THE MAN WITH THE HAT

May is my favourite month in Japan.

No heating. No air conditioning. The bedroom window stays open all night, and the cool air drifting in before dawn keeps the room at exactly the right temperature. The sun rises before five, the birds begin their morning conference outside the window, and getting out of bed suddenly feels far less offensive than it did in January.

By six o’clock, the temperature is already pleasant. Around twenty degrees, with dry air and a light breeze. Later in the day it will climb into the mid- to high twenties  – still far better than the oppressive heat of the summer.

In the early morning everything still feels calm and gentle. Perfect conditions to resume my early morning walks.

I love the atmosphere before the city properly wakes up. The streets belong to dog walkers, pensioners, and people making their way quietly towards the station. At this hour, Tokyo feels oddly unhurried.

I'm alone with my thoughts – a perfect start into the day.

Where I grew up in Switzerland, greeting strangers was normal. Especially in the morning. If you passed someone on a quiet street, you acknowledged each other.

Of course, I grew up in a village of about a thousand people, so there was a fair chance the 'stranger' was in fact someone you knew.

Still, even now when I visit Switzerland, people greet each other in residential areas. It’s one of those tiny social customs you don’t really notice until you live somewhere else.

Because Tokyo does not work like that.

In a city of millions, people generally leave each other alone. Eye contact is limited. Random greetings between strangers simply don't happen.

Except for one elderly gentleman.

Sometime last year, he began appearing during my morning walks, always approaching from the opposite direction. Smartly dressed. Hat. Walking stick. Slightly unsteady on his feet.

And every single time, he greeted me in English.

‘Good morning, Sir.'

The first time caught me completely off guard.

Not because an elderly Japanese man spoke English to me, but because he spoke to me at all. Here, at the edge of the metropolis that is Tokyo, he was casually behaving like somebody from a Swiss village.

And always with the same little tip of the hat.

Over time, our schedules aligned. We began passing each other most mornings. Eventually, he expanded his repertoire.

‘Nice day, isn’t it?’

‘Going to be hot today.’

These tiny exchanges lasted only seconds, but they became part of my mornings. Something oddly reassuring in the rhythm of city life.

Then winter arrived.

The romantic appeal of early morning walks disappears rapidly when leaving the duvet feels like a violation of human rights. For several months, I mostly chose warmth and darkness over discipline and fresh air.

But recently, with spring returning, I started walking again.

For the first few weeks, I didn’t see him.

And although this may sound strange, I found myself wondering whether he was all right.

Or perhaps my timing had simply changed. Of his had.

Then one morning, I spotted the familiar silhouette in the distance: the hat, the walking stick, the careful steps.

I realised I was smiling before we had even reached each other.

He tipped his hat.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said. Then, with a mischievous grin: ‘Long time no see.’

Our bond was re-established.

The other day, I took a different route and didn’t expect to encounter him at all. Yet there he was again, visibly delighted by the coincidence, no doubt preparing his English sentence as we approached each other.

‘Have a nice day,’ he said carefully, after the initial standard greeting and the usual tip of the hat.

His pronunciation is excellent. Far better than the hesitant fragments he murmurs after I respond. I suspect he prepares these phrases in advance, rehearsing them quietly before leaving the house.

And honestly, I find that rather touching.

I’ve occasionally considered trying to extend the conversation. Asking him a question. Learning his name.

But I never do.

If these few English greetings are the extent of what he feels comfortable saying, I don’t want to embarrass him by forcing him beyond them. And replying in Japanese somehow feels like it would break the strange little world we’ve accidentally created together.

So we continue exactly as we are.

Two strangers in Tokyo, exchanging the same few words every morning like an old ritual neither of us officially agreed to, but both quietly value.

And every single time, it leaves me in a better mood than before.