Beauty and the work of hundreds of hands

Hanamachi (花街, literally “flower + district”) — in the imagination it looks like evening lanterns and quiet laughter behind paper doors. But in reality it begins with wet thresholds, ash carried out at dawn, and with people no one ever immortalizes: the setta repairman, the cook guarding the cleanliness of bowls, the seamstress reinforcing seams where silk is quickest to betray its fatigue. And with a maiko, who for the thousandth time, alone in her room, grinds through the same passage on the shamisen. Only from this ordinariness — from its rhythm and discipline — does art arise, and only then does ozashiki (お座敷, literally “sitting in a room”) arrive: an evening meant to be light, like breath.

The client sees only the finished effect: in an ochaya (お茶屋 — “tea house”) he is greeted by the okami (女将, the proprietress), the conversation flows smoothly and without snags, music appears at the perfect moment, and the dishes and courses come in an order as if they knew his mood better than he knows it himself. But beneath that “naturalness” an entire district is at work — from the okiya, which runs training and everyday administration, to the kenban office, which binds schedules and commissions together, all the way to the karuko, an invisible porter and messenger thanks to whom a shamisen, fresh fish, information reaches where it must reach — quietly, on time, without a trace. This is a world in which beauty does not “happen”; it is manufactured — day after day, like a craft — through iron discipline and unbelievably meticulous organization.

And that is precisely why hanamachi is so fascinating: because its heart is not romance, but the economics of reputation. Everything here rests on recommendation, on memory — who is steady, who pays on time, who “has face” and who is losing it — and credit can matter more than cash, because many costs arise before anyone is paid. In today’s article we go beneath the surface of lanterns and subtle music and dance: we show the mechanism, the sequence of movements, and the roles of working people active from the very first light of dawn, thanks to whom an evening can be perfect — and awkwardness can be ushered out the back door before it even has time to be born. Hanamachi after hours is not a legend about “flowers,” but a city in miniature: with invoices, debts, favors, discipline, and the quiet pride of those who can make hard-earned art look like something natural and spontaneous.

A normal day in Hanamachi

In hanamachi (花街, literally “flower street/district”), work woke first; only afterward did art. Before anyone even thought of an evening ozashiki (お座敷, literally “reception room”), the street wore an ordinary, slightly tired face: wet wooden thresholds, puddles, and a gutter where the night’s water still lingered.

From the okiya (置屋, literally “placing/setting + house” — in practice, a “geisha house”) there was not yet the scent of white powder; there was the smell of rice, starch, and hot wood. In the entryway lay cords for parcels, and on the shelf stood a hibachi (火鉢, literally “fire bowl,” a portable brazier), ready to warm the room.

In the kitchen someone had been polishing bowls since morning, because in Edo food had to be served clean, even if it was modest; and it was precisely this contradiction — harsh everyday life and stubborn care for form — that was hanamachi’s first, inconspicuous secret.

The narrow lane by the okiya worked like a bloodstream. A seamstress, still in half-darkness, sat on the threshold, holding the needle as surely as if it were another joint of her finger. She was not sewing “beauty”; she was repairing knots, reinforcing seams, patching frays at the edge of a sleeve, where silk is always the first to tell the truth about weariness. Beside her stood a zaru (笊, “bamboo basket/sieve”) full of leftover threads and ribbons; in another house someone was washing, and “washing” could be a separate world in Edo, because cloth and paper might be cheap, but good wood and fire (to heat water) were not.

A young maiko (舞妓, literally “dancing girl”) did not yet have the right to look at the district as a stage. For her it was, above all, a place of learning: how not to catch the “bow” of the obi (帯, literally “belt”) on something, how not to spill tea, how not to trample someone else’s sandals in the entryway. But before it was time to practice, she was sent out for errands — and that was the best training, because it taught the city. She walked in ashida (足駄, literally “foot + load/burden” — i.e., wooden clogs), carefully, so as not to fall.

She passed the workshop of the setta (雪駄, setta; literally “snow sandals” — in practice, leather-and-straw) repairman, who hammered the sole and called out his “dei dei,” as if he were driving rhythm into the whole street. That sound was as everyday as breathing — and just as invisible to visitors who came here in the evening to “view the flowers.”

