“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said the bell attendant, guiding the elevator up to reception. “Looks like the rainy season’s already over.” That was his take, anyway. But you never know with the weather. A clerk at Mitsukoshi offered a different view—it might just be a pause in tsuyu, or the rainy season.
Either way, as the rain gave way to sunbursts along the latter part of my walk on the Chūō Line, the change in weather made for easy conversation with strangers. Drizzle had needled my face through Sumida-ku, Kōtō, and Edogawa. But by the time I reached the edge of Chiba City, the skies had cleared, and the heat had begun to rise. As I moved through the long, repetitive stretches of suburban hinterland, fatigue began to take hold.
I hadn’t anticipated quite such hot weather, but had kept the final leg deliberately short, sensing I’d be lifted in spirit, yet physically spent, by the time I reached the end of the line. I was thankful for that, as 33-degree temperatures pressed down en route to the last stop.
Overheated and exhausted, with 222,524 steps behind me, I arrived at the Chūō-Sōbu Line’s eastern terminus, Chiba Station. There was no ceremony, and no one was waiting. Only the city, taking me in, indifferent.
The journey's first half from Takao to Ryōgoku passed through plenty of familiar ground. Beyond Ryōgoku, though, much was new. Traversing the city west to east in this way, I found the gradient I’d anticipated is there, and remarkably coherent. However, it’s not a simple rural-to-urban trajectory, nor does it conform to the typical centre–periphery model. Instead, it is a complex, multi-point gradient.
The Chuo Line's route presents a progression through a mosaic of urban typologies, each reflective of different historical processes: mountain-edge commuter zones, postwar new towns, inner-suburban high streets, central vertical Tokyo, old working-class neighbourhoods, and bay-facing industrial sprawl. Taken together, it forms a longitudinal cross-section of Greater Tokyo.
There’s still a great deal to process, and I haven’t yet decided how best to present it. For now, the Field Notes short-run newsletter—daily dispatches from my walk shared in real time—is archived in full. It’s an unfiltered chronicle of the city as I experienced it. Members can revisit the entire series at any time
I’m settling back into Tokyo now, ready for a less peripatetic week of city exploration. There will be fewer steps for my legs, and fewer kilos on my back. In the meantime, I’ve gathered another round of Chūō Line highlights to share with you.
Neighbourhood: Makuhari Bay
Relief came with a coastal breeze sharper than any felt in Tokyo Metropolis. Its saltier tang and lower humidity are signs of its maritime origin. The air had crossed Tokyo Bay, cooled and dried by open water, before reaching me at Makuhari JR Station, my final stop for the day.
Makuhari Station sits roughly 3 km inland from the bay. Tonight’s lodgings are near Kaihin-Makuhari Station on the JR Keiyō Line. Kaihin (海浜) means “seaside,” a name that reflects its position along the waterfront. Having walked to Makuhari’s Chūō-Sōbu Line station, I consider my work done for the day and allow myself a local bus for the final stretch. My feet have no interest in continuing.
After a short bus ride, where I’m the sole passenger, I arrive not at a quaint seaside escape, but something closer to a simulacrum: a spread of mall complexes, sparsely attended chain restaurants, and resort-style hotels. Across the bay lies Odaiba, Tokyo’s most recognisable manufactured waterfront. Makuhari feels like its scaled-down cousin.
This area’s contemporary character is no accident. It was constructed on reclaimed land through public–private collaboration during the economic boom of the late 1980s and envisioned as a “future international city.” The plan was anchored by the Makuhari Messe convention centre and supported by the Chiba Prefectural Enterprise Bureau. The area opened just before the bubble burst around 1989, with hotels, offices, residential towers, exhibition spaces, and commercial zones arriving in quick succession.
The presence of the Chiba Lotte Marines’ stadium reinforced the area’s intended role as an infrastructure hub centred around events and tourism. But over time, it became evident that the cityscape had been built for promise rather than reality, anticipating crowds that seldom materialised as the lost decade of the 1990s progressed.
