Walking through Tokyo's neighbourhoods offers a quietly enriching way to experience the city. For me, long afternoons spent treading the streets of densely populated, low-rise residential areas have a remarkable, almost meditative, quality. Absorbing the local atmosphere and the scenes that unfold around you allows for a deeper understanding of Tokyo, beyond the well-known urban centres and attractions.
These types of neighbourhoods, found largely around and outside the perimeters of the Yamanote Line, don’t fit uniform characteristics. Here, we’re likely to find narrow streets lined with detached homes of various designs and plot sizes. These are organised not in a neat grid but winding and weaving into a tightly knit mesh. It is far easier to drive around the wider streets that define city blocks in Tokyo than to navigate these shortcuts, resulting in very little traffic. Other commonalities include clusters of independent local businesses—sometimes along a shōtengai shopping street, if we’re lucky—and a history often dating back centuries, offering a quiet village feel you might not expect in a metropolis like Tokyo. Tourists are also a rarity; on the surface, there is simply less to do here.
Friends and acquaintances visiting Tokyo for the first time often seek my advice on how best to spend their time. Typically, they arrive with their own version of a familiar itinerary in mind: the old-world charm of Asakusa, the iconic spectacle of Shibuya Scramble Crossing, the neon-lit allure of Akihabara, among others. I have no intention of dissuading them from these experiences. After all, each of these places offers its own depth and potential for personal discovery, representing diverse facets of the metropolis. Indeed, there's a part of me tempted to condense my reflections into some form of 'first-timer' guide.
Ultimately, friends turn to me for two key reasons. The first is to seek affirmation for their meticulously planned itinerary, which is straightforward on my part: 'You've done well—Shibuya Crossing is a must.' The challenge lies in the second reason: enriching their schedule with unique experiences. This becomes particularly complex when they might have, at most, a single afternoon out of a week-long journey spanning the archipelago to incorporate a personal recommendation.
Typically, in response, I advocate for the understated splendour of a neighbourhood stroll. Choosing a suburban train station as a starting point, with just a vague idea of the primary exit, and allowing one's senses to guide the way proves to be an effective approach, especially when not constrained by time. Whether it's charting a path to another station down the line or a shrine within a comfortable walking distance, the simplicity of this strategy holds its own charm. From my vantage point, even the most unassuming industrial commuter towns on the city's fringes are rich with moments of reflection, unexpected discoveries, chance meetings, and homely spots for a coffee or a cup of sake.
However, I recognise that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the markedly ordinary aspects of the city, particularly when faced with the prospect of a singular, memorable trip. While some might be open to such an experience, a desire for more defined activities and sights, rather than an indefinite wander through the urban tapestry, is understandable. This is where I can offer assistance—I've traversed countless miles across Tokyo allowing my friends to directly access its essence in their limited time.
Last autumn, I took a walk that struck an ideal equilibrium: serene streets sparsely populated by crowds, yet sufficient attractions and a gentle stream of tourists to maintain a sense of connection to the city's heartbeat. This stroll naturally encompassed an array of coffee shops, eateries, local enterprises, and shrines, all intertwined with residential lanes that invited leisurely exploration.
Our journey begins at Kiyosumi-shirakawa Station in Koto City, a pivotal junction for the Tokyo Metro Hanzomon line and the Toei Oedo line, straddling the Kiyosumi and Shirakawa districts. This may even be new territory for the Tokyo residents tuning in. Despite five years living in Tokyo and a decade of frequent visits to Japan for work, it wasn't until a friend's invitation to an exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo during Tokyo Art Week that I first set foot at this station.
The Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo stands as a compelling reason to visit this part of the city. Housed within a grand postmodern structure designed by Takahiko Yanagisawa, it regularly stages exhibitions featuring preeminent contemporary artists from Japan and across the globe. The Collection Gallery, often showcasing celebrated artists, offers a quick way to immerse in the museum's atmosphere, especially if the main exhibition doesn't capture your interest or if you're keen to continue exploring outdoors (while galleries hold their allure, the desire to keep roaming is familiar to me).
