From the train window, I watched the urban sprawl taper away. Each time the cityscape seemed to give way to greenery, another trackside town blurred past. Around level crossings and stations, buildings and signage rose quickly then fell away, extending the gradient into a long, uneven tail.
The sky was an almost immaculate blue, and the morning sun was already strong. I prefer walking under partial cloud cover, but I had gone to some effort to pause the demands of daily life and make myself unavailable long enough for this excursion. The day was mine, the destination entirely of my choosing. I knew precisely how to get there, and little beyond that. Upon arrival, I planned to get lost.
The aim was not to wander irretrievably off track and find myself bewildered. In common with more strictly planned and guided travel, I still wanted to see new things, have memorable encounters, and learn about the place. But at the same time, I wanted a freedom not bound by what must or should be done. I wanted to return to my senses and test my neglected intuition. Getting lost, I had decided, would have some parameters.
Firstly, after alighting from the train, I would remain on foot. Walking speed ought to keep you from drifting beyond easy correction. My pace on a mission-driven walk, say to work, sits a little above 120 beats per minute, something close to the tempo of house music. My natural stroll is around 105 BPM, but on a day like this, I’d be happy to slow to 90 BPM, the territory of boom-bap hip-hop. We all move at different speeds, but by reducing our tempo, we establish the first of several guard rails.
GPS navigation would be off limits. I would be free to use publicly signposted maps, but there would be no photographing them for later reference. A site map examined at the beginning of a trail provides orientation and direction; after that, it is up to you to retain its outline. I would also accept any paper maps handed to me. Like signposts, paper maps rely on working memory. You will not want one open in your hands all day, so you remember as many of its turns as possible, then fold it away until the next stop.
Smartphone mapping apps have been transformative, but they dull short term memory for routes and roads. I think of my secondary school languages teacher, who would not let students consult the dictionary mid-sentence. If you keep looking it up, she said, you’ll never remember. The same is true of constantly glancing at an app. The muscle weakens over time, until we lose confidence navigating without a phone even in cities we once knew well.
I would also ask people for directions. I tend to want to do things myself, but ask a stranger and you’ll often receive more than a simple set of directions. You may come away with an opinion, a story, a suggestion. Certainly, this type of information is available through a few taps on Google Maps, but you cannot look into the eyes of whoever wrote it, sense their aura, and decide whether they are somebody whose shoes you’d like to walk in for a while.
Besides following the cues of the people, I would follow the cues of the place. Where I was going, there would be rivers, railways, and old highways, each running with and against the contours of the land. I am not a tracker, but you do not need to be to read the line leading to the station, the slope rising toward the summit, or the river soon to be bridged. Life tends to gather at these points and radiate from them.
Lastly, in case I truly lost my bearings, I would keep a small compass in my back pocket. That may sound like a performative retreat from modern life, but it weighs little and requires no charging, signal or biometric unlocking. It has one job: to orient you. This kind of getting lost isn’t about indulging nostalgia; it is about freeing yourself to meander, eyes up, within sensible bounds. The compass is the last line of defence against analogue freedom becoming real disorientation.
All of this is framed by expectation. One trouble with contemporary travel planned through social media is the implication that we ought to be able to easily consume each destination’s top sights, restaurants, and cultural experiences, with enough energy left over to edit a cute reel back in the hotel room. The reality behind such productions is not leisurely, yet they become a blueprint for holidaymakers.
Getting lost, you don’t need to consume a great deal. All the better if you do not. I compare it to a slow-burning drama that eschews hooks, plot twists, and familiar story arcs, arriving instead at an invisible emotional shift, or a subtle but significant change in circumstance. In travel, these moments are more likely to grow from a bed of moderate expectations.
Pulling me from my train of thought and back into the carriage, a rather sharp curve over a raised viaduct came into view through the window. The train swept steadily around the bend, then straightened out and came to a smooth stop. In a cordial tone, the driver announced that we had reached our final destination. The doors slid open with a hiss. Outside, I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sun. Looking out over a patchwork of rooftops cradled by green hills I thought about which way to walk first.
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That day, I alighted at Musashi-Itsukaichi Station and began the walk that would become Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring. I published this ebook almost two years ago. Since then, the idea that travel, experience, and spontaneity hold greater value than status purchases has become more widely accepted. But we are still not comfortable with uncertainty. We want unique experiences, but also the reassurance of watching somebody else do it first. The paradox follows.
Life is deeply uncertain. We control little, and it will only grow more important to sit with the discomfort of that fact. Getting lost offers a place to practice: to relearn a little of the art, bit by bit, before it itself becomes lost. Slow Tokyo, as a concept, is one way of doing that.
We’ve received requests for a printed version of Slow Tokyo. It is something I have always envisaged, but as a micro-publisher, we have to make these choices with care. We have set up a waitlist to gauge interest. If there is enough to go ahead, the print run is likely to be limited. Joining the waitlist means you will be emailed first when pre-orders open, effectively reserving a copy.
For now, the ebook remains available if you’d like to see how the excursion went. At first, I thought Slow Tokyo might be enriching for a few, but I now sense a broader need for its viewpoint. There are more downtempo walks to make: across exurban Tokyo, rural Japan, and perhaps further still. Slow Tokyo does not reject planning or technology. It suggests planning lightly, dimming the screen, and leaving room to get lost.
※ AJ
