In a city that prominently bears the “never sleeps” label, some find it curious that trains don’t run later into the night. Even on Friday evenings—when Tokyo’s office workers loosen their collars and momentarily shrug off the week’s demands—the final trains depart between midnight and 1:00 a.m. At Shinjuku Station, the Marunouchi Line is the first to wind down, with its last service at 12:15 a.m. Line by line, services taper off until the Yamanote Line carries its final passengers toward the loop’s outer edges at 12:44 a.m.
Commentators question why the city cannot mirror New York’s 24-hour subway or London’s Night Tube. At Shinjuku, however, the operations team is afforded less than four hours to return the station to its immaculate state—a narrow window framed by the night’s final departures and the first trains of the new day¹. Across the city, services begin to stir between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m.—with the JR Chūō Line to Tokyo departing Shinjuku at 4:32. It emphasises how little time is left to reset the mechanisms of the world’s busiest station. The network’s complexity renders round-the-clock service an elegant impossibility, even for its dedicated staff.
Some speculate that the absence of night trains serves the interests of the taxi industry—a means of directing stranded passengers into private cabs. Though this remains unproven, the last train does function as a temporal boundary with spatial consequences. For those living in a central ward, a taxi ride home is a short drive across town; for others, it spans prefectures—Tokyo’s commuter geography reaching deep into Saitama, Kanagawa, Chiba, and the residential fringes of western Tokyo. The cost of a taxi to these areas can come close to ¥20,000.
The junction of timetable and cost delineates who may remain in the city centre and who must depart, limiting late-night participation to those who can afford it—or those prepared to budget carefully until dawn. In this way, the city’s transit patterns reinforce a geography of inclusion and retreat.
The idea of extending weekend bus services resurfaces regularly, yet the last serious attempt dates back to December 2013. Under Governor Naoki Inose, Toei Bus trialled a 24-hour route linking Shibuya and Roppongi. Low passenger turnout, however, led to its muted discontinuation six months later to stem financial loss. Though the route was fundamentally different from one designed to carry late-night commuters home to their bedtowns, it is still cited as evidence that such services are unlikely to prove financially sustainable.
Policy inertia, regulatory constraints, and a long-standing emphasis on daytime maintenance over nighttime mobility have conspired to leave the late hours loosely served. Cultural tolerance for missed trains—and the emergence of private-sector alternatives—has allowed authorities to sidestep calls for infrastructural investment, without provoking public outcry.
Still, at ground level, all such perspectives feel academic as you rush through Shinjuku Station, the clock ticking, scrambling with a cluster of others in a shared urgency. For a moment, you believe you’ve made it—the orange of the Chūō Line’s carriages is visible ahead. But as you reach the platform, the doors slide shut with an unsympathetic finality. The hydraulic hiss of departure cuts through the air as the train eases into motion. The platform’s digital signboard flickers mockingly: 終電—shūden or “last train.”
Behind you, the station exhales. Staff guide the last of the night’s wanderers toward the exits while shutters rattle over unlit kiosks. The cleaning crew emerge like spectres; engineers in high-visibility vests assemble near the stairwells. A chime reverberates through the near-empty space, a gentle yet firm reminder: no more trains will come. Do not loiter. Moments ago a sea of movement, Shinjuku Station now resembles an abandoned mall. The departing train’s breeze brushes your face like a taunt. The night is long. The way home is uncertain.
Tokyo's nightlife and urban routines have long been synchronised with the schedules of its last trains. Shūden as a concept took root during the post-war economic boom, particularly between the 1950s and 1970s, as a rapidly expanding economy brought intensified urbanisation and a growing reliance on commuter rail. Stories circulate of free-spending on taxis during the heady days of the 1980s Bubble Era, yet for the majority, missing the last train meant finding alternative accommodation—or staying out until morning.
Out of this constraint, Tokyo’s nocturnal economy emerged—a system of late-night eateries, bars, entertainment venues, and temporary resting places. It forms part of a longer lineage of nightlife in the city, from the licensed quarters of the Edo period to the postwar entertainment corridors. The modern form took shape in tandem with the salaryman system: a functional spillover from a service-oriented economy premised on long hours and deferred rest. In this context, late-night dining, entertainment, and even shelter are not luxuries but extensions of the workday.
With shihatsu (始発), the first train, still four hours away, and a taxi out of the question, we turn to the nocturnal economy for respite and diversion. Anxiety is understandable, yet, seen from the right angle, this is a chance to partake in a less planned Tokyo. Unlike cities that have integrated nighttime activity into formal economic strategy—through institutions like New York’s Office of Nightlife and London’s Night Czar—Tokyo offers no equivalent policy framework. The night survives here less through strategy than through cultural improvisation. Unsurprisingly, I see these hours not as an ordeal, but as a time to be savoured—unstructured, uncertain, and all the more vivid for it.
Sourcing nourishment for the hours ahead is a natural starting point. In a central district like Shinjuku, it’s a task that presents itself with ease. For example, the fluorescent wash of a 24-hour gyūdon shop provides an oddly comforting refuge. In any direction from Shinjuku Station, at least seven such outposts—Yoshinoya, Sukiya, or Matsuya—await within minutes’ walk. Citywide, more than 3,000 of these gyūdon chains operate until late.
