An effortless journey on the Shinkansen carries us 450 kilometres from Tokyo Station, through six prefectures, with a fleeting glimpse of Mount Fuji before entering Kyoto Prefecture. This experience captures the time-space compression of Japan's high-speed 'bullet' trains. Before the inauguration of the Tōkaidō Shinkansen in 1964, travelling from Tokyo to Kyoto by rail could take over eight hours. Today, thanks to decades of engineering and technological advancements, the fastest Nozomi service completes the journey in just over two hours.
Barely have we settled in, savouring our ekiben (駅弁) bento box and watching the Japanese countryside blur past, when we find ourselves gently pulling into Kyoto Station. Already, it is time to alight. Stepping from the platform into the station's vast, open atrium—a complex interplay of steel beams and glass panels—it is evident we’ve arrived at a modern landmark. Kyoto's central terminus, completed in 1997, is one of architect Hiroshi Hara's most recognisable works. Its bold, futuristic aesthetic stands in sharp contrast to the image of historical Kyoto.
The station occupies a strategic position at the crossroads of Shiokoji-dōri, an east-west avenue, and Karasuma-dōri, a north-south thoroughfare that bisects the city. From its position on the southeast edge of Kyoto's classical boundaries, the station signals a transition between the historic centre and the suburban and industrial districts to the south.
The futuristic design drew criticism for breaking with Kyoto's past. In truth, though, the surrounding area was already predominantly commercial. The distinctly modern Kyoto Tower had stood nearby since the inaugural Shinkansen arrived in 1964. At the very least, the location shows consideration for the old city's integrity while presenting a visually commanding gateway to Kyoto.
On my first visit to Kyoto ten years ago, as I stood in the station, I opened Google Maps to get my bearings. I immediately noticed a street pattern distinct from Tokyo's. Tokyo began as a small fishing village named Edo, which developed gradually as a castle town and trading centre. Even after the Tokugawa shogunate made it the military capital in the 17th century, its growth, while influenced by urban planning, retained an organic quality. The city developed around Edo Castle, its network of winding streets shaped by defensive strategies, fire prevention measures, and the land's natural contours.
Kyoto's design, in contrast, is based on a carefully planned grid. In last week's newsletter¹, I touched on the Chinese roots embedded within Japanese culture, introducing the theme through the modest topic of machi-chūka (町中華), a style of Japanese cuisine adapted from Chinese influences. This line of analysis expands on a grander scale in Kyoto, whose initial layout drew inspiration from the Chinese urban planning principles of Chang'an, the capital of the Tang dynasty (618–907 CE).
The design system was rooted in geomantic principles and Confucian ideals of social order and hierarchy. Concepts related to feng shui guided the placement of buildings and streets per auspicious directions and energy flows, which were believed to ensure prosperity and balance. At the northern end of the grid sits the Gosho (御所), or Imperial Palace, occupying a commanding position at the "top" of the city. This placement is a physical manifestation of the Confucian emphasis on hierarchy, with the emperor residing in the most prominent position, symbolising power and authority.
Glancing up from my phone to the station's gridded atrium, I was struck by a possible connection to Kyoto's historical design. Perhaps Hiroshi Hara's modern structure wasn't such a break from the past. Kyoto's rectangular grid system aligns along a north-south axis. Main streets intersect at right angles, creating a network of blocks called chō (町), lending a sense of order and cohesion.
Avenues like Karasuma and Kawaramachi run north-south, while many of the primary east-west streets are numbered sequentially from north to south—such as Ichijō (一条), Nijō (二条), and Sanjō (三条), meaning "First Avenue," "Second Avenue," and "Third Avenue," respectively. The numbering system and the grid layout create a structure that I've found gradually defines the experience of walking through the city's central areas. The longer you stay, the more you become attuned to this underlying order.
The Chinese grid model wasn’t an exact fit when applied to Kyoto. While designed to reflect the Chinese template, it was adapted to align with the local terrain and cultural sensibilities. The Japanese emphasis on harmonising with nature is evident in how the grid's borders flow with the Katsuragawa (桂川) and Kamogawa (鴨川) rivers, which serve as natural boundaries to the west and east.
To extend the machi-chūka analogy, the adaptation of spicy mapo tofu into milder, rounded flavours is not entirely unlike Kyoto’s urban expansion. Over centuries, the surrounding areas developed with a softer, more organic edge shaped by the mountainous landscape. Comparing Kyoto’s ancient urban planning to mapo tofu wasn’t on my list of anticipated parallels—but here we are.
