Tokyo Curiologue

Let’s begin with a cold, hard geographical fact: there are no real “mountains” in central Tokyo. This area spreads across lowlands extending from Tokyo Bay, gradually rising toward the western uplands. While skyscrapers dominate the skyline, there are no mountain ranges here in the geological sense. What Is the “Highest” Mountain in Central Tokyo? That said, it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that Tokyo has no mountains. If we broaden our view to the Tokyo Metropolis as a whole, the picture changes completely. For example, Mount Kumotori (2,017 m) is the highest peak in Tokyo, located on the border with Yamanashi Prefecture in a truly mountainous region. Meanwhile, Mount Takao (599 m), in Hachioji, has long been known as a site of Buddhist and ascetic training. Thanks to its easy access from central Tokyo, it is now one of the most visited hiking destinations in the world. —But those are not the mountains we’re looking for today. Our focus is strictly on “mountains” in ce...

In my previous column, I introduced wisteria (fuji) and briefly touched on hanafuda , the traditional Japanese card game that represents each month with seasonal imagery. This time, I’d like to return to hanafuda once again. The deck, which took its current form in the 19th century during the Edo period, beautifully captures the changing seasons. But if you look closely, you may notice a subtle “mismatch” between the flowers depicted on the cards and the seasons as we experience them today. This time, we’ll focus on the peony (botan), now in full bloom, and explore this curious discrepancy. Wisteria in April, Peonies That Come “Too Early” In hanafuda, peonies appear as the card for June. They are depicted together with butterflies—an established motif known as “peony and butterfly.” This pairing originated in Chinese art, where it symbolized beauty, prosperity, and elegance, and was later adopted and widely appreciated in Japan. By the Edo period, it had become a familiar arti...

Fuji — Elegance and Symbolism In my February and March columns, I explored Japan’s seasonal flower culture through plum blossoms and cherry blossoms. When the cherry blossoms fall, there is often a quiet sense of loss. But in Japan, the end of one season also marks the beginning of another. By late April, a new presence begins to appear in gardens, parks, and temple grounds. Long clusters of purple flowers cascade down from above, forming what can only be described as a “curtain of violet.” Fuji—wisteria. A Curtain of Violet Fuji is a climbing plant, growing by extending strong, twisting vines. For more than a thousand years, it has been cultivated on wooden or bamboo trellises known as fuji-dana (wisteria trellises), allowing its blossoms to hang down in long, graceful clusters. Some flower clusters can exceed one meter in length. Each small bloom resembles a butterfly, and together they sway gently in the breeze, creating a scene that is both delicate and striking. The Flower of Ele...

On April 8, I visited Chidorigafuchi, one of Tokyo’s most iconic cherry blossom spots, just as the cherry blossom season was drawing to a close. I had missed the peak bloom, but some blossoms still clung to the branches. Petals drifted through the air like snow—a scene known in Japanese as sakura fubuki , or “cherry blossom blizzard.” It was a quiet reminder that the season had come to an end in Tokyo. A little sad, yet undeniably beautiful. That said, I wasn’t there just to take in the afterglow. This year’s sakura season came with a piece of news that caught my attention. A cherry tree at this famous spot had collapsed. It reportedly fell in the early morning of April 2, right around peak bloom. Strong winds and rain the night before are believed to have been the direct cause. Fortunately, because it happened early in the day, no one was injured. A snapped trunk, roots and soil lifted at the base, and even a guardrail bent upward from underneath showed just how powerful the collaps...

April 1st. Rain in the morning. During cherry blossom season, rain is often called “flower-scattering rain” — something people usually dread. Still, I went out early to see the cherry blossoms along the Sumida River. Every bud had opened. It was fair to call it full bloom. But in some trees, leaves were already beginning to appear. Petals drifted in the wind, and the rain-soaked ground was tinted soft pink. The peak had just passed, and the blossoms were beginning their slow journey toward the end— though they would likely remain at their best through the coming weekend. Despite the rain, it was a day you could easily call “perfect timing.” And yet, this idea of perfect timing is exactly what makes cherry blossoms so difficult. Everyone wants to see them at their best. But the timing changes every year. And for travelers coming from abroad— especially those planning their trips months in advance— this uncertainty becomes even more frustrating. Cherry blossoms resist predic...