The typological thinker in me finds satisfaction in neighbourhoods that correspond neatly with administrative boundaries. Tokyo areas such as Ginza and Kagurazaka, for instance, comprise formally recognised groupings of chōme, recorded as machi within the official address system. These place names carry equal legitimacy in both legal documents and everyday usage.
To explore Tokyo, though, is to let go of rigidity and adopt a more relational view. The city is textured with felt geographies, shaped as much by mood, memory, and movement as by maps. Case in point: whatever locals might suggest, there is no officially designated neighbourhood called “Yoyogi‑Uehara.” Instead, Yoyogi‑Uehara Station, itself a fusion of two names, acts as an anchor. As daily life radiates out from the transport hub, so too has a shared identity gathered around its name—one that, as we’ll see, has a history of fluidity.
Set on a ridge west of Yoyogi Park and above the low-lying sprawl of Shinjuku at the edge of the Musashino Plateau, Yoyogi‑Uehara feels both central and set apart. The station lies near the junction of four machi—Ōyamachō, Uehara, Nishihara, and Motoyoyogichō—each of which, in full or in part depending on who you ask, contributes to the loose geography known as Yoyogi‑Uehara.
Though within Shibuya, one of the city’s most central wards, the area resists overt commercialisation. Instead, it offers a version of neighbourhood Tokyo shaped by calm streets, well-tended cafés, and independent shops whose polish wouldn’t be out of place in Ura-Harajuku. Cohesion emerges less from planning than from the terrain itself: leafy inclines and housing that bends gently around the contours of shōtengai shopping streets. This spatial rhythm lends the area a certain unity. Streams of shops appear plentifully, and the land doesn’t stay flat for long—rewarding conditions for walking. Let’s begin.
Ōyamachō (大山町)
My walk begins just after the morning rush at Higashi-Kitazawa Station. Stepping off the Odakyū Odawara Line, I climb up and out onto Nakano-dōri, a designated metropolitan road that runs from Shinagawa to Itabashi. At this stretch, it marks the boundary between Setagaya and Shibuya wards. I cross at the first opening beyond the station’s taxi loop, then drift north for a moment before turning east into the folds of the neighbourhood.
I meander through residential lanes, unremarkable at first glance. I could have started at Yoyogi‑Uehara Station, but I’m drawn instead to Ōyamachō, perhaps the most loosely affiliated of the four machi grouped under the Yoyogi‑Uehara name. The neighbourhood’s scale is modest, its pace untroubled. And there’s something here I’ve long meant to see. Turning a corner, it arrives almost unannounced—Tokyo Camii, Japan’s largest mosque.
The first detail to draw my eye is the mosque’s side entrance: a pair of solid wooden doors, likely cedar or walnut, carved with intricate geometric arabesques and framed in veined white marble. Above them, a panel of thuluth script in Arabic spans a field of lapis blue, its lettering painted in white and edged with gold. The entrance recalls the taçkapı, a grand portal style emblematic of classical Ottoman design, and one echoed throughout the mosque’s architecture.
The city has other mosques, but none match this scale or attention to detail. It’s rare to see something so monumental emerge from the everyday fabric of a Tokyo neighbourhood. The current structure stands on the site of a former wooden mosque built in 1938 by Tatar immigrants from Kazan. In 2000, it was redesigned by the celebrated Turkish architect Muharrem Hilmi Şenalp, who oversaw its reconstruction using marble and other materials imported from Turkey.
Emerging from the backstreets, I step onto Inokashira-dōri, a key artery that cuts east to west through Yoyogi‑Uehara. From here, Tokyo Camii and its neighbouring Turkish cultural centre are difficult to see in full. I cross the road, hoping for a better view, but tall keyaki trees, street signs, and the flow of traffic interrupt the frame. The postcard shot never quite materialises. Instead, I take in the scene in fragments. The minaret, at least, rises cleanly above the visual noise, a raised flag in the streetscape.
North of Inokashira-dōri, Ōyamachō’s residential pocket extends. But with plenty of ground still to cover, I head east beneath the Odakyū Line viaduct and move toward Yoyogi‑Uehara Station.
