Suzuran-dōri is a street name drawn from the suzuran, the Japanese term for Lily of the Valley, a delicate woodland plant bearing small, white, bell-shaped flowers on slender stems. Namiki, meaning rows of trees, lends itself to the street name Namiki-dōri, evoking images of tree-lined avenues. Azuma-dōri is an ancient name that refers to the eastern territories of a once-divided Japan. Meitengai describes a street or block (gai) composed of reputable (mei) shops (ten). These are a selection of names that frequently adorn the gateways of Japan's sheltered arcades and pedestrianised shopping streets.
There are at least 20 streets named Suzuran-dōri in Tokyo. You'll find Suzuran-dōri from Kanamachi on the eastern urban fringe to Tachikawa in the far west. The renowned Ginza district features a full trio: Suzuran-, Namiki-, and Azuma-dōri. Ginza's version of these streets doesn't closely resemble their counterparts across the city, but they are still some of the best paths to get away from the area's crowded thoroughfares and closer to it's old spirit. Furthermore, along with those street names mentioned, the name Ginza itself has been applied to shopping streets nationwide. I've encountered estimates of up to 90 "Ginza" arcades in Tokyo and 300 across Japan—the challenge of visiting them all surely beckons.
The convention for streets and areas adopting the 'Ginza' designation entails prefixing the local area's name, exemplified by Yanaka Ginza, a historic quarter in Tokyo's northern reaches. Nothing distinguishes a Ginza from a Suzuran, a Namiki, or an Azuma. They are all commercial zones, usually manifesting as neighbourhood shopping streets, blissfully closed to vehicular traffic during peak times. These shopping streets might be covered arcades or open-air routes functioning as a neighbourhood's central axis. They could be the focal point of old-fashioned shopping malls or constituent parts of a more comprehensive network of similar shopping streets with drinking and entertainment alleyways.
The shopping street is a visually arresting place adorned with decorations hanging from the ceiling. Numerous signs flank either side of the walkway, with various colourful advertisements and shop names displayed in Japanese characters. Such streets meet the daily requirements of the local community with a selection of small enterprises, including greengrocers, meat purveyors, booksellers, hardware dealers, sake shops, and kimono specialists, to name a few. They also feature street food vendors, modest eateries, kissaten, and izakaya. While chain supermarkets, pharmacies, and fast-food franchises may sporadically appear, they are the exception rather than the norm.
Arches at either end, bearing the street's name through creatively designed signage with retro typography, mark the threshold between the outside world and the enclosed comfort of the shopping street. These entrances are typically positioned near train stations, and when beginning a local walk from a transportation hub, making the arches your starting point is a sensible strategy to find the nucleus of the area. Classic shopping streets can also be found in dense, low-rise neighbourhoods far from the station. Residential lanes and alleyways branch from the neighbourhood shopping street, which functions as a place of cultural congregation, hosting various seasonal celebrations, parades, and festivities. In these newsletters, I've frequently mentioned the city's shopping streets by their Japanese name. After all, these streets are crucial to exploring Tokyo on foot. Indeed, my friends, welcome to the local shōtengai.
Shōtengai origins can be traced to the marketplaces of the Nara Period (710 to 794), when Nara, then known as Heijō-kyō, served as the capital of Japan. During this period, trade and industry were predominantly regulated by an exclusive trading guild of merchants and religious bodies known as the Za. During the Sengoku Period (c. 1467—1568), also referred to as the Warring States Period due to its extensive civil conflicts, the warlord Oda Nobunaga, recognised as one of Japan's great unifiers, took control of the situation. He implemented free markets and abolished the privileged guilds, which he saw as an impediment to commerce. His policies, known as Rakuichi-rakuza, aimed to stimulate trade by relaxing market access.
During the Tokugawa Period (1603–1867), commerce developed rapidly, and merchants gathered in castle towns, lodging towns along highways, and port towns. Mercantile districts naturally emerged and flourished in prosperous areas with horse and human traffic. In gate towns near temples and shrines, makeshift shops with goods for sale appeared, lining passageways and roads leading to the religious sites, capitalising on crowds of worshippers en route and the area's festivities. These became shopping streets known as Nakamise-dōri, a name still used today for the famous approach to Sensōji in Asakusa. The unifying theme among all these trading areas was their organic growth.
