The single-carriage tram rattles through, bound for Higashiyama, as I wait to cross Momotarō-dōri, a main thoroughfare in Okayama. After a week in Kyūshū, I’ve paused here on my way back to Tokyo. My hotel lies on one side of the street, a cluster of restaurants on the other, and I’ve already crossed between them several times. The wait is lengthy. Looking around, I take in the familiar visual triumphs of urban Japan: architecture rising in uneven layers framed by zelkova trees, vending machines glowing beside the façades of convenience stores at eye level.

Beneath my feet, another motif appears—alternating white-painted bands, their coating dense and luminous against the asphalt. Early evening rain heightens the contrast, turning the black tarmac into a mirror-like gloss as the white lines gleam under the streetlights. I’m observing the markings of the everyday crosswalk. From the spectacle of Shibuya Scramble to the narrowest nameless side street, these pristine stripes lead pedestrians across nearly every intersection and corner the city contains.

The crosswalk is an ordinary element of road design, yet in Japanese cities its exacting application sustains an impression of immaculate order. Rarely does a trace of paint stray beyond its bounds. As much as vending machines and convenience stores, these measured markings define the streetscape visually. Municipal repainting cycles, patrol checks, and citizen reports keep the lines crisp, seldom dulled by weather or neglect. As much as the polishing of pavements or the absence of litter, the clarity of the crosswalk contributes to the city’s prevailing sense of cleanliness.

Yesterday, I noticed a new crosswalk temporarily marked out in tape. Before long—late at night, when traffic thins—a road crew will come with stencilled rigs, embedding the pattern permanently with thermoplastic paint infused with reflective glass beads. I’ve written before that I see these municipal labourers as urban craftspeople¹. Their tools are mechanical, their methods prescribed, yet the outcome depends on judgment—the angle of application, the speed of the pass, the uniformity of the finish as the paint is heated and laid in perfect lines. This work, carried out in near invisibility, is essential to the sheen of order for which Japanese cities are known.

Back on Momotarō-dōri, another tram trundles by in the opposite direction towards Okayama Station. Tramlines occupy a special place in the story of Japan’s crosswalks. The first example appeared in Tokyo in 1920, when a tramway crossing was outlined by two boundary lines—an early guide for pedestrians in an age when streetcars, not automobiles, dominated the road. Today, only one Tokyo tramline endures: the Toden-Arakawa Line, branded as the “Tokyo Sakura Tram”. In Okayama, though, as in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, streetcars remain integral to city life, and with them come crosswalks that intersect the lines, adding an extra layer of choreography to the movement of the streets.

In the years after the war, as motorisation accelerated, the 1960 Road Traffic Act and its accompanying ordinance on road signs and markings codified how pedestrian crossings would appear in law and on the street. Through the high-growth decades, zebra-style bands became standard—broad white stripes bordered by solid side lines that resembled the rungs of a ladder. Around the time of the Olympics, more playful experiments emerged, including checkerboard patterns. In 1992, revisions to the law pared back the visual language: side rails were removed, leaving only bold white bands and the negative space between them—design economy for the painted stripe. From then on, the crosswalk familiar to anyone walking Japan’s streets took its enduring form.

The term for crosswalk, ōdan hodō (横断歩道), carries within it both motion and intent. Ōdan joins yoko (横), meaning across or sideways, with dan (断), to cut or traverse—an image of movement slicing laterally through a current. Hodō pairs ho (歩), to walk, with dō (道), road or path—a route set aside for those on foot. Together they form a phrase with no margin for interpretation: “a path for pedestrians to cross”.

Just then, a group of schoolchildren in yellow caps gathers beside me, shepherded by their teachers. The sight is common across Japan: pupils in the early years of primary school wear bright headgear to make them visible in traffic, and road safety is one of the first lessons they learn outside the classroom. At the crosswalk, they pause, rehearsing a routine instilled since their earliest days—checking both directions, raising one hand to signal their intention to cross, and stepping forward only when the way is clear or the signal sounds. Phrases such as ōdan hodō wo watarimashō—“let’s cross at the crosswalk”—are repeated in classrooms and safety campaigns, turning teachings into linguistic habit and, in turn, embodied behaviour.

