my destination, with the longest part of my voyage behind me, that I started to feel signs of the physical strain of—if my math was correct—close to 24 hours of travel.

Of course, the real checkmate was waiting for me there.

I booked the Trunk Hotel, a very hippie-like, free-spirited vibe of a hotel, with large common spaces, co-working desks in the lobby, an open area with a DJ spinning vinyl, great coffee during the day, and a bar for evening and nighttime imbibing. Except, the Trunk Hotel I meticulously researched and selected in Shibuya-ku had two locations—one just behind Omotesando-dori, where anyone would want to be. The other location was recently opened right next to Yoyogi Park. The first location was fully booked. Besides, the rooms were €1,300 a night. The second location had availability, and its rates, although still steep, were not as ridiculous.

What I didn’t notice in the fine print on the website is that the location next to Yoyogi Park was designed with a completely different concept in mind—privacy (translation: isolation). There were no shared spaces whatsoever; the lobby was just a small, minimalist corridor and a front desk with enough space to accommodate one or two guests at a time. This meant there was no loitering. Guests were quickly funneled through to the elevator on the other end of this lobby/corridor.

The hallways leading to guest rooms on each floor were so dark, I almost had to use my phone’s flashlight to find the number. But the dark hallway paled in comparison to the view from my room’s second-floor window. I was looking at a pitch-black entrance on the west side of Yoyogi Park. Once the sun completely set, a brick wall would have been a better view. I remember thinking that government-backed psychological tests on the effects of human isolation were probably less brutal than this.

As the cherry on top of this bitter-sweet sundae, when I finally got to my room—which I paid for with a credit card that required 30 minutes of negotiation with my bank and credit card company in Italy before it would work in Tokyo—the temperature felt closer to a balmy 26°C or 27°C despite the thermostat reading a reasonable 18°C. I tried lowering it and then switching off the heat altogether, but that didn’t help much.

At this point, I would have been biologically justified in conceding to my exhaustion, but I knew it would have only aggravated my next day’s cycle. Besides, if there was one thing I learned over the years, particularly within the last 20 of them living intercontinentally, it’s that whenever you feel at your worst, getting out there—wherever “there" is—will save you. Woody Allen said it best: “Showing up is 80 percent of life.” So, despite feeling like a train had just run me over, I decided I was going to drag myself out of the Trunk (pun intended) and enjoy a few moments of absolute peace and freedom. I was, after all, away from the world I knew and the world that knew me.

My plan was to recharge and then head back to the room to crash into a profoundly deep and regenerative sleep so that I could dive into my photographic work the next day. At least, that was my goal.

Before going out to see the city, I opened my luggage, unpacked it, and meticulously laid out all my gear on every available surface. Then, I checked to ensure that all electronics were either charged or charging for tomorrow—I anticipated there was no chance I would have enough energy to do so when I came back, nor would I have enough time to do it the following morning.

I showered, shaved, dressed, and headed out to get reacquainted with nighttime Tokyo (it seemed that, for the time being, all of my grooming and preparation provided that little boost of energy for my walk).

I headed off into the heart of Shibuya-ku. My first mission was to find food. I decided to get a cup of ramen noodles at the historically renowned Kiraku. Its itamae (chef/cook) is considered an expert, and this was a place I short-listed during my research. As I sat at the bar table, I noticed that the entire staff was non-Japanese. This put me off—and perhaps I should have left, but I was too tired and too hungry to go elsewhere. Unsurprisingly, the fare was substandard, even compared to popular but average chain ramen shops. I guessed the new underwhelming circumstances had to be recent enough not to have tarnished their high reputation yet. I left disappointed about the food but glad my observational skills and instincts were still quite sharp.

Next, I went for a whiskey nightcap at the Jazz Soul Blues Bar (JSB), a popular “jazz bar,” a concept I had yet to see outside of Japan. Whereas the name would lead someone to think these venues are about live music and being social, they are actually everything but. DJ-spun vinyl records are played on an actual DJ-driven turn-table rig, and the patrons listen attentively, refraining from engaging in conversation. Some of them may offer a limited food selection, and most of them serve alcohol. While their numbers are slowly dwindling, there are still hundreds of these quaint jazz bars, and not only in Tokyo but throughout Japan. Mr. Kobayashi, the owner of JSB and a legend in this small community, has remained the famous face of JSB for more than three decades. This man has seen nearly a lifetime's worth of jazz legends in his chairs. Without a doubt, this was one of the stops in Tokyo I was most looking forward to.

