Time, perceived as an unceasing forward motion, may feel most pronounced in city life. The capital city serves as a focal point where a nation’s hopes, ambitions, and anxieties intersect. The drive of government, markets, and media cultivates a sense of continual progress that permeates the public consciousness, shaping a shared psychological terrain. Secondary cities, moving along their own trajectories, experience a similar process, albeit at a more humane pace. Regional cities, too, are drawn forward, the recipients of cultural and technological diffusion.
In some respects, the sensation of an accelerating pace of life carries its own beauty. If you accept the ephemerality inherent in traditional Japanese aesthetics, such as mono no aware (ものの哀れ), the awareness of impermanence, then perhaps the constant forward motion of the city offers a heightened sensitivity to its presence. Fleeting moments are no longer tied to seasonal transitions but form an unbroken current of daily existence. Yet, this same relentless speed also carries the risk of mentally and physically exhausting individuals.
At the end of last year, I wrote about the need to pause for reflection, to resist the exhaustion that unchecked momentum brings¹. It is simpler to practise introspection in the holiday season, as the new year approaches, but a different prospect once January begins to evaporate—the month will be gone by the time you receive this. The lunisolar Chinese calendar turned over just three days ago, marking another transition, and the year is already pressing forward.
Rather than struggling to keep pace, I am working toward more frequent moments of reflection, seeing them not as pauses in motion but as part of the rhythm. And so, this week, I have three retrospections for you—not as a retreat, but as a means of moving on in a measured fashion.
Locomotion
There’s an irony at play. I am not in my office, surrounded by books, nor tucked into the corner of a quiet London café. Nor am I seated at a Tokyo hotel desk, watching the skyline and reflecting at my own pace, as I might wish. Instead, I’m writing this week’s newsletter aboard a train, moving from one appointment to the next. This might be urban reflection in its truest form. In a metropolitan life, moments of clarity and contemplation can seldom be neatly planned—the key is to find them in the flow of daily movement.
For me, train travel holds a particular appeal—outside of rush hour, the journey is usually smooth and scenic. The carriage glides under the driver’s steady control, offering warmth, safety, and the rare luxury of relinquishing responsibility. The steady rhythms of locomotion encourage reflection in me, and when the moment calls for writing, focusing on a screen to type is manageable. By contrast, attempting the same in a moving car is a queasy struggle.
The only urban transport I favour more is walking. If time allowed, I’d walk everywhere in London, indulging in long, uninterrupted thinking sessions—but schedules rarely permit such leisure. Still, my onward journey this afternoon features a brief, 20-minute walk. These short stretches on foot provide space to organise my thoughts—a rhythm that both clears cognitive load and enhances problem-solving. By the time I reach my destination, I will have likely resolved the last loose ends of this first draft.
Slow Tokyo
Travel by train and foot form the foundation of the Slow Tokyo concept. The plan remains to create a series of digital pocketbooks, each highlighting a district on Tokyo’s periphery or within Greater Tokyo. My selection criteria are simple: the areas must be within Greater Tokyo, reachable by local train, and offer just enough for a full day’s exploration on foot. Many districts meet this profile, and I have traced paths through them—meeting locals, capturing photographs, and gathering notes along the way.
The first Slow Tokyo eBook begins at Musashi-Itsukaichi Station in Akiruno City, following a route through several towns or machi (町) that fan out from the terminal. The journey takes place in the height of Japan’s searing summer—an uncomfortable and often avoided season for travel, yet one of undeniable beauty. Over the course of a day’s walk, we trace the contours of streetscapes and landscapes, learning the design, history, and culture underlying each. Beneath these layers, a familiar thread emerges: the power of personal reflections to slow time and savour travel.
Last year, 36 million people visited Japan. As travellers, we typically seek connection, discovery, and meaning—but it is a staggering number, enough to render some famous attractions nearly unvisitable. Musashi-Itsukaichi Station is not built for that kind of influx. Yet, I believe that those drawn to the simple pleasures of everyday streets and understated scenes within sleepy locales make up a small fraction of that 36 million; a measured trickle of visitors. Ideally, those who find their way to this book would provide just enough interest to give the station’s tourist desk a little more to do, nudging the local economy in a welcome way—without placing undue strain on the already crumbling steps of its ancient local shrines. And so, I gladly share my route within Slow Tokyo’s pages.
Before expanding this series, I am challenging myself to place the first book in more readers’ hands. The tendency to create without allowing work to reach its audience is common among more introspective creators. Some resist what feels like self-promotion; others are too eager to move forward to linger on past work. For some, a finished piece swiftly loses its appeal—flaws become impossible to ignore, and the confidence to share it diminishes. Often, it is a mix of all these things—for me, it certainly has been over the years. But this time, I wish to approach it with greater balance.
The book is 20,000 words long, making it novella-length—longer than a short story but shorter than a novel. It includes printable and interactive maps, 80 photographs and over 100 Japanese terms related to architecture, interiors, and culture, selected to deepen one’s understanding of the exurban environment. Should you opt to pick up a copy, I truly hope you enjoy it. Tokyothèque members will find a download code in the Members’ area, offering a 40% reduction on the cover price as a token of thanks for continued support.
Note: If you joined as a member and also purchased the book earlier—my sincere thanks. Contact me for a retroactive discount.
Kiyosumi Revisited
This week marks a full year of Tokyothèque. Nearly twelve months ago to the day, I published our first neighbourhood walk², centred on Kiyosumi-Shirakawa. At the time, I wrote:
I would be pleased if anyone chooses to embark on this walk. You could faithfully replicate it or use it as a loose framework, ensuring you encounter some points of interest while allowing room for your own intuition to guide you.
At that time, the newsletter had few subscribers, and I had yet to embrace the role of virtual tour guide. I certainly hadn’t mapped the route, a practice that has become standard in my walking newsletters and book. So this week, I retraced my steps digitally—creating the map that had been missing. It links seamlessly to the Monzen-Nakachō walk from a few weeks ago³; together, they form a route that could stretch into a full day of exploring these quiet neighbourhoods.
Recent maps, like the Monzen-Nakachō route, have become part of a growing resource library for members. Designed with rigour and research, they ensure key landmarks are covered while keeping backtracking to a minimum. The Kiyosumi-Shirakawa route is looser—shaped by little more than where the afternoon led me. I’ll create a more structured map of the district one day, but this one captures something innocent, a moment sealed in time. So, I’m offering it as a free map.
This week’s newsletter has taken a different shape—more a series of timely updates than an in-depth study, perhaps closer to what an email newsletter typically is. If this format resonates, you might enjoy a few similar letters I wrote while travelling around Japan last year⁴. The constant movement seems to draw this kind of writing from me. And with that, my stop is next, so I must go.
Until we meet on a westbound train,
AJ
Links
¹ Intentional Transition
² A Tokyo Neighbourhood Walk
³ Temple Town
⁴ Tokyo Memorandum: Week One