This week's newsletter comes to you directly from the Chūō Line, the vagus nerve of Tokyo's rail network. Some explanation is necessary to appreciate this train line's full complexity: the Chūō-Sōbu Line, recognised by its yellow train cars and signage, operates parallel to two significant railways. Firstly, the blue Chūō Main Line stretches west from Tokyo Station to Nagoya, while to the east, the similarly blue Sōbu Main Line extends to Chōshi, a coastal city at the easternmost tip of the Greater Tokyo area. The Chūō-Sōbu Line also bridges a section from Tachikawa in the west to Tokyo Station, where the two main lines diverge.
The line transforms into vivid orange and becomes known as the Chūō Line (Rapid) when it omits eight minor stops and an additional three on weekends, which causes many an overshot journey. This rapid service is typically what is meant when referring to the Chūō Line, with the Chūō-Sōbu Line being dubbed the Chūō Line (Local) since it serves the smaller local stations that the rapid version skips. This evening finds me on the Chūō Line's Special Rapid service, which forgoes an additional ten stops as it hurtles toward Tokyo. Adding to the complexity, the rapid line branches into three locations on the west side, including the mountainous areas of Ōme, Takao and Itsukaichi, while the Tokyo Metro's Tōzai Line overlaps with the Chūō-Sōbu Line's route between Mitaka and Nakano. Additionally, there's a Commuter Rapid and a Commuter Special Rapid that even bypasses Nakano and Mitaka, offering a direct link from Shinjuku to the residential city of Kokubunji.
Spanning 60.2 km, the Chūō-Sōbu Line and its rapid variants serve the Tokyo Metropolitan Area exclusively, slicing through the Yamanote Line, which encircles central Tokyo. This formidable infrastructure is a familiar setting for me, and it's a pleasure to be aboard once again. Yet, the Special Rapid's swift journey means my stop is imminent. This rapid transit mirrors the pace of my initial week in Tokyo—a fusion of work, travel, and connections with friends and family interspersed with urban exploration. Consequently, this week's newsletter presents three short pieces conceived during fleeting moments of respite, whether on the move like I am now or pausing in cafés and restaurants. This edition diverges from our norm; it features less extensive research and fewer citations. For newcomers to Tokyothèque, revisiting a prior edition might provide a clearer picture of the newsletter's typical style.
Kissaten Photography Etiquette
I'm confident anyone who frequently visits Japan has a specific first meal they anticipate upon arrival. I gravitate towards an obvious choice: a post-flight bowl of ramen. Its hot, salty broth seems to replenish something vital that is diminished during the long-haul flight. Additionally, you could be standing at almost any coordinate within the metropolis, and a dependable ramen restaurant is likely nearby, making it a practical option for bleary-eyed new arrivals.
However, I look forward most to the post-meal stroll, acclimatising to Tokyo and finding a kissaten to ward off the jet lag with a blend coffee. Here, I'll feel inspired to take out my notepad and pen and begin planning. After arriving last Saturday, I did just that at a kissaten named Coffee Club Den. The defining feature of this kissaten is its extensive collection of antique chairs, meticulously catalogued in the menu book. This is what I adore about an independent kissaten—besides the coffee and décor, you'll almost always find an imprint of the owner's interests and tastes.
At Coffee Club Den, I observed a sign that might interest Tokyothèque readers who look forward to documenting kissaten. While it seemingly prohibits all photography, the Japanese text clarifies that the restriction applies only to photographing the menu book and the counter area. Quietly photographing your coffee, however, is allowed. This kind of policy is typical among kissaten seeking to maintain a refined, high-tension ambience. It safeguards the privacy of staff and patrons, positioning the kissaten as a sanctuary from the pervasive threat of digital exposure in public spaces.
News arrived this week of a planned mesh structure in Yamanashi Prefecture, designed to deliberately obscure the popular view of Mount Fuji, featuring a Lawson konbini in the foreground. This development reflects a prevailing frustration with disruptive, camera-wielding foreign tourists. Individuals reportedly climbed a nearby dental surgery for the quintessential shot, left rubbish, and obstructed traffic. The forthcoming barrier is a measure to curb such behaviour—an indication of the steps Japan is prepared to take when tourists eschew common sense and manners for a social media shot. Although it's a regrettable situation, I am equally satisfied with the view of a suburban roadside konbini set against apartment buildings. I tend to find far less competition for such photos—none whatsoever, in fact.
Generally, kissaten serve as havens from such behaviour, except when one becomes a tourist magnet due to a particular theme or menu item. So, even when prohibitive signs are absent, it is wise to inquire politely before capturing images of a kissaten's interiors, whose retro allure may be hard to resist.