Taking a seat at the counter, I ordered my go-to pour, Laphroaig—neat—and paused to take in the sights and sounds around me. After what could have been an hour of attentive listening (and a refill), and against my better judgment and Tokyo jazz bar culture, I attempted to engage in some friendly musical conversation with Mr. Kobayashi. I decided that my angle was to ask why, in a jazz bar on this night, he was spinning soul music exclusively. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Do you ever play jazz?

DJ: No! I don't like jazz.

Me: What?! Why not?

DJ: Because jazz musicians only know jazz, jazz, jazz. They think there is no other music beyond jazz.

What could I say? I nodded my head in agreement and, in my head, I concluded that, in keeping with this day’s course of abysmal events, this made sense. Moreover, I had no intention or headspace to get into a heated argument about the merits of jazz music. So, I let it slide, threw back the last of my Laphroaig, and retraced my steps back to the tiny Trunk.

By 11 p.m., I was in my room and tucked into bed. I instantly fell unconscious from exhaustion—just as I planned. Success!

Or so I thought…

Three hours later, I was lying in bed, eyes closed—but wide awake. I was operating for more than 32 hours without sleep. I was exhausted down to my deepest core. I was fully isolated from the world as I knew it, surrounded by darkness, sweating through every thread of fabric that came into contact with my body. Sleep was a foreign concept.

I don’t remember ever feeling this exhausted. It was a perfect psychological storm of loneliness, extreme fatigue, and being in unfamiliar lands. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. I could also hear it in my head. Though I had a clock right beside me, my sense of time was completely off. In fact, I remember feeling frightened by time altogether. The very experience of time ticking by had changed for me. It felt as though I was having entire micro-experiences and expansive thoughts between each passing second. As a result of these extended seconds, minutes were taking painfully long, and hours were infinite and unattainable. I felt sick, out of control, and entirely incapable of understanding my existence.

Sleep deprivation is used as a training tactic by several militaries around the world. It’s also used to break down captured criminals to create confusion and get them to confess. In retrospect, I can now appreciate the extent to which you lose control over your body and mind. It wasn’t pretty—but I had no choice. All I could do was power through this panic insanity and hope to fall asleep.

Thankfully, I did. The last hour I remember displayed on the clock was 4:01 a.m.

Day Two

The next time I opened my eyes to check the time, it was 7:00 a.m. I knew I wasn’t adequately rested, but my internal clock was covering up for my physical condition. Besides, fighting for a few more hours of sleep was pointless—there was no guarantee I could even get there, and 7 a.m. wasn’t so far off from something that looked like a routine. I decided to listen to my circadian rhythm instead of the overwhelming evidence that I wasn’t ready for an entire day on the field and I headed out.

My first destination, the neighborhood of Taitō-ku, was the only location where I wouldn’t be shooting at night. I thought it would be wise to proceed with a light agenda on the first day.

I started from the main route into Taitō-ku, Ueno Station, a major railway hub in Tokyo, and its general surroundings and subterranean labyrinth (an entire city below the city). This is easily considered one of the busiest places in the city and quite possibly the world.

I headed slightly east of the station to Asakusa, a more traditional area of Tokyo in what’s known as a Shimatachi, which literally means “low city” due to its geographically lower elevation. Over the years, the name has also taken on a double meaning in reference to the lower social class of the neighborhood’s less fortunate residents.

Historically, Asakusa was an entertainment district where neighboring rice merchants would spend considerable time and money in theatres and geisha houses. Sensō-ji, the oldest Buddist temple in Tokyo (645 AD), is also located here. It’s a pretty big tourist destination, so it’s not my usual destination of choice; however, I thought this might provide a place to capture a common setting from uncommon perspectives.

I then headed south, following the Sumida River, and over the Umaya Bridge. After navigating Tokyo’s orderly streets, underground walkways, parks and bridges, I stopped for a single-origin coffee energy boost at Leaves Coffee, a shop I specifically selected among a dozen others in this district during the days of my preparation. Upon my arrival, I discovered it was also well known for its gourmet burgers and hot dogs—again, not a typical local choice, but Japanese ingenuity can transform even the most American food clichés into edible miracles. And yes, I did indulge in one.

