It is early November and the Tokyo weather has taken an abrupt, and somewhat overdue, turn toward the autumnal. The skies are painted a cheerful eggshell blue, and a delightful hint of winter’s coming sting is carried on breezes that sweep sweetly through the recently-sweltering streets. Days like these are freshly-baked-bread-and-butter to this seasoned city-stroller, reawakening in me an appetite for pointless wandering that had been suppressed by the unconducive conditions of Japanese summer.
And so, with notebook in pocket, and an unnecessary amount of pens (including brown and orange felt-tips in case I want to draw a tree), I’m setting off on a nice long walk. I’ve chosen, as my starting and ending points, two of the capital’s most visible landmarks, hoping that the sheer enormity of each will safeguard me from missing them should I happen to fall into a state of distractedness, tiredness, confusion or inebriation.
The Two Towers
Looming 2,080 ft over the historied streets of Asakusa and resembling a wickerwork rocket, Tokyo Skytree, which is the tallest structure in Japan, and the tallest tower in the world, is, without a doubt, a whopper. By night the flamboyant giant’s Studio 54-worthy lighting is set dancing in jaunty reflections across the Sumida River, and by day its extensive lattices (painted in an official shade known as “Skytree White”) react to the surrounding sky, showcasing the tower in a surprisingly diverse palette of silvers, pinks and blues.
This strapping young broadcasting tower, which opened in 2012, was intended to pick up the slack for its much-loved progenitor, the 1,093 ft Tokyo Tower, whose transmission powers had been rendered less than adequate by the ever-increasing height and density of the surrounding city. Like Tokyo Skytree, the tower continues to offer breathtaking views of the capital from its observation decks.
It is to this 1958 Eiffel-influenced icon of 20th century Tokyo that I aim to ramble, traversing just-over-half-a-century of broadcasting history while getting some much-needed exercise, and taking in the sights and sounds of the fall-refreshed capital.
Waterways: Tokyo Skytree to Asakusabashi
The streets, shops and cafes around Tokyo Skytree are abuzz, and newly-hung Christmas illuminations cast a jolly glow despite my Scrooge-like objections to their prematurity. Having taken in the unparalleled but impossible-to-gage scale of the tower from dizzyingly close-to, I decide to make it more manageable, moving further away and viewing it, attractively framed by weeping willows, from the revamped canal-side Mizumachi complex. Seen in full from a comfortable bench in these slightly more sedate but agreeably modern surrounds, Tokyo Skytree’s potential as an alluring urban focal-point is, I feel, much better revealed.
Moving on, I pass by the bustling and much-photographed Azuma Bridge, where Philippe Starck’s Asahi Flame is reflecting the low November sun from atop the onyx-black beerhall, casting a dreamlike golden glow over the surrounding buildings, cars and pedestrians. A little further along I cross the sky-blue art deco Komagata Bridge, removing myself from the overhead roar of the elevated Shuto Expressway, a regrettable 1970s hangover that, while lending a certain brutalist sense-of-place, cannot be claimed as a triumph of sensitive town planning.
Descending to the leafy and spacious riverside walkway that skirts the banks of the Sumida River, I take in the great expanse of sky above me (an invigorating prospect for anyone used to the capital’s more claustrophobic confines), and take a deep breath. Here seagulls are bobbing in the wake of the sleek silver Himiko water-bus (designed by manga legend Leiji Matsumoto), and yakatabune pleasure-boats are stocking up with crates of beer. Along the way restaurants and cafes offer alfresco terraces which bring to mind Kyoto’s kawadoko tradition of riverside dining.
Eventually, the green pyramid of the Ryogoku Kokugikan sumo hall’s massive tiled roof rears into view, and before much longer I reach the impassable convergence of the Kandagawa and Sumidagawa. It is here I must leave the quiet companionship of the river and head into the comparatively high-octane streets of the Asakusabashi Station surrounds.
Sun and Shade: Edo Dori to the Imperial Palace
Turning left, I settle into a march that takes me past the many ramen shops, izakaya and other teeming eateries of the Edo Dori, all the while dazzled by the sun which stays one step ahead. The further the road takes me, the higher and grander the buildings that line it become, until at last my solar-struck eyes find relief in the luxurious shade of Nihombashi’s high-rise shops and offices. I stop here to admire the red flag flying cheerily from the uppermost reaches of the opulent Mitsukoshi, Japan’s first department store, and the forbidding dungeon-like walls of Kingo Tatsuno’s Bank of Japan building.
Deciding to give the surprisingly popular café at the Bureau of Sewage a miss, I turn a few more corners before finding myself amongst the bland monolithic modernity of Marunouchi’s glass and steel. Finally, I am faced by the grand and decidedly European edifice of Tokyo Station (also the work of Kingo Tatsuno), which with its gleaming turrets and porthole like windows, puts me in mind of Jules Verne’s Nautilus. As I stop to take a breather amongst the selfie-taking plaza crowds, a disheveled-but-portly pigeon on overenthusiastic scrap-patrol (the type I can identify with) takes a surprisingly forceful peck at my paint-splattered shoes.
Following from here, the line of the Imperial Palace’s moat, but deciding not to drop in, I exchange pleasantries with ducks and an elegant heron, before catching my first glimpse of my target, Tokyo Tower, peeping out from the Emperor’s trees in the late afternoon sun.
Enchanted Gardens: Hibiya Koen
I decide to make my way through Hibiya Koen, a park, which with its ornamental ponds, palm trees and enigmatic statuary (including a copy of the Capitoline Wolf and clay Haniwa figures) I have always found to have a tangible, but not unwelcoming, sense of the uncanny. The flowers here give off a glorious fugitive glow at dusk that makes them look like multicolored embers, and the roar of the grand fountain, when listened to with eyes closed, seems, in the most pleasing way, to stop time. With the end of my journey in sight, I choose not to linger, although my visit coincides with golden hour and the park’s unnamed magic is particularly strong.
From here it is a half-hour stroll into the setting sun, with the cheerfully beckoning orange and white of Tokyo Tower framed by the, no-doubt broadcast-jamming, skyscrapers of Toranomon Hills.
Beacon on a Hill: Tokyo Tower
Winding through the wooded enclaves of Shiba Koen, I turn one more corner and Tokyo Tower is revealed in full. The dramatic skyward swoop of its construction is given a perspective-shifting boost by its positioning atop a hill. From this picturesque vantage point it is being photographed almost constantly; serving still, as it has for over 65 years, as a been-there background to portraits of smiling, laughing, pouting and posing people-of-all-nations, including Japan.
Having concluded my self-imposed footslog, I take a well-earned rest beneath the trees in an almost deserted section of Shiba Koen. As the sonorous bell of the nearby Zozoji Temple strikes five, and the last of the setting sun forms a flamingo pink band across the horizon, I contemplate the spotlit and homely-looking tower, now visible through overhanging leaves. Once again I am charmed by the way this now-venerable, if no-longer fully functional, construction, so similar, yet so utterly apart from its Parisian forebear, has successfully made itself synonymous with the city it looks out over.
It seems to me, that above and beyond the value of the television and radio programs they continue to broadcast, what both Tokyo Tower and Tokyo Skytree really transmit is a powerful sense of the city itself. To visitors, both domestic and international, they are beacons that signify the excitement and as-yet-undiscovered promise of the world’s greatest metropolis, and for residents, like a porch light left on, they offer a comforting sense that they are at, or nearby, the place they are supposed to be.
