BALCONY LOGISTICS IN JAPAN

The other morning, my wife and I had breakfast on our balcony.

One of our two balconies, I should say. The one off the living room (on the middle floor) is wider but shallow, so it functions as our miniature garden – ivy, herbs, the illusion of rural life.

The one on the top floor, off the bedroom, is narrower but deep enough for a table. Not massive, but sufficient. One learns to compromise.

So, breakfast on the balcony. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet weekend morning, sunshine, and some freshly baked croissants from a nearby French bakery, brought home from my morning walk.

Frankly, what better place to enjoy croissants than outside in the morning sun?

This, at least, is perfectly logical if you grew up in Europe. In Japan, however, this behaviour sits somewhere between exotic and slightly suspicious.

Here, balconies – often far larger than ours – serve a single, noble purpose: laundry display. Shirts, towels, futons, arranged with quiet precision. I have yet to see a chair. Or a person. Or anything resembling leisure.

In Switzerland, that would be borderline scandalous. Balconies are for enjoyment. Aperitifs. Reading. Quiet existential contemplation. Laundry, if one insists on line-drying, is banished to the back garden – out of sight, where it belongs.

The issue, of course, with Japanese houses and back gardens – at least in the metropolitan area – is: they don't have one. Land is expensive. Space is limited.

So, the balcony becomes the default drying room. Add summers so hot and humid that sitting outside feels like an unpaid endurance sport, and the whole system starts to make sense.

Still, in our small European enclave – also known as 'our house' – we stubbornly follow European norms. The balcony is for pleasure. At least until the temperature rises to the point where even thinking about croissants feels exhausting.

We’ve considered installing an awning. But while it might tame the sunlight, it won’t deflate the heat. Given that balcony season lasts a few pleasant weeks in spring and another few in autumn, it hasn’t made the investment shortlist.

There are also… logistical considerations.

Our breakfast balcony is one floor above the kitchen. This turns a simple meal into a multi-stage operation involving trays, timing, and more stair-climbing than seems appropriate for something centred on butter.

Then there’s the slipper situation.

In Japan, shoes come off at the entrance. This is sensible. But that’s only the beginning. There are indoor slippers, toilet slippers, and – naturally – balcony slippers.

These exist because of the strict segregation between the outdoors and the indoors, making sure your house stays clean.

To avoid any confusion, between the indoors and the balcony sits a raised threshold. A beam. A quiet test of coordination. Its main purpose is to keep out rainwater.

Its secondary function is to challenge your balance while holding coffee.

At roughly 30 centimetres high, it’s less a step and more a commitment.

So you change slippers, slide open the door, wrestle the insect screen with one free hand, step over the beam, and attempt to arrive at your seat with dignity intact. Very relaxing.

Lose focus, and you’re faced with a choice: spilled coffee or a stubbed toe. I usually choose the latter. More painful, but easier to clean up.

On a related note, I’ve finally stopped wondering why front doors in Japan open outward – unlike in Switzerland.

It’s not Feng Shui, nor a strategy to repel unwanted spirits.

The reasons are entirely practical: limited entryway space, earthquake safety, and weather (again).

An outward-opening door doesn't block valuable entryway space, is less likely to jam if things shift in a strong tremor, and better at keeping out wind and rain.

All perfectly logical in a country with limited floorspace, strong seismic activity, and which is prone to seasonal rain, typhoons and strong wind.

Though I do sometimes wonder whether opening the door to a visitor and effectively swinging it towards them counts as a slightly aggressive greeting.

Then again, people here are probably wise enough not to stand in its path.