Finally, I headed to the epicenter of modern Japanese culture: Akihabara (technically, it is in the Chiyoda-ku district, but it is still fairly close to Taitō-ku).

Altogether, I walked and shot in Taitō-ku for six continuous hours. Amazingly, after 32 hours without sleep—not including the two meager and restless attempts at three-hour naps—I still managed to dive, head first, into six focused hours of physically and mentally demanding urban photography without a single sign of tiredness. I got lost in my craft and lost track of time. I experience this every time I go on a photographic session.

The day’s shooting was everything I hoped it would be. The sky was vast, deep, and limitless; the sun flattered every surface with its signature hue while creating abstract forms through the shadows; everyone I captured was photogenic, each one purposefully navigating through the choreography of a well-balanced Saturday. The city felt clean, safe, welcoming, aesthetically balanced, and rich in detail (something I so much miss in my new life in Europe.) Unlike any other city I know, Tokyo feels as if every small neighborhood has been independently curated to serve local life, and yet the larger city layout and skyline look as if it was all part of a master plan centuries in the making.

This was the city I fell in love with on my first trip in 2009. It has never disappointed me, regardless of when I’ve been here. Over the course of 15 years—and counting—this was the city to which I dreamed of moving. This was the city that continued to feed me with the inspiration, energy, and positivity that is so hard to come by, even occasionally, let alone consistently. And Tokyo does it—consistently—for me.

Before returning to the Trunk for some much-needed rest, I paused momentarily to retrace my day. I found an observational vantage point at the top of a stairway leading directly into a higher floor of a shopping mall, overlooking the crowds in Akihabara Station rushing to catch the next train to destinations known and unknown. I brought to awareness the fact that I clocked close to six hours and 20 km of walking and took another moment of deep and mindful reflection before heading into the subway system and hopping onto a crowded train.

In full honesty, despite the blissful headspace and the awareness of having lived through a magic afternoon, I was skeptical of my photographic product at that moment. It took me several days to slowly detach myself from the results so that I could visualize it through more objective eyes. I needed to distance myself from my work to allow for the recreation of an unbiased bond with the art—free of preexisting emotions that emerged with every push of the shutter button.

This is yet another layer that consistently amazes me about photography. You never really know what each image will tell you as time passes. Some photographs can truly come alive. Sometimes, even the most banal images can become deeply meaningful and dear to you after a few years. This is why I stopped deleting pictures, even those I found flawed at first glance. Even if they may never make the final cut, some of those images do come back years later to tell me something special about the experience I lived through that I either didn’t see the first time or I forgot..

When I returned to Yoyogi Park at 5:30 p.m., it was pitch black outside. My adrenaline stores were completely spent. I don’t even recall turning on the light in my dark room before collapsing onto the bed to crash…hard. Subconsciously, I knew it was risky to shut down like that in the middle of the afternoon, but it was too painful to attempt to fight back.

Less than three hours later, by 8 p.m., my eyes popped open. Once again, I realized it was useless to force myself to rest until 11 p.m., and then expect to sleep through the night. Biology, and my inability to ignore my commitment to the project, were winning that conflict.

This was also the point at which I recall embracing the notion that I may never adjust to a regular routine. I made a virtue out of necessity, though: since my plan included capturing Tokyo at night—not just a typical evening after dusk, but deep night—I decided to stop letting the time of day (or night) dictate my mindset for the rest of this trip. I decided to sleep when tired and dive into the action when rested. Rinse, repeat. Ignoring the time of the day altogether.

I showered, gathered myself, collected my gear, and headed out. My first destination was a superb Korean barbecue joint in the heart of Shibuya-ku. My wife recently introduced me to Korean-style barbecue venues in Shanghai and they quickly became one of our rituals. I did wish she was with me to experience this one.

As I finished, it was time to dive into more hours of shooting.

“Creativity takes courage”

- Henri Matisse

Shibuya Crossing is such a well-known Japanese cliché to both locals and foreigners. When you watch a movie or TV show set in modern-day Japan, Shibuya Crossing is usually the b-roll footage to establish the location—but, as impossible as it sounds, in the case of Shibuya Crossing, the fame of its stereotype is matched if not surpassed by its substance.

Let me explain.

One of the many lessons I’ve learned from photography is that it doesn’t matter how creative or “out of the box” your angle is for any shot. Nor does it matter how unique your story is to that image or how extraordinary your subject might be. What matters is authenticity. In other words, people don’t resonate with exceptional. They relate to real.

