For the Volvo Group in Japan

First trip to Japan. Swearing never to return

Tokyo, February 2007: Taking a taxi from Haneda, the sheer volume of steel, concrete, bridges, and railway viaducts hits me like a wall. People in black suits, white shirts and ties rushing about. Face masks. It is a strange experience, from the beginning.

We are making preparations. Or at least watching as the Japanese do it. It is hard to grasp who is in charge and what is actually going on, but there is a sense of urgency. My colleague C and I have flown in from headquarters in Gothenburg to assist with Volvo’s press conference regarding the acquisition of Nissan Diesel—a Japanese truck manufacturer. Smiling, friendly, and polite men from Mitsubishi Bank address us as "san" and the company as "Volvo-san," and then the press conference begins.

It is partly incomprehensible and almost funereal in tone, with a weeping CEO. The shame of losing a vehicle manufacturer to foreign owners seems boundless. It is hard to tell whether it is theater or the real thing. There are technical glitches and a troublesome senior vice president, head of Volvo in Asia, but finally, the big boss joins via link from Sweden. He is good, and we breathe a sigh of relief.

Afterwards. We get a restaurant recommendation. We try to catch a taxi from the winding line on the street, going from one car to the next. It doesn’t go very well. Everyone shakes their heads apologetically; some of them are wearing masks. The taxi drivers in this global metropolis’s financial district don’t speak English.

We are eating at the hotel, in the restaurant on the tenth floor. A large rat scurries between the tables, stops, and looks at us. The waiter looks at us too. He is pale—looking as if he is about to faint—but says nothing.

I wander around alone on the last day, waiting for my flight home, walking around the Imperial Palace with the worst camera I’ve ever owned—a compact model from the first digital generation.

A raw, cold fog rolls in from Tokyo Bay and envelops the Imperial Palace, where people wander alone and slowly, like ghosts. I make two vows: 1) To buy a proper camera as soon as possible. 2) Never to visit Japan again, unless absolutely necessary.

The first will be upheld; the second—the act of distancing oneself—will be completely re-evaluated five years later.