The unwritten rules, from the morning train to the neighborhood bath.
Phones to silent (manner mode) and voice calls never inside the car — step out at the next station.
In crowds wear it on your chest, hold it, or rack it overhead. Backs carry blind spots.
Step up out of outdoor shoes at the entrance, into slippers — and switch to toilet slippers in the bathroom.
No laundry, vacuuming, or music after nine in wood-frame and light-steel buildings. Sound travels through everything.
Scrub thoroughly at the low shower stools before approaching the tub. No soap or shampoo residue enters the water.
Fold the small towel onto your head or the tub rim. Long hair tied up and out of the bath.
Upright rice chopsticks read as a death rite to everyone present. The single fastest way to freeze a table.
Extra cash confuses staff and creates a chase scene. Show gratitude with words and return visits.
Ward officers patrol and ticket on sight — walking with a lit cigarette is the fastest fine a newcomer can earn.
Riding impaired carries severe penalties, especially after injury accidents. Walk the bike home.
Stowing a card unread signals the person is filed and forgotten. Table it for the meeting’s duration.
Some counterparts bow, some shake, some both. Lead with a bow; convert if a hand extends.
One phrase, three jobs, all 47 prefectures.
“Reading the air” — sense the implicit consensus before acting.
Manner mode, backpacks, priority seats, and the east-west escalator split.
Shoes off at the genkan, silence after nine, and garbage sorted like a science.
Wash seated, rinse fully, towel on head — the communal bath, done right.
No tipping, chopstick taboos that matter, and the tray that runs the register.
No eating on the move, no smoking outside booths, and red lights that mean it.
Omiyage arithmetic, two-handed meishi, and the three depths of the bow.