Inside, office workers hunch over steaming beef bowls, the sizzle of the kitchen and the occasional welcome of “irasshaimase!” punctuating the calm. Service is brisk, seating is mostly high stools, and time slows beneath the clinical lighting. Although not designed for comfort, one or two hours can pass here unnoticed—a dependable buffer zone in the broader scheme of surviving the night, with the added comfort of a full stomach. A low-cost gyūdon meal, in this case, extends one’s tenure in the city.
Family restaurants—Gusto, Denny’s, Jonathan’s—were once a beacon of late-night comfort dining. At any hour, patrons could browse an expansive, affordable menu—or, for the price of a modest drink bar fee, claim unlimited weak coffee, a booth deep enough to curl up in, and the right to exist undisturbed. At 3 a.m., the family restaurant became the scene of office debriefings where junior staff finally stepped away from their desks and let the day spill out. That era ended at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic when family restaurants were among the first to abandon 24-hour service.
Gusto’s Kabukichō branch remains a rare holdout, keeping its doors open until 5 a.m. But by 2022, the number of 24-hour family restaurants in central Tokyo had fallen by nearly half compared to pre-pandemic levels. The decline has proven irreversible. While COVID marked the visible turning point, the underlying causes ran deeper: the rise of corporate compliance, reduced tolerance for extreme working hours, and a gradual move away from the all-night office culture that once filled booths in the small hours. Nostalgia aside, the 24-hour family restaurant reflected inflexible labour norms—a system in which workers navigated a maze of nighttime coping strategies rather than simply returning home.
A short walk toward Nishi or Higashi-Shinjuku brings you to round-the-clock McDonald’s locations, which go some way toward filling the gap left by the family diners of old. Their late-night patrons form a striking cross-section of society, and these spaces, too, can serve as makeshift refuges. On the upper floors, students and workers sleeping seated with heads upon tables remain a persistent sight. Big Mac meals become temporary lodgings as quality sleep is bartered against available funds.
Moving beyond dining, Japan’s internet cafés continue to offer a different experience from their overseas counterparts. In London, an internet café is a utilitarian space often located away from the city centre where one pays by the hour to use a PC in a shared back room. International money transfer and currency exchange services facilitate their continued existence. In Tokyo, however, the internet café takes the form of a 24-hour comfort station more commonly known as a manga kissa.
Not understanding the reception staff’s explanations and printed material can present a hurdle, but membership is typically required—so if you haven’t already signed up, it’s necessary. To those intimidated by the process, I say persevere. The language barrier can be fumbled through with patience and a little goodwill. Access will come, and even if the pricing structure remains uncertain to you, rest assured that a few hours in a manga kissa oughtn’t empty your wallet.
Beyond the front desk, the air carries the aroma of instant ramen from the refreshments bar and the murmur of PC fans. You ease into a padded reclining chair, drawing a thin blanket over your legs, surrounded on all sides by shelves of manga. Some cafés offer semi-private cubicles with sofas for a premium, allowing you to stretch out. The gentle buzz of night owls gaming and the rustle of turning pages form an unexpectedly calming soundscape. It’s safe in here, and there is no shortage of entertainment.
Spending five hours in a manga kissa situates you in that in-between space—neither simply sheltering from the night nor fully committing to paid accommodation. Aware of this ambiguity, many cafés have branched into the capsule hotel sector, blurring the boundaries between internet café and minimalist lodging. It’s a natural progression: capsule hotels offer purpose-built rest, typically at twice the cost, yet with the tangible upgrade of a real bed and private space.
For travellers and late-night Tokyoites alike, the capsule hotel is a compromise—balancing comfort and affordability. Chains such as Nine Hours and First Cabin have expanded, merging the capsule hotel with the sento and sauna experience. These hybrid establishments invite guests to unwind in communal baths and steam rooms before retreating to their oblong sleep pods, stacked like drawers high above the city streets. It’s not home, nor is it truly a hotel. But in the small hours, it’s exactly enough.
Venturing further into the ambiguous terrain of Tokyo’s accommodation landscape, the love hotel presents itself—world-renowned, and depending on your outlook, either indulgently quirky or faintly sordid. It’s worth weighing the cost against a late-night taxi fare at this juncture, but a love hotel becomes an unexpectedly rational option if you're looking at ¥10,000 or more to get home. The advantage lies in the “rest” plan—a short-stay pricing model starting from two hours, a convenience not found in standard hotels.
A walk from Shinjuku to Dōgenzaka’s Love Hotel Hill—a famed enclave behind Shibuya’s Center Gai and alongside Maruyamachō—takes just under an hour, offering a pragmatic path toward daybreak. A three- or four-hour “rest” will see you through to morning, usually for ¥3,000–8,000, depending on the degree of extravagance, theming, or in-room amenities you seek. Though designed with romantic encounters in mind, there’s nothing to prevent a solo walker or a pair of friends from checking in and claiming this comfort for themselves.