The route from Kiyosumi-shirakawa Station to the gallery leads directly across Fukagawa Shiryokan Dōri, a shōtengai with roots in the late 1940s. This shopping street is home to approximately 100 establishments, ranging from second-hand bookstores and small restaurants to traditional outlets like kimono shops and tofu vendors. It exudes a distinctly mid-century vibe. My initial glimpse of it en route to the gallery was enough to convince me to backtrack immediately here after the exhibition. Often, a vibrant shōtengai like this can be the perfect starting point for a more extensive exploration.
Indeed, Fukagawa Shiryokan Dōri was charming. Following an engrossing browse through books and collections of old Tokyo maps, my friend and I went in search of lunch. We soon arrived at Fukagawajuku, a classic restaurant adorned with tatami mats, serving takikomi gohan and miso soup. The presence of a queue outside, possibly due to it being a national holiday, suggested some level of acclaim amongst domestic tourists. Given my friend's tight schedule, we decided to forgo the wait and ordered o mochi kaeri (takeaway) instead.
While we missed out on the austere traditional Japanese interiors at the restaurant, our choice turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Our search for a green space to dine alfresco led us through the entire shōtengai, across the Kiyosumi Dori thoroughfare, past the renowned Kiyosumi Gardens—often considered one of Tokyo's most beautiful gardens—and onward to the lower tension and free-to-enter Kiyosumi Park. Established in the 1970s for cherry blossom viewing, the park features a wide promenade with an impressive Edo period clock. This led us to a central lawn area where, on a bright autumn afternoon, we enjoyed watching couples bumbling by on mamachari bicycles and families enjoying a weekday break from work and school.
After my walking companion left, I felt the area still held further discoveries. Without a specific destination in mind, I meandered briefly through the residential streets surrounding the park before returning to the shōtengai for a more leisurely stroll. During this second exploration, my attention was drawn to a collection of diverse and colourful figures crafted from various materials, positioned along the street. These, as it turned out, were from a scarecrow-making contest held earlier in September to celebrate Keiro no Hi (Respect the Aged Day), a testament to the community spirit in the area.
En route, I came across the Fukagawa Edo Museum, dedicated to the area's historical development since the Edo era. As the daylight dwindled, I only had time for a brief look around the lobby area. However, I've marked this museum as a destination for a return visit, perhaps on a cloudier day, to gain a more comprehensive understanding of what I was increasingly finding to be a beautiful part of Tokyo. Local museums in Tokyo offer an often overlooked and regrettably under-attended opportunity to delve into urban history within an immersive setting, typically featuring meticulously curated exhibitions.
At the western edge of the shōtengai, inviting opportunities to venture into the quiet backstreets begin to appear. A line of potted plants discreetly beckons you onward. An aged wooden residence, cloaked in vines, stands at the junction like a venerable village elder, offering a subtle wink of welcome. As you turn the corner, the gentle glow of a local izakaya's lantern signals its preparations for the evening ahead.At this juncture, it's worth mentioning the basic principles I adhere to when strolling and capturing images in Japanese residential backstreets.
Respect for Privacy: I refrain from photographing people's faces. Philosopher Susan Sontag likened photography to hunting, equating the act of taking a photograph to pointing a weapon at the subject. It's understandable that individuals walking in the comfort of their own neighbourhood might feel uncomfortable with a stranger aiming the lens at them, lest they get ‘shot’. Street photographers may disagree, saying that their duty is to document humanity, but I believe there's a distinction between, say, candid shots through cafe windows in busy Manhattan and the secluded lanes of Tokyo, which often feel like private roads. I choose to respect people's privacy and avoid creating any discomfort among locals during neighbourhood walks. If someone inadvertently appears in my shot and their face is discernible, I'll anonymise their face during post-production before sharing it publicly.