South of the Station
From the corner by the kōban police box, the curve of a modest yet dignified building comes into sight, set along the edge of a low-rise block in Uehara, just across Inokashira-dōri. It is the Koga Masao Museum of Music, the area’s only notable museum. Koga, a towering figure in Shōwa-era songwriting, is credited with over 5,000 compositions, many written for enka icons such as Hibari Misora. A long-time Uehara resident, he once lived on this very site. Inside, his study and tatami room have been meticulously recreated, offering a tribute worth seeing for anybody partial to Japanese musical history.
Still, it’s too early in the day to stop for a full museum visit, so I follow the raised train tracks toward the station’s south side, passing Smiles, a jazz kissaten whose frontage I recall from Philip Arneil’s Tokyo Jazz Joints. It’s closed, of course—jazz kissa are usually a PM affair. Breakfast on my mind, I continue to Sabor, a 1978-era classic kissaten set just opposite the station’s south exit.
Inside, the space is warmly furnished with mahogany-toned tables and brown brick tiling, but on this overcast June morning, it’s just cool enough to sit outside on the terrace. From here, I have a clear view of the south exit—an entrance that feels more like a back door. A steady trickle of suited workers arrives for mid-morning meetings; residents pass through on their way elsewhere.
I order breakfast and take a moment to read up on the station. It first opened in April 1927 as Yoyohata-Uehara, served only by the Odakyū Electric Railway. The name drew from the village that once stood here—its kanji blending Yoyogi’s yoyo (代々) with Hatagaya’s hata (幡), a neighbourhood just north of Nishihara. The name didn’t last long, simplified to Yoyogi‑Uehara (代々木上原) in 1941. In 1977, the station was rebuilt to inaugurate the Chiyoda Line, which begins its route to Kita-Ayase from this very location. From then on, the station’s name took root in the area’s identity.
Just then, a plate arrives—soft, thick-cut toast, a dressed salad, and an egg—alongside a drip coffee, pulling me back from the brink of a structural deep dive into the station’s design. I finish up and pay in cash, as required, and glance around the corner, where a steep slope leads up into Uehara. Sated by a well-executed morning set, I climb a few steps upward.
A clean-lined block of concrete modernism backs onto Sabor’s 1970s faux brick building. It’s a very Yoyogi‑Uehara kind of juxtaposition—the tension between eras, handled unflinchingly. This structure is CABO, home to City Light Book, a carefully assembled bookshop and gathering space. Inside, a small bar offers coffee and beer, while events bring together the area’s creative community. The shelves are few but deliberate, holding an edited selection spanning design, photography, literature, and independent magazines.
Back down the slope, I cross the road and pass through the station. The Metro and Odakyū platforms share elevated tracks, their exits leading into a curious vertical choreography—down through the South Exit, up to the North, and then down once more to street level. Here, I emerge onto Uehara Ekimae Shōtengai, the station-front shopping street. The lamp posts are dressed with stylised brackets and floral motifs, a kind of visual notation in the rhythm of a classic shōtengai. Shutters begin to lift, businesses stir into motion. We’ll be back here later, but for now, I ready myself for the second machi.
Nishihara (西原)
From the north exit of Yoyogi‑Uehara Station, I start a gentle climb along a narrow street, small shops at my sides, power lines slung loosely overhead. I’m heading toward Nishihara, where we’ll spend the better part of the day.
It would be easy to continue straight, but an eastward curve catches my eye—a bend that pulls you into the domestic calm of Nishihara 3‑chōme. The street grows hushed, more interior. Then, almost hidden, a plain white signboard appears beside a traditional wooden townhouse, offering a faint hint of what lies within: Nadoya no Katte, a coffee shop in a renovated kominka.
The shop’s space preserves its engawa veranda, opening onto a small, well-tended garden, styled in a calming wa-modern idiom. Stone ishitōrō lanterns, likely remnants of the original garden, still stand, offering weathered textures and traces of age. The café is overseen by Glitch Coffee & Roasters of Jinbōchō, known for their speciality beans and seasonal microlot brews.
Nadoya no Katte is well known among Tokyo’s coffee cognoscenti, and by mid-morning, a small queue has already formed. Having just had a potent, and by comparison somewhat rudimentary, UCC blend at Sabor, I pass on a second cup for now. Simply pausing to take in this elegant repurposing of residential architecture buried deep in the neighbourhood feels more than sufficient.
