A Snowy Night with The Tokyo Ballet

Halloween decorations had come down, small pines and mistletoe had appeared in shop windows, and round Santas were beginning to dot the streets. Christmas was quietly closing in.

That week, in a stylish izakaya a short walk from Shibuya Station, I met a young woman.

After the usual questions about where I was from and why I was living in Japan, she began to tell me about herself. From the way she spoke and listened, I guessed she was a nurse, or maybe a schoolteacher. Her voice was soft, and her smile had a way of holding your attention. She was slender, with dark eyes, and when she smiled the light seemed to spread to everyone around her. Her black hair was tied at her collarbone, and she kept smoothing the knot as she spoke, a small habit that seemed to steady her.

She was neither a nurse nor a teacher. She was a ballerina with The Tokyo Ballet. I had never met a ballerina in my life, and yet it made sense: this was exactly how I had always imagined one.

I had a hundred questions. How often do they perform? Do you get nervous before a show? Does it hurt to dance on those shoes, the ones where you tiptoe through the entire performance? She answered every one, and then, to my surprise, she added an invitation: “If you would like to experience Japanese ballet, please come and see us in December. We will perform The Nutcracker. Maybe you will like it.”

I know very little about ballet, but even I know The Nutcracker, Tchaikovsky’s Christmas ballet. And that mattered, because I absolutely love Christmas. The decorations. The same carols on an endless loop. And the movies. I can watch Home Alone or Jim Carrey’s Grinch again and again and never get bored.

I have my memories too. The enormous snowman my brother and I built in the backyard, toppled the very next day in an intense snowball fight. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from my grandmother’s kitchen, mixing with the sweet scent of my mother’s baking. Even the local news seemed to soften its tone during that season, which tells you everything. So when she invited me to a Christmas ballet, I said yes without a second thought.

A few weeks later, I was standing in front of a mirror, pulling out the most presentable pieces of my wardrobe. A black poplin shirt with a French collar and double cuffs. Beige chinos, black leather belt. Honestly, not bad. I skipped the tie; none of the ones I owned matched the shirt. I had mostly worn sporty or military-inspired clothes until then, so dressing up felt embarrassing. Then, the finishing touch. I threw on the most misshapen, threadbare bomber jacket I owned. Partly because I had no other coat, and partly because I liked its “gentle gangster” edge.

The venue was Tokyo Bunka Kaikan in Ueno. Before the show, I asked the woman at the information desk for directions. At first she was formal, a little distant. Then I took off the ragged jacket to reveal the outfit underneath, and her face shifted from mild surprise to a soft smile. She complimented my shirt. It felt like a private curtain being pulled back.

There was no dress code; the crowd made that clear. But for me it was a rare chance to dress up, and that small deliberate effort made the evening feel more important. Past the entrance stood a tall, sparsely decorated Christmas tree, and people of all ages posed for photos in front of it. I took no pictures, which I now regret, since I have no proof I was there. Instead I ordered a glass of sparkling wine, partly to steady my nerves and partly to play at being one of those elegant figures from Western films.

Looking around, the audience skewed female across generations, though men were hardly absent: I myself was proof. I had walked in convinced that ballet was not for me. Then I saw the youngest visitors, their eyes shining long before the show began, and that conviction started to waver. I was about to dwell on it a little longer when the announcement came, and the lights dimmed.

My seat was on the fourth floor, in the center balcony, with an unobstructed view. The Grand Hall felt like a study in elegant restraint: warm wood paneling in layer after layer, acoustic panels rising like waves, soft golden light washing the stage while the audience sat in a gentle dusk. The stage was far away, yet the live orchestra in the pit filled the hall with immediate, resonant sound. When the first notes unfurled, a calm, almost physical tranquility settled over me.

The curtain rose on a Christmas Eve tableau. Guests arrived at a grand house, every window aglow, stepping from carriages into lamplit snow. Fur-trimmed cloaks, velvet coats, embroidered waistcoats. Gifts were exchanged, greetings passed, and children threw snowballs, their laughter lending the quiet scene a bright, fleeting energy. Snow, lamplight, laughter. A festive night, given form.

