Words & Photos By Masanori Nishikawa
Last time, I wrote the story of how I was robbed in Mexico and stripped of everything but my bicycle, yet was still able to continue my journey thanks to the support of the local people.
And from that experience of literally being "kept alive," I embarked on a new project called "dailylife"—a year-long journey cycling around Japan serving free coffee—to see if it was actually possible to create a small society of human connection and engagement in Japan today.
Everyone has family and friends. In front of those people, we connect, and surely everyone is kind. However, when people in society clearly draw lines between what "matters" and what doesn't, perhaps the city becomes a place disconnected from everyone, where bonds and connections are thin. Perhaps this isn't a human problem, but a problem of the social structure that has been created through pushing things forward by clearly separating black from white and establishing strict rules.
That is precisely why. In an unfamiliar land. Serving heartfelt coffee to strangers. I thought that might reveal something. I began doing this in Japan in the form of "free coffee," but the act itself was exactly what the local people had done for me during my 10 years of cycling around the world.
I still remember the first day of this trip.
I chose Tokyo as the starting point for my free coffee journey. If I couldn't make it work in Tokyo, it surely wouldn't work anywhere. Perhaps there was part of me that wanted to cut off any route of escape from the very beginning.
I arrived at the port by ferry, deposited all the money I had in my wallet at the first bank I found, and stood on the street to serve coffee with nothing to my name. Yes, the "dailylife" project also carried the meaning that each day is a lifetime, and that’s precisely why I decided to start from zero.
Writing it now, that was quite a stoic choice. I think it was my own way of challenging myself to put an end to my physical adventures.
The first place I passed through after depositing all my money was Shimbashi. On a weekday morning, while waiting for the traffic light to change, I saw hundreds of salarymen in suits pouring out of the station, lining up and walking toward the office district. And there were so many shops lined up around me. Seeing that scene all at once, even though the light turned green, I just stood there, paralyzed.
Everyone was heading off to work to live their social lives. Earning money to eat and buy things at those shops, and so on. In the midst of that, I was the only one who had deposited all my money, standing there intending to spend the next year serving coffee on the street. That feeling—the sense of isolation, that tight, sinking feeling in my heart—I still haven't forgotten it.
And for those of you who thought I started serving coffee in that situation, I’m sorry. I got scared and ran away. Even though I’d been traveling the world alone for over 10 years and had lost everything in Mexico, I had never experienced such loneliness.
I kept running west until I reached the city of Hachioji. It felt somewhat more nostalgic than the city center, and people walked at a more leisurely pace. The shopping street wasn't packed tight; there was just a little bit of breathing room.
"I have to do it here."
I still remember that pounding in my chest. Will someone get angry at me? Will the police come? With those thoughts in mind, I set up my coffee table, boiled water, ground the beans, and waited for my first customer while greeting people as they passed by.
"Give me a cup of coffee."
The first person to stop was an older man. "Sure! Coming right up!" I said as I started to prepare it. He then asked, "How much?" When I replied, "Oh, it's free!" the look on his face was a row of question marks. When he asked, "It’s not for sale? What does that mean?" I explained my thoughts.
"Hmm, I don't really get it. If you want to meet people, you should just charge money. It’s kind of suspicious, isn't it—'free.' But the coffee was good."
He said this as he quickly reached into his pocket and handed me some coins. It was 260 yen. With this, I could make coffee again. With the money in hand, I ran to a convenience store, bought some water, and waited for the next person.
That day, I think I served coffee to about 10 people.
A student from the Middle East who had forgotten his wallet at home.
A Chinese man who said he felt lonely being on his own.
A mother who had just moved to this city with her child after a divorce.
A young man aiming to become a professional soccer player in Spain.
I remember them all. Yes, while I served just a single cup of coffee, they all asked me why I was doing this, and then they all shared their own stories with me. When the day ended, in my hands, I had a little money and some food and coffee beans that people had brought by for me later on.
"With this, I can make coffee tomorrow too."
I was truly relieved. And yet, still tentative, my free coffee journey had begun.
In every city, I felt nervous at first.
But once I started serving coffee, someone would stop and have a cup. While I talked with that person, someone else would come along.
Before I knew it, a circle of people would form around my coffee bike. The people who came would become friends with each other, and even without me saying anything, the environment would run itself just by me serving coffee with a sincere heart. Sometimes, people would even talk about each other's lives through their tears.
Sometimes children would come by. When I’d ask, "Want to make some coffee with me?" they would give it their all, and then, with nervous excitement, hand it to the person in front of them. When they were told it was "delicious," their faces would light up with joy. I wonder how many children stayed by my side all day long making coffee like that.
Yes, it wasn't about me brewing coffee or talking—the important thing was that a "place" existed there. And when there was a sense of safety and a role to play, even without me, there was a sense of community generated by the people themselves in a spot where nothing existed just moments before. I began to understand that.
The only thing I could do was to put my heart and soul into brewing coffee for the person right in front of me.
And if I could do that, I could surely brew coffee again tomorrow. And I could meet new people.
Through this, I let go of so many things I thought "had to be a certain way."
Rather than talking about why I was doing this, I focused on listening to the stories of the people right in front of me.
Looking for spots like the "empty spaces" in a city rather than heavy foot traffic.
Letting go of tomorrow's schedule and where I would head next.
For anyone who felt something by seeing me and chose to stop.
My job was simply to stay there with an open heart and a blank state.
To brew coffee with all my heart and hand it to them—that was my work.
Doing this free coffee project really set my heart free.
And with me being a blank slate, people began to say things like, "Do you know this place?" or "I want you to meet this person," and they started building my present and my future along with me.
And so, flowing and drifting, surrendering to it all.
Despite spending my days serving free coffee, I visited many places, met people, and cherished thoughts and things remained in my possession. And when I look back, they were all things that I felt were truly necessary for me. Even though I was stripping myself down, I was becoming more and more myself. That sensation flowed through me.
That was how I met Tanaka-san, the representative of Circles, where I am writing this web column. He told me to come to Circles when I was in Nagoya, and I was able to serve free coffee and hold a talk show there. Since then, the entire Circles team has continued to support the "Mountain Bike Journey," a bicycle adventure trip with children that I now focus my activities on.
Tanaka-san said to me:
“What we always want to create are the stories that emerge through the tool of the bicycle. That’s why I’ll support your activities, Ma-kun.”
For people who move the big gears of society, my thoughts and activities might seem like nothing more than a very, very small cog. However, the fact that there are people who see and reach out to the stories that are truly born from “people” there—that is what always gives me the courage to keep moving forward.
By spending a year serving coffee on the streets, I made many important places and people all over Japan. And through the act of letting go, I felt like I was able to get a little bit closer to the person I had decided to be when I was born, rather than the person I thought I was.
Even a single cup of coffee holds the power to connect the world.
Believing in that, I went on to continue my free coffee journey in South Korea and Hong Kong. And even eight years later, that belief remains at the center of my life.
And from that year on, for the first time in my life of bicycle travel, I started spending my summers in Japan.
I wanted to pass on the things I’ve experienced during my travels, the world I’ve observed, and my life lessons by traveling with children. That is why I started the Mountain Bike Journey, a bicycle adventure trip I take with kids. From the next post, I will write about these journeys.
“Sounds of the Journey” by Masanori Nishikawa
Vol.1 / Vol.2 / Vol.3 / Vol.4 / Vol.5 / Vol.6 / Vol.7 / Vol.8