As the 20th century dawned, Japan's population shift from rural to urban settings began in earnest. The influx to cities included numerous small-scale, self-employed retailers who operated businesses needing minimal capital with the potential for growth in the city. In The Making of Urban Japan, author André Sorensen details the expansion of station-front shopping districts, describing it as an unplanned urban development. The size of these districts and the number of shops within them closely mirrored the daily tide of commuters. In the better-organised areas, shopkeepers mobilised to form shōtenkai—shopping street associations. These alliances took on projects like installing covered walkways. The costs of street improvements, such as lighting, paving, and hanging seasonal decorations, were commonly underwritten by the businesses within these associations, with supplementary aid from municipal governments. During Japan's post-war economic surge, investment and modernisation efforts brought new vitality to the local shōtengai.
The word shōtengai is formed of three characters: 商 (shō), meaning 'merchant', 店 (ten), which translates to 'shop', and 街 (gai), signifying 'street' or 'block'. The Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry defines a shōtengai as an area with 30 or more retail, dining, and service establishments closely located. However, its more specialised Small and Medium Enterprise Agency notes the lack of a precise definition. The latter resonates with me, leaving the status of a shōtengai up to the community. You can certainly have fewer than the arbitrary 30 establishments but still get that shōtengai atmosphere through the variety on offer, and elements like the signage, decorations and lighting.
The original Suzuran-dōri was established at the end of the Taishō Era (1912–1926) in Jimbochō, Kanda — an area renowned for its congregation of distinctive bookshops. It was named Suzuran since it was—and indeed still is—lined with suzuran lanterns, an attractive type of hanging lamp whose design resembles the Lily of the Valley flower. It is a charming genesis for a street name with an endearing quality. Kanda Suzuran-dōri was so popular that streets all over the city were subsequently named Suzuran to connect with Jimbochō's thriving shopping street and signal that similar goods and services were available. Herein lies the reason for the convention of shopping streets sharing a common catalogue of names.
Even the venerable Ginza's Suzuran-dōri apparently took its name from Kanda Suzuran-dōri. But what of the naming of shōtengai after Ginza itself? Visiting many shōtengai and often seeing this naming pattern, I'd always assumed that the aim was to forge a link to the glamour of the famous shopping area, which felt comedic at times given the decaying state of many shōtengai. Yet, those shōtengai using Ginza's name, just like replica Suzuran streets nationwide, appear to have taken it not from Ginza itself but from another street altogether. Located in Tokyo's Shinagawa ward, it is a queen amongst shōtengai: Togoshi Ginza.
Togoshi Ginza is a lengthy shopping street that spans over 1.3 km with more than 400 shops, smashing the government definition of shōtengai. Indeed, it is the longest shōtengai in Tokyo. In 1872, Ginza was reduced to rubble by a disastrous fire, prompting its reconstruction in fire-resistant brickwork. As the story goes, a brickmaker in Togoshi supplied the bricks. In the process, this trader linked two problems: the vast amount of brick rubble left over from the fire and the poor condition of Togoshi's main street, which was prone to flooding and drainage issues due to its location in the valley of several slopes. Thus, Ginza's rubble was used to repave Togoshi's shopping street. The street was named Togoshi Ginza, not to benefit from the name's reputation, but because it was literally made of Ginza. As with Kanda Suzuran-dōri, the scale and success of Togoshi Ginza prompted shōtengai around the country to append Ginza onto their name. Quite the complex tapestry of events and namings.
Armed with essential insights into shōtengai and Togoshi Ginza, it is time to walk. Our stroll begins at Togoshi Station, a subway station on the Toei Asakusa Line. Exiting the station brings you onto a section of the National Highway No. 1 route that runs from Tokyo's Chūō ward to Osaka. The Togoshi Ginza shōtengai crosses this route. I'm confident that very few shōtengai run across national highway routes. But this is Togoshi Ginza, the longest of them all. To depart from the main road and onto the shōtengai, you have two choices: to head west toward the Tokyu Ikegami Line's Togoshi Ginza Station or east toward Mitsugi-dōri. This road eventually leads to the core of Shinagawa. Foreign residents of Tokyo will associate Shinagawa with the immigration bureau, which is located here. Shinagawa station is a Shinkansen stop and the gateway to the ward's business districts, waterfront developments, and high-end dining establishments. It might be a surprise, then, to learn that Shinagawa is also home to some of Tokyo's oldest low-rise neighbourhoods and shōtengai.
