The Things I Do Not Throw Away

In Tokyo, there are no trash cans. At least, not in the way I once understood them. I moved here for work, and the first week I arrived, I searched for one the way a child might search for a familiar landmark in a strange city…something to tell me that the world was still operating by the same rules. But I found no bins. The sidewalks were immaculate, the subway gleamed, the surfaces looked freshly washed, and yet the small convenience store where I bought a rice ball had nothing resembling a trash can near the door. I finished eating and looked down at the crumpled plastic wrapper in my hand. I folded it twice and slid it into my pocket.

Later, I learned why. After the sarin gas attack in 1995, when poison was hidden inside subway bins, most public trash cans disappeared. What was once ordinary—throwing something away—became something suspect, even dangerous. And so, over the years, Tokyo adapted. People began to carry their waste with them, quietly, discreetly, as if each item required a small act of atonement before it could be forgotten.

I wanted to adapt, too. I bought a small zippered bag, the kind sold for storing receipts, and kept it in the pocket of my shoulder bag. My trash bag. A private container within the larger one, a small concession to the unspoken rules of a city that prides itself on order. Now, every morning, I slip it in beside my wallet, my train card, my copy of Shiokari Pass by Ayako Miura. By evening, it holds the day’s remains: a used plastic spoon, a few paper napkins, the film from a convenience store sandwich. Sometimes, when I reach into my bag, I can feel the faint crispness of the wrapper against the spine of the book…waste and literature pressed together like a strange domestic pairing.

I’ve grown meticulous about planning my days. I think in terms of what can be consumed without leaving residue. I buy drinks I can finish before boarding the train. I choose convenience stores not by price but by whether they allow customers to leave trash behind. It’s a small kind of strategy, but one that shapes every movement through the city.

When I come home to my apartment, I enter another system of order. In the entryway, there’s a set of printed rules taped to the wall: plastics, burnables, bottles, and cans all have their separate days. Even the bags themselves must be clear, tied precisely, labeled with the right number. Once a week I take everything down to the trash building beside the parking area. The word “trash” feels wrong here…it is one of the cleanest places in the complex. The floor is hosed each morning. The air smells faintly of detergent. The bins are color-coded, labeled in Japanese and English, arranged in even rows. There’s a quiet dignity to the space, as if order itself were a kind of hospitality.

I find pleasure in the ritual of it. The rinsing of bottles, the peeling of labels, the folding of ramen cups once they are dry. These small acts bring a sense of harmony to the end of the day, the way sweeping a floor or washing dishes might. Sometimes I think of my former landlord, who used to save old nails in coffee tins, who patched things rather than buying new ones. Maybe this instinct to tend to waste is older than I realize…a lineage of thrift carried across continents.

In a way, it’s become a spiritual practice. Ten years ago, I returned to the United States from working abroad to survive a struggle with alcoholism. In rehab, too, I learned to never throw things away…especially memories. Sometimes, with the more painful recollections, I held them carefully, unwilling to deal with them just yet. But there’s always a moment when the time comes to examine them. To learn something about where I was then and how much has changed now. Like here, in my new home abroad, at the end of each day, remembering where I was when I tucked each item into my bag. 

Sometimes, after dropping off the recycling, I linger in the doorway of the trash building. The fluorescent lights hum softly, reflecting on the silver bins. My hands smell faintly of soap. I can see my own reflection in the polished metal of the door, holding an empty bag. I think of how much effort it takes to keep something spotless. How even the cleanest place in the city depends on what we hide, what we wash, what we quietly carry with us.

I step back into the night air, the faint scent of rain beginning to rise from the street. The city glows, immaculate and infinite. My bag feels lighter now. For a moment, I believe I’ve learned something important about how to live. And then I catch my reflection again in a darkened window, and I see the small outline of my trash bag still pressed against my side.

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About the Author

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social