On the corner stood a seller of soap bubbles; he shouted “tamaya, tamaya” (玉屋, literally “jewel house”), and children — in wooden geta (下駄, geta; literally “lower supports”) — ran in circles, as if the entire world were only a bubble you could catch.

Beside him another itinerant vendor passed by, calling: “itazura-mono wa inai ka!” (literally “Is there some prankster/rascal here?”) — this is how rat poison was sold in Edo, packaged as a joke.

Farther on it smelled of flowers, though flowers were only half the truth here. You recognized the florist by willow branches set at the entrance — like a trade sign. And alongside flowers he sold ka-yari (蚊遣り, literally “mosquito chaser”), camphor incense meant to drive summer torment out of a house. That mixture — beauty and usefulness in one hand — was Edo to the bone.

In hanamachi even music was born by day, like a craft. A shamisen teacher (三味線, literally “three flavors of strings”) would come here before noon — not in ceremonial dress, but in an ordinary kosode (in which we will no longer see him in the evening, when the whole district is covered in the glitter of elegance and refinement). He brought students into order not with talk about the “soul of art,” but with simple corrections: finger lower, calmer breath, steady tempo.

On her way, the maiko stopped by an ochaya (お茶屋, literally “tea house”), though in daytime there was not yet the evening glow. There was counting: who comes when, which vessels must be prepared, who must escort whom, who should be offered a warm brazier if it will be cold. In the entryway stood a karuko (軽子, literally “light boy” — a porter/messenger), waiting without a word. Work for him will appear soon — it always appears.

To outsiders the karuko is invisible — and yet it is he who carries instruments, parcels, sometimes a letter, sometimes a plate, sometimes a simple message that saves an evening. Before our maiko returned to the okiya, she passed a tsuji-ban (辻番, literally “guard at the crossroads”), a small watch post from which half the street could be seen.

In hanamachi nothing was done “without the city”: even if in the evening everything must look light, by day one remembers order, neighbors, the fact that someone is listening. This too was the opposite of romantic imaginings: the “flower world” did not float in a vacuum; it was woven into Edo’s administration, its customs, its everyday supervision.

Back at the okiya, “invisible” work was already waiting. Someone brought hōshogami (奉書紙, literally “paper for (formal) writing/document,” i.e., starched paper for wrapping small gifts), because even in cheap gestures form mattered. In Edo the packaging was often more important than the content — and it was neither strange nor bad. Since the time of Yamato, form and ritual had been important in Japanese culture.

Someone else checked whether the charcoal for the bandoko (火鉢, literally “fire bowl”) was dry. In the back, the kitchen prepared the basics: rice (including white rice for wealthier customers), broths, fish; dojō (泥鰌, literally “mud loach”) disappeared from the market in winter, so in winter one had to know how to manage without it — a detail small as a scale, yet telling the truth about Edo’s seasonality.

At last the maiko was given a moment for study: not grand, not ceremonial, just ordinary — like a tailor’s hand exercises. From the neighboring room came the sound of shamisen strings, and at the same time the street’s life continued: someone repaired clogs, someone carried water, someone walked a child home, someone bought incense against mosquitoes. Hanamachi was a district where beauty did not fall from the sky — it was produced, day after day, by a web of trades, favors, and small obligations.

And that was where its true charm lay: when lanterns were lit in the evening, it looked like sudden lightness, refined artistry with little to do with boring everyday life. But whoever knew how to look remembered the morning — the gutter and puddles, the sandal repairman’s “dei dei,” the bubble seller’s “tamaya,” the karuko waiting in the entryway, the kitchen with rice boiling. Because hanamachi was like a well-run house: the most elegant things happened before guests’ eyes, and the most important — beyond their sight, in ordinary daily work.

Map and glossary of the place

花街 (flower + street/district) — hanamachi, and 花柳界 (flower + willow + “world/sphere”) — karyūkai, are not merely a fairy-tale “land of geisha,” but a dense ecosystem of work: a district in which art is the final product, and underneath operate craft, logistics, credit, reputation, and a neighborly web of small favors. By day it is, above all, a place of services — like any part of Edo: you hear street calls, the creak of wooden footwear, the sound of repairs, transport, labor.

置屋 (to place/set + house) — okiya is not a “romantic geisha house,” but an institution of daily life: a place of residence, training, and discipline, but also “administration” (who goes where, who must give what back, who needs what, what must be repaired, what must be ordered, whom to remind about debts). In practice the okiya is like a small household enterprise: it watches over attire, study, relationships, and often finances too, because in a world where reputation is currency, someone must count and remember.

