Why I Waited at an Empty Intersection in Osaka, Japan

A crosswalk in Osaka, Japan, November 2025

It’s my first day in Japan, and one of my first cultural observations revolves around jaywalking.

How people cross the road — or don’t — can tell you a lot about a city.

In New Zealand, some people jaywalk and some don’t. People do as they please, perhaps reflecting the country’s sense of freedom and natural ease.

In London and New York, on the other hand, speed is a virtue. Everyone seems to be rushing somewhere. You’re expected to stand on the right side of the escalator to let others walk briskly up the left; veer toward the middle and you’ll feel the glare of someone running late (or just wanting to rush for the sake of it). If you’re waiting at a red light with no cars in sight, you’ll probably cross anyway, unless you’re caught mid-conversation with a colleague. The goal is to get where you’re going as fast as possible.

In other parts of the world, crossing the road can feel more like a sport. In Thailand, you dart through streams of traffic, praying you simply make it to the other side in one piece alive. Motorbikes are whizzing left and right. Traffic lights, if they exist, are more suggestions than rules. The same goes for Egypt — the rhythm of the street is pure chaos, but somehow it works. There are few boundaries, only instincts. 

In China’s big cities like Beijing or Shanghai, there’s synchronised improvisation, a collective flow. Cars, scooters, and people move at once, each reading the micro-signals of the other. It’s chaotic, but it’s also strangely coordinated, with everyone flowing with the swarm.

Then comes Japan. One of my first observations after arriving — especially following my time in South Korea — was the quiet obedience to rules. Trains depart to the second. Even at a tiny four-metre crosswalk on a one-way street with no cars in sight, people wait patiently for the light to turn green. I watched two others — a Westerner and a Middle Eastern man — stand still across from me. So I waited too, suitcase in hand, though every part of me wanted to just go.

Here, order matters. There’s an emphasis on social image, on harmony, on doing the right thing, which is a contrast to the Western culture of boldness, creativity, and improvisation.

That being said, tonight, as I waited at my final intersection heading home under the night sky — the streets calm, the air still, the people gone — I found myself once again at that familiar tension between impulse and adaptation. Across from me stood a young woman with short, dyed hair and an edgy sense of style, about my age. I felt the urge to let my legs move, but I stayed, partly because I think there’s value in adapting to a new system, even when it isn’t yours. I enjoy that small challenge of discomfort.

There were truly zero cars in sight across this enormous intersection, the long roads stretching empty in every direction. Two young men joined the crossing lights. After twenty seconds or so, one began to walk, the other followed, and I, reassured by their motion, joined in too — perhaps jaywalking late at night is permissible.

Halfway across, the girl on the other side looked up from her phone. She paused, tilted her head toward the signal, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. She checked left, then right, visibly torn, and finally began to walk, her eyes still darting nervously as if to acknowledge she’d broken the unspoken rule.

Is any system right or wrong? Not really. Each reflects what a society values: freedom, efficiency, survival, or harmony. Even in something as small as crossing the street, you can glimpse into the soul of a place.

All this being said, this is just day one. There are a thousand more invisible rules, gestures, and subtleties waiting to be noticed. I am looking forward to continuing to cross, observe, and learn the rhythm of Japan, one light at a time.