I choose to stay off the main track. Skirting the cluster of houses near the coffee shop, I begin to climb a steep slope. The incline sets into my calves as the terrain starts to tell its story: terraces stacking upward toward the eastern rise of the Musashino Plateau. I wind through a maze of narrow streets pressed closely into the land. Retaining walls change texture, from stacked stone to tiled concrete, some cradling small gardens that tip gently over the pavement’s edge.
My route has led me to Nishihara’s western edge—a steep, H‑shaped valley once known as Ōkami‑dani, or ‘Wolf Valley,’ as marked on Edo-period maps. This area was one of the sources of the Udagawa, a short river that flowed from Shibuya’s uplands down toward what is now Shibuya Crossing, merging eventually with the Shibuya River before continuing to Tokyo Bay. Long before urbanisation, the Udagawa helped shape this landscape, carving valleys, nourishing paddies, and guiding the patterns of early settlement.
Across Japan, you’ll find valleys and ridges with names like Ōkami-sawa (‘Wolf Marsh’) or Ōkami-gawa (‘Wolf River’). The wolves are long gone, but the names persist, evoking landforms once thought rugged or treacherous. In Nishihara, the land has been overlaid with streets, drains, and the soft habits of domestic life. Yet, as so often in Tokyo, the ground resists flattening. The machi conforms instead to the slope. Staircases reach up to homes, and paths follow the lay of the land rather than forcing through it.
The terrain here, steep, discreet, and well drained, made it a practical site for cremation well before Tokyo urbanised. Historical records place the Daikyōji crematorium here in the mid-Edo period. It survives today as Yoyohata Saijō, one of the few remaining funeral halls still active in central Tokyo. I follow its edge for a while until, rounding a bend, I catch the sight of a bridge spanning concrete in the distance.
In Tokyo, a bridge over bare concrete often means you’re standing above an ankyo—a covered waterway. This one is Aioi Bridge, marking my arrival at the Tamagawa Josui Greenway, a linear park that follows the old aqueduct laid by the Tokugawa Shōgunate in the seventeenth century. Spanning 43 kilometres from Hamura to Yotsuya, it once carried water from the Tama River into Edo, supplying the city with drinking water, irrigation, and fire protection. Through Nishihara and Hatagaya, the water has long since vanished, but its original alignment is still etched into the shape of the path.
I step onto the greenway and imagine its trees catching the midday light. But today, the sky is flat and grey. Still, the path is shaded and quiet, edged with trees, with occasional plaques that mark where bridges once stood. Beneath my feet, the original brick-lined channel still runs underground. I follow the greenway a little further to another bridge—Niji Bridge—spanning concrete once more. It marks a hinge in the walk, where the flow of the greenway intersects with local commerce.
I arrive on Nishihara Shōtengai, the neighbourhood’s central shopping street. It runs along a slope from Hatagaya into Nishihara, stretching about 200 metres before the shops thin out and homes begin to take over. From there, the path curves gently downhill, returning toward Yoyogi-Uehara Station. Approaching midday, the street stirs with daily routines. Sweepers brush the front of an orthodontic clinic. Vegetable crates are stacked by the greengrocer’s door. The smell of coffee and pastry rises under a shaded veranda.
Though compact, the street holds layers of Shōwa-era shops alongside newer ventures that wouldn’t be out of place on Jingūmae’s Cat Street. Architectural scales brush up against each other—the worn patina of 1970s shopfronts set against sheets of modern glass, wood beside concrete. Large chains are mostly absent here. Landlords choose to rent to small proprietors instead, a deliberate move that keeps the street from blending into uniformity. It feels like a model for how a neighbourhood might modernise while still holding on to its roots.
Further down the slope, two structures face each other—an unlikely pair that adds unexpected context to Nishihara’s history. The billowing green netting of Nishihara Golf Garden rises above the shōtengai, alongside apartments and older homes. A driving range might seem out of place in these dense surroundings, but it stands on what was once a dairy farm, active from the late Meiji era. It marks Nishihara’s agrarian past, when this land formed part of pastoral Yoyogimura, or Yoyogi Village. Where cattle once grazed, a tee and net now hold their place.
Opposite sits the local sento, Sengokuyu. Its metal name plaque arches over the entrance, flanked by the twin blue awnings of an adjoining coin laundromat. Nishihara’s link to hot springs lies just beneath the surface. Historical records note two natural springs here, and as recently as 1991, Tokyo’s environmental survey reported around 40 cubic metres per day of spring water in the area. Whether Sengokuyu draws from that source is uncertain. Still, the sense of continuity holds.