お茶屋 (tea + house) — ochaya, and 料亭 (ingredients/fee + pavilion) — ryōtei, are the two hearts of “the evening” — but each beats differently. The ochaya is primarily the place that receives and conducts ozashiki (お座敷 — “reception/sitting room”): here one cares for atmosphere, discretion, the rhythm of conversation and social choreography. The ryōtei, meanwhile, is the kitchen’s backstage of orders and quality: where deadlines, freshness, temperature, vessels, manner of serving, and also the bill matter — often arranged so that the guest feels elegance and the house has certainty of solvency. In other words: the ochaya sells an artistic night; the ryōtei sells a night of pleasure. (This distinction is crucial, because it lets one see hanamachi as an entire service system, not a “place of geisha.”)

検番 (control/check + number/order) — kenban is the “brain” of the district: an office that organizes the market. In practice: it registers, arranges schedules, intermediates commissions, ensures that everything has its order — because without that, even the most beautiful art would collapse into the chaos of delays and mistakes.

Note

Hanamachi is not yūkaku (遊郭, a prostitutes’ district) — and yūkaku, with Yoshiwara at the head, were not hanamachi. Yūkaku is the world of licensed prostitution, with a different institution, a different economy, and a different “public,” whereas hanamachi/karyūkai are districts of artistic entertainment: music, dance, conversation, etiquette — and the entire host of professions around it that live off this art. (Later this distinction was sometimes blurred or deliberately “mixed” in debates and regulations of the 20th century — and that is precisely why it is worth emphasizing it clearly here.)

A day plan in hanamachi

Morning

In the morning hanamachi looks like a workshop, not a stage. Before anyone begins to speak of art, the day begins with things that in Edo were a holy practicality: wiping thresholds, airing rooms, carrying out trash and ash, replenishing water, checking fuel and vessels. In a wooden city these are not details — they are a daily fight for order and safety, because fire is a blessing (warmth, cooking, bath) and at the same time a constant risk (how did Edo deal with the risk of fires? — you’ll read it here: 'Our guys are on the roof!' — Hikeshi in the shogunate era, when a firefighter was a hero, a brawler, and an Edo celebrity).

Earliest of all you see those who are never heroes of stories, and without whom no ozashiki would work. Suppliers with bundles, messengers with spoken messages (because paper leaves a trace), repair people: for shōji doors, for tatami mats, for slippers, for chests. Hanamachi is like a small organism: if in the morning someone does not come to tighten, glue, replace, then in the evening something will crack at the least appropriate moment. Because the district lives by the fact that at night everything works perfectly — by day all inspections, repairs, and checks must be done.

Morning is also when something begins that romantic pictures never show: the economy of small things and trust credit. In hanamachi little works “immediately” without relationships — what counts is steadiness, familiar faces, memory of who pays on time, who “can disappear.” That is why morning is the hour when one checks notebooks: what must be ordered, whom to remind, where to send a trainee, whom to ask for a quick repair. And this already is custom: not to shout, not to force the world faster — but to settle things “the Japanese way,” through rhythm and a network of favors (how credit and finances worked in Edo — you’ll read it here: A Country Without Banks – The Monetary System of the Shoguns and Credit Measured in Honor and Shame in Edo Japan).

Afternoon: producing elegance

In the afternoon hanamachi enters its most intense mode, but still “invisible”: training and preparation. The most important truth is simple: evening lightness is the result of repetition. Dance and music rehearsals take place not in halls “for an audience,” but in ordinary rooms divided by paper walls — every wrong note can be heard throughout the house. Apprentices learn not only steps or melodies, but also what is crucial in karyūkai: control of tempo, emotion, and breath, because the guest is meant to see calm and cheerfulness, not effort and panting.

At the same time artisans work. The outfit is not a “costume,” but a system: something must be lined, something reinforced, something steamed and pressed, something cleaned, something repaired. Hanamachi has its own professions: people for dyeing, cords, fastenings, wrapping paper, instrument repairs, cleaning and storing props.

