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I still remember the opening scene of the classic Christmas movie "Love Actually" that always tugs at the heartstrings. Not because of a spectacular declaration of love or a kiss in the falling snow, but simply the hurried hugs at Heathrow Airport (England). The camera pans across different faces, from old to young, elegant to casual. They all meet in a simple moment – seeing their loved one step out of the "Arrivals" door.
Director Richard Curtis chose to open and close the film with those frames, as if to say that before gifts, rituals, or endless carols in the supermarket, Christmas is first and foremost a season of homecoming.
Perhaps it is this feeling of "coming home" that allows Christmas, despite its Western origins, to permeate and remain so deeply rooted in East Asian life – where people are more accustomed to thinking about Tet (Vietnamese New Year), about feasts at the beginning of the year, rather than about Santa Claus and Christmas trees covered in lights.
Christmas now appears through the glass windows of shopping malls, in the familiar music playing in the cafes at the end of the street, and in late-night appointments in mid-December.
Although originating in the West, it has permeated and remained deeply ingrained in East Asian life – where people are more accustomed to thinking about Tet (Vietnamese New Year) and the festive meals at the beginning of the year, rather than about Santa Claus and Christmas trees covered in lights.
From Western stories to Asian spotlights
At its inception, Christmas was a religious holiday, associated with the story of Jesus' birth in Bethlehem, with ancient churches and hymns echoing through the European winter. But history moves faster than we imagine. Merchants, missionaries, and then the waves of globalization have carried Christmas symbols such as the Christmas tree, wreath, Santa Claus, and gift boxes around the world.
When Christmas arrives in Asia, it doesn't just "migrate," it's also "re-edited." In Tokyo, Christmas is about brightly lit streets, couples holding hands amidst red and green lights like in a movie scene, where each shadow behind the glass tells a story. In Seoul, it's about dating, about notes in a small notebook: "December 24th - dinner, concert, buy a new scarf." In Hong Kong, large shopping malls are decorated like film sets, where one can imagine a character silently watching the lights reflect on the glass, holding a paper coffee cup, like a replica of lonely figures.
The captivating aftertaste of a glass of wine
In East Asia, Christmas is celebrated not as a religious obligation, but as a "visual festival" where light, music, the scent of cinnamon and gingerbread, bells, and familiar melodies become the elements that allow people to slow down, even with a packed work schedule and countless KPIs as the year draws to a close.
The most beautiful and busiest season of the year.
Interestingly, while most people sigh "I'm so busy I could faint" during Christmas, they secretly consider it the best time of year. In Asian cities, December is a time of mounting deadlines, reports, year-end plans, company parties, year-end celebrations, and hurried emails. People are constantly moving between meetings, shopping, cleaning, and fulfilling unfinished promises.
But it is precisely amidst this "tense" pace that Christmas reveals moments of quiet reflection. It could be a few minutes waiting for a taxi under the decorative lights in front of a shopping mall, listening to "Last Christmas" or "All I Want for Christmas Is You" echoing somewhere, though you can't tell which speaker is playing. Or it could be a late night, sitting in a café playing jazz music, gazing at the yellow lights hanging from the misty windows, suddenly realizing that this city – whether Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City, Bangkok, or Taipei – can resemble a scene cut from a film.
It's late at night, and you're sitting in a cafe enjoying live music.
Sometimes people don't talk much about their feelings these days. Everything happens quietly, politely, sometimes almost "dry" because it's so rushed, but behind it all is a deep, hard-to-name flow of emotions. Christmas in Asia, on the surface, is about shopping, decorating, and the "winter wonderland" concept in stores, but alongside that are late appointments, longer-than-usual messages, and thank-yous that are rarely spoken.
When Christmas becomes a way of life
While Tet (Vietnamese Lunar New Year) is associated with family reunions, meals, and customs, Christmas in East Asian cities is closely tied to… lifestyle. It's the season for check-ins, for dreamy bokeh photos with Christmas trees, gift boxes, and yellow lights as backgrounds. It's the clinking of cocktail glasses in bars, the season for brands to launch limited editions, the scent of scented candles, and "Festive Dinner" set menus.
I think what's interesting is that, precisely because they aren't so heavily bound by religious significance in their lives, Asians approach Christmas with a sense of freedom, each choosing their own way of "living the Christmas season." Some need a romantic dinner where they can say things they haven't had the courage to say all year. Others just need an early night's sleep, putting on a small, pleasant Christmas playlist, like Murakami's character sitting alone in a Tokyo room, drinking beer, listening to music, and suddenly remembering someone who has passed through their life.
Somewhere in the city, some people choose to rewatch "Love Actually," "The Holiday," or the "Home Alone" series as a recurring habit. Over the years, these films have become more than just "Christmas movies"; they've become a kind of collective memory—something that, each time you watch it, you laugh at the familiar details but also realize you've aged a little, or that the relationships around you have changed.