Respect for Property: A similar approach applies to individual properties, especially when a nameplate is visible. There have been fortuitous instances when I've encountered a particularly captivating house, and the owner happened to be outside tending to their garden. In such cases, I've politely asked for permission to photograph their beautiful home. Jérémie Souteyrat, in Tokyo No Ie, his photography book on contemporary Tokyo homes, diligently sought permission and cooperation from every homeowner. In my view, residential complexes and mixed-use buildings are acceptable subjects, where the presence of multiple tenants provides anonymity, and businesses inherently place the building in the public sphere.
Cultivating Humility: I strive to minimise my presence in all respects. Many of us come from cultures that celebrate self-expression and being unapologetically yourself at all times. However, there's a beautiful Japanese phrase, 腰が低い (koshi ga hikui), which translates to 'low at the waist' but figuratively signifies acting with humility toward others. I don't suggest that every individual in Japan embodies this trait, nor do I suggest constant enactment by foreigners. However, adopting this mindset can be respectful and beneficial when exploring the intimate streets of local neighbourhoods, where rarely anyone besides residents ventures. Smile occasionally, offer a bow of the head, yield the right of way. Be a considerate traveller, and try keeping your koshi slightly hikui as you go.
That concludes the rule-making for now. I believe Tokyothèque readers to be a friendly and respectful group, with tastes that lean away from the mainstream. However, I fret about the potential transformation of neighbourhoods like Kiyosumi into Instagram attractions, where my own promotion might inadvertently contribute. If you've ever strolled past the colourful houses of Notting Hill in West London, where droves of tourists unabashedly pose for photos on residents' doorsteps, you'll understand my apprehensions.
As I continued my walk, a softly glowing, reddish-golden 'magic hour' was settling in, and I felt I had at least another 10,000 steps left in my legs. Koto City stands as one of Tokyo's most intriguing among its 23 special wards, marked by shifts in demographics and urban design. Across the municipality, traditional downtown ambiance coexists with sophisticated large-scale developments along its coastal areas, including Toyosu, now home to the new Tsukiji fish market. Interestingly, Koto City remained relatively unexplored territory for me over the years. However, Monzen-nakachō in this ward had crossed my radar—a well-recommended, old-school local haunt for nighttime dining and drinking.
Monzen-nakachō is a locale that easily merits its own newsletter, but the walk from Kiyosumi that leads through the Fukagawa area is a fitting conclusion to this particular route. Starting from the western end of Fukagawa Shiryokan Dōri, a straightforward southward journey unfolds along a medium-sized road, flanked by a mix of residential structures from the 1960s through the 1990s, small factory workshops, solemn-looking shrines, and lavish residences. Occasional local izakayas and time-worn barber shops offer glimpses of the area's traditional, small-scale industries, likely established to cater to the original factory workers and their families. This contrasts with certain old factory buildings that have transitioned into yoga studios or modern home decor stores, catering to the new wave of young professionals who have recently moved in. At the present moment, two worlds coexist, offering a snapshot that is worth witnessing, as it's unlikely to persist indefinitely.
Eventually, I reached Arise Coffee & Roasters. I don’t usually indulge in coffee at 5 pm, but when I stumble upon a place like this, uncertain if I'll return, I'm willing to bend my personal rules. As I approached from the north, the shop's front was initially hidden from view. However, as I drew closer to the intersection where Arise occupies a corner, it became clear that this spot was a local favourite. It lights up an otherwise understated stretch of road.
Arise Coffee & Roasters' quaint corner unit is petite, and with onsite coffee roasting, there are only a handful of seats clustered around the counter. Amidst the coffee roasting equipment and tins of coffee beans, patrons engage in lively conversations. At the heart of this activity, the owner, Taiji-san, brews hand-poured coffee from single-origin beans. His establishment exudes a relaxed, skater-surfer ambiance, and many opt to stand outside on the pavement while savouring their coffees to soak in the atmosphere. I ordered Taiji-san's recommended single-origin coffee and spoke with him. He shared that he's been in business for a decade and has a deep affection for this area. A subsequent Google search revealed that over the course of his ten years in business, he has earned a reputation for serving some of Tokyo's finest drip coffee.