Just then, the June rain begins. I slip off the shōtengai and head toward a neighbourhood favourite, Paddler’s Coffee—a good place to take shelter and let the weather pass. Like Nadoya no Katte, it’s housed in a renovated wooden home. A large cherry tree stands at the entrance, beside glass bifold doors and a leafy courtyard that lets the living room spill into the street.
Inside, the space is inviting: timber beams, plaster and concrete surfaces, vintage furnishings, a long shared table, and a record player spinning Haruomi Hosono. As it happens, there’s a pop-up today marking 50 years since his second album, Tropical Dandy. I order a hand-poured Ethiopia Nano Challa, the beans sourced from Portland’s Stumptown Coffee Roasters. I’m shown to a counter seat by the window—ideal for watching the rain and nursing a cup. It arrives black, cleanly poured into a weighty, colourful stoneware mug.
Nishihara has no shortage of excellent coffee, but Paddler’s stands out—not just for the brew, but for what it represents in terms of neighbourhood form and reuse. The owner, Daisuke Matsushima, also serves as a director of the local shōtenkai association. His work with nearby businesses and landlords helps uphold the area’s independent character and keeps the chain stores at bay. Since opening in 2015, the shop has often been credited as one of Nishihara’s new-wave anchors—the leader of an influx of small businesses that arrived without erasing local life. It’s a hopeful example of how a determined individual can help shape the city for the better.
As the rain fades to a drizzle, I step back out and continue along the shōtengai, which eventually ends beneath a UFO-shaped metal archway with a small clock at its centre. I pause at a few shops along the way. Ella Records occupies an old wooden-fronted building that once housed a tailor. Now painted in muted taupe, the space holds neatly ordered crates of vintage and used vinyl—jazz, soul, funk, rock, Japanese oldies, and rare groove—each carefully selected and beautifully kept. A little beyond the archway, in a low-slung, timber-framed structure, Katane Bakery coaxes out my sweet tooth with a delicate, flaky pain au chocolat. No regrets as I head off, descending into the valley once more.
Motoyoyogichō (元代々木町)
The slope begins to ease, and I arrive at the edge where Nishihara meets Motoyoyogichō. To the south, Nishihara continues downward. To the east, Motoyoyogichō begins its rise. The heat has settled in—humid, insistent—and the temperature edges into the high twenties. Nevertheless, a steep flight of steps calls ahead, drawing me upward into the third machi of the day.
Motoyoyogichō is a small, residential district—more compact than Nishihara or Uehara, with around 3,800 residents compared to their roughly 10,000 each. Like Ōyamachō, it’s quieter, used primarily for living with little commerce. If time is tight, or if you’re looking to conserve energy for the slopes ahead, you could forgo the ascent. Still, I’d suggest a brief loop. There’s value in touching down, however lightly, in each machi along the way.
Climbing into Motoyoyogichō, my legs inform me the locals must be in excellent cardiovascular health. At the top, the quiet speaks of affluence. These residents are not just fit; they’re wealthy. Motoyoyogichō ranks among Tokyo’s most valuable residential-only enclaves, in a bracket with Minami-Aoyama, Hiroo, and Denenchōfu. Behind hedges and walls, older teitō jūtaku—broad residences—stand alongside architect-designed homes, discreet high-end apartments, and, for good measure, the Vietnamese Embassy.
A central cluster of private homes prevents a direct descent to Uehara Ekimae Shōtengai, a portion of which lies within Motoyoyogichō. Instead, you’re drawn nearly to Yoyogi Hachimangū. The closeness is telling. This shrine, an important spiritual site, once stood within Motoyoyogichō, anchoring the early shape of Yoyogi as both place and community.
The prefix moto—meaning “original” or “former”—preserves Motoyoyogichō’s past centrality. It points back to the area’s earlier name, Hon-Yoyogi, where hon signifies “main.” In the Edo period, the area formed part of Yoyogimura. By the early 20th century, it was incorporated into the broader unit of Yoyogi-chō. Finally, in 1961, with Tokyo’s address reorganisation, it was formally separated and renamed. Today, Motoyoyogichō is a secluded residential pocket, but its name remains a reminder of where Yoyogi once found its centre. I begin the slope down, returning toward Nishihara.