A-list celebrities who dominate headlines with superficial gossip invariably fall flat on our emotional spectrum. It’s when we happen upon stories of regular people, everyday grace, selflessness, or success against the odds that most of us feel something. These imperfect, unpolished protagonists of their own lives (us included) do not present themselves as characters carefully curated by a team of producers. And that’s why we relate to them. They give us a reason to pause and think about their life and our life.

Now, despite Shibuya Crossing being so exceptional from the bird’ s-eye view, when you bring the camera lens down to eye level, you realize that each of those millions of people who every day cross the junction is different and unique—standing there, amid so many lives and stories, and realizing that in the course of millennia of history and evolution, we figured out how to coexist in ever larger and more complex social structures, provides a profound sense of belonging, and nothing symbolizes this truth better than Shibuya Crossing. The concept of humanity is exhibited on such a scale that your soul cannot but feel part of something significant beyond yourself. It gives you an immediate gratitude over our inhabiting the only planet we know that has withstood four billion years of cosmic stability to allow us to flourish. It's the most incredible show on earth—precisely because it’s not a show.

I spent almost 4 hours shooting on the streets and from the buildings surrounding the area. I must have crossed the intersection a hundred times, and each time, I felt as excited as the first. Each crossing felt purposeful. Sure, Shibuya Crossing might be a tourist trap, a geographic cliché—but on this night, it made me feel part of something meaningful and gifted me a profoundly soulful experience.

I finally made my way back to the Trunk—it was about 2 a.m. This time, instead of following the main road alongside Yoyogi Park, I walked through the inner alleys in the back. Being able to take any alternative route regardless of the hour and lighting conditions while still feeling completely safe was a wonderful experience in itself.

As I was at the final turn before arriving at the hotel, I noticed that, by pure chance, my very hotel was conveniently located beside the Fulgen Café. I have particularly fond memories of my first discovery of Fulgen back in 2017. This was when my brother came to town on a business trip and we spent a couple of days experiencing Tokyo together. It was a perchance event then, and it was again this time. Fulgen came to Tokyo in 2012, but its history dates back no less than 1963 in Oslo, Norway. It is, by now, a world-famous café, and for good reason. They stayed clear of compromising on quality in exchange for commercial expansion. The only turn-off is that if you visit for a cappuccino in the morning, you are going to line up halfway around the block, and by the time it’s your turn to order, you likely have to change your choice to an after-lunch espresso. In the evenings, Fulgen transforms into a bar, a feat I have rarely seen done credibly by any establishment in the world: there is too big a gap between a coffee shop and a bar when it comes to decor, lighting, ambiance, menu, equipment, ingredients, crowd, service… but, as I said, Fulgen is a rare exception.

I made it just in time for the last call. I challenged the bartender, “A Sazerac, please.” The bartender perfectly responded, “Fifty-fifty?” When it comes to mixing a Sazerac, that’s the response you are looking for. Besides the requisite bitters, sugar, and absinthe, any typical mixing guidelines for Sazerac will recommend either cognac or rye. Bartenders with some experience also know that it can be made by blending both in equal parts. It was quite the perfect way to end my evening photography session.

Back in my room, I was asleep by around 3 a.m.

Day Three

I woke up on Sunday at 8 a.m. with a hearty five hours of sleep. I noticed I was beginning to adjust to the time zone. Also, my photographic work—which I kept checking in every now and then in search of an emerging trajectory—was starting to grow on me. My sense of presence and my connection to the city were taking hold. Despite these gains, though, physically, I was still very stretched, and the thought of carrying on like this for two entire weeks was daunting. So, I decided to shorten my trip.

I spent some time on the phone with the airline and moved my flight departure to day five. Not only would this earlier return be easier on my body, it also ignited a greater sense of urgency to get dialed in and finish the job I traveled 32 hours to do. Moreover, my new plans got me very excited to get back to my family for the days leading up to Christmas.

After negotiating my updated travel itinerary with the airline and the front desk, I decided to capitalize on the surfacing positive vibes and spend the better part of the day in “rest mode”—with my camera in my backpack—and headed out to a few destinations marked on my map for pure recreation.

