Taking advantage of the new year as an opportunity for course correction carries a certain logic, even if the idea of New Year’s resolutions has its flaws. Well-intentioned resolutions are easily drawn into commercialisation, with January wellness discounts promising dramatic transformations. It’s tempting to think that complete overhauls of habits or identities can be accomplished within the narrow window of a promotional period. This all-or-nothing mindset oversimplifies the gradual, nuanced process of making lasting adjustments.
Still, as rhythmic beings, we are indeed influenced by the natural cycle. We rise and rest with the sun, subtly responding to seasonal shifts, even as modern life increasingly disrupts these patterns. Economist Katy Milkman's research on the fresh start effect explores how temporal landmarks create a powerful sense of a clean slate. Her widely cited 2014 paper demonstrates that this effect can be triggered by a new morning, the beginning of a week, or the transition to a new month or season. These shorter intervals naturally build toward the symbolic reset of a new year, where the fresh start effect is at its strongest.
Self-improvement usually requires a deliberate effort to break free from the inertia of routines and the pressure of external expectations. But January offers a cheat code—a collective pause in the social fabric to seize your chance. If you can stay realistic about the scale and timeframe of change, this designated clean-slate period becomes a rare opportunity to pursue growth with the blessing of mass culture.
Fresh start anticipation can turn December into a precarious time. The month becomes defined by a collective movement to conclude all matters under the weight of year-end demands. Bound by annual cycles, organisations impose deadlines that amplify the pressure to finalise projects and achieve targets. Meanwhile, personal administration and familial obligations compound the urgency, creating a flurry of activity as the clock winds down. It’s a socially sanctioned festival of stress.
I’m experimenting with a reflection phase this December, opting to review and synthesise the year’s work and experiences at a steady pace rather than devoting my time and energy to meeting an end-of-year target. This intentional practice is an attempt to counter the seasonal pull with a sense of order and emotional equilibrium.
Amid this process, Tokyothèque remains an area of focus. I launched the project this January—a veritable clean-slate initiative. Over the past eleven months, a consistent effort has shaped it into a body of work exceeding 100,000 words across 37 editions. Within that, I've chronicled close to 100 locations across Tokyo, with insights and context drawn from around 25 reference books. The task of reconciliation and organisation has been on my mind, and this week, I began cataloguing it all.
Choosing a format for the bibliography and newsletter editions was relatively straightforward. I picked a simple Notion database, which I have no hesitation in sharing. In contrast, cataloguing and distributing the kissaten, shōtengai, bookshops, shrines, and other locations gave me pause for thought.
All year, against the backdrop of intensified tourism in Japan, I’ve noticed that the trend of promoting 'hidden gems' on social media persists—an enduring phenomenon that shows no sign of waning. The 'gems' terminology conjures images of under-appreciated, unique, or undiscovered places and experiences. Its promise taps into a universal desire for authenticity, individuality, and exploration. The appeal is entirely understandable, making hidden gems a robust social media tactic in the travel category. Short-form videos sharing 'secrets' and 'discoveries' reliably attract attention and grow audiences.
When I first turned to social media to connect with potential readers of the newsletter, I needed to figure out where to begin. My feeds were primarily filled with viral hidden gem-style content, and I started to believe this might be the route I'd need to follow. I told myself that if I could avoid the cliché terminology, I might be able to capture the kind of attention these posts gain while remaining conscientious. So, I tested the waters, posting a few geotagged videos. Yet, each one left me with a sense of emptiness.
I sat with that feeling and examined it. At its root, I found a deep discomfort with how the hidden gem narrative commodifies authenticity. While these videos tell an enticing story for the smartphone screen, the reality on the ground often tells a different tale.
When a small business reaches a heightened level of virality, its priorities often shift. Now, sidelining its regular patrons, it becomes preoccupied with a constant queue of one-time customers. Inundated with demand, the business standardises its operations—streamlining queues, ordering processes, and service—until the experience feels mechanical. What was once distinctive erodes into something unremarkable. Yet, the viral effect creates a cognitive bias, leading visitors to perceive the experience as exceptional, even when it no longer is.