My choice leans towards Mitsugi-dōri. The east side is the longer stretch, and as it is a shame to pass through any shōtengai without turning back to see it unfold from both directions, I'm happy to return to cross the main road later, saving the busiest area around Togoshi Ginza Station for last. The convenience store chain Lawson and the international grocery chain Kaldi occupy the two prestigious spots at the east side's entrance. It is often the case to find chains and franchises around the entrance—presumably, these are expensive properties to lease. Just beyond the arches, you'll find an APA Hotel, the mega-chain of low-cost, ultra-compact hotel rooms in desirable locations city-wide. So, if shōtengai truly enthuse you, you can stay on Tokyo's longest for a reasonable nightly fee. The hotel's presence hints at an uptick in tourism in the area.
It is Saturday afternoon, and as we progress along the shopping street, it is evident that the place is abuzz. Similar to some of Tokyo's other features that I adore and present in this newsletter, there is a saddening context of decline for shōtengai. It can be attributed to several key factors that mirror the struggles of local shopping worldwide: the rise of motorisation and the car-centric society, the convenience of one-stop shopping in supermarkets and shopping centres, shifts in consumer lifestyles and attitudes, including the propensity for online shopping, and the failure of shōtengai to keep pace, with ageing shopkeepers and nobody to succeed their businesses. Across the country, shōtengai are shuttered and rusting. I felt it strongly on a recent trip to Atami, once a booming resort town for high-rolling salarymen and their companies in the 1980s, now sadly wilting. Atami Ginza, a graceful shōtengai that runs down to the bay, now echoes the sombreness of an abandoned amusement park more than its erstwhile retro allure.
While the decline of shōtengai is troubling, I don't want to dwell in this corner of concern today. Togoshi Ginza is a shōtengai replete with branding ideas to reinvigorate time-worn shopping streets. One form this takes is the area's relatively recent positioning as a gourmet centre, serving up the soul food of the city. Togoshi Ginza is the location for many TV programmes featuring groups of celebrities strolling the street, sampling its various culinary offerings. You can watch some of this by searching the Japanese results for Togoshi Ginza on YouTube. You'll also find an equal number of food vloggers gratuitously letting the soup run out of steaming hot Chinese shoronpo dumplings, tearing open crispy fried korokke revealing the soft potato centre, and demonstrating the inner workings of inventive fusions like okonomitaiyaki, a taiyaki pastry with an okonomiyaki filling. Surely enough, by the time I pass under the third set of arches, the chain establishments thin out and small local eateries materialise all around.
I arrived slightly hungry and sampled the often-photographed box of shoronpo available from Ryūki, a compact Chinese restaurant that dispenses dumplings on the street. If you're serious about shoronpo, you'll want to linger until a fresh batch comes out, avoiding those that sit around, hardening and cooling down in plastic boxes on top of the grill. I also devoured a mentaiko onigiri from Onigiri Togoshiya, which offers an exhaustive variety of onigiri fillings ordered via a ticket machine. Parading down the street with open food in your hands and taking bites as you go isn't well received in Japan, so both shops offer a modest outdoor sitting or standing area to enjoy your snack and a bin to dispose of the packaging. Eating and walking, when you consider it, is an activity rife with risks: messy collisions, indigestion, and littering. Pausing to enjoy a dish in the dedicated eating zone is far calmer than making your food consumption an act of multitasking, encompassing navigation and spatial awareness. Like the time spent at traffic lights in last week's newsletter, here is a chance to relax and soak up the variety of shopfronts interspersed with potted gardens and vending machines and the street's placid flow of people on foot and bicycles.
After savouring my snack, I meld back into the flow of pedestrians, my steps now guided by a sense of contentment as I weave through the shōtengai. My attention drifts to the music sailing out over the street's public address system. Shōtengai often play music in this manner, which lays down a melodic bed for the naturally occurring soundscape of footsteps, conversation, children playing, bicycles freewheeling, and food grilling. A research paper from the Acoustical Society of Japan inquiring into music on shopping streets found that most shōtengai keep the tunes rolling not to drive sales but to create an atmosphere. Conversely, a considerable body of point-of-sale marketing wisdom points to the powerful effect of music on shoppers' decision to purchase.
The same study found that CDs and cassettes were the most common sources of music along the shōtengai, a nugget of information that pleased me greatly and seems at one with their quaint, retro appeal. J-Pop songs were the most common among the genres played, followed by jazz, classical, seasonal music, nature sounds, and easy listening. It's a spread of genres I can mainly attest to, although in my memory, twinkling pianos, music boxes, or jazzy easy listening tracks are more likely than J-Pop. In any case, it is a relaxing theme tune to my ears, but I was surprised that the study revealed frequent noise complaints about music played over the loudspeakers. I suppose living near enough to hear the music all day is a different matter to sauntering down the shōtengai as a visitor for the afternoon. Given the discussion of sound, I have a field recording for you. It is the ambience of Nakamichi-dōri in Kichijōji, captured around dusk. You can find the recording at the end of the newsletter.
