Waseda WeeklyWaseda Weekly

The other day, I spent about a week as a visiting Faculty at a university in a certain regional city. The city, located in the Chubu region, is close to both the mountains and the sea, and while it is lively, it is not overcrowded. Even during rush hour, you can find a seat on the train or bus. Street trees provide shade everywhere, and I always felt a gentle breeze on my skin.

For years now, there hasn't been a gentle breeze in central Tokyo. All you get is wind from the buildings. There's no shade either. During last year's heatwave, I spoke to countless elderly people who had collapsed on the streets from heatstroke. Even I, after a long, arduous morning train ride, have already exhausted all my energy by the time I open the door to my research lab in the city center.

The university where I stayed was located on the outskirts of the city, and its vast campus had many common spaces, both indoors and outdoors. There, people who appeared to be students were reading, browsing the internet, chatting, debating, and napping. Every time I saw the photographs of Nobel Prize-winning Faculty displayed throughout the campus, I thought that perhaps original research ideas are born in places like this.

In the research lab of this provincial university, with the windows wide open, listening to the rustling of leaves and feeling the breeze on my cheeks, I felt an overwhelming sense of envy. I envied this airy environment, this open space, from the bottom of my heart. Wasn't a university supposed to be a place with good airflow, a place where a pleasant breeze blows for the mind, body, and soul?

Back in the city center, deprived of both gentle breezes and shade, I continue to tirelessly go through my work. Disappointed in myself for not being able to spare even a single moment for research, I head home.

(SK)

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