The JR Chūō Main Line, marked in dependable blue on transit maps, arcs westward from Tokyo Station to Nagoya. To the east, the Sōbu Main Line, also shaded in a similar blue, extends to Chōshi, a coastal city on the fringes of Chiba Prefecture, just beyond the bounds of Greater Tokyo.
Within Tokyo, two distinct services run along these trunk lines: the yellow Chūō-Sōbu Line and the bold orange Chūō Rapid Line. The Rapid Line begins its eastbound journey from Takao, in Hachiōji City, and terminates at Tokyo Station. The Chūō-Sōbu Line stretches from Mitaka in the west to Chiba in the east.
From Mitaka, the two services run side by side on a quadruple-track corridor. At Ochanomizu, their paths diverge as the Rapid Line turns south toward Tokyo Station, while the Chūō-Sōbu Line continues east. Along this shared stretch between Mitaka and Ochanomizu, the Chūō-Sōbu stops at every station, designating it the “Local”.
Together, the Chūō Rapid and Local Lines, with their combined stretch of approximately 94 kilometres, form a vital spine through the Tokyo Metropolis. I’m currently midway through a self-initiated undertaking to walk their entire length, from Takao to Chiba.
This week’s newsletter comes to you from Ryōgoku—reached on foot after a four-day stretch covering 56 kilometres and passing 33 train stations. I’ve now crossed the halfway point, and the experience has been all-encompassing.
At the end of each day’s walk, I return to my room, feet aching, and write the nightly Field Notes newsletter. It captures that day’s impressions: neighbourhood highlights, coffee stops, and moments of urban reflection. If you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join midway. At the journey’s end, I’ll compile an archive of the full series, along with a complete itinerary and map.
Ahead lie three more days and 38 kilometres on foot, though, so it’s best not to get ahead of myself. For now, I’ve chosen three columns from Field Notes so far to share with you.
Neighbourhoods: Nishi-Ogi to Kōenji
Today’s stretch along the Chūō Line passed through a standout sequence of neighbourhoods. It begins with Nishi-Ogikubo (West Ogikubo) the first station on our route within the 23 special wards that constitute Tokyo Metropolis. Located in Suginami-ku, Nishi-Ogikubo, or “Nishi-Ogi” as it’s affectionately called, is followed in turn by Ogikubo, Asagaya, and Kōenji.
Each of the four stations has its own character, yet they share a certain atmosphere. It’s difficult to define precisely, but it stems from a blend of the casual and the refined, the downtempo and the upbeat, the wisened and the youthful. These neighbourhoods tend to win over foreign residents; I was no exception when I lived in Tokyo. Tourists looking to move past the city’s central attractions often make it at least as far as Kōenji, too.
Walking through these towns again, one after the other, I was reminded of their appeal. The yokochō alleyways and shōtengai shopping streets, two of Japan’s most compelling urban forms, are present here in some of Tokyo’s richest and most intricate expressions of them, all within close range.
There’s something melancholy about a shōtengai with shuttered units and barely a soul in sight, even if a kind of joy can be found in these sites of retro archaeology. But in the western Chūō Line neighbourhoods, despite the rust and wear that clings to every surface, the shops remain open and the arcades are alive with people, young and old.
Aged wooden buildings stand tightly clustered, their façades adorned with a mix of signage representing eclectic businesses. Lanterns and fairy lights hang beneath tangled overhead cables, hinting at an optimism—a desire to keep things enchanting. What struck me was the balance: these streets are as active and well-used as they are timeworn. The ratio feels just right.
Coffee Break: George V
A smoke-tinged amber glows from the lampshades inside, while a cake display behind time-frosted glass hints at what’s to come. This kissaten promises the classic, antique feel. Compared to the rural-inspired kissa we visited in Hachiōji yesterday, the atmosphere here carries an added note of refinement.
This is George V, a coffee shop located along a shotengai-like lane between the Chūō Line tracks and Kokubunji’s station square. In need of a break, I step inside and find what I’d hoped for: dark wood polished to a sheen, antique lampshades and solid brass light fixtures, elegant crockery, stacks of magazines—Brutus, Popeye—and a counter crowded with glasses, books and bric-a-brac.
The room is filled with younger customers, hinting that the polished decor and carefully arranged cakes resonate more with them than the classic working class kissa, which still tends to draw an older crowd. Beside me, a woman in a trilby reads a novel, exhaling slow streams of smoke from what looks like a Vogue cigarette. Indeed, this is an all-smoking establishment, and it appears to draw a crowd who appreciate that fact.
The menu arrives with an icy cold water. It lists the standard coffee options: blend, americano, Vienna, café au lait. There are also a host of teas on offer, but it is blend for me—as always. Cakes do not appear on the menu, so I ask the master what he has, and it’s what’s in the window. I take the shortcake, attracted by the strawberry on top.
The master is an older gentleman in spectacles, running the busy shop entirely on his own. He hand-drips the coffee, fetches cake from the display, waits tables, takes payments, and clears up—constantly moving between roles. Even so, the coffee arrives without delay, rich and low in acidity. It’s a smooth, balanced cup, paired with a slice of shortcake that meets the fuwa fuwa criterion—light, fluffy, and airy.
I settle the bill at the register, an old fashioned machine surrounded by scattered papers. No credit cards here. Before leaving, I ask the master if he’d mind a photo of his splendid counter. His meticulous decor and brisk manner hint at someone who might bristle at such requests. But instead, he agrees cheerfully. It’s the final note in a classic kissa experience—one to bookmark and return to.
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.
Convenient Blue Hour
One advantage of walking from morning through to night is the near certainty of witnessing dramatic shifts in light. Almost every day, I’ve found myself outside a well-placed konbini just as blue hour settles in. I’ll leave you with two of those moments.
Until we meet somewhere along the Chūō Line,
AJ
A Note on Wi-Fi
Sending the newsletter, syncing photos and videos, accessing map pins—it all hinges on dependable Wi-Fi. For that, I use to Telecom Square’s WiFiBOX, as I have for years. With their “Truly Unlimited” plan and solid battery life, the device supports all my internet needs throughout this Chūō Line walk.
With that in mind, I’ve partnered with Telecom Square to offer Tokyothèque readers a 20% saving on WiFiBOX rental. I receive a modest commission in return. By securing Wi-Fi for your trip, you’re also supporting the growth of an independent publication dedicated to Tokyo, design, architecture, and the joys of urban wandering—a niche intersection of interests, to be sure.
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