Togoshi Ginza's soundscape is backed by a selection of uplifting piano pieces, which accompany me toward the end of the shōtengai where, opposite a lively yaoya (fruit and vegetable shop), I spot a small, bright red torii gate that beckons passersby to enter into the side passage of an apartment building. At the end of the passage sits a micro shrine named Hōtoku Inari, which is said to enshrine the deities of Hōtokuzan Inari Taisha, a major shrine in Nagaoka, Niigata. Hōtokuzan Inari Taisha has a history reaching back to the Jōmon Period (c. 14,000–300 BC) and occupies an expansive site that hosts large festivals. I imagine the mini Hōtoku Inari off Togoshi Ginza as a kind of Tokyo pied-à-terre for these esteemed deities. The Togoshi district's main shrine is Togoshi Hachiman, which is a short walk from Hōtoku Inari, and over on the west side toward Togoshi Ginza Station is an even smaller, freestanding backstreet power spot named Hogoinari. Despite its compact stature, this shrine successfully generates a feeling of mysticism from its outpost beneath the shade of 1990s apartment buildings.
Reaching Togoshi Ginza's final, easternmost archway, the street merges into Mitsugi-dōri, which feels like the end of civilisation following the sensory stimulation of the shōtengai. It is tempting to continue along this path to see how the neighbourhood evolves, but I turn back west with my shōtengai goals in mind. The light is fading by now, and the nighttime establishments are coming to life. A calmer feeling has spread through the air, as many day-tripping tourists seem to have filtered out. On the walk back, I glimpse a row of vending machines lined up along a narrow, sloping side street. Following the glow of the machines leads to the front of Togoshi Ginza Onsen, a local sento bathhouse with a coin laundry attached, occupying an oblong edifice fronted with geometric cladding of light blue tiles and trim, asymmetrically arranged windows interspersed between. More on this later.
En route west, I encounter Togoshi Ginjiro, affectionately known as Gin-san, the shōtengai's feline mascot—or rather, an adult human donning a Gin-san costume. This embodiment of local spirit is a strategic initiative by the shōtengai, leveraging the charm of Gin-san, a Yuru-chara. This contracted word denotes a class of mascot characters designed to promote locations, events, or enterprises, derived from the term yurui mascot character, with yurui suggesting a 'laid-back' or 'light-hearted' demeanour rather than its literal meaning of 'loose'. Characters such as Gin-san are deployed locally, spotlighting regional specialities, disseminating event and campaign news, and fortifying brand identity. Not every shōtengai association exhibits the same level of branding acumen as that of Togoshi Ginza. While shop owners possess deep insights into their trades, they might find the nuances of digital marketing elusive. Herein lies the edge of Togoshi Ginza's shōtenkai, offering a model ripe for emulation across less visible shōtengai. Engaging with Gin-san directly or capturing a pristine photograph proves challenging due to the hovering presence of a professional photographer. Togoshi Ginza recognises that Gin-san's real-time engagement with shoppers forms just one facet of his role; the photographer's contributions are equally crucial, transforming the day's happenings into digital content for future online promotional endeavours.
Gin-san and his cameraman walk off into the sunset as their shift ends, and I'm back at the intersection, which I cross with the flow of the crowd. As Togoshi Ginza's west side starts to unfold, more eateries make themselves known with welcoming lights and kanban signs: a dedicated curry bread bakery, a grilled fish izakaya, several Chinese restaurants serving cuisine from different regions, and—suddenly—a McDonald's closely followed by the Japanese gyūdon (beef bowl) chain Matsuya. These chains allude to the presence of Togoshi Ginza Station just a few metres beyond. McDonald's and gyūdon chains are omnipresent in Tokyo, but most of all, they like to be as close to train stations as possible.
The station has two ground-level side platforms. There is no connecting bridge or passage between the platforms, so entrances sit on either side of a level crossing in an architectural style that aims for a traditional Japanese feel. It features a gabled roof with dark tiles and wooden eaves, which evokes a sense of historical charm. The structure blends well into its environment, presenting a nostalgic atmosphere. Surely enough, it was renovated in 2015 as part of the Tokyu Railway's Ii Machi, Ii Densha (Good Town, Good Train) project, which aims to create a pleasant environment around stations, making people feel closer to their local station. Corporations like Tokyu have an underlying commercial agenda. Still, in the evening breeze as the level crossing's barriers slide down, and a train of the Tokyu Ikegami line sails by the lights of the shōtengai in full glow, it is hard to stay cynical.