The music swelled and the scene moved indoors. I was waiting for my friend’s entrance. That night she had been cast as a young boy, and the costume announced the role before she said a word: a tailored gray jacket borrowed from historical menswear, knee-length breeches recalling aristocratic riding attire. The makeup had given her a boyish edge, yet her feminine features still shone through, and the contrast gave the role a strange, quiet credibility. The boy joined the group with a playful spring, all pantomimed chatter and gift-giving, his gestures crisp yet tender, a blend of youthful mischief and courtly charm. At one point he knelt to present a small parcel to an elder character, eyes wide with anticipation, and a soft sigh ran through the audience.

Then night fell, and the stage changed completely. The clock struck midnight, the Christmas tree grew taller and taller, and an army of mice poured into the house. The nutcracker came to life as the commander of the toy soldiers, and they fought back against the Mouse King himself. The soldiers moved stiffly, like toys, and somehow that made the battle more real. The audience cheered the little soldiers on. It was a dream battle, and watching it, I felt like a child again.

Then the stage shifted into a dreamscape. Snowflakes fell slowly, catching the light like tiny stars, and the dancers swept into the Waltz of the Snowflakes. My friend joined the others in a circular formation, her footwork precise but buoyant. She chased an invisible snowball, tumbled into a roll, and landed with a grin. The audience chuckled, and so did I. It was theatrical joy, crafted yet genuine.

Beyond the snow lay the Land of Sweets. The Spanish dance came first, bright and stamping. Then the Arabian dance, slow and liquid, as if the music itself were stretching. The Chinese dance bounced like a wind-up toy, and the Russian dancer spun and leapt as if the stage were too small for him. One burst of color after another. My eyes could not keep up, and I did not want them to.

The snowscape slowly dissolved, and the stage became a forest bathed in twilight, branches arching overhead, soft green light filtering through an imagined canopy. My friend reappeared as one of the woodland dancers, her layered tutu flaring like the cap of a forest mushroom. The resemblance was uncanny, and the nickname stuck: “mushroom dancer” became our term of endearment, a small joke that captured both elegance and earthy charm. Dancers kept joining the stage, and when the full line moved as one, the whole hall seemed to rise with it. Her arms floated like leaves caught in a breeze, and mid-spin her tutu caught the light, as if she had just stepped out of a fairy ring.

Then the music hushed, and the two principals appeared: the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier. Just the two of them, and yet the stage felt small. The music turned bright and bell-like, the notes falling like tiny glass drops. He lifted the fairy high, and she came down as softly as the snow. I forgot to breathe. I suspect everyone in the hall did, too.

The final notes rang out, delicate and triumphant, full of wonder. The dancers took their bows. The orchestra had been magnificent. The audience rose in a standing ovation that felt like a collective embrace. My friend stood among the cast, smiling, breathless, radiant. Mischievous boy, snow dancer, mushroom dancer: all three roles etched into memory.

After that performance, I was filled with all kinds of emotions. I was happy that I had the chance to enjoy it, and moved in a way I had not expected.

I kept thinking about the friend who had brought me there. She was a modest person. The night we met at the izakaya, she spoke quietly and without a trace of pride. And yet on stage, she carried the boy’s mischief, the snow dancer’s lightness, and the forest dancer’s grace as if each were second nature. The grin after she tumbled in the snow. The way she stood at the curtain call, breathless and shining. I can still see all of it. She was a true nadeshiko: quiet strength, kindness, flawless poise. She showed all of it to us that night. I am proud to have a friend like that.

And I was sad that it ended. I wanted more.

Since that night, watching The Nutcracker has become my holiday tradition. Every year I return to the theater, ready to be swept back into its snowy dreamscape, its glowing forest, its warm afterglow. The Christmas tree at Tokyo Bunka Kaikan may be a touch smaller each season (organizers, if you are reading this: bigger tree, please), but the magic of that first night has never faded.

If you have never seen The Nutcracker, I wholeheartedly recommend it. Let yourself be carried by the music. You might leave with a new tradition of your own.

I will be there again this year. And who knows, maybe this time I will finally keep the promise I made to my cat, Mochi, and bring him along. Yes, cats are technically not allowed into the venue. So we may have to dress him in a trench coat and groom his whiskers... Hmm, that may not work either. But a promise is a promise. Dear staff of Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, please look the other way. ...Just kidding.