A few years ago, I visited the art department of Kyoto Seika University and decided to make the roughly 7-kilometer journey north from my hotel in Higashiyama Ward by rented bicycle. Riding along the Kamogawa made the trip easy; its placid banks, with wide, walkable paths, cater to cyclists and pedestrians, providing a smooth, scenic route lined with willows and dotted with small, local shrines. As I cycled northward, the river served as my guide, carrying me to the rugged landscapes of Sakyō Ward. This path eventually ascends to the foothills and culminates at the summit of Mount Hiei, a revered power spot and regarded as one of Japan’s Three Holiest Places.
Around twilight, the return journey to Gion (祇園), near where I was staying, was equally evocative. Entering from the north, I saw lanterns glow warmly over wooden facades, with shadows flickering behind paper screens. The occasional notes of a shamisen drifted from traditional teahouses, fulfilling every promise a trip to Kyoto makes. The unprecedented footfall and weighty expectations of tourism have posed increasing challenges over the past decade, bringing it almost to breaking point, yet Gion retains its aura by night.
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Gion offers a demonstrative look into Kyoto's departure from the grid system. While not entirely without structure, the area developed with a more organic feel, with narrow alleyways and winding paths shaping its character. The contrast is evident on the map: the north-south streets near the Kamogawa fall in line with its bends, while the east-west streets become a looser network on the river's eastern side. Matsubara-dōri illustrates the transition well. The road is an unwavering 3 km line from the western ward of Nakagyō to the Kamogawa. It then crosses the river before abruptly tapering southward, eventually becoming Kiyomizu-zaka and winding its way to Kiyomizu-dera.
Wandering north from Kiyomizu-dera through Gion and up into the northern part of Higashiyama Ward, the streets take on a more organic quality reminiscent of some Tokyo neighbourhoods. Growing up around London and its characteristic mix of winding alleyways in areas like Soho, I find Gion's layout more comfortable than a strict grid system. I find that this type of layout invites a less consciously directed, more whimsical way to walk. As something of a completionist, the grid can give me low-key anxiety, tempting me to tackle it militantly.
On each visit to Kyoto, I am struck by its restrained colour palette. During my first time in the city, I captured a swatch of colours drawn from the materials and paints of buildings, signs, infrastructure, and temples using my phone camera. Earthy tones and deep browns provided the base, contrasted by accents of orange and red.
As I later discovered, bright or reflective materials and neon signs are restricted near the Kamogawa and heritage zones. These regulations admirably seek to harmonise buildings with their historical and natural surroundings, compelling brands to curb their impulse to disrupt streetscapes. This results in black-and-white 7-Elevens, brown-and-beige Lawsons, and even maroon McDonald's.
Traditional machiya (町屋) townhouses in areas like Gion are also protected by preservation laws requiring features such as wooden facades and traditional rooflines be kept. In culturally significant places, building heights are capped at 15 metres to preserve views of landmarks, with other areas limited to 31 metres to maintain Kyoto's low-rise skyline. Commercial zoning is restricted to certain areas like Kawaramachi and Shijō to protect residential neighbourhoods, while the banks of the Kamogawa are safeguarded to preserve green space and public access.
Still, regulations are often pushed to the letter, particularly when maximising building volume. Height restrictions may exist, but developers find ways to utilise the allowable space to the fullest extent. You might see buildings that occupy nearly every inch of their permitted footprint, leaving minimal setbacks and creating a sense of density.
Areas like Shijō Kawaramachi demonstrate this, where modern buildings often rise to the allowable height limits, maximising floor space for retail and office use. Despite its preservation efforts, Kyoto presents a tapestry of buildings from the mid-20th century to the present. While perhaps more pronounced in other Japanese cities, it is a reminder that even with strict regulations, the forces of modernisation and urban development inevitably leave their mark.
Additional development restrictions are enforced near the city's seventeen UNESCO World Heritage Sites, including mandatory impact assessments for new projects. These sites are dispersed across Kyoto, forming a ring that encircles the urban core and extends into the northern, eastern, and western edges. This distribution establishes protective zones citywide, effectively creating a network of preservation pockets.
The more distant UNESCO sites are well worth visiting. While I wouldn't expect any first-time visitor to Kyoto to skip the most famous sights, I recommend venturing further for equally stunning experiences with far fewer crowds and a greater sense of serenity. These further afield areas are mostly accessible by train, perhaps with a short bus or taxi ride beyond that.