Beyond the tracks, restaurants suiting my mood for the evening start to present themselves: a yakiniku and red wine speciality shop, Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, and a fine-looking yōshoku restaurant serving the Japanese take on Western cuisine. There is also a branch of the chain kissaten Café Colorado here for those who may have been interested in trying it after reading about it in the newsletter on kissaten a few weeks ago. However, I was brought to a standstill by the aroma of coffee from a different shop: a small roastery named Compass Coffee with a neat, black frontage set against a small, two-storey corrugated structure. Compass stocks coffee beans from around the world, which they roast on-site in batches every 30 minutes or so, hence the waft of coffee in the air. I checked store opening hours with the friendly clerk, selected a nutty Indonesian bean, specified the city roast, and walked back to Togoshi Ginza Onsen for a bath whilst my beans were prepared.
There isn't always time for the luxury of visiting a local sento during a day's walking, leaving me to merely admire and photograph the exterior, recording the discovery for a future visit. But my coffee beans were roasting, and I was still not hungry, having indulged in mid-afternoon street food. My feet were sore, and my shoulders stiff. It had been a full day of walking—Togoshi Ginza hadn't been my only destination. Thus, the prospect of finally immersing myself in the soothing embrace of a sento's hot water emerged not just as an option but as a necessary respite.
Togoshi Ginza Onsen is nothing unusual, but that is what I appreciate. The interiors are clean, contemporary, and neatly designed, and the soft water of Japan flows through its pipes in abundance. Little more is required from a local sento. Two main baths are featured on the second floor within a reasonably compact space beneath colourful Mount Fuji murals. The baths are subdivided into open areas and enclosed spaces, encompassing jet massage and jacuzzi features. There is also an ice bath and a few saunas of different temperatures. I'll never know first-hand the atmosphere on the ladies' side, but on the men's side, the mood of sento bathhouses is to my liking. Bathers are mostly here alone, yet we are all together. Provided there are no groups of high schoolers, the air is free of chatter, with only the occasional sigh of relief as one enters the hot water. Such exhalations embody a feeling that everybody seems to share: a common understanding that life is exhausting and complex. The worries of the modern Tokyo man are numerous, but here is a place to retreat for a moment and contemplate it all in a stoic yet fraternal setting.
To conclude a long soak, I like to enter the ice bath momentarily. Initially, the shock of the cold is biting, but it soon transitions into an unparalleled relaxation. The heartbeat slows, and endorphins are released. If Japanese fine dining can produce a kind of gastronomic drugging, then this is the hydro equivalent. Afterwards, I purchase cold milk from the vending machine downstairs and sit in the lobby with my aches healed and my ice bath high tapering off. Sitting at length in hot water tends to produce a feeling of hunger, and I find the milk on offer to be an immediate salve for that. Naturally, there is a more extended backstory to the presence of milk in vending machines at the sento, which we'll have to save for a future dispatch. For now, I'm traversing the shōtengai one more time to collect my coffee beans and enjoy a sumptuous serving of hayashi raisu at Tōka, the yōshoku restaurant noted earlier.
I drafted this week's newsletter to the sound of a barrage of heavy rain and wind dubbed 'Storm Nelson' as it passed over London, and my thoughts wandered to distant Togoshi Ginza. I pondered whether the current discourse around Japan's tourism backlash is manifesting there. At the time of my walk, the areas around the entrance, station, and television-famed restaurants were fairly crowded—a mix of locals enjoying their weekend, visitors from across Tokyo, and foreign tourists, some shepherded by guided tours. Yet, the crowds were of a manageable level. I suspect that a long shopping street filled with mom-and-pop shops dating back to the mid-century is not on everybody's itinerary, so I can't imagine this particular destination has exploded dramatically in popularity since then. It should still provide a similarly enjoyable experience to the one I've recounted today.
It's not the sheer volume of tourists that I perceive as the primary source of irritation among Japanese citizens; it's how these visitors conduct themselves. Adopting basic courtesies could significantly ease these tensions. Whether your journey leads you to the less trodden Suzuran and Namiki shopping streets in Tokyo's outer districts or you find yourself spending the night at the APA Hotel within Tokyo's most extended shōtengai, remember to be a considerate visitor. Engage in the simple act of sitting down to savour your okonomitaiyaki, and as a gesture of respect, discreetly offer a coin to the collection box at the closest micro shrine before departing.
Until we meet at the end of the longest shōtengai,
AJ
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