Occasionally, I might feel compelled to step out and experience the sheer urban intensity of a walk beside the Shuto Expressway, Tokyo's vast network of elevated toll roads. Such a journey on foot carries a melancholic undertone. It is a self-effacing activity, directly interfacing with the city's most unyielding, pedestrian-unfriendly concrete landscapes. Along some segments, you can walk beneath the towering pillars of the Expressway, and at times, crossing footbridges over the main roads brings you close enough to touch its underside and feel the rumble of one million vehicles daily passing by above.

Those moods are rare, though; for the most part, I'm inclined to steer clear of the Shuto Expressway. During walks through areas interconnected by its span, I usually seek out quieter paths, one or two streets behind the main roads. Still, given the Expressway's expansive structure, comprising three elevated ring roads and twelve radial routes fanning out from Tokyo's centre, it's inevitable to occasionally emerge from the seclusion of backstreets and momentarily confront its imposing presence.

On a recent walk from Roppongi towards Shirokane for coffee and breakfast at the excellent café Drogheria Sancricca, I opted for a diversion down a comparatively calm slope named Nagasaka, meaning 'long slope'. The beginning of this descent, marked by a scattering of restaurants, bars, and clubs near Roppongi, gradually thins out into a quieter blend of offices and residential buildings. By taking this path, you can skirt around a busy segment of Azabudai-dōri, notable for its relentless traffic, compounded by the C1 inner circular loop of the Shuto Expressway that arches overhead—a sight of spectacular congestion at almost any hour.

In due course, the path converges with Azabudai-dōri, and walking along the main road becomes necessary for a while. The journey is eventually punctuated by a pair of black and white vending machines on the right-hand side, thoughtfully sheltered to provide a moment's sanctuary from the elements while you sip on a saccharine canned coffee. The vending machines signal you back onto the more pleasant side streets leading toward Shirokane.

Upon reaching this stretch, I was drawn to a tiny park occupying a corner plot spanning merely 98 m². The space consists of paving tiles encircling a stately Keyaki, or Japanese Zelkova tree, complemented by a blue metal workout station, a bench, and four seats. A locker stands nearby, and there is no grass, with only a blend of dirt and gravel covering the concrete below. Meticulously maintained hedges frame the perimeter, masking the metal fencing beneath a veil of green. On initial impressions, it might be one of the smallest, most sparsely equipped play parks I have encountered.