I grabbed ramen at the world-famous Chūka Soba Ginza Hachigo in the Ginza shopping district. It’s a five-seat establishment, so you typically need to book more than a month in advance to secure one. Today, I was able to elicit some sympathy from the hostess at the door. She must have noticed that I was lingering outside, casually studying the signs. She waited until the other dejected last-minute arrivals gave up and left and, shortly after, subtly slid open the door a crack and asked if I could be in and out in exactly 24 minutes (yes, 24, not 23, not 25…) Had I known how to say “Try me” in Japanese, that would have been my answer. She let me in, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

My next destination was the Stalogy flagship store (my notebook brand of choice) to load up on a pile of knick-knacks I absolutely didn’t need. Recently opened in March, the shop assistant seemed quite impressed—or maybe it was concern—with my collection of limited edition notebooks. Apparently, my personal stockpile was nearly unmatched by that of the actual store. My next stop turned out to be Itoya—another stationery store nearby. I felt it necessary to continue adding more totally useless and, therefore, utterly indispensable items to my collection.

For my next destination, I selected the very best single-origin coffee in Tokyo’s Ginza shopping district—Bongen Coffee. The line was—unsurprisingly—endless, but I thoroughly enjoyed my time waiting, watching the energetic scene of both young and not-so-young coffee drinkers lingering, chatting, laughing and waiting to share something special. These moments remind you that coffee is the ultimate excuse to take a daily break to show yourself or someone else some well-needed love and attention.

After my first sip—which immediately and overpoweringly reminded me of how much, ever since I moved back to Milan, I had been missing the quality coffee I used to enjoy in Shanghai (yes… sadly, Italians have been overly complacent and fallen far behind when it comes to coffee)—I found a restful setting in nearby Tsukijigawa Kameibashi Park, a modestly sized green area with a few scattered benches. At this time of day, the elevated parkette, surrounded by city high rises, was very quiet and even more inviting.

Despite the cool winter weather, it was perfectly exposed to the west and the setting sun, which drenched the entire area in delicious sunlight. Perched on a bench, warm to my core in my thick down-filled jacket, I thoroughly enjoyed the rays caressing my closed eyelids, while taking in long breaths of crystalline winter air. Naturally, as one might, I fell into a short but profoundly comforting nap.

“Now, I have something scary to tell you: you don’t have much time left to live. Whether it’s five years or fifty-five, it’s not all that long. You have no time to waste on suffering, no time to keep torturing your nature to serve your culture. […] Fill your time with your best life.”

- Martha Beck

When I awoke, I realized that history—my history—was repeating itself. When I first visited Tokyo in 2009 with my closest friend, we powered through a psychedelic experience and crashed in a few similar areas around the city—particularly the ones that didn't require leaving a deposit, checking in or checking out. We simply decided to stop and recharge our bodies when our bodies told us it was that time.

This familiar feeling of coming full circle was more than meaningful. Just like in 2009, I was purely and entirely present. My location and my purpose—the day's plans, pins on maps, written notes and apps on so-called smart devices—became small and lateral. I was experiencing everything around me, like this patch of grass, the sun on my face, the brisk air in my nose, the occasional caw of a crow, the shuffle of a passerby, the subtle buzz of the city. Time felt like an afterthought. Before sunset and after everything else. Not lost in translation at all. At 2:40 p.m., on Sunday, December 3rd, 2023, I had a moment of absolute presence and gratitude for where the course of events had brought me."

Feeling full and fulfilled, I rode the subway back to the hotel.

By 4 p.m. I was on my bed, eyes closed, and falling deep into a much-needed, three-hour power nap.

After my system reboot, at 7 p.m., I collected myself and headed out for some dinner. After reviewing my Tokyo restaurant shortlist, I settled on Fuunji, a popular noodle joint in Shinjuku-ku that specializes in tsukemen (dipping noodles). A fun and fairly modern variation of a common meal: instead of slurping from a bowl, noodles are served alongside a bowl of sauce. The customer picks up a curl of noodles and dips it into the sauce. The flavor intensity of each portion can be varied by how long and how deep you dip. It’s a brilliant culinary concept.

By the time I got there, I was still in the best window of time after a nap, when you feel rested and calm, and the world is moving somewhat in slow motion. This is one of the best headspaces to enjoy a meal. I also ended up sitting next to a bright Korean student studying at Tokyo University, which made the experience unexpectedly social.