I pass the Hotel New Otani Makuhari, a striking presence that opened in 1993 as a flagship venture by the hotelier. A glance through the entrance reveals a customer-free front desk with staff passing the time in conversation. Just around the corner, the more budget-friendly APA Hotel & Resort is alive with guests and motion.
The contrast reveals a shift in travel habits. The New Otani was designed for high-budget business and event tourism, but today’s travellers prioritise cost and efficiency. APA meets those needs with compact rooms and lower rates, and it’s the hotel that’s thriving. It feels like a metaphor for the Makuhari bayside itself: a district shaped by grand ambitions, now animated only by more agile, present-minded businesses.
Coffee Break: Kissa & Pub Mimatsu
In need of rest, I step into Kissa & Pub Mimatsu, just south of Shin-Koiwa Station. Its brick façade, signage weathered by dirt, and unmistakably Shōwa-era lettering offer no flair, only stoic continuity.
As I open the door, smoke greets me, suspended in the air like nostalgia itself. A baseball game flickers on the television. This is always a marker of a no-frills kissaten. I take a seat at the counter, surrounded by newspapers, flowers, sugar pots, tissue boxes and cleaning sprays, arranged without pretence. In the corner, a young couple chats quietly. An older gentleman, every bit the regular, nurses a glass of iced coffee.
Behind the counter, a woman, perhaps in her late sixties, stands with quiet authority. She strikes me as no-nonsense, offering a warning that the coffee will take time. I can’t see what she’s doing back there, but after several minutes she sets down a glass pot, its surface dulled and ambered as if it had survived the full span of Emperor Hirohito’s reign.
She pours the coffee into an octagonal porcelain mug: scalding hot and robust. With a little pride, the matron adds a plate of small biscuits, explaining they’re omake (おまけ): a complimentary extra.
This isn’t the sort of kissa I’d expect visitors to make a special journey for. Still, it takes you more immersively through the time warp than the more polished, self-conscious institutions like yesterday’s Coffee Aristocrat Edinburgh, where heritage is part of the packaging.
I sip my coffee in silence, catching up on the baseball. It looks like Swallows are leading 3–1 at the halfway mark.
Reflection: Tokyo Definitions
When the Chiba leg began in earnest at Nishi-Funabashi, I found myself wondering: what defines “Tokyo”? Nishi-Funabashi feels like a town in its own right, buffered from central Tokyo by the entirety of Ichikawa. Chiba has its own economy, its own municipal functions, even its own dialling codes. All along the line, the question resurfaced: am I still in Tokyo, or already somewhere else?
“Greater Tokyo” is a term with several overlapping definitions. One counts any municipality where at least ten per cent of residents commute into the 23 special wards. Another casts a wider net, including towns where as little as 1.5 per cent of the working-age population commutes to Tokyo or a secondary hub like Chiba City. Some definitions rely solely on geography: any city within 50 kilometres of central Tokyo qualifies.
Whichever metric you use, the result is consistent—between 32 and 38 million people, making Greater Tokyo the most populous metropolitan region on earth.
Every place I passed, from the edge of Edogawa-ku to the core of Chiba City, easily fits these standard definitions. But I’d suggest another marker of Tokyo. No matter where I went, it was never far from earshot. I glimpsed it again and again—crossing viaducts, darting unexpectedly through gaps between office blocks and residential buildings, travelling just feet away beside me through mesh fencing on narrow corridors.
However much a suburban station feels like part of its own city, or the taxi loop outside a sleepy station recalls a rural town, the announcement echoes: “The next train to Mitaka will arrive at platform two.” It’s a consistent through-line, keeping the peripheries connected and carrying Greater Tokyoites to the metropolis with such regularity that there’s rarely a need to check the schedule. It’s the Chūō Line, of course. And wherever it stops, Tokyo is.
Until we meet in Tokyo,
AJ
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