An early departure from London via Zurich brought us into Tokyo shortly after 9 am the next morning. By the time we cleared immigration and reached Shinjuku on the Narita Express, the rush hour had given way to a placid mid-morning hum. It is, in this respect, a well-judged hour to arrive in the Japanese capital.
However, it presents a practical concern: fall asleep during the day and the entire trip’s sleep pattern is put at risk. 9 pm might be the earliest viable time to turn in on the first day; in our case, that meant 32 sleepless hours. Moments of drift in the cabin do not count. Shifting pressure, the rumble of jet engines, and upright seating leave little chance of anything approaching restorative sleep.
But in Tokyo, acclimatisation to the streets, sounds, and language has an energising effect. However many trips pass, we’ll always falter a little in the crowd, misunderstand strings of keigo at the counter, and get lost between layers of chimes on train platforms. In doing so, we become all eyes and all ears for the city.
With sleeping patterns calibrated, this week’s newsletter brings you some of the moments that kept us alert.
Neighbourhood Energy
Suitcases stored, the hotel’s location posed a question. Option A: walk south to Shinjuku for supplies, stepping straight into one of Tokyo’s busiest districts. It would be the cinematic way to draw energy from the city.
Option B, though, offered the streets of North Shinjuku. It is a Tokyo pattern: one or two neighbourhoods out from any of the city's polycentres, the intensity of commerce and tourism graduates to residential life, bringing a more balanced energy.
The decision required little deliberation. A short walk along Ōkubo-dōri led to a side-street kissaten beneath an apartment block, drawing us off the main drag. Next to it stood a soba restaurant so compact we mistook it for an extension of the kissa. Inside, the aroma of dashi and a menu headed by seiro clarified otherwise.
Seiro is the simplest form of soba: cold noodles served in a bamboo steamer, without even a dusting of nori, accompanied by a pot of dipping sauce. The owner’s daughter explained the shop has been serving the dish for fifty years. After 24 hours of airside cuisine, it felt like a knowing gift from the neighbourhood.
Cooled, we set off, gingerly photographing the streets and urban scenery. In a residential neighbourhood, it is courteous not to make a nuisance of oneself when shooting. There is an art to becoming invisible with the camera, one that takes time to settle into. After several oncoming bicycle bells, we began to find our form, tucking into the tightest corners and letting the traffic pass around us.
As the afternoon wore on, broad sunshine kept us warm enough for T-shirts in the crisp April air. A line of sakura trees now green, save for a few remaining pink petals, led to a tall stone torii gate. We bowed lightly and stepped beneath it, entering Yoroi Jinja, as beautiful as any well-known shrine, set among ordinary homes.
We stepped up to the altar, dropped in our five-yen pieces and, still clouded by jet lag, performed our bows and claps in reverse. Making light of the mistake, we continued—a moment to clear our minds and set intentions for the trip. Only the sound of a freewheeling bicycle tugged us back to our surroundings.
A full working week on, this pattern of decision-making persists. We have yet to reach Shinjuku for supplies, but we certainly have some in-depth walking routes under way for you.
※ AJ
City of Doors
Silhouettes behind the noren curtain tensed my nerves. I looked down, rehearsing restaurant phrases under my breath. At the sliding door, I hesitated, hoping not to draw attention, but sure enough, the room fell silent and all heads turned. The compact space held seven guests at a time, a typical counter seating arrangement, leaving nowhere to hide. We dragged the last two empty stools from under the counter, their faint scrape amplified in the hushed room.
The master handed us menus in brush-written kanji and kana characters. As we examined them, the stares eased and the restaurant’s murmur resumed. I slouched slightly, regaining my cool. Yet when the time came to order, the room seemed to close in again, curious how we would handle this. My heart raced as I attempted to shut out what was happening at the peripheries.
When we visit new places, we form schemata—units of knowledge that are stored and recalled. The more we encounter, the more our schemata are reworked. Even after numerous visits to Tokyo, that process persists for me. Missteps serve as cues to adjust to the city's rhythm, and slowly, the units accumulate.
I would not consider myself particularly graceful under pressure, but I tend to seek out these moments of discomfort. It is an intense cognitive effort, somewhere between maintaining composure and acting as the situation demands. And once passed through, it yields the most rewards.
And so we sat, rewarded: a silky cut of chūtorō on the counter before us, melting unresistingly on the tongue. I scanned around to find our fellow diners returned to their meals, never paying us a third glance. Another experience resolved into a unit of knowledge. We were back in Tokyo with a belly full of sushi and a city of doors to be opened.
✺ Kiara
This trip lays the groundwork for Tokyothèque Neighbourhoods: Volume 2. Volume 1 marked a small step towards our ideal guidebook format, and in the spirit of kaizen, we have prepared a short survey to gather feedback. If you have read or used it, we would value your help refining the next iteration.
If you’ve yet to pick up a copy, the second printing of Volume 1 remains available. Note that orders placed now will ship on our return after April 30.