Subterranean Tokyo Jazz
As I pulled open the heavy, windowless door to step into the unknown room, a faint musty smell hung in the air—unmistakably that of a 1970s zakkyo building's basement. The lighting inside was slightly stark, and a well-turned-out bartender paused what he was doing and glanced up at us. In split-second moments like these, you might doubt your choice to enter. You never know precisely what you'll get at Tokyo venues occupying the basement level of mixed-use buildings like this one. The same applies to the upper floors. Some googling can help form an impression before deciding to enter, but the average customer's mobile phone photographs are unable to capture the atmosphere fully, and opinions and experiences in written reviews will always differ.
Moreover, it's possible to end up in decision paralysis by examining every possible option. The more you research, the less content you might feel with your final choice. However, it is an understandable impulse to try to answer a few questions before heading inside: will you feel welcome? Will the menu align with your taste and budget? Might you need to awkwardly leave after being seated? Could the venue be devoid of atmosphere, leaving you regretting a misspent evening as the only patrons? Often, the only method to truly grasp the reality—and your personal reaction to it—is to step inside.
Not every night-time gambit of mine in Tokyo leads to memorable moments in enchanting venues. Yet, many do, and last night at G's Bar in Akasaka was such an instance. I've strolled by and heard the sounds of live jazz music emanating from G's several times and thought about visiting. Yesterday evening, with the timing and mood perfectly aligned, my friend and I opted for whiskey and jazz and ventured down to the basement floor the bar occupies. My initial apprehension about the slightly flat ambience soon subsided as the owner welcomed us warmly and talked us through a couple of Japanese single malt and blended whiskies. Following our amiable chat to a backdrop of handpicked records, the live music commenced with a trio—an electric guitarist, a drummer, and a Hammond organist regarded as one of Japan's finest.
A cautious glance through the door opened the way to an evening warmed by rare drinks from a meticulously maintained bar and an intimate performance from adept, seasoned jazz musicians mere feet away. While I'm not a fully-fledged connoisseur of whiskey or jazz, I possess sufficient knowledge to identify a standout underground jazz bar. Such evenings tend to occur when one dares to explore the less visible, small, independent venues hidden from plain sight above or below street level in Tokyo.
Car Parking Chōme
I recall encountering a profoundly altered photograph by a Japanese photographer, which portrayed a street scene densely populated with Times 24 neon signs, filling every conceivable space in the view. In Tokyo, automated parking lots surpass even konbini in ubiquity, their presence rivalling that of vending machines. Times 24 stands out as the largest coin-operated car park brand, its yellow signage becoming distinctive not through its design but through overwhelming prevalence. The photograph used Times 24 to voice a broader criticism of the widespread adoption of coin-operated parking in the city.
As I walk home through Tokyo each night, I set myself the task of exploring slightly altered routes. Small connecting alleyways often lead to intriguing finds, even if they make for a more circuitous journey. Recently, a particularly stark hourly car park caught my attention, marked by a ventilation fan protruding from a nearby bistro and a luminous pink sign signalling vacancies. Drawn to photograph this scene, I discovered another car park with a similar industrial feel just a short distance away. One car park led to another until I found myself amid a chōme block devoted to these transient parking spaces.
The image of Times 24 neon signs I mentioned was created years ago, potentially as far back as a decade. Times 24h inaugurated its first coin-operated car park in 1991, with the pace of new openings accelerating after a 2006 law enabled private companies to enforce parking restrictions. While my discovery of a car parking chōme is not revolutionary, it underscores the extent to which these facilities have become entrenched. Typically, miscellaneous neighbourhood lots are transformed into car parks among apartment buildings, houses, and establishments. However, in this particular block, the apartment buildings were the anomaly, occasionally interrupting a continuous expanse of parking. I suspect these car parks serve as a lucrative, low-maintenance revenue source for landowners, akin to coin-operated laundromats.
Tokyo's policy of off-road car parking within the confines of designated venues like these has the effect of keeping parked cars out of sight. It is one reason why street and architectural photography in Tokyo is such a pleasure. Yet, a car parking chōme is a sorry sight, considering this block would once have been filled with homes and the quiet hum of neighbourhood life. Car parks decimate that cordial ambience, and these asphalt-covered lots contribute to urban overheating and light pollution while promoting car travel. There might be a poignant photo documentary series waiting to be made on Times 24-style car parks or, indeed, a lengthy newsletter about their genesis and impact on the city. But somehow, I'm uncertain about going deeply into a topic so devoid of joy. It is a far cry from the shōtengai, the kissaten or even the lonely coin laundromat.
I hope this week's brief collection of Tokyo notes will suffice to tide you over, my readers. This trip is proving to be a learning experience, and I anticipate this type of digest will be the extent of my written output in Tokyo. Nevertheless, I'm nearing the need to expand my cloud storage, which is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of photos and videos I'm capturing, and my mind ticks with ideas for future pieces. True to form, time in Tokyo is speeding by; thus, expect the newsletter to continue in this condensed format for the next two weeks until my return to London, where I will begin to unpack it all.
Until we meet on the Chūō-Sōbu Line,
AJ