Once I slurped the very last of my Fuunji noodles, I exchanged a few courtesies with the chef, and left. Despite not planning my next destination, I realized I was close to the Park Hyatt Tokyo—this was where my feet started to take me. Not because I have a dogmatic fascination with big hotel corporations. I was actually hesitant to go. It was like I was heading towards a place of existential significance. It was because of the major role the hotel played in the movie Lost in Translation. Despite its success in America, I wasn’t nearly as impressed—at first. It was full of offensive Japanese cultural stereotypes that were, more often than not, just patently inaccurate. Regardless, after seeing it during my earliest days living in Asia—I moved to Asia less than a year after its release in 2003—I couldn’t help but recognize several parallels between the experiences of Bill Murray’s Bob Harris character and my own. (I know I’m not the only expat who related to him.)

It’s the story of a man who finds himself at a crossroads in life but then experiences a glimpse of a possible profound rebirth—all while on a trip to Asia. In fact, in Bob Harris’s case, his experience was strong enough to convince him to postpone his return flight by several days. In my case, it was strong enough to make me stay eighteen years longer.

That very plot line—in concert with the understated homage to the wonders of Tokyo—was far too relatable. Thus, it occupied a prominent space among my many memories of living on this sprawling continent for the better half of my life.

Standing in the same luxury hallways surrounded by the same expensive adornments that defined the cinematography of the movie—finally being able to match fragrances to scenes, touch to colors, the sense of space and materials that cover the floor, the walls and the furniture, and true perspective to its photography—it came out as a very sentimental moment to me.

After coming out of my emotional reverie, I decided it was time to go back to the Trunk. I spent most of my Uber ride back to the hotel reflecting deeply on how I felt throughout my transformation more than 20 years ago.

I was in bed by around midnight.

Day Four

My eyes popped open at 2 a.m., barely two hours to the minute after my little stroll down memory lane. As soon as my sleepy fog lifted, I knew exactly what part of my plan was meant for this moment: Kabukicho, Tokyo’s most famous, notorious and its largest red-light and entertainment district, right in the heart of Shinjuku-ku.

To avoid being too noticeable, I put on my most discrete mission attire—black sweat pants, black sweater, black sneakers, black hat, and my otter green winter jacket. I made sure all my devices were fully charged, then I prepped all of my primary equipment to be accessible and shoot-ready, and headed out.

Arriving at around 3 a.m., my first impression was decidedly and unexpectedly discouraging. I get it. You might be wondering about what I should have expected in a red-light district. I’m not suggesting a guidebook’s worth of virtuous, family-friendly entertainment options, like cartoon mascots and cotton candy. But I did notice, unexpectedly, all of the non-Japanese employees in the various establishments and on the streets, openly selling (in English) the usual services and experiences you would expect from a red-light district.

Don't take this the wrong way. I wasn’t judging the presence of immigrants or waving a moral compass. My reaction to seeing all these workers from so many non-Asian continents was more about authenticity. It just didn’t feel Japanese. It could have been any city’s red-light district—London, New York, Milan. It felt like a reproduction of what must have originally made the place famous (or infamous), tailored for tourists and outsiders.

Regardless of my initial disappointment, I did take some photographs, and while remaining as under-the-radar as possible. Most red-light district patrons likely wouldn’t be too amenable to becoming subjects of an award-winning photographic exhibition of this neighborhood’s nightlife. But I was able to navigate both the main streets—the same ones so often featured in movies—and I also strode down the darker alleys, trying to keep my camera gear out of sight while doing my best to politely reject all the “sales pitches” for the local products and services. I was also greeted by the occasional rat—the place is infested with them, and no one seemed to mind. This was so unexpected in a country so concerned with hygiene and cleanliness. Strangly enough, my perception of them was also different. I wasn’t as bothered as I should have been, and I suspect there are urban legends about their nature and presence in modern society. I made a mental note to research more about the subject.

I weaved my way through a tightly packed area called Golden Gai, the oldest and filthiest network of narrow alleys and bars, and from there to Omoide Yokocho, which translates in “Memory Lane,” but is more commonly known as “piss alley.” Without going into too much detail, this local gem is packed with bars—some so small that they lack sanitary facilities. I think you can figure out how it earned its moniker.