Lights, memories, cities that never sleep
Asian cities during Christmas have a certain charm that I find very much like Wong Kar-wai's: lots of lights, lots of reflections, lots of people hurrying along in light coats. In Hong Kong, it might be the glass-towered buildings overlooking the harbor, where the red and green of Christmas blend with the familiar neon lights. In Tokyo, it's Omotesando or Roppongi covered in LED lights, where people stroll very slowly just to prolong a few extra minutes in a cold but unusually beautiful evening.
Snow season in Japan
In Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City, Christmas may not have snow, but it has the scent of late-season daisies, a dry, crisp breeze that makes one want to put on an extra layer of clothing. The Grand Cathedral, the streets adorned with lights, the cafes decorated in shades of red, green, yellow, and white. In that atmosphere, it's easy to believe that memories also have color, smell, and temperature.
Like the characters in Kazuo Ishiguro's stories, when reminiscing, we rarely remember the words clearly, but we vividly recall the color of the sky that day, the music playing, the scent of perfume, or the smell of wood in the room. Christmas, in that way, becomes an emotional milestone rather than a single holiday. As the year passes, people often ask, "Where were you last Christmas, and what were you doing?", as a way of positioning themselves within the timeline.
Notre Dame Cathedral is brilliantly illuminated during Christmas.
Why are East Asians reluctant to return Christmas to the West?
One could say that Christmas in Asia is a "translated" version, not a literal translation, but a translation of the "feeling." It doesn't replace traditional holidays, but it fills a different void: the need for a festive season at the end of the year to pause, reflect, and prepare for new beginnings.
In a busy year filled with goals, projects, plans, and people, especially for those living in urban areas, there's a reason to allow oneself to… slow down. Christmas inadvertently becomes the “excuse” to send a card, whether it's an e-card or a message with a Christmas tree sticker, buy a small gift for a friend or colleague, or treat oneself to a short trip to another city where the Christmas atmosphere is a little more intense.
In a busy year filled with goals, projects, plans, and people, especially those living in urban areas, there's a reason to allow themselves to… slow down.
With Asian cities operating at a rapid pace of growth, Christmas is also an occasion to talk about consumer culture, tourism, and experiences. Whether a city can create a beautiful Christmas season sometimes becomes a soft measure of its tourist appeal and the "chill" of urban life. People fly to Seoul to visit Christmas markets, to Taipei to see the lights, to Bangkok to shop, or simply stay in their own city, find little corners with a "Christmas atmosphere" to take some photos, sip a glass of mulled wine, listen to music, and have leisurely conversations.
Live slowly in a fast-paced world.
If we view Christmas not as a religious event, but as a part of our cultural life, we'll see it teaches us a few simple things. First, it's the art of preparation. From the beginning of December, people start making lists of what to buy, who to give gifts to, how to decorate, and where to have dinner. This preparation process, from hanging a string of lights and choosing a playlist to wrapping a gift, sometimes creates more joy than the main celebration on December 24th itself.
Secondly, it's the art of spending time with others. No matter how busy we are, most of us still try to schedule at least one get-together with a close friend, loved one, or family member. It could be just a simple meal, a hot cup of cocoa, or a longer-than-usual FaceTime call. But it's these seemingly small things that create the feeling that "this is the season for the people we love."
From the beginning of December, people have been making lists of what to buy, who to give gifts to, how to decorate, where to have dinner...
Thirdly, it's the art of taking time for oneself. On Christmas Eve, there will always be someone who chooses to go home early, dim the lights, let the room be just dark enough, put on some music, reread a book, or simply sit quietly, letting the noise of the city fade away. That moment is often quiet, a little lonely, but also full of freedom, as we confront ourselves, listen to how far we've come in the past year, what we've lost and what we've found again.
At the end of the film "Love Actually," when the airport scenes reappear along with the melody of "God Only Knows," we realize that no story truly ends on Christmas Eve. People are simply passing through a door, like the "Arrivals" gate at Heathrow, to embark on a new journey, carrying with them hugs, wishes, and encounters that have just taken place.
And every year, when the Christmas lights come on, no matter where we are, we have that familiar feeling.
Christmas in East Asian culture, in that way, is not a copy of the West, but a separate chapter in the diary of Asian cities. A chapter written with yellow lights, familiar city-pop music, night flights, dinner parties, bars open past late hours, and even small rooms where someone sits alone in front of a screen, typing a few lines of text and then deleting them.
And every year, when the Christmas lights come on, no matter where we are, we have that familiar feeling. It turns out that, in this hurried world, we still have a season to wait for, to return to, and to believe that no matter how clumsy we are, love is always "all around."
Because… “Christmas is all around.”