Afternoon is also the logistics of the kitchen and reception house: setting the menu, vessels, portions, order of serving, preparing ingredients that must arrive fresh and on time. And importantly: the kitchen works in the rhythm of season, but also in the rhythm of reputation and relationships — “today it’s better to serve this, because the guest who will come today values it,” or “today more frugally, but without losing form” (because the client is steady, but not very wealthy). In Edo elegance is not luxury, but the skill of selection: even modesty can be exquisite if it is served properly.

Finally: afternoon is the moment when the “soft” part of hanamachi life begins to circulate under the district’s skin — information. Who has returned to the city, who is ill, who has trouble, who has debts, who is in a bad mood, who should not be seated next to whom. It sounds like gossip, but in practice it is a system of risk management: hanamachi sells harmony, so it must anticipate dissonance (see how this works even in our times — at corporate company parties: “Going to bōnenkai”! – among Japanese people, in an izakaya, amid unwritten rules and rituals ).

Dusk: switching to spiritual harmony

With dusk, the way people move changes: there is less “work in plain sight,” more work in half-shadow. Hanamachi grows narrower, as if the street itself constricted its throat. This is the hour of final arrangements: who goes where, at what time, by which entrance, with what in hand. Here you see the difference between a district and a theater: in theater a bit of chaos is part of the magic; in hanamachi chaos is a catastrophe, because it breaks guests’ sense of safety.

Dusk is also the time when the institutions that organize the market (kenban) make their fullest sense: everything must align not only logistically, but socially too. The district lives by reputation; reputation lives by punctuality, discretion, and memory of who deserves trust.

Night at full throttle

Night in hanamachi has two layers. The first is “for the guest”: conversation, art, atmosphere, the feeling that time flows differently. The second is “for the district”: a continuous chain of actions and controls so that the first layer can exist. Someone guards the rhythm of the reception, someone ensures the smooth flow of dishes, someone reacts when a guest has had too much sake, someone conducts a discreet evacuation to avoid awkwardness (with a joke, a change of topic, a song). This is social craftsmanship at a master level — and in Edo it was valued, because it allowed people a moment of rest from hierarchy and duties without losing face.

After receptions there is no “ending like in a play.” There is closing down: carrying out vessels, counting, noting, minor repairs, laundry, cleaning, airing, sorting. The most prosaic — and most important — element of the night is the bill, because hanamachi is a business — we must always remember that. The bill is at once economy and custom: it must be true, but also arranged so as not to humiliate, to leave the guest a sense of class and a desire to return. And alongside the bill goes memory: who was generous, who was difficult, who was sad, who sought conversation, and who only sought “presence.”

Dawn and the next morning: everything returns to its place

Dawn is when the district removes its evening skin: things return to chests, rooms to order, instruments to cases, kimono to storage, and people to their daytime roles. Then you see the true “after hours”: it is not “when everything ends,” but when “everything begins again.”

And again the most important are those not described in legends: people for cleaning and laundry, repairs, shopping, cooking, carrying. Hanamachi works because it has a structure like a well-run house — only larger, more complicated, and constantly attentive to reputation. Art is the flower here, but the root is work: repetitive, tiring, quiet.

An evening with geisha in practice: how ozashiki works

For the client everything begins as if it begins by itself. The ochaya door slides soundlessly, the proprietress–okami (女将; “lady of the house”) greets him at the threshold, and inside there is that particular silence which is not an absence of sounds, but their control: you hear a step on tatami, the rustle of a sleeve, tea being poured. The client sees a world “ready” — but readiness is the product of many hands.

1. The order: how to prepare

In Edo realities, the client does not “book ozashiki in an app.” Usually it works through relationship and recommendation: a regular guest has “his” ochaya and “his” okami; a new one is introduced by someone whose face this world already knows. The order is often half a sentence: how many guests, roughly when, what mood (quiet or lively), whether there should be music, or more conversation, whether there is any special wish as to repertoire or person.

What the client does not see: at this moment the ochaya activates a network of confirmations. If the district has an institution like kenban, the ochaya does not “look for geisha on the street,” but coordinates the casting through the office/schedules. If there is no formal kenban in a given place and time, it works through an equally strict, only more “spontaneous” administration: messengers, notebooks, knowledge of the availability of okiya houses and musicians.

2. Confirmation: who watches over the evening

The client sees one hostess, but in practice many people work for him:

 - The ochaya okami: face, reputation, discretion, the evening’s tone. She decides whether the reception is to be more formal or loose; whom to seat closer, whom to “move away” from conflict through conversation.