Visiting a UNESCO site provides an excellent reason to explore Kyoto's train network. The Tōkaidō Main Line, established in 1877, was Kyoto's first major rail connection to Osaka and Tokyo. Then, in the early 20th century, private lines such as the Keihan Line (1910) and the Hankyu Line (1928) expanded this network, connecting Kyoto to the greater Kansai region, with stops serving districts like Gion and Fushimi Inari. The Sagano Line (1933) connected the northern Arashiyama district, boosting tourism to sites like the now-overrun bamboo forest.
The Hankyu Line, with its retro-style carriages and scenic routes through Kyoto's neighbourhoods, has a way of transporting you back in time. Likewise, the Randen Line, Kyoto's only tram line, opened in the 1910s and is similarly nostalgic. It links central Kyoto to Arashiyama with vintage carriages and stops near iconic temples. Later, the Kyoto Municipal Subway introduced two underground lines: the Karasuma Line (1981), running north-south along Karasuma-dori, and the Tōzai Line (1997), running east-west—tōzai (東西) meaning "east-west." While not as extensive as the subway systems in some other major cities, this mix of lines creates a reasonably well-connected network.
Zooming out from the classical grid and its network of train lines, Kyoto lies in the Kansai region of central Honshu, Japan's main island, between the cities of Osaka to the southwest and Nara to the south. Being situated in a natural basin and shielded by mountains on three sides, Kyoto's setting once offered strategic protection from external threats. Historically, the Kamo and Katsura rivers provided essential transportation, irrigation, and trade resources, making the area ideal for supporting a large population. These factors made Kyoto a natural choice for Japan's new capital in 794 CE. Indeed, serving as the nation's capital for over a thousand years until 1868, Kyoto stood as Japan's political and cultural centre long before Tokyo.
Still, Kyoto was not Japan's first capital; before its establishment, early political centres like Asuka, Fujiwara-kyō, and Nara (Heijō-kyō) each served as the capital, reflecting a pattern of movable capitals. This practice was rooted in Shinto beliefs about purity, as the death of each emperor was thought to taint the area, prompting the court to relocate spiritually. Additionally, moving the capital allowed emperors to strengthen alliances with regional clans.
Emperor Kammu (桓武天皇, Kanmu Tennō), the 50th emperor of Japan, was central to the establishment of Kyoto. He founded the city as Heian-kyō (平安京), meaning "Capital of Peace and Tranquility." The emperor's motivations included distancing the court from the powerful Buddhist temples of Nara, seeking a more strategically advantageous location, and creating a grand capital that embodied his imperial authority.
Heian-kyō gradually became known as Kyoto during the late Muromachi period (1336–1573). Kyoto (京都) translates to "Capital City," with 京 (kyō) meaning "capital" and 都 (to) meaning "city." Tokyo (東京), by contrast, translates to "East Capital," with 東 (tō) meaning "east."
It's easy to imagine how the constant comparison with Tokyo—the newer, larger city that now serves as the benchmark for an Asian metropolis—might evoke mixed emotions among some Kyoto residents. Nevertheless, nearly all overseas visitors to Kyoto will have arrived via Tokyo, experiencing the east capital as their first taste of the country and inevitably weighing the two cities against each other as they encounter Kyoto's distinct rhythms and qualities.
And, after all, this is the Tokyothèque newsletter. If you're a new reader expecting more about Tokyo, you might enjoy revisiting earlier editions to familiarise yourself with our usual flow. There are almost a year's worth of newsletters, each scratching the surface of what defines Tokyo, one detail at a time.
This week's edition marks a departure—it's our first significant excursion beyond Tokyo to explore another part of Japan. There may be more in the future, but I chose to begin with Kyoto, the natural first port of call for those venturing beyond the present-day capital. Its story is essential to understanding the foundations of Tokyo and modern Japan.
Kyotothèque will be a three-part series, though even that is far from enough to summarise Kyoto; the city could quickly fill an entire project of its own, and a library of books wouldn't suffice to unravel its many layers. Bear with me as I attempt to provide an entryway to this remarkable place. We're taking a broad approach here—a foundational knowledge base to enrich a first visit or to fill in the blanks of past trips.
In part one, we’ve established the lay of the land by exploring Kyoto’s urban foundations. Next week, we'll focus on Kyoto's artistic heritage, from its historical roots to contemporary expressions. Do join me.
Until we meet on the banks of the Kamogawa,
AJ