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.