North of the Station
The Tokyo afternoon has grown heavy with heat. Hungry after the climb and descent, I duck into Asahiya—a soba and udon shop marked by a fluttering noren, tucked just at the base of the hill. Inside, the pace is easygoing. The interior recalls Shōwa era working-class dining design—plain but attentive, with utilitarian lines softened by traditional gestures. The room is framed in warm timber: square posts, exposed beams, and ceiling lights echoing shōji screens, their latticed grids set with translucent acrylic.
I settle into a seat—square-legged, vinyl-topped—at a counter built for solo diners, partitioned and facing the wall. I order hiyashi chūka: cold noodles in a vinegar-soy dressing, topped with strips of omelette, cucumber, tomato, and slivers of ham. It’s the perfect meal for the heat—refreshing, efficient, and fast. Ideal, too, for a day that’s fading quickly. I pay, nod my thanks, and step back out into the afternoon.
Before returning to the station-front shōtengai, I take a short detour, looping the block to pass by Daikokuyu, a long-standing neighbourhood sento. I don’t go in—an older man on a bench lets me know it doesn’t open until 4 p.m.—but even from the street, there is something to see. An open-air coin laundromat sits exposed to the road, its drum machines rowed beneath an awning. There’s no barrier to the pavement and it merges partially with the street.
Above the machines is a gallery of old photographs: autographed portraits of enka singers, boxers, sumo wrestlers. Among them are names like Akira Kobayashi and Kōji Tsuruta. The images have yellowed with time, their edges softened by age. Some sentō now hide inside apartment blocks. Others are being recast with pendant lights and craft beer. But Daikokuyu doesn’t adapt. It holds. The laundry spins. The photos fade. I move on.
Back on the ekimae shōtengai, the street has come to life. Boutiques and bakeries, restaurants and clinics are all open now, a blend of eras merged into the same stretch. At the junction beneath the viaduct, where the train tracks rise overhead, the tempo lifts: bicycles and shoppers move to and fro, and the local buzz swells to a low-key crescendo.
Amid the flow, I step into Los Papelotes, a corner bookstore specialising in secondhand print. The focus leans toward vintage magazine issues—design, art, and culture. The owner keeps a reserved air; some read it as aloof or unwelcoming, but for me, the quiet suits the place. I take my time to browse, landing on a 1970s issue of Jazz Critique, which I set on the counter and trade ¥300 for, without a word.
Outside, turning the corner, I come upon Ishii Coffee, an old-school bean shop that doubles as a kissaten. Inside, a dark wood counter with five stools and subdued lighting sets the tone. Mr Ishii asks if I’ll be staying for a cup. I’m at capacity for coffee consumption, but his warm welcome leaves an impression. I decide to take something home instead—200g of the morning blend, medium roast, a taste of Yoyogi-Uehara for London. While he finishes a pour at the counter, attending to a customer, I wait. Then he steps forward to a small plinth near the entrance to ring up my order.
Looping through a narrow side passage, with coffee beans and a jazz magazine packed, I return to the viaduct. Passing beneath it, I leave Nishihara and Motoyoyogichō behind, stepping into the final machi of Yoyogi-Uehara.
Uehara (上原)
Climbing Uehara Ginza, a lively sloping shōtengai, I hear a train rattle behind me. Turning, I catch the Odakyū Line trundling over the viaduct—one of those fleeting Tokyo tableaux. At the top of the hill, where the incline evens out, a traditional tofu shop, Ōtaya, sits opposite Bolt, a clean-lined café serving cold brew and immaculate latte art. It’s another pairing that feels emblematic of Yoyogi-Uehara: one foot in the past, the other angled with sophistication toward the present.
Exiting onto the Uehara 3-chōme intersection, we are somewhere close to the heart of Uehara. This machi accounts for the largest share of land in Yoyogi-Uehara and gives its name to the station. The area was once called Ueppara—a name that softened over time into Uehara. It refers to a flat field on a hilltop, due to the land’s rise above old Yoyogi Village.
By now, a sense is emerging of how fluid place names and boundaries can be, shaped as much by perception as by paperwork. In the shift from Edo to Meiji, this area also picked up the nickname Tokugawayama, or ‘Tokugawa Mountain’, due to its past as Tokugawa clan land. Later, it was divided among affluent families, setting a tone that can still be felt: detached homes, discreet villas, and low-rise luxury apartments speak softly of age-old privilege.