 - The person handling the room (often the house staff): prepares the place, brings in and takes out, controls temperature, order, cleanliness, the rhythm of serving.

 - The intermediary–“toritsugi” (取次, literally “to mediate/pass on”): someone who passes information between the kitchen, the entrance, the musicians, and the artists — so that the client notices nothing.

In a well-run ozashiki the client feels that everything happens magically “just right”: no one waits, no one wanders, no one asks about things in his presence. Somehow everyone knows everything and everything happens exactly when it should. This is the very core of the geisha-house business: watchmaker organization of the illusion of naturalness.

3. Entry and “setting the mood”: the first five minutes

The client enters, removes footwear, is given a towel for his hands, tea. This is not neutral politeness — it is regulation of emotional temperature. The ochaya sells safety: the guest must feel that he has been received, that someone will take care of everything for him. Only then does “art” enter.

Underneath: in this short time someone has already managed to signal the kitchen (when to begin, at what intervals), check whether the instrument has arrived, whether the charcoal in the hibachi is ready, whether the water for washing dishes is heated, whether the plates are appropriate to the season. Equally important is to forewarn the geisha what mood the client has arrived in.

4. The arrival of the artists and music

When a geisha appears, the client sees a bow, a smile, conversation. If there is music, the shamisen appears. What the client almost never sees, yet is essential:

 - karuko (軽子; “light boy”) — porter/messenger — who brought the instrument in its case, sometimes also a box of accessories, cushions, small props; and vanished before the guest can remember a face.

 - jikata (地方; “side/cast”) — musician/accompanist — who is not an “addition,” but a separate professional. In many arrangements it is the musician who holds the evening’s rhythm: he enters when he must, falls silent before anyone sees more in him than background, tunes the instrument in breaks so that the guest does not see the “technique.”

 - the staff arranging space: cushions, trays, vessels; details, but they create the impression that the room “arranges itself” around the guest.

5. The core of ozashiki: conversation, games, laughter

After a short time the client feels he is taking part in free conversation. In practice, conversation in ozashiki is a skill at the intersection of art and psychology: to lead a topic so that no one loses face, to lift the mood but not ridicule, to let a joke in and let it out before it becomes vulgarity.

Games, toasts, little antics are part of craftsmanship, not “spontaneous fun.” In Edo culture this is clearly visible: things “for show,” small gifts, gestures meant to say “I remember you” — this is the world of sahō (作法; “rules of conduct/etiquette”) and kata (型; “form/pattern”) — formalities meant to look natural. Ozashiki is, to a large extent, precisely such formality pretending to be naturalness.

6. Food

The client sees dishes served in a rhythm that seems self-evident. But nothing is self-evident until someone ensures it. The ryōtei or kitchen cooperating with the ochaya prepares the dishes and guards quality. The ochaya staff bring in, take out, change vessels, serve sake and water, quietly remove what is unnecessary. The okami controls tempo: speed up when guests grow lively; slow down when conversation becomes deeper; serve something warm when chill can be felt in the room. She must guess what best fits the moment and the client’s mood — and guess his whims and desires before he speaks them.

To the client, a bowl looks “simply pretty.” To the backstage it is a question of reputation: in Edo the aesthetics of serving could be judged without mercy — and what looks like a trifle could build or ruin a house’s opinion.

7. The bill: how to count something meant to look like a priceless evening

The moment of settlement is arranged so as not to break the mood. The client rarely receives “the bill on the table” as in an ordinary inn. Often settlement goes by a discreet path: through the ochaya, through the house, through a later summary.

Underneath, however, everything is countable: time, number of people, additional musicians, food, sake, props. In a world that sells ephemerality, bookkeeping is hard — otherwise the whole would collapse. That is why the existence of an institution like kenban (or its practical equivalent) makes sense: someone must ensure that “beauty” has schedules, rates, and order.

8. "Disappearing without noise”: the most Japanese finale

The end of ozashiki is not a climax like in theater. It is a soft fading: the music quiets first, then conversation moves into simpler tones, then someone stands “at just the right time.” Farewells are short, bows precise, and the doors close as if nothing happened in the room — and that is the house’s class.