Perhaps most troubling is the disquieting undertone: travellers claiming to "discover" places that locals already value. Social media amplifies this dynamic, fuelling a fear of missing out and spurring an endless pursuit of ever-rarer finds to hold aloft before followers. It becomes an unvirtuous cycle where appreciation morphs into extraction without meaningful engagement or effort to contribute to the country or its communities.
Posting daily about tucked-away mom-and-pop omuraisu shops, catering to what the algorithm is likely to amplify, might boost newsletter readership. But I’d rather rest easy, knowing I’m not part of that cycle or contributing to the ripple effects its revolutions inevitably create.
That said, many readers initially subscribed to this newsletter to gain insights for their trips to Japan. I believe we’re all searching for something deeper, and one of my goals has always been to support thoughtful travellers who value the cultural and historical context of the places they visit. Surely, I thought, there must be a way to share my knowledge and interests with like-minded people without relying on the harmful language of hidden discoveries.
This week, it returned to me that, as a child, I wanted to be a cartographer. In my imagination, the profession combined learning the geography of places with drafting beautiful maps by hand. What drew me to it, I think, was the blend of exploration, documentation, handcrafting, and publishing—a perfect mix of creativity and order.
I never pursued that path, and my romantic notion of hand-drawing maps has evolved with technology. Modern cartography, with its use of digital tools and satellite data, has expanded beyond the act of recording topographies. Geographic Information Systems (GIS), for instance, integrate multiple data layers to produce nuanced maps, turning cartography into a form of visual storytelling that reveals and communicates relationships between people and places.
I'm interested in maps not only as guides suggesting where to go or what to do, but also as tools for understanding. While the physical outlines of the world have been meticulously documented, other terrains—emotional, cultural, historical—remain to be mapped. In a city as sprawling and multifaceted as Tokyo, this kind of layering could highlight any number of intersections between individual curiosities and the city's urban terrain.
For inspiration, I visited Stanfords on Monday, London’s iconic map and travel bookshop, a fixture since 1853. The ground floor resembles the travel section of a regular bookshop, but it was the lower floor I had come for. Here, maps span every continent and country, offering finer-grained details of cities, towns, villages, and districts. Some maps are tailored for motorists, prioritising driving routes, while others focus on travel by bicycle, rail, waterways, or foot.
Beyond transport, some maps are organised around diverse themes—architecture, history, or cuisine. A map of Paris transforms depending on whether it is designed for a book lover or a wine enthusiast. It struck me as an elegant way to share location information without contributing to overtourism. Akin to reading this long-form newsletter each week, it requires a degree of intent: one must care enough to seek out the shop, select a map, and part with a modest sum of money. The process is, in a way, self-moderating.
My visit resurfaced an idea I'd been considering: creating a Tokyothèque master map. And so, I set aside time this week to compile every place mentioned in the newsletter over the past eleven months, layering them onto a custom Google Map. Rather than serving as a guide to essential destinations, the map is a compilation of everyday businesses, districts, and local points of interest—places that have surfaced organically in my writing, shaped by memories and research.
None hold 'hidden gem' status, as far as I’m aware, and there are plenty to choose from. My hope is that this approach brings a gentle stream of considerate visitors to a wider array of destinations, helping, in some small way, to restore the balance disrupted by the funnelling of the majority to the same overburdened locations.
The map's pins begin to outline a rough version of Tokyo according to the sensibilities of Tokyothèque: art, design, coffee, walking, and, of course, books, maps, and quietly absorbing. Clusters of locations align naturally with areas covered in past newsletters, while the more unconventional destinations arose through analyses of specific themes, such as the history of konbini or the proliferation of coin laundromats.
These resources are offered as a gesture of thanks to those who support the project through membership. A link to the map is now live on the website, alongside the complete Tokyothèque bibliography and a database of newsletter back issues. Members can access these features through a new 'Members' section in the navigation menu. If you’ve been thinking about supporting the project through membership, now might be the time—I hope these additions make it a more rewarding decision.
The Tokyothèque archives are an evolving project, designed to expand as the newsletter progresses and as I unearth memories, deepen my knowledge, and gather experiences during my planned trips to Japan in 2025.
Stay grounded this December, my friends. Perhaps a bit of cataloguing or mapping is just what you need to bring mental clarity and prepare for a fresh start.
Until we meet in Tokyo,
AJ