The act of walking, observing, and naturally discovering places like coffee shops remains my preferred mode of city exploration. Deft use of Google Maps has become indispensable in contemporary urban travel, but there's a unique gratification in uncovering these spots offline, engaging all your senses in the process. A more research-driven approach might have led me a few metres down the road to Tokyo's inaugural Blue Bottle Coffee branch. I admire Blue Bottle's ethos regarding both coffee and design, although it has become an experience that one can easily replicate across various locations in Japan and the US. I was pleased to encounter Taiji-san's establishment first, but still, I can't deny that Blue Bottle's Tokyo flagship, located within an old renovated storage building by Jo Nagasaka and Schemata Architects, is a noteworthy destination worth exploring.
As you continue your journey southward, you'll come upon the Sendaibori river, where the Kisaragi Bridge offers a perfect pause for weary feet. It's a moment to look out at the water, take a deep breath, and soak in the realisation that you're in Tokyo.
Just on the other side of the bridge, backing onto the river, I came upon a standing sake bar named Pārā Sakekō. It occupies an exceptionally narrow building, with only a subtle noren curtain serving as its identifier. Despite the inviting ambiance, I was still sipping my coffee and not quite ready to submerge in sake just yet. It's yet another place I'm eager to return to, and if anyone happens to pay a visit, please do share your experience with me.
The road beyond the bridge maintains a similar ambiance as it extends past the Kaisaibashi thoroughfare and beneath the Fukagawa route of the Shuto Expressway. If you're anything like me, you won't mind. These streets, though unassuming at first glance, often encapsulate Tokyo's most authentic attributes in their intricate details. Aside from showcasing architecture spanning different decades, with no two buildings alike, you'll also encounter reflections of the subtle—and at times, not-so-subtle—transformations that the city is undergoing.
Before reaching Monzen-nakacho, on the opposite side of the elevated expressway, you'll encounter two significant sites, unfathomably hidden amidst the urban fabric. At first glance, their presence may not be evident, but to the left stands the Tomioka Hachiman Shrine, one of Tokyo's revered ten shrines and the reported birthplace of sumo wrestling. To your right, you'll find Fukagawa Fudō-do, a Buddhist temple affiliated with the esoteric Shingon sect, renowned for its fire rituals accompanied by sutra chanting and taiko drumming. As luck would have it, a fire ritual was underway when I passed by. I removed my shoes, placed them in a carrier bag, and entered the shrine to witness the monks' fervent and meticulous performance of the ceremony.
As you exit from Tomioka Hachiman Shrine to the south, you'll emerge through a towering red Torii gate onto the busy Eitai-dōri avenue, which eventually leads to Monzen-nakachō in the west. Exiting from Fukagawa Fudo-do will place you just a few steps away from the quieter byways of the northeastern part of Monzen-nakachō. You can explore in both directions if your energy allows.
There's much to be said about both these significant spiritual places, just as there is about any particular point along the path from Kiyosumi-shirakawa station to Monzen-nakachō. If it appears to you as an almost idyllic series of scenes, discoveries, and moments, you wouldn't be too far from the truth. Neighborhood Tokyo consistently offers afternoons like this, or at the very least, a starting point for them. It's why, when my friends and acquaintances inquire about how to best spend their time in the city, I often suggest a tranquil walk, away from the crowds like this one.
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. You might embrace the fundamental idea of selecting another lesser-known station and letting your journey unfold naturally. With minimal expectations, an open mind, and keen observation, it is likely that you’ll happen upon the essence of Neighborhood Tokyo without actively seeking it. For me, it's a mindset akin to meditation, one that becomes more innate with practice. So, if you're new to this form of exploration, consider today's newsletter a guided meditation through the tapestry of Kiyosumi-shirakawa and Fukagawa.
Until we meet in Tokyo,
AJ
Links
Tokyo No Ie by Jérémie Souteyrat
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Tokyotheque #1: Tokyo Arrivals