The first time I went to Tokyo was October 2023. I’d had a rough summer and basically lost a chunk of it to my couch after breaking my left foot in a tennis accident. So when I finally got on a plane, it felt like I was re-entering the world a little late.
A fifteen-hour flight somehow felt like nothing. Time thinned out somewhere over the ocean. We landed late at night, but I still met up with my friend, who had flown in from Shanghai only a couple of hours before me, to eat ramen and get a couple of cocktails. At some point she said, “Oh. I think I get why people can’t stop talking about Tokyo.” and I just nodded.
My hotel was in a perfect spot—about five minutes from Shibuya Crossing, but slightly tucked toward the calmer, nicer streets.
Music Bar Lion was right across my hotel too, which at the time wasn’t packed with tourists like me.
Since that first trip, I’ve gone back four more times over the next two years. In total, I’ve spent roughly four months there. Each visit has been as good as the one before—maybe better, because the city starts to recognize you in small ways: the routes become muscle memory, the station exits stop feeling like puzzles, and you begin to crave the particular calm that only exists inside all that motion.
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