Tour of Japan 2025: day 5

We end up at Sensō-ji Temple in Tokyo: one of the city’s oldest and most famous Buddhist temples, dedicated to Kannon, the bodhisattva of compassion. Since the 7th century, people have come here to pray, give thanks, and hope. And today, so do two slightly jetlagged Westerners with open minds.

On the square, tourists jostle for selfies with lanterns and gates, while a fragrant cloud of incense drifts like a spiritual fog through the air. That incense isn’t just for atmosphere: it’s said to purify body and mind, or in our case, hopefully also the last traces of jetlag and scrambled time zones. For extra blessings, you can “wash” yourself at the fountain by rinsing hands and mouth before entering the temple. (Which makes perfect sense after twenty minutes packed into a sweltering metro.)

But the highlight is the omikuji fortune slips. For a small donation, you shake a metal box until a stick rattles out with a number. That number corresponds to a drawer, and inside the drawer: your future, rolled up on paper. Sanne and I both draw “good fortune.” We feel lucky. And if you draw a bad fortune? No problem! You simply tie the paper to a rack at the temple, leaving your unlucky fate behind. (Smart system.)

After this spiritual cleanse, we go for lunch. We stumble upon a hidden teahouse, serene, elegant, and so quiet that the sound of Sanne’s spoon against her bowl feels like a full surround-sound war movie. I try to keep a straight face until my oversized spoon produces a sound somewhere between a medieval gong and cultural vandalism.

Culturally inappropriate? Very likely. But we mean well. With wide eyes, deep bows, and our whispered “arigatou gozaimasu,” we do our best to behave in a Japan-proof way, while silently falling apart with laughter inside.

From there, we dive back into Tokyo’s steaming labyrinth of a metro system. Nothing prepares you for 16 lines, multiple operators, three different shades of blue, and transfers that require walking the length of a marathon. Still, we find our way back to the hotel. Because, despite everything, we are professionals.

In the afternoon we board the bus to Muza Kawasaki Symphony Hall, where our next concert awaits. Rehearsal at 5:30, concert at 7:00. Familiar faces—Bruce Liu joins again for Prokofiev’s piano concerto. I walk past the stage and listen. There’s something warm in the air. Not incense this time, but something else: connection. Everyone seeks each other out—sharing a joke, a look, a light tap on the shoulder. It’s like a pre-concert choreography, casual but deeply bonded. And suddenly it hits me: I’ve only just met these people, officially. And yet it feels like I’m part of something that has existed for years. Because it has—for them, together.

I imagine what it must be like to play in an orchestra like this. How much you depend on each other. How every evening you build something together, razor-sharp, following even the smallest gesture from the conductor. And how it never really stops outside the stage. In hotel corridors you hear brass players whistling softly to keep lips warm. Oboists tuning for a moment. There’s always sound. If the acoustics are good somewhere, musicians instinctively stop, ears pricked. Music isn’t a nine-to-five job. It’s a permanent state of readiness. Even offstage.

And then there are the in-between moments. In hallways, on buses, at breakfast: a wink, a dry joke, a thumbs-up after a tough piece. And yet… the instant the music starts, there is nothing but focus. A collective breath.

After the concert, I realize I’m not the only one here, far from Rotterdam, watching this orchestra with admiration. As we head to the bus, I suddenly see a group of brass players carrying roses. Not just any flowers, but hand-delivered by a fan, with a note attached. There’s laughter, teasing (“seriously? you got these??”), admiration, a bit of proud showing-off. The roses are held up like Oscars. Colleagues wave and call out (“look, fanmail!”).

And in that moment I understand again. Why people do this work for years, despite endless travel days, the practicing, the rehearsals, the stress of tours and the jetlags. Because it isn’t just work. Because you’re part of something extraordinary. Because together, you create something bigger than yourself. Something that touches people, silences them, makes them smile, even inspires them to deliver a rose with a handwritten note.

And then you feel it: love. For the music. For each other. For this orchestra. Even so far from home.

Text: Maxime de Bruin