The pedestrian lights turned green. As the audio signal's distinctive chirp sounded, the assembled crowd began its march across Yasukuni-dōri towards Kabukichō, which teemed with life in the distance. It was late spring 2009, and on the second day of my first trip to Tokyo, I was being shown around Shinjuku. In the world's most populous city, amid one of its busiest districts, along a prominent thoroughfare at a point where footfall and vehicular traffic reach their peak, I was struck by the quiet in the air.
I had built a visual impression of Tokyo through images I'd encountered. Perhaps I even had a sense of the city's smells and tastes, shaped by time spent in Japanese restaurants and visiting other East Asian cities where the scent of humidity gathers similarly in the air at that time of year. But I'd given little thought to its sounds. Unthinkingly, I assumed the auditory landscape would reflect the heightened noise levels one might associate with a metropolitan region housing 37 million people.
The stretch of Yasukuni-dōri north of Shinjuku JR Station spans six lanes of traffic, divided by a central reservation. Its width rivals a typical UK motorway. And yet, I distinctly remember the sound of the breeze threading through the tapping of footsteps, accompanied by strains of J-Pop drifting from shopfronts on Kabukichō's inner streets. I felt comfortable within the crowd as we unhurriedly moved across the broad road. "This is a place I could be," I thought to myself, perhaps for the first time.
I thought about comparing the peak-time decibel levels of that pedestrian crossing with a similar road in London. Consider Euston Road as it extends southwest from King's Cross Station—a relentless and unforgiving artery. Its soundscape mirrors its visual and spatial disarray: engines fuming, sirens wailing, and construction pounding. Raised voices strive to outmatch the din of traffic, and the occasional cacophony of ranting and raving pipes up and dies down as the city tries not to lose its mind. Experience is relative, of course. Those from regional Japan might find Yasukuni-dōri noisy, but my familiarity with Euston Road likely allowed me to detect its serenity. Similarly, if you come from a city more frenetic than London you, might interpret the Euston Road more optimistically than I do.
Although I could not locate specific decibel readings for Yasukuni-dōri or Euston Road, broader official data highlights a contrast. The UK's Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs reports that major roads in central London often register daytime noise levels of 70–75 decibels. By comparison, Shinjuku City designates areas like Yasukuni-dōri as 'Category 3’ zones, where Japan's Ministry of the Environment enforces a daytime noise limit of 60 decibels or less. This prioritisation of noise regulation likely contributes to the calm I perceived.
Naturally, Tokyo is not always a sanctuary of tranquillity. I found local estate agent data that recorded noise levels of up to 68 decibels on Shinjuku roads. Even with strict regulations, targets are not always met. Indeed, the city possesses a stimulating soundscape that aligns with Tokyo of the global imagination. The popular visual of neon lights and skyscrapers is reinforced by anime-style voiceovers from digital billboards, melodic train station jingles, chirping traffic lights, and touchscreen interfaces imbued with nostalgic sound design reminiscent of 1990s Nintendo. Together, these elements conjure the impression of a gamified city.
Still, the contrast between Shinjuku’s 68 dB and London's 75 dB is more profound than the figures might suggest. Decibels follow a logarithmic scale, where each increment represents a significant jump in perceived loudness. To the human ear, a sound measured at 75 dB feels nearly twice as loud as one at 68 dB. At 68 dB, noise remains noticeable but largely unobtrusive, merging into the urban backdrop without undue strain. At 75 dB, however, sound commands attention, disrupting focus and edging into discomfort for some. My instinctive impression of Yasukuni-dōri's noise levels had been reasonably well founded.
Over the past year of writing this newsletter, I've been meditating on the components of Tokyo's urban fabric, one element at a time. From the outset, one of my motivations has been to understand better what makes this city resonate with me as it does. It is the dual sensation of being both invigorated and at peace. I felt that exploring the roots of this might illuminate something fundamental about myself. Through this process, I wouldn't entirely rule out a mild form of hyperacusis—a sensitivity to sound that feels naturally alleviated by Japan's quieter urban environment. It's not the epiphany one typically anticipates in the search for self-discovery through travel, but there it is.
