I recognised the scent in the air the moment I arrived, alighting the train and stepping into the city’s streets for the first time. I had encountered it once in an olfactory dream: an unmistakable amalgam of rising summer humidity, osmanthus blossoms, and savoury aromas drifting from the ventilation fans of nearby ramen and tempura shops.

That was my first time setting foot in Tokyo. This May marked fifteen years since that visit. It lasted only ten days—brief, but enough to convince me to leave my job in London and relocate to the metropolis that autumn.

To some, it looked like a leap of faith. What began as an instinctive move, however, became a five-year chapter—five of my most formative years. In the autumn of 2015, I returned home to be nearer to my ailing mother. From there, life’s tides brought me back to London, where I have remained since.

In the subsequent five years, I sustained my connection to Tokyo with annual visits framed by work, family, and friendship. Tangible reasons are useful anchors, but truthfully, I would have gone regardless. It was a calling, if you will.

In 2020, COVID-19 closed the door on travel to Japan. Everyone lost something during the pandemic. For me, it was the grounding effect of time spent in Tokyo. In response, I turned to reading, seeking the city through the pages of books on urbanism, history, and design. I consumed other media, but nothing transported me quite like the written word.