Tour of Japan 2025: day 4

It’s sweltering, a humid 40 degrees that makes your clothes stick to your skin within two minutes. But the excitement is high: for me, and for many, it’s the very first time on a bullet train. We manage to gather on the wrong platform (a charming chaos that only arises when you try to move a hundred people in the same direction). It’s an endearing sight: a whole orchestra shuffling across the platform like an elegant line of ants. But once on board, it’s pure delight: quiet carriages, comfortable seats, air-conditioning, and a stunning view that flips from cityscapes to mountains appearing out of nowhere.

After an hour’s ride we arrive at the Aichi Arts Center in Nagoya, an imposing building that feels even grander on the inside. The orchestra slowly spreads out like melting ice through a glass palace, over stairs, foyers, and balconies. Horn player Felipe Freitas warms up between the rows of seats while Alexander Verbeek (trombone) plays his first notes one floor up. Pepijn Meeuws practices intently on his cello backstage, the brass section is already onstage, and music is floating everywhere.

Sanne and I try to capture it all. In our hunt for the best shot we get lost in a staircase, until contrabassist Ricardo Neto appears. His advice: “Just follow the music.” And yes, it works.

We even spot an old friend: an orchestra sticker from a previous tour, stuck to a pillar. Our cultural treasure hunt skills are improving!

At 12:40 the dress rehearsal begins. Lahav appears and chats with trombonist Remko de Jager; the atmosphere is focused but relaxed. Sanne and I take our positions: camera, microphone, silent socks.

And then Sayaka Shoji walks onstage. She’s a phenomenon. The Japanese violinist has something mysterious yet powerful—her presence feels almost cinematic. She plays with an intensity that takes your breath away, without ever becoming excessive. Today she’s rehearsing Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with us, and from the very first bar, it clicks: her sound blends seamlessly with the orchestra.

After rehearsal, as always, it’s a mad dash. Change clothes, fix makeup, tame hair. The doors for the audience are about to open. The daily rush repeats itself, but we believe in it every time as if it were the first.

Not everyone plays the full program. During the second piece, Sanne and I sneak another look through our favorite backstage window, and on the way we spot the first jetlag victim of the day: horn player Pierre Buizer, dressed in tails, fast asleep. His back perfectly straight (presumably to keep his jacket from creasing), his head gently bowed. It’s the very image of professional dedication: sleeping in style.

A little further on sits contrabassist Arjen Leendertz, calmly reading, surrounded by other dozing colleagues like bass trombonist Rommert Groenhof. Piccolo player Beatriz Baião and violist Leon van den Berg are laughing at each other’s phone photos, giggling softly among the sleepers.

The concert itself is beautiful, at least the parts we catch. From the dressing room window we hear the audience’s enthusiastic response, applause rolling down the corridors as if even the walls are clapping along. Sanne and I are by now in the same semi-dream state as many of our backstage colleagues: lulled by music, heat, and travel into a kind of waking dream.

We decide some fresh air might help. Well… “fresh”? The sun outside beats down like a desk lamp in an interrogation room. The moment we step out, the heat drapes over us again. But then—we hear music?

From a nearby courtyard come rhythmic chants, pounding beats, shouts. Like chasing a desert mirage, we follow the sound through the blazing heat and discover… a basketball game. Right in the middle of a shopping mall, complete with commentator and cheering crowd. In the scorching sun, players sprint across the court, sweatbands shining. We stand for a moment, watching silently. Is this a fever dream? Is it real? Does it matter?

Eventually we pull ourselves together, shoot a few more clips, turn the microphone back on, and bring the people at home behind the scenes—including a quick peek through that familiar backstage window. The last scene of the day is in the bag.

Once the final applause has faded, everything shifts into high gear. Instruments are packed for transport, we board the bus to Nagoya Station, and catch the shinkansen again, this time to Shinagawa. On the train we attempt to record a last clip for the day’s video. Attempt being the key word—jetlag hits hard. I mess up my sentences. Three times. Colleagues laugh kindly but watch just a little too closely as I try for the fourth time: “Today we were in… wait, where were we again? No, hang on. Today we played in…”

When we finally reach the hotel around 10 p.m., our suitcases are waiting neatly in the lobby. We could go straight to our rooms. But… we’re starving. The heat, the travel, the jetlag: all scream for pizza. Sanne and I decide Domino’s is the best option, and in a haze of exhaustion we eat in the lobby. A bad decision? Yes. And no. Because although the pizza kills the hunger, the evening becomes memorable when colleague Bruno Bonansea looks at us with mock horror and mutters: “Domino’s? In Japan? Really?” For him, this act of cultural blasphemy is the perfect moment to immortalize me on camera. (See photo.)

And so ends day four. With tuxedos, a bullet train, jetlagged musicians, Sayaka Shoji, basketball in the sun, and an international pizza in a Japanese hotel lobby. What did I learn today? That even when jetlag tries to knock you down, music keeps you standing. And a slice of pizza helps a little too.

Text: Maxime de Bruin