Summer at Home, Seen from a 13th-Floor Balcony

The Sumida River Fireworks Festival took place over the weekend.

When summer arrives, I always think, “Ah, that time of year is here again.”

Japanese people really do love fireworks.

When you stop to think about it, the whole thing is rather strange. We launch explosives into the sky, call them beautiful, and millions of people gather to watch. Not only that, but similar events take place almost every weekend throughout the country.

Fireworks are common overseas too, of course. But apparently, there are surprisingly few countries where they are woven into everyday life as deeply as they are in Japan, where they have become an essential symbol of summer.

The Origins of the Sumida River Fireworks Festival

There is, however, a reason behind the Sumida River Fireworks Festival.

Its origins date back to the Edo period (1603–1868), when Japan was ruled by the Tokugawa shogunate. The fireworks are said to have been launched in memory of people who died during famine and epidemics, and as a prayer for protection from disease.

Today, the festival brings to mind yukata—light cotton robes traditionally worn in summer—along with food stalls, couples, and families. Originally, however, it was an event born from a far more desperate and heartfelt wish.

It has continued for nearly 300 years while changing its form along the way. Perhaps Japanese people value traditions like this more than we realize.

Tokyo fireworks also come with constraints unique to the city.

For safety reasons, enormous shells cannot be launched one after another in the middle of a densely populated urban area.

At some famous regional festivals, massive fireworks fill the entire night sky and make you wonder whether launching something that large can possibly be safe.

For sheer impact, regional festivals are probably in a different league.

On the other hand, there is something uniquely Tokyo about watching fireworks bloom beyond a wall of buildings. That view has its own charm.

The View from the 13th Floor

My apartment is on the 13th floor.

I used to be able to see a small part of the Sumida River fireworks from my room.

“A small part” was still enough.

I could watch the broadcast on television while seeing the real fireworks outside at the same time. It felt like getting a little extra for free.

Then, a few years ago, a new apartment building went up in exactly the spot that blocked the view.

Urban development can change even the scenery outside your window.

I had no grounds to complain, of course, but I still thought, “Did it really have to go there?”

So this year, I watched the festival only on television from the comfort of an air-conditioned room.

I was not particularly disappointed, though.

The view to the north is still open. When a fireworks festival is held in that direction, I can see it far in the distance from my balcony.

The fireworks look tiny.

They are just large enough for me to say, “Oh, there goes one.”

And yet, standing in the night breeze and watching those distant flashes still makes it feel unmistakably like summer.

Watching Fireworks in Person Was an Endurance Test

When I was younger, I went to see fireworks in person several times.

These days, I am not particularly eager to do it again.

The fireworks themselves are beautiful. Everything before and after them is an endurance test.

Stations restrict entry, crowds become so dense that no one can move, and the lines for temporary toilets stretch endlessly. It seems especially difficult for women.

Once, after a festival ended, I spent nearly an hour walking wherever the crowd carried me.

It felt less like a fireworks festival and more like an evacuation drill.

On one occasion, I paid for seating in a hotel garden that had been opened to spectators.

It was not cheap, but I could sit down, and the restrooms were clean.

That was when I finally understood something:

“Money is for avoiding this kind of stress.”

Watching Summer from a Little Distance

If clarity were all that mattered, fireworks should look better in winter, when the air is crisp and clear.

But no one eagerly awaits a nationwide series of midwinter fireworks festivals.

Fireworks have to be part of summer.

Yukata, food stalls, the sound of cicadas, and a slightly humid night breeze.

Together, they form the culture of summer fireworks.

This year, I drank a beer while watching fireworks rise on the television screen.

When I was younger, I would have wanted to get closer.

Now, I feel the opposite.

As we get older, perhaps both fireworks and life are best viewed from a little distance.