Autumn in Tokyo

Tokyo is at its most beautiful in autumn.

In autumn, the city is filled with the yellow of ginkgo trees: a pure, transparent, vivid yellow. Sunlight falls through the leaves as though it has laid a thin sheet of gold over the ground. Beneath the trees, people still move quickly—busy, yet orderly. Trains still pass on time and signals still change again and again. It seems that nothing in the city has changed; it has simply, quietly, put on autumn’s colors.

Turn a corner on an autumn street and enter a quiet lane: summer’s heat has already receded. Perhaps this is what people mean by crisp autumn air. The summer typhoons have passed and the fierce heat has finally eased. We can at last walk and think quietly in this city, no longer held by the restlessness of high summer.

As time passes, the ginkgo trees gradually shed their full covering of gold. Late autumn arrives.

It is the most comfortable season of the year. Everything feels just right.

Akihabara—such a beautiful place name.

From here, take the Sōbu Line and get off at Asakusabashi. Continue north past Ueno and you meet another beautiful place name: Nippori. It once appeared in Lu Xun’s writing. Walk northwest from Nippori through Tokyo’s dense neighborhoods until you reach the banks of the Arakawa, and suddenly the view opens up.

In a city as densely populated as Tokyo, such nature feels especially precious.

Light shimmers on the water as the river flows quietly on. It turns bend after bend, eventually entering Tokyo Bay and then the wide Pacific. Near its mouth the water is no longer so calm: industrial ships and sightseeing boats pass one another, and city, port, and sea meet. Yet when you walk slowly along Tokyo’s rivers, you can still find a peace that belongs only to this city.

Standing on the bank and watching the water, I often think that time must flow in much the same way.

Without sound, and without warning.

When I come back to myself, I realize that I have been in Japan for almost a year.

Many people say that the first six months in Tokyo are exciting. Unfamiliar streets, language, trains, and crowds all feel new. But once that newness has passed, they say Tokyo gradually becomes dull.

I do not feel that way.

Tokyo has neither the world’s tallest tower nor its largest square, and perhaps not its most dazzling lights. It does not seem eager to prove itself through anything grand. Rather, Tokyo is born little by little from things that are simple yet dignified: a quiet alley, a small station, a row of autumn ginkgos, a slowly moving river, a shop lit by warm yellow light.

It is a city like a well-aged wine.

At first taste, it may not seem astonishing. But the longer you stay, the clearer its flavor becomes. One day, you may no longer be able to say exactly what you love about it, yet you recognize station names that were once unfamiliar, remember how a particular street looks at dusk, know which ginkgo turns yellow first, and feel an indescribable closeness when the train home crosses a familiar river.

I am reminded of a line from Tokyo for Outsiders:

“If you have grown tired of life in Tokyo, perhaps you have also grown tired of your own life.”

Perhaps I love Tokyo not because it has so many incomparable sights, but because here, ordinary days themselves are worth taking in slowly.

Especially in autumn.

I love Tokyo in autumn, and I love Tokyo beyond autumn too.

I love Tokyo’s streets, rivers, and city; the people who hurry through it yet keep it orderly. I also love the unremarkable corners and details that only gradually come into view once you truly live here.

The ginkgos will turn yellow again, autumn will return, and the river will keep flowing quietly toward Tokyo Bay.

I simply happen to be standing here during this part of my life, and to have seen it all.

I love Tokyo.