By now, most of the options lean toward withdrawal from the night. But what if a second wind stirs within? For establishments registered with the National Police Agency under the "Late Night Bar Operation Law," there are no legal restrictions on serving alcohol through the night, making the all-nighter a viable, even appealing, prospect.
My nightclub days are behind me—and in hindsight, I’m not sure I ever truly enjoyed them—but the karaoke booth still calls. A stalwart of the nocturnal economy, the karaoke industry resists the broader trend toward shorter business hours. Chains like Karaoke-kan, Big Echo, and Manekineko offer tailored late-night packages—booth access and drinks bundled together—designed to carry you through to shihatsu. Singing your way toward sunrise, fuelled by delirious exhaustion and alcohol, holds a certain wild appeal. But understand: the morning will come, and with it, the risk of forfeiting the rest of your weekend to the kind of hangover only cheap shochu-based cocktails can deliver.
In this respect, the late-night izakaya offers a more measured alternative, where a steady stream of small plates ordered via touch screen absorbs the effects of the alcohol. While such establishments have thinned out post-COVID, particularly beyond the city’s centre, Shinjuku still holds its ground. Here, larger izakaya glow into the early hours—paper lanterns swaying, cheap beer banners beckoning—open until 4 or 5 a.m. Meanwhile, smaller yakitori joints quietly carry on, skewers sizzling and whisky sours pouring until the city nods toward morning.
It could be said that the bar scene holds the richest encounters. The city’s micro-establishments are a study in contrast with the generic comfort of the chain izakaya. Snack bars and other tiny, independent counters offer something more intimate. These spaces rarely seat more than ten, and entry comes with a subtle appraisal: how will your presence sit within the atmosphere of the room? The proprietor must decide quickly. In my experience, enough Japanese and a demeanour that signals you’ll be no trouble are the unspoken currency for being welcomed in. Note that this is not the moment to enquire about cost either—by this stage of the night, the idea of weighing it against a taxi fare tends to fall away.
Snack bars are deeply idiosyncratic spaces—typically blending the elegance of a whisky bar with the kitsch of karaoke décor, layered with the proprietor’s own whimsy. Despite their opaque façades and unspoken codes, they are savoury places where conversations with staff and regulars at the counter can take heartwarming turns. Nevertheless, Snack Bars represent the edge of Tokyo’s nightlife before crossing into the mizu shōbai, or “water trade”—a topic for another newsletter. Some snack bars have embraced a modern identity, run by younger owners with Instagram followings, but many trace their lineage to the Shōwa era. As these proprietors age, the guarantee of late-night opening becomes less certain, contributing to a sense that Tokyo’s night is now a space under negotiation.
Indeed, the night belongs not only to its patrons but to those who keep it running. Beneath every late meal or comfortable booth lies a stratum of labour that rarely features in the city’s narrative of after-hours freedom. Part-time workers in 24-hour gyūdon shops, reception staff at capsule hotels, and the overnight clerks of manga cafés form the infrastructure of the nocturnal economy. Many are students, migrants, or older workers supplementing pensions. Their hours are long, the contracts often non-regular, and the compensation modest. Yet their presence enables Tokyo’s night to remain open. As post-pandemic closures have thinned the ranks of round-the-clock venues, these workers have become harder to find—and their absence is increasingly felt in the void between midnight and shihatsu.
There is one final option I keep in reserve: simply to walk. At this hour, there’s a stillness to the city—streets that not long ago teemed with life now lie near-empty. As the clock winds through the small hours and ticks toward dawn, the last echoes of nightlife mix with the first stirrings of the morning. In the blur of sleeplessness, it becomes slightly dreamlike. More than anything, this is my preferred path: a hot can from a vending machine or konbini, my camera retrieved from the bottom of my rucksack where it always rests, and a long, unhurried stroll into the night.
After a circuit of Shinjuku, I begin to trace a path in the direction of home. I don’t plan to walk the full distance, but the act of setting a course lends the night a purpose: the feeling of drifting, at least loosely, toward one’s bed. Skimming parallel to the main roads favoured by Google Maps, dipping a layer or two deeper into the neighbourhood fabric, tends to reveal the more curious details—the overlooked crevices of the metropolis, the very spaces that flourish in the margin left by the last train.
In most global cities, being stranded in an unfamiliar area after dark would be cause for concern. But Tokyo, in this regard, is a rare exception—its streets at night are, for the most part, remarkably safe, as the world now knows. Should one’s feet grow weary, the strategies explored today remain at hand—a toolkit for building one’s own night. The time until shihatsu passes with unexpected calm, and eventually I arrive at a local train station just as it begins to stir, its shutters creaking open for the day. Overhead, a pale, cloud-muted sky takes shape—morning arriving not with spectacle, but with understatement.
Within the boundaries of Tokyo Metropolis, it’s a routine that can still be reliably summoned, wherever you happen to be. Moving away from Shinjuku, the lights of Kabukichō give way to the hush of office towers, their silhouettes gradually dipping into the residential hinterlands I hold dearest. As Tokyo’s nocturnal economy undergoes yet another shift, I’d suggest that to be awake while the city resets itself is a privilege—one reserved for those who’ve missed the last train.
Until we meet in Shinjuku,
AJ
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