Shinjuku City's guidelines for noise levels extend to residential areas, which are measured by a different standard. In "Type 1" low-rise residential districts, the recommended range is 40–45 dB. On a logarithmic scale, this represents a notably tranquil environment—comparable to the stillness of a library, the gentle murmur of whispers, or the faint rustle of leaves. It is a calm so subtle it becomes effortlessly ignorable. Tokyo's sense of quiet deepens as you stray further from its main roads and transport hubs. However, you needn't travel to Musashi-Itsukaichi to encounter it.
A modest walk north from Yasukuni-dōri brings you to areas like Kita-Shinjuku or Waseda, where the sensory experience shifts notably. Step away from the main road and into a quiet residential street at night, and you might encounter the glow of a red lantern outside a neighbourhood izakaya, its light spilling across the pavement to illuminate the facade of an empty coin laundromat opposite. In this urban tableau, audio is minimal: the hum of washing machines, muffled by their glass enclosures and the faint clink of glasses and subdued laughter drifting from within the izakaya. These delicate sounds join the night breeze, mingling with the whir of backstreet extractor fans. Occasionally, footsteps pass, or a bicycle glides by, leaving momentary marks in the stillness. But overall—it is peace.
Walking at night in Tokyo feels relatively safe—a topic expansive enough for another newsletter. This street safety creates an ideal setting for mindful walking when paired with the city's quietude. I like to align my steps with my breath, inhaling slowly over two or three strides and then exhaling over the next few. This cadence establishes a rhythm, grounding me in the present moment and drawing my attention outward. With each step, I notice my body's sway, the earth's support beneath my feet, and the layered sounds of the city around me. Should my thoughts drift, I gently return to this rhythm—breath and step, moving together.
As with any meditation, this practice can be adapted to suit most environments. I'll employ it during midday walks through the December streets of Central London, aiming to turn the journey from a source of stress into a grounding experience. It's possible to arrive calmer than when I set out, unbothered by the overcrowding and seasonal rush. That said, mindfulness is undeniably more straightforward on a serene neighbourhood block in Tokyo, where a cat's meow is audible streets away.
I juxtapose this ideal of Tokyo neighbourhood tranquillity with an anecdote from a Japanese acquaintance adapting to life in London. He once reached out to me, bewildered by a constant, thumping bass reverberating from his downstairs neighbour's flat. To his surprise, no one else in the building seemed to mind—or, if they did, not enough to voice a complaint. This scenario left him feeling isolated and uncertain about how to proceed.
Of course, not all Londoners are inconsiderate neighbours, nor do all Tokyoites live in blissful silence. However, he wasn't accustomed to such a situation in the way that anyone familiar with life in London would be. It mirrors my own experience of Tokyo apartment blocks, where the occasional hum of a vacuum cleaner from upstairs or the cry of a child may briefly break the quiet. Yet, the likelihood of being subjected at length to a neighbour's EDM playlist is slim.
Third places—karaoke booths, music practice studios, game centres, and the like—serve as outlets for activities that might otherwise intrude on others. The term, coined by American urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg, describes neutral, communal spaces distinct from home (the first place) and work (the second place), where people come together to socialise, unwind, or immerse themselves in personal interests. These spaces allow residents to explore their passions without infringing on their neighbours' peace. It is a cultural ethos that places social cohesion above individual indulgence or convenience.
For some, this societal emphasis on consideration for others can feel confining. Unspoken expectations—like maintaining silence on trains or keeping music subdued at home—may begin to weigh heavily. While public silence undoubtedly creates a serene atmosphere, it can bring tension for those unaccustomed to or uneasy with such levels of restraint. It's a perspective I've heard from several non-Japanese residents during the weeks and months before they ultimately chose to leave Japan.
I value Tokyo's balance of energy and reticence highly. It's a city where you can immerse in urban vitality, secure in knowing that pockets of calm are always within reach. Though I appreciate the stillness of rural life, I suspect I couldn't fully embrace such isolation indefinitely. I am a city dweller at heart, drawn to the dynamic range of creativity and variety that only a metropolis can provide. But at the same time I'm a noise-sensitive soul. As it does in so many ways, Tokyo offers a rare equilibrium, with its decibels of spare headspace in the soundscape. It is within these unoccupied frequencies that I find peace at last.
Until we meet in quietude,
AJ
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