Having had my fill shooting among red lights, rats and raunchy retail, at 5:30 a.m.—yes, I spent two-and-a-half hours there—I exited Kabukicho and found cleaner comforts a short stroll away in the clean, glittery, high-end Seibu-Shinjuku. I was immediately struck by the conspicuous dichotomy of this area and the darker one I had just visited. I had to wait for the subway station to open, which I did standing on an incredibly comforting heat escape net on the pedestrian walk that kept me really warm. Once the gate reopened, I hopped onto the (very) first train of the day to get to my next shoot location.

Overall, my experience in Kabukicho was unexpected but illuminating. I felt I captured enough to last me for a while. Still, I also suspected I didn’t get into enough trouble to experience it fully. I guess this won’t be my last adventure in Tokyo’s red-light district.

Despite my early morning start, I still had plenty of energy to spare. The perfect spot for a dawn shoot was Hibiya Park in Chūō-ku, west of the Ginza shopping district. The park is famous for its maple trees and late autumn red blush.

By the time I arrived, dawn had not yet broken, and I was pretty ravenous. Deciding to explore some late-night food options, the only place open then was a 24-hour McDonald’s. Having just lamented a red-light district with too many Westerners, a meal at the Golden Arches felt a little hypocritical. But my hunger pangs for heavy carbs won that internal debate.

As a side note, despite I tend to stay away from McDonald’s for the usual obvious reasons, admittedly, one of my growing curiosities over the years has been to observe the types of people frequenting such an epitome of American fast-food culture in different countries.

McDonald’s restaurants mostly serve the same fare in every city it occupies—but they are not frequented by a homogenous customer type or for the same reasons. There are regions in the world where having your meal at McDonald’s is a sign of openness and modernity and may even be recognized as a middle-class perk. And then there are regions where it carries a sense of shame where no one would wish to be seen having a meal by a colleague or a peer. Sitting in a McDonald’s and observing what kind of crowd it attracts is very educational. This morning, my carb of choice was an Egg-Mc-Something sandwich, which provided plenty of energy to refuel for my dawn Hibiya Park shoot. I devoured my fast-food and moved to the park.

I took in the glow of the sun grazing at the tops of the surrounding city, as the rays slowly made their way down to the park. I spent a couple of hours there, which was just what I needed to balance the human excesses of Kabukicho.

While most people were just starting their days, by 9 a.m. I had already clocked seven waking hours in mine. I was ready to cap off my night (so to speak) with breakfast at the Peninsula Hotel, which I pleasantly happened upon at the end of my stroll through Hibiya Park. It was an unplanned but simply perfect find.

Breakfast was slow, harmonious, artistic, personal, and festive—mostly thanks to its spread of Christmas decorations. A good meal has a special way of reminding you that your glass is half full (especially when the staff infallibly make sure it is half full).

Upon returning to the Trunk, on my way to the subway station, I stopped awash in the glory of a sunny day while surrounded by a city gradually coming to life on what was—for everyone else—just a Monday. I pressed an internal rewind button and replayed the events of the previous night and the days before. I realized that this pause on the streets of Tokyo was the first time I felt the trip was working its way to becoming a success, despite the physical hardships and, in a way, the sense of isolation that struck me on the first day and for days after. This was the first time I felt like I was arriving at, and crossing, the bridge from an expectation to an experience.

Once more, I made it back to the Trunk to crash.

When I opened my eyes again at around 3 p.m., my soul was still in the better place I left it. To continue feeding my celebratory vibe, I took myself on a stroll through Yoyogi Park and, from there, onto the bustling streetscape of Omotesandō-dori.

Completely by coincidence, I happened upon the other Trunk Hotel, the one I really wanted to stay in. I decided to feed my curiosity and went in to check it out. It was everything its website promised—the kind of space in which I spent most of my 20s and 30s, after I moved to Asia and enjoyed a world newly built. It was built with wood and metals of a quality so high you could tell by their smell. Its clean lines and strategic lighting were worthy of the work of a professional cinematographer. It had distinctly sharp, engaging, modern, and (fascinatingly) non-intrusive way-finding signage. There was a quality DJ rig in the background, a coffee menu pairing espresso with a cookie, and a beer menu of beer brews by the Trunk company itself. The open spaces with large common tables were full of young people engaged in productivity of all sorts. The sofas, chairs, benches, and other surfaces to plant guest backsides were so strategically placed that every little corner and turn sparked a sense of discovery.