What the client does not see: immediate cleaning, counting vessels, rolling up cushions, putting away the instrument, checking that nothing was left behind, notes in a notebook, sending karuko with a parcel if something must be returned or delivered.

The economy of beauty: money, debts, dependencies

Hanamachi worked like a reputation market, not like a “romantic salon.” Entry into the customer circulation was based on a network of recommendations: who introduces whom, who “vouches” for whom, who is steady and predictable. This was not snobbery for snobbery’s sake — it was practical protection of interest: receptions, food, sake, musicians, and staff generated costs before payment appeared, so houses had to minimize the risk of “disappearing” guests. That is why a steady client was worth more than a generous one-off: steadiness meant continuity of cash and peace in planning schedules.

The key mechanism was credit and settlements “through the house.” From the guest’s point of view the evening could be “cashless,” but underneath everything was recorded: time, number of people, additional performances, food, sake, tips and “gifts,” wages for helpers. The reception house and coordinating office (where it existed) played the role of something like a clearing house: it organized commissions and ensured that money flowed to the right people and that debts did not turn into a public scandal. Debt in hanamachi was not only a lack of cash — it was a stain that could not always be washed away.

The greatest “investment” was not the ozashiki itself, but the “production” of an artist: years of training, upkeep, outfits, accessories, instruments, lessons with teachers (and upkeep of the teachers themselves), time and “the house’s care.” Who financed this in reality? Most often the okiya institution (the house) and its system of advances/settlements: the house fronted costs, and later recovered them from the artist’s work, creating a structural dependency similar to educational debt — only in Edo realities, where “skill” was a commodity and “form” (etiquette, conduct, repertoire) had a calculable market value. Added to this were purely “technical” costs: repairs and maintenance, replacing elements of dress, seasonality of materials, and “invisible infrastructure” (transport, helpers, kitchen service, vessels) which did not shine, but ate the budget.

Finally, an important warning against anachronism: in the 20th century, law, politics, and part of journalism began to mix vocabulary (and with it, imaginings), throwing different professions and different segments of the “night economy” under shared labels. That is where some modern mental shortcuts come from, such as “geisha = prostitute.” It is always worth remembering that there was a clear division: karyūkai as a system of art and social entertainment, and yūkaku as a system of licensed prostitution — because their economies, institutions, and social functions were different, even if both worlds coexisted in the same city (but in different districts!).

That was Edo. And what is it like today?

Today hanamachi still functions like an ecosystem of enterprises, only on a far smaller scale than in the past. In Kyoto itself, in the so-called “five hanamachi” (五花街), the numbers are hard and highly telling: according to data cited after the Kyoto Traditional Arts Foundation (おおきに財団), in April 2024 there were 155 geiko and 56 maiko. This means that the entire “market” today is small and elite, and therefore more economically sensitive: every resignation, break in training, or drop in regular clients truly affects the survival of houses, teachers, musicians, and staff. At the same time Kyoto remains Japan’s largest center of this type, and the “kagai/hanamachi” system still rests on the same pillars: okiya (geisha house), ochaya (reception house) and a coordinating office like kenban.

Business mechanics in the 21st century are more “formal” and more cautious about risk. The core — private ozashiki — still works in the logic of reputation and recommendation (an “introduced” guest, a regular client, settlements through the house), but alongside it hanamachi develops controlled public channels: performances and shows in designated places, educational events, museums and institutions presenting hanamachi culture in an “allowed” way that does not break privacy or work schedules. The biggest change is that districts today must manage not only the client, but also… the tourist: in Gion specific restrictions were introduced in response to harassment and “photo hunting” — including the closure of selected private alleys to tourists from April 2024, and enforced rules against unauthorized photography and entering private lanes, with modest fines of 10,000 yen (approx. 230 PLN).

From the legal side, the most important point is that modern stereotypes often arise by mixing orders: geiko/maiko are an artistic-social profession, not a category of “sex business.” Japan’s Anti-Prostitution Law (売春防止法; Act No. 118 of 1956) was created as an instrument to combat prostitution and prostitution-adjacent activities — historically it concerned a completely different area than the traditional hanamachi system.

Therefore, today’s hanamachi, if they want to survive, must simultaneously defend boundaries (who they are and what they are not), maintain the costly training path, and protect the privacy of their work — which in an era of mass tourism has become as important as the art itself.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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