Today’s walk, from Shinjuku to Ryōgoku, is intentionally shorter. I chose a modest distance to allow for a slower crossing of Tokyo’s centre, with less of the urgency of longer hauls. It’s also a chance to offer my body brief relief after three consecutive 30,000-step days. The footsteps mount, and with each kilometre, the same backpack feels just a little heavier.

I began the morning under pale skies, leaving Kabukichō behind. The haze of last night’s revelry had lifted, replaced by delivery trucks, municipal workers, and tourists wheeling suitcases from the scene of the crime. Nothing looks the same in the light, especially the neon. Its spell breaks, and what remains is exposed: circuitry, plastic, and wiring, stripped of illusion.

I head to Shinjuku Sanchōme for breakfast, then cross to the west side of the tracks toward Keio Shinjuku to run an errand. Shinjuku is in full swing now, crowded, unrelenting. The short passage through Yoyogi marks a shift, and by the time I arrive in Sendagaya, a quieter Tokyo re-emerges: low-rise apartments, the occasional shrine gate, and streets that move at a gentler pace. Not much stirs here.

If Shinjuku is the crest of a fierce wave, then Sendagaya is where it breaks, falling back into calm. It offers a reset before the day ahead.

Neighbourhoods: Yotsuya to Iidabashi

From the train platform, Yotsuya Station always seems surprisingly lush. Trees and forest-like greenery lean into view just as the platform comes into sight. But stepping outside, you're in the thick of traffic and institutional authority. The buildings nearby signal the presence of state power: the Ministry of Defence lies to the south, with Supreme Court branch offices dispersed throughout the area. The main roads radiating from Yotsuya intersection carry a distinct sense of formality.

I’d often wondered about the trackside greenery, and sure enough, walking the route reveals its source. A green corridor stretches from Yotsuya to Ichigaya, tracing the remnants of the Tamagawa Aqueduct (玉川上水). What begins as a planted embankment gradually opens into a narrow park, lined with trees, stones, and benches.

It’s a secluded ribbon of greenery, interrupted at intervals by granite markers that point to its past as a waterway. I encounter maybe one or two other people along the trail—surprisingly few for central Tokyo—and gradually, my walking rhythm settles in again, easing out the frenetic pace required to move through Shinjuku and the super-dense city centre.

Between Yotsuya and Iidabashi, with Ichigaya in between, university campuses appear—Sophia, Tokyo Medical, Hosei, Kyoritsu, and a branch of Musashino Art University. The presence of students and the self-contained spaces designed for learning soften the city. These campuses come equipped with their own convenience stores, canteens, libraries, and communal areas—small enclaves where students can remain insulated from the more hurried pace of Tokyo’s working world.

Clusters of students gather outside lecture halls and exam centres in loose formations. There’s a common notion that, between the rigours of high school and the demands of working life, university offers young people in Japan a rare pause. You catch a hint of that freedom in the cadence of their conversations. It’s an enviable moment in life, with the future stretching wide and undefined before them.

At Ichigaya, the Kanda River comes into view. The JR line, the road, and the greenway beneath my feet stack upon this canalised waterway. It’s a layered composition of river, track, pavement, and traffic, aligned almost diagrammatically. We continue east along the channel, a light breeze rising from the water, while the passing Chūō Line offers a gentle reminder of my context.

As I near Iidabashi, the greenway narrows, but the sense of pedestrian priority remains. This stretch concludes in a mix of pocket parks, layered infrastructure, and the threshold of Kagurazaka. Remarkably, it’s possible to walk this entire segment without ever feeling overtaken by traffic or crowds—a rare freedom in such a heavily urbanised part of the city.

Coffee Break: Coffee Aristocrat Edinburgh

Coffee Aristocrat Edinburgh holds a specific place within the kissaten sphere as it operates 24 hours a day, non-stop. The shop is located above a Family Mart—there’s no eye-catching façade to photograph, just a metal sign by the stairwell and a matching one perched above the convenience store’s branding. With its red Gothic script and yellow Minchō-style kanji, it may catch the eye of those attuned to such details, but for most, it’s almost imperceptible.

Entering from the Shinjuku-Sanchōme side, you could just as easily be stepping into Marunouchi circa 1978. Inside, the space is unexpectedly expansive. The interior channels the more opulent end of kissaten design—green leather banquettes, dark wood panelling, faux brick walls, and brass chandeliers. Each table is neatly appointed with a polished golden sugar pot.

My 'morning set' arrives: thick-cut, pillowy white toast with fried egg and salad, paired with a siphon-brewed coffee that’s neither too acidic nor overly roasted. It’s perfectly serviceable, but Edinburgh is less about the menu and more about the atmosphere, or perhaps the appeal of late-night coffee in a space that holds its own kind of time.

The café’s round-the-clock hours lend it a kind of theatrical permanence—it feels as though it could be any hour of the day. Beside me, a woman in oversized sunglasses sips iced coffee, unfazed by the indoor setting. Across the room, a young man is engrossed in his copy of the Nikkei. Attendants in white shirts and gold waistcoats move briskly between tables, balancing trays of toast and coffee. Elderly couples occupy many of the booths, having ventured to Shinjuku for a morning blend and breakfast shared in comfortable silence.

Next time, I’ll try coming at 3 a.m. to glimpse the Nighthawks at the Diner mood in full, and to watch how the clientele shifts as Tokyo whiles away the night.

Reflection: Under the Bridge

Today in Kanda, I passed through mAAch ecute, an adaptive reuse of the former Manseibashi Station. The early 20th-century red-brick viaduct remains structurally intact, its arches now home to small businesses: a beer bar, a stationery boutique, a shop specialising in handmade umbrellas. Above, Chūō Line trains thunder overhead.

This scene embodies the principle of urban void appropriation: the city’s instinct for turning overlooked gaps into functioning public or commercial space. The practice is one of Tokyo’s defining morphologies—liminal spaces, shaped by elevated infrastructure yet absorbed into daily life. Unassuming though they are, these enclaves form a vital part of Tokyo’s urban identity.

So far on this journey, I’ve passed golf nets, play parks, recycling plants, nightlife zones, student dorms, and supermarkets all nestled beneath the viaducts and arches of the Chūō Line. The uses are wildly diverse—public, commercial, occasionally eccentric—but the space is rarely wasted. In aggregate, the establishments and network of uses beneath the line begins to resemble a compact city in its own right.

Walking the length of the line draws my attention to these spaces but typically, they register simply as part of the street. You might browse shops or order a highball without ever clocking the mass transit system rumbling overhead. It’s a spatial sleight of hand, and once you spot it, you start noticing it all across the city.

Blue Hour

I crossed Ryōgoku Bridge in the midst of a downpour, at what should have been blue hour. Thick, slate-coloured clouds dulled the scattering of short-wavelength light that usually bathes this time in its signature tint. There is no blue hour photograph today, so you’ll need to take my word for it that even without the spectral blues, the scene held a sombre urban melancholy of its own.

Until we meet in Chiba,

AJ