Spaces like this are where I lived, worked, and frolicked. They were my window to the world for the 18 years I spent in Asia—I missed this dearly. Just walking around this Trunk felt like I was coming home.

To maintain this feeling, I ordered one of their craft beers, mindfully chose a seat outside the main gate, on the porch, giving me perfect views of both the main lobby and the outdoor surrounding neighborhood.

I sat. I sipped. I savoured the sights. The only distraction from this moment of bliss that I allowed myself was a call to a dear friend who I knew would have understood the moment and somehow joined me in the experience. Not an easy task over the phone.

After satisfying my varying thirsts and this Trunk for the senses, I went to Sushiya Ono, a starred sushi master in the cool and trendy neighborhood of Ebisu in Shibuya-ku. Because I like to live on the edge, I took my chances without a reservation. The host was hesitant initially, but after he disappeared for a moment, he gave me one of the five seats. The chef—clearly a very respected man in his world judging by the way everyone else was barely looking him in the eyes—graciously indulged me in conversation every now and then. He shared stories from his experiences in Italy and then, by the end of the meal, even suggested we pose for a photo together. It was a somewhat cheesy and stereotypical thing to do, but from this master sushi chef, it came out so genuine.

I left there understanding that his brilliance wasn’t just in the exceptional experience but in how genuine he was throughout the process. The authenticity and soul of the people and the place strike a much deeper chord than the food or drink per se, and Chef Ono is a three-star.

I took the subway back to my hotel, went to my room, and fell asleep at a reasonable hour. This was my only truly restful sleep—probably because my world was finally in sync.

Day Five & Epilogue

After carefully and mindfully packing up my bags, I checked out and returned to the other Trunk Hotel in Shibuya for my first coffee. I spent a couple of hours taking long notes about how I felt on this trip, what happened from day to day—or at least my perception of what happened.

I noted all the things I would do when I returned for Tokyo9 Act II, as well as the things I knew I would do differently. Just like the day before, I spent some time taking in the moment and then booked an Uber for the airport.

Upon further reflection, I should have focused more on the human element. I probably should have paid more attention to my feelings—including conceding to my extreme exhaustion and knowing when to pack it in and rest instead of fighting it to get more photographic work done. Perhaps after several days, I would have woken up to a whole self and created the work of a lifetime. Or maybe I did live through the more adventurous of the two stories.

The combination of my previous health issues, my unwelcome 32-hour induced travel exhaustion, the accompanying jet lag, inhospitable accommodations, and the sudden onset of a deeply emotional epiphany collectively took a huge toll on me. I lived through moments of great emotional challenges I wasn’t expecting and I was ill-prepared for.

Or, perhaps, this was precisely how Tokyo9 Act I was supposed to go.

“If you commit to spending every second of your life to do exactly what you want to do and the things that truly matter to you, you will no longer have time to be a product of the circumstances.”

- Luca Ferrara

As the days pass, I work on polishing my notes. With time comes perspective and I realize I’ve been treating my first return to Tokyo as an isolated event—it is everything but. This is just one Act of nine.

I need to remember not to evaluate this experience in narrow isolation. Instead, it should be celebrated for what it was and what it accomplished—an affirmation of self, an original chapter in my book of life. It’s the beginning of something greater, and great.

I decided to do it, and I did, despite all signs pointing the opposite way; despite the superficial preconceived expectations of what a successful journey or—worse even—a vacation is supposed to be; despite putting a severe dent in my annual budget; despite feeling like I was turning my back on the people who needed me most, both at home and in my recently left workplace; despite it making little sense to choose a country so far away, to chase a project meant to last almost an entire decade; despite how many times and how many years I intend to return, it will never be the same as the dream I had of living there.

Despite all of those factors, I still went. I jumped. I did as much as I could with the resources, time and headspace I had available. I confronted a storm even greater than the ones I left behind and weathered through as best as I could.

I want to believe I’ve created an original work and an original chapter in my life against all the trappings of ordinary life—I sculpted one chapter of an intentional life, one of the most significant measures of a man’s success in the greater scheme of things.

Time will tell. For now, I’ve come to learn that starting, doing something however flawed at first, is the only way to greater things—and I’m at peace with how I’ve filled my glass.

In the meantime, I already have tons of notes and more to write for Tokyo9, Act II. I’m more than determined to evolve this into a project to be proud of and, perhaps, to be something of some significance even beyond myself.

Tokyo9, Act I.

L.F