A foreigner gradually engages with Tokyo, step by step, coming to understand the distinctions between the many "Tokyos" that constitute this city. At first, they may only be familiar with a few landmarks, such as the major railway stations. Yet, over time, they begin to discover the smaller spaces that lie in between. It is fascinating to consider how knowledge accumulates over the years of learning the city.

This translated quote is from architect Kengo Kuma, in conversation with urban historian Jinnai Hidenobu and Professor of Architecture and Urban Design Darko Radović. Earlier in their discussion, featured in Small Tokyo: Measuring the Non-Measurable, Radović spoke of the initial thrill of immersion in a foreign city, describing it as an experience that offers no promise of comprehension.

As I write about Tokyo, I’m conscious that even extensive prior reading cannot fully prepare us for the reality of encountering a city for the first time. This is not a shortcoming—forming your first impressions is a one-time opportunity, a privilege that nothing can take away.

And then, there you are. Exploring the city to the best of your ability is your prerogative. At this point, the knowledge you’ve gathered begins to take effect, enriching and broadening your experience. While insight alone cannot alleviate the discomfort of navigating new cultural encounters and practical challenges—nor should it, in my view—it can help make sense of and lend meaning to that friction. The more time we spend learning the city, the more naturally our appreciation deepens.

Most visitors to Tokyo lack the time to learn the city first-hand beyond the essentials. A ten-day holiday passes in a blur, a rapid succession of events. Paradoxically, so does a one-year sojourn. When I first moved to Tokyo, I planned to stay for a year before moving on to another global metropolis, aspiring to be a digital nomad—a novel concept at the time. Yet, after that year, I felt I had only just completed basic training, with much more still to accomplish.

Through my experiences, I’ve found that I can assist those interested in discovering the smaller spaces that Kuma references. It’s not that I know it all—I am still very much a student—but by transferring the knowledge I’ve accumulated over the years, I hope to help others build their understanding of Tokyo more swiftly, enabling them to realise their aspirations in the city—whether that’s finding solace, sensing fulfilment, sparking inspiration, or whatever else has drawn them to Japan and my work.

Today's newsletter is brief, as I am dedicating the next few weeks to quietly focusing on my first book—a novella-length travelogue. I'm currently in the editing phase of the writing process, which is my favourite part. It's the time to refine the raw mass of words on the page, verify research, and sharpen my ideas. As I work on this, I remind myself of the timeless aphorism of writer and poet Antoine de Saint-Exupéry:

 La perfection est atteinte, non pas lorsqu'il n'y a plus rien à ajouter, mais lorsqu'il n'y a plus rien à retirer.

This quote translates to the well-known English version:

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.

In the past eight months of writing Tokyothèque, I’ve developed a modest level of automaticity in eliminating extraneous words and passages. Automaticity—the ability to perform tasks with minimal conscious effort—frees up mental resources as familiarity with the task grows, allowing for deeper thinking or problem-solving to occur in the background.

In these tranquil moments during editing, the notion of learning the city has been turning over in my mind. The idea has emerged as an anchor of the forthcoming book, particularly regarding its practical application. But I want to be careful not to let this functionality diminish the simple pleasure of reading at length about our beloved metropolis. With a small measure of romanticism, I believe the words alone can still transport us there.

Until we meet in Tokyo,

AJ

Links

Small Tokyo: Measuring the Non-Measurable