Crossing Inokashira-dōri, I step onto my penultimate shōtengai of the day: Uehara Nakadōri, or “Middle Street,” named for the way it cuts through the centre of the machi to its southern edge, where it meets Komaba. About halfway along, Nakadōri begins to thin into residential calm. Before that happens, I take a turn down a side street, where a moment of architectural history comes into view.
On a small plot within Uehara’s mesh sits the House in Uehara, designed in 1976 by Kazuo Shinohara for a photographer. Shinohara, one of postwar Japan’s most influential architects, helped shape the thinking of figures like Toyo Ito and Kazuyo Sejima. We haven’t the time to fully contextualise it now, but the house marks an arc in his practice: a shift toward spatial forms that channel the dissonance of modern life. Its Brutalist heft, softened by vernacular gestures and brushed with Metabolist influence, stands on angled Y-shaped columns. The effect is like Yoyogi‑Uehara itself: layered and improbably suspended in the topography of the city.
The house is lived in, not a monument or museum, so I don’t linger or take photographs. I continue down the steep slope ahead, dropping into the residential quiet of Uehara 2-chōme. Moving through, I begin to sense the district’s cadence: more streets that bend with the land, rooftops glimpsed through foliage, façades fronted by low gates or hedges, and concrete stairways rising into passages and driveways.
The route ahead follows a valley carved by a tributary of the Udagawa River, eventually becoming Uehara Suidō Shōtengai—suidō meaning waterworks, a reference to the waterline below. The street also forms a boundary, separating Uehara from neighbouring Tomigaya. Emerging once more onto Inokashira-dōri, I pass a red-brick-tiled apartment block, unremarkable at first glance, save for Levain on the ground floor. If you haven’t yet had your fill of baked goods, this is a worthwhile stop: one of Tokyo’s first specialist sourdough bakeries. Next door, its companion café, Le Chalet, offers a quiet place to sample the goods.
Crossing the junction, with the intersection of Inokashira-dōri and Yamate-dōri looming, the shōtengai continues—this time sunken below the main road, offering a sense of reprieve from the major junction's noise. Its entrance is marked by a timeworn electronics shop, set in a building that likely predates the war, holding its own amid an emerging mix of newer constructions that take over as the street unfurls.
If you’ve still got the stamina for book browsing, one final stop awaits here: SO Books, a compact haven of printed matter. Specialising in photography, art, design, subculture, and fashion with a focus on rare and out-of-print titles, it’s a precisely curated space. The interior is lit by paper lanterns and suffused with the kind of conviction that only comes from someone who truly cares about what they stock.
It brings the day to a close on a fitting note: a portrait of business owners who take pride in what they’ve built. Even in a neighbourhood as well-heeled as Yoyogi-Uehara, five thriving shōtengai aren’t something to take for granted. Figures like Matsushima at Paddler’s work within their communities with deliberate care. Others, like Mr Ishii, have helped sustain local life through continuous practice over decades. Each street’s association contributes to the larger story of continuity.
There’s still a certain satisfaction for me in neighbourhoods that align cleanly with administrative borders. But Yoyogi-Uehara’s fuzzily defined machi offer a more intricate, and perhaps more rewarding, puzzle to piece together. Late afternoon is giving way to dusk, and just ahead, beneath the Shuto Expressway, sits Yoyogi-Hachiman Station. Its surrounding neighbourhood, I suggest, is another machi for another day—though some locals might see things differently.
Until we meet in Wolf Valley,
AJ
Today’s newsletter comes a little later than I usually like. As you might expect, writing a guide of this kind—researching, designing, road testing, and articulating—takes time. It’s not something I can easily rush, nor something I want to. I aim to detail Tokyo’s neighbourhoods gradually and with care, resisting the pull to turn travel or city life into a list of boxes to tick.
If you feel the same—and if you’ve found these guides helpful, or simply enjoy reading long-form about Tokyo’s local life and urban history—you might consider becoming a Tokyothèque member. Membership helps keep the publication going and growing, and comes with a few perks, including a set of maps designed to accompany each neighbourhood guide I’ve created.
The Yoyogi-Uehara map is now live in the Members’ area of the website. It displays every turn along the route and lists each stop featured—plus a few bonus locations we didn’t have the space to cover this time.