"Well, that's not rapid at all," a high school student remarked to his friend as the Special Rapid chugged by. Though no one else spoke, everyone shared the sentiment as we waited. A small crowd had formed in front of the railway crossing by the Ōzeki supermarket near Shimokitazawa station, where Ichibangai, one of the neighbourhood's many shopping streets, once crossed the Odakyū Line. In a previous newsletter on Tokyo's relationship with time, I praised the virtues of waiting patiently at the ōdan hodō (横断歩道), or pedestrian crossing, viewing these moments as opportunities to rest, observe the urban scenery, and enjoy Japan's distinctive chirping audio signal as it drifts through the city soundscape. A fumikiri (踏切), or level crossing, provides a similar moment for reprieve.

The high schooler at the Shimokitazawa fumikiri had a point. The train was the third to pass since the crossing barrier had lowered, an exceptionally long Special Rapid crawling by at a comically slow speed. To underscore the irony, the train line's name, Odakyū (小田急), is a portmanteau of Odawara (小田原), its terminus in Kanagawa Prefecture, and kyūkō (急行), meaning express. I remembered an infographic I'd recently seen at Shimokitazawa station, illustrated in a cute chibi style, with a layout split in two: on one side, people fumed with frustration as they waited at the fumikiri; on the other, in an alternative future, they jubilantly crossed as trains were rerouted underground. The poster announced a planned redevelopment that would significantly disrupt local life.

Akazu no Fumikiri (開かずの踏切), which translates to level crossing without opening, refers to fumikiri where the barriers remain closed for extended periods due to the high frequency of passing trains, making it difficult for vehicles and pedestrians to cross. These crossings are common near busy train stations or along multiple parallel tracks. The term is unique to Japan, with no direct English equivalent. The Japanese Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism defines an Akazu no Fumikiri as a crossing where the barriers are down for 40 minutes or more per hour during peak times. As of September 2021, there were over 500 such crossings across Japan. They cause significant traffic congestion and frustration and can also lead to accidents, as people may attempt to cross even when the barriers are down. Indeed, not everyone finds time for reflection at the fumikiri.

Shimokitazawa station's infographic presented a trade-off: medium-to-long-term inconvenience in exchange for a future free from Akazu no Fumikiri. That was about thirteen years ago. Shimokitazawa's residents no longer face long waits—they can stroll through Ichibangai and most of the neighbourhood's other former fumikiri sites unimpeded. The Shimokita Senrogai (下北線路街), or Railroad Street, opened in 2022 as part of a large-scale urban development project by Odakyū, transforming the former railway land between three stations: Higashi-Kitazawa, Shimo-Kitazawa, and Setagaya-Daita. This project followed the undergrounding and quadrupling of railway tracks, which freed up approximately 1.7 km of land for development. The need to resolve the ongoing issue of the Akazu no Fumikiri was one of the drivers behind the project.

I visited Shimokita this spring for the first time in years. I found it challenging to recognise the area immediately surrounding the station despite once using it regularly as a local. The redevelopment has been extensive—Senrogai is just one component. I recall considerable grassroots opposition to the neighbourhood's planned transformation. Since construction finished, I haven't spent enough time in the area or spoken with enough locals to form a clear opinion. Still, the changes appear to be more about commercialisation than gentrification—the area was already progressive and affluent. Residents who were opposed to the plans from the outset criticised them as excessively commercial, a sentiment that is now unmistakable in the newly laid streets.

While Shimokitazawa is a densely populated inner-city area with lucrative potential, in quieter exurban and rural regions, measures to reduce waiting time at the fumikiri are less likely to be taken. Picture a quiet railroad crossing framed by the simplicity of suburban Japan in summertime. A vivid yellow and black striped barrier arm stands against a backdrop of neatly maintained residential houses with tiled roofs and small gardens. In the distance, green hills rise gently under a clear blue sky, offering a peaceful contrast to the infrastructure in the foreground. The natural soundtrack of cicadas flexing their tymbals, a symbol of summer's peak, is relentless yet soothing. As the automated crossing activates, its electric bell emits a distinct, rhythmic sound that echoes from the traditional lamp-shaped generator atop the signal. The bell rings with mechanical precision, a kan kan kan resonating in steady succession against the cicadas' sonic texture.

The fumikiri's warning tone has long been a part of Japan's auditory landscape. Level crossings were first introduced in Japan during the early Meiji Era (1869–1912). Initially, they were operated manually by attendants who lived with their families in adjacent guardhouses and worked strict 24-hour shifts. Accidents often occurred due to oversleeping, and as rail traffic increased, various mechanical and motorised systems emerged. In the early 1930s, automation became standard with crossing guards made from bamboo, which significantly reduced accidents. By 1960, there were over 70,000 level crossings nationwide. The number has consistently decreased since the Level Crossing Improvement Promotion Act of 1961. As of 2022, the number had dropped to around 32,000, including those lost to the development of Shimokita Senrogai.

Nevertheless, the romance of railroad crossings endures in popular culture. In one iconic scene, a green and cream-coloured Enoden 300 series—a two-car articulated train introduced in the 1950s, designed for the winding Enoshima Electric Railway line—passes by Kamakura Kōkōmae crossing. As the train disappears from view, a picturesque panorama of Sagami Bay comes into sight while the protagonist, Hanamichi, and his love interest, Haruko, exchange glances from opposite sides of the fumikiri. This scene, from the opening sequence of the 1990s anime series Slam Dunk, has made the Kamakura Kōkōmae crossing perhaps the most visited, photographed, and widely shared fumikiri in Japan. Last summer, the Mainichi Shimbun reported that increasing nuisance behaviour by tourists at the site had prompted city officials to implement countermeasures—another instance of overtourism where the nation grapples with the widespread appeal of its cultural exports.

Japan also maintains one of the world's most comprehensive and densely utilised national rail networks. This vast network threads through both urban centres and remote countryside, often hugging coastal areas like Kamakura. Following the tracks on long walks that span multiple towns can offer a welcome respite from busy main roads, particularly in areas where the human landscape begins to thin out. During these trackside strolls, fumikiri act as waypoints, enabling you to weave across the line—crossing from one side to the other, advancing along the route, then crossing back again, and repeating this pattern as you explore both sides of the tracks while gradually moving closer to your destination. Even in the most remote areas, signs of life cluster around these points—a local tradesperson, a konbini, a vending machine with cold drinks, or a wayside shrine shrouded in greenery. Fumikiri are found where people flow, and where people flow, life follows.

Amidst all this, there is little need to rush. While no popular media may have featured the majority of obscure fumikiri scattered throughout Japan’s quiet suburban and rural landscapes, these crossings are just as satisfying to me as the iconic scenes at Kamakura Kōkōmae. In truth, I'm not one to complain even during a long wait in the city's rush-hour core, like at Shimokitazawa's bygone level crossings. As the third successive Special Rapid meanders by, I relate to the train: it moves through the city at its own pace, mirroring my preference for a slower journey through Tokyo.

Until we meet at the fumikiri,

AJ