Children everywhere are taught how to cross a road, but in Japan the lesson is reinforced daily by the conduct of adults. At the lights, parents, commuters, and cyclists wait together, providing a model for the younger generation. The pattern becomes collective: pedestrians gather at the kerb, advancing only when the signal changes. I recently stood at a crosswalk so narrow it held just two white stripes. Even as openings appeared in the traffic, we all remained still, waiting for the light’s cue.

A study published in Accident Analysis & Prevention by researchers at Nagoya University and the French Institute of Science and Technology for Transport, Development and Networks compared pedestrian behaviour in Strasbourg, France, and Inuyama, Japan. It found that in France, two-thirds of walkers crossed on red, while in Japan the figure was just seven per cent. The difference lay not in law but in practice—each individual taking cues from those around them.

I don’t mind the wait. During periods of travel, the senses are heightened², and between decision-making, navigation, and time constraints, it’s easy to fall into rush mode—powering through the streets without really seeing them. But at the crosswalk, where at home we might watch for a gap in the traffic and hurry across, it is apparent that we must wait. The signal’s illuminated red figure holds sway here, enough to halt the city’s human tide with enforced interludes. Time stretches into a pause, which I try to regard as practice, not delay.

A friend of mine, a ray of sunshine who finds the good in everything, once told me that the secret to waiting is not to see it as waiting at all, but as a moment to rest, to think. I recall his words whenever I start to feel impatient. Then the pause becomes useful: a chance to shed tension and reset the monkey mind. First, I still the body, then the breath, and gradually my focus widens—to the outlines of nearby buildings, the murmur of passing cars, and the patter of rain on asphalt. Across the road, I notice others waiting, and for a brief moment we share the same interval of suspension before moving on together. Urban walking, after all, is not only locomotion but a discipline of awareness.

Suddenly, I am taken out of my serenity by the chirp of the crossing. The sound is what police classify as onkyo-shiki—an acoustic-type pedestrian signal. Traditionally two main subcategories existed. The first, gion-shiki, uses onomatopoeic bird calls such as piyo-piyo and kakkō, often in an alternating pattern to indicate direction. The second, merodi-shiki, plays short melodies—most commonly Tōryanse, a children’s song about passing through a checkpoint, and, more rarely, Furusato no Sora (“Hometown Sky”), a lilting tune with the softness of a lullaby.

At the crossing on Momotarō-dōri, the signal sounds a pi-pon pi-pi-pon to mark the walk phase. These modern chime-type systems rely on brief electronic notes, which are gradually replacing the bird calls and songs once common. Tōryanse was introduced in the early 1970s, but now plays at fewer than thirty-five crossings in Tokyo. Some feel the melodies better convey how long the “walk” light will last, yet officials favour the new tones for their neutrality, claiming they are clearer to interpret and reduce noise pollution.

Though designed primarily to guide the visually impaired, all of these signals lend the city an unmistakable auditory texture—part of what I’ve previously called the “emotional soft-edging” of Japanese cities: small, deliberate touches that temper the hardness of urban space³. In almost any busy area, one tone or another is never far away. Even when not crossing, you hear it faintly in the distance. For visitors, it settles into memory through the brain’s auditory and emotional circuits, where sound, place, and feeling entwine. Long after leaving Japan, it returns as a kind of echo—an aural nostalgia for the way the city once moved around you.

With the chime, the illuminated red figure transitions to green, releasing us from suspension into motion across those clean white stripes. Sound, light, and line work together as a semiotic trio, guiding body and mind in unison. Each crossing is at once practical and aesthetic—a small stage where order, design, and shared behaviour converge. The signal seems to whisper: it is time to move on—to the next street, the next thought, the next destination, wherever that may be.

Until we meet at the ōdan hodō,

Further Reading

A Guided Crossing