Fourteen Miles in Tokyo

My plane lands at Haneda at 4:30 a.m local time. 

I’m twitching on the edge of my seat, ready to pop the overhead compartment and pull my bag free in one fluid motion. I’d trained for this. 

I don’t think I will ever be accused of failing to seize the days. I travel like it’s an Olympic sport. 

For six months, I’ve read countless travel blogs on Japan. My Instagram has been overtaken with advice. I’d tagged over 170 locations as “Want to Go”  in Tokyo on Google Maps. The entire twelve-day trip is planned, practically down to the minute, in an elaborate color-coded spreadsheet. 

I live by the principle that there is a best way to do everything. You can find it through research, plan it, and achieve it through effort. When in doubt, deliberation, or delighted anticipation, make a spreadsheet! 

I am the first of my travel companions to arrive in Tokyo, and I have about fourteen hours to explore on my own. It’s all planned out in the spreadsheet. 

I have a system for beating jetlag—“clean shirt; don’t sleep!” At about 5:00 a.m., I emerge from a bathroom, feeling less mentally sludgey. Dawn, the colors of a ripe peach, is starting to fringe the horizon. 

The schedule allots me about two hours to arrange for my suitcase to be transferred to my hotel, exchange currency, purchase a pass for unlimited public transit in Tokyo, and travel to breakfast. Here, I hit a bit of a snag. The patient clerk at the baggage office and I struggle to maneuver around our language barrier and locate my hotel in the company’s system. For a few tense moments, I worry that I have been scammed into booking a hotel that doesn’t exist. The transit pass office unfortunately doesn’t open for a few more hours. But I can’t wait around. 

6:35 a.m. finds me boarding an almost empty train for Shinjuku. 

I’m only a few minutes late to breakfast—souflee pancakes with a view of a pleasant, grassy park,where a group of seniors are doing tai chi guarded by gleaming skyscrapers. 

For a moment, I debate skipping the next item on my schedule. But if I don’t go now, when? 

Now, the subway has begun to fill up with people in suits—the famous salary men and women of Japan. 

A wide gravel path leading to the Meiji Jingu temple is insulated from the bustling city of millions by a twisted net of mossy branches. It’s still early, so few people clutter the shots I click off with my film camera in the serene inner courtyard of the temple. I take my time framing ornate lanterns and decorations on the heavy doors. The cicadas drone as if in prayer. I don’t know it, but this is the best moment of the day. 

I check the time. My phone battery is already draining quickly. I map my route to the Imperial Palace in the center of Tokyo, where I have registered for a tour of the grounds at 10:00 a.m. I think I have time for a detour through an empress’s iris garden before I return to the subway. When else would I see it? 

There’s a small fee, and I stand awkwardly as the attendant makes change out of the large bills the airport ATM spat out. 

I walk briskly down the path, and take some pictures of water lilies. I do not see irises. I hurry back to the subway but can’t find the entrance. Panicked, I ask for directions. 

The air on the platform is heavy under the city. The train arrives in a pungent, metallic breeze. No seats now.

At destination. Race up and down the dark platform. Search for exit. Consult maps posted on the wall. ETA on app climbing. There’s always someone behind me, pushing past. I am in the way. I am lost. 

When I break the surface, the sun is sharp and omniscient. Legs heavy and clothes damp, I arrive at the castle gate at 10:15. Too late. I can’t catch up.

Plopping onto a curb, I decide I need air conditioning. I brush the dust off my butt as covertly as possible, and walk around the walled Palace—as if to spite it—and up a hill that feels steeper than it is to the Museum of Modern Art. There, I braid back my disappointment. I won’t ruin a minute of my time here.  

Four informative-but-hard-on-the-feet floors later I exit back into the heat, ignoring the sore, raw skin around my sandal straps. Next stop: The Shinjuku National Garden. When will I have another chance to see a formal Japanese garden? 

Back in the subway, herds of pre-schoolers in blue dresses and yellow straw hats scurry, giggling. They are not lost. 

I walk from bench to bench in the National Garden, I have to ration my film, make every shot count. I’m moving slower, the schedule passes me by.

I’d planned to take a nap at the hotel before my friend arrives for dinner and a shopping excursion, but I haven’t made it to Asakusa yet. 

Back to the subway; criss-cross the city. 

4:00 p.m. in Asakusa. The smell of frying oil spills out into narrow streets that get more crowded the closer you get to Senso Ji Temple, marked by a towering vermillion pagoda. I stop at a tiny market stall to purchase a special notebook for collecting calligraphy stamps, but I arrive at Senso Ji’s calligrapher’s office too late. 

Dusk and incense gather as I stand on the deck of Senso Ji, shifting between equally painful feet. But I have to continue on, there’s a shop I want to visit before it closes. 

I almost cry on the excruciating sixteen-minute walk across the river to my hotel, but I am glad to find that it exists and my bag has arrived ahead of me. 

It takes heroic effort, but I manage to change clothes again, walk back across the river, and slurp up delicious ramen in duck broth. Over dinner, my friend and I whittle down our itinerary to Don Quijote, a shopping experience that defies description. It has everything—luggage, liquor, lingerie. It’s too much. But you can’t not go!

When we get back to the hotel, I am spent in every possible sense of the word. The fitness app on my phone informs me that I have set a personal record, fourteen miles walked today. 

I felt every mile every day for the rest of the trip. I regret it. Ironic, as regret was the thing I was trying to avoid. I didn’t want to miss anything. 

Maybe I soaked up the spirit of the city. Tokyo is multitudinous, overwhelming, slipping around you and over you, passing you by. But if I was writing a travel blog—Lord knows, I’ve read enough—I’d say you can miss walking fourteen miles in Tokyo.