May 2010 marked a first on two counts: it would be my first time travelling alone, and my first visit to Japan. For accommodation, I had settled on a small hostel in Ueno. Then, shortly before leaving, an email arrived from a friend of a friend—an experienced Japan traveller I had only recently been introduced to—who was in Tokyo at the time.
“Cancel your reservation,” he said. “There’s a spare room where I am. Stay here—you won’t regret it.” Following his advice, I switched my booking and departed the following day. Location sits high among the determinants of experience, and altering where I stayed changed not only the course of that trip but, eventually, the course of my life.
The first thing to shift was my initial impression of the city. Arriving at Narita, I abandoned my plan to take the Keisei Skyliner to Ueno and instead boarded the Narita Express bound for Shinjuku. I wrote in the very first Tokyothèque newsletter about the effect that journey had:
This eighty-minute journey transitions from Chiba Prefecture's pastoral landscapes to the iridescent neon heart of the city. The emerging view of Shinjuku, with fleeting glimpses into yokocho alleyways cutting through high-rises, was a scene that compelled me to unravel its 'why' and 'how’.¹
It’s possible I might have felt something similar on the Skyliner, but without that comparison, I can only conclude this was pivotal—there is nothing quite like watching Shinjuku parallax into view for the first time.
Next came my first encounter with Tokyo’s everyday rail network. Had I arrived in Ueno as planned, I would have emerged into a crowded urban hub, navigating with a printed Google Map directly toward the hostel. Instead, I changed at Shinjuku Station for the westbound Chūō Rapid Line. I was struck by its quiet motion, punctual arrival, and the speed with which it carried me away from Shinjuku’s intensity. That first encounter, I suspect, later influenced my decision to walk and document the length of the line.²
Transferring again at Nakano, I felt an immediate easing of intensity—a smaller station, a slower pace. But the mid-evening skyline, visible from the platform, still felt infinite. I boarded the Chūō Local Line and arrived one stop later at Kōenji, where I took my first step onto the city streets.
Looking around, I took in the convivial Friday night scene of the station square—the low-rise tangle of zakkyo buildings³, the late-hour produce vendors hawking their goods, their stalls extending into alleyways lit red and orange by swaying lanterns. It was, and was not, what I’d expected of Tokyo—but I felt almost instantly at home as I found my way to the guesthouse.
With that, my frame of reference for the city shifted. Choosing a quieter neighbourhood as my base rather than an urban centre led me to seek out similar places, and throughout that trip I spent more time riding local lines to smaller stations, walking shopping arcades and neighbourhood streets, than I did following my guidebook’s prescribed sights.
Before departing, I’d loosely conceived of the trip as an act of ‘soul-searching’. The term can serve as a kind of symbolic cover—sounding meaningful while obscuring the specifics of what it entails. I’d argue that, from person to person, it’s understood a little differently. For me, it has since come to suggest the act of spending enough time with oneself to permit genuine self-examination—and, if not to reach clear conclusions, then to slowly assemble a sense of who you are, what moves you, and what it is you might offer to life on this earth.
Travel is a familiar vessel for soul-searching. Some might seek theirs on a mountaintop or the open ocean; for me, it emerged on the humdrum streets of Tokyo—bicycles freewheeling past, konbini chimes punctuating the air, and crickets tuning into their evening song.
The ship’s-course analogy comes to mind when I tell this story. It is a familiar self-help trope, yet one grounded in navigational truth: a shift of even a single degree can, over distance, alter an entire voyage. Choosing to stay in one part of the city rather than another on a ten-day trip may seem a minute adjustment, yet its consequences proved far-reaching. It set in motion fifteen years of turns and recalibrations that, this year, culminated in a complete change of destination—a decision to devote my working life to writing about cities, and, above all, Tokyo.
Tokyothèque Neighbourhoods
November 2025 marks another first. I’m still walking the neighbourhoods, still observing, and now translating what’s been seen and learned into a practical guide book to help others find their own paths through Tokyo. Along the way, generous and creative people have lent their insight and time, helping to refine and construct the work as it’s taken form. For those newly joining, I detailed this project in a recent newsletter.
In developing the book, it’s perhaps no surprise that condensing everything into a clear, minimal format has taken longer than expected. I’m grateful for the patience of those awaiting members’ early access for upcoming and ongoing trips. The work is progressing: the beta version of the Jinbōchō guide is now live on the website's new Neighbourhoods page.
And I have some more preview spreads to share:
It’s a new week, and between now and the weekend we’ll be loading the book’s full content into this format—uploading each completed section to the Neighbourhoods page as it’s finalised. In parallel, I’m preparing the design files for press and assembling the EPUB version, which—just about—remains on track for timely delivery.
Pre-orders remain open until 16 November. Those wishing to secure a copy of the physical edition are encouraged to reserve before then. The print run will match the number of pre-orders received, with only a slight overage to round up the count.
Looking back again to that first Tokyothèque newsletter, published almost two years ago, I realise that what I hope readers take from this book has changed little:
Our endeavour here strays from the usual path, designed for individuals with an unconventional sensibility … If you’re reading this, it's a pleasure to know you've found us. I'm keenly looking forward to creating a newsletter that, I hope, aligns with your tastes and interests and satisfies your curiosity about the city—as though it were tailor-made just for you.
Until we meet on neighbourhood streets,
AJ
Back Issues
¹ Tokyo Arrivals
² The Chūō Line: Day 1
³ Tokyo's Vertical Streets