Seeking Serenity in Japan

I slip off my shoes and ease my feet into the warm water, settling into a cushioned cabana tucked along a winding path of greenery. I’m on a rare staycation at Fufu Tokyo Ginza, a sleek new hotel in the city I call home. From the rooftop foot-bath lounge, the skyline recedes. Pine boughs soften the edges of the space, screening the surrounding towers just enough to create a sense of seclusion. With a glass of sparkling wine in hand, I lean back and watch the lights of Ginza flicker in the distance—a reminder that even in the heart of one of the world’s busiest, I slip off my shoes.

I slip off my shoes and ease my feet into the warm water, settling into a cushioned cabana tucked along a winding path of greenery. I’m on a rare staycation at Fufu Tokyo Ginza, a sleek new hotel in the city I call home. From the rooftop foot-bath lounge, the skyline recedes. Pine boughs soften the edges of the space, screening the surrounding towers just enough to create a sense of seclusion. With a glass of sparkling wine in hand, I lean back and watch the lights of Ginza flicker in the distance—a reminder that even in the heart of one of the world’s busiest districts, Tokyo has away of carving out stillness.

This isn’t the frenetic, neon-drenched Tokyo of popular imagination —the metropolis of 14 million, where the iconic Shibuya Crossing floods with pedestrians and the karaoke bars never seem to close. After living here for nearly two decades, I’ve found another side of the city: one of mossy shrine paths, expansive gardens and quiet daily rituals. These are the places I return to when I need to slow down.

Shrines and neighborhood shopping

Beyond the polished calm of my hotel in Ginza, I take the subway north to Nezu Shrine, one of my favorite local escapes. On this Saturday morning in mid-November, vendors set up tables for the monthly craft fair near the entrance. In the center of the complex, a mother adjusts her daughter’s kimono before snapping a photograph in front of the Karamon Gate, with its curved gable and elaborate carvings. It’s shichi-go-san season, when families bring children age 3, 5 and 7 to pray for their health and future. According to legend, the shrine dates back nearly two millennia and was relocated here in 1705—one of the few structures in Tokyo to survive fires, earthquakes and war. Along the western terrace of the complex, a corridor of vermillion gates, or torii, curves gently uphill, leading to a smaller shrine overlooking a carp-filled pond.

From Nezu Shrine, a 15-minute walk leads to Yanaka, one of Tokyo’s few remaining shitamachi (historic downtown) neighborhoods. The area’s wooden houses and small temples recall a side of Tokyo that’s largely vanished elsewhere, replaced by megacomplexes and towers. Yanaka Ginza, the main shopping street, slopes downhill past family-run shops selling senbei (a type of rice cracker), pickles and mochi rice cakes. I pick up a minced-beef croquette from the street food stand Niku no Suzuki before ducking into Midoriya, a craft shop established in 1908, to browse bamboo utensils, handwoven baskets and delicately painted bamboo bookmarks.

Neighborhood parks

Scattered throughout the metropolis are pockets of green—from leafy parks to unexpected rooftop terraces. One of Tokyo’s most beloved refuges sits a 10-minute walk from bustling Shinjuku Station, surrounded by glass towers and department stores. Shinjuku Gyoen began as a feudal lord’s estate during the Edo period (1603–1868) and opened to the public in 1949. As I step through the gate, traffic noise gives way to birdsong and the rustle of leaves.

The Japanese garden at the heart of the park features a large pond studded with islands and crossed by bridges. Elsewhere, I meander through a formal French garden with symmetrical plantings, an English-style landscape with wide lawns where visitors spread picnic blankets and laze in the grass, and a greenhouse filled with tropical orchids and palms.

Over the years, I’ve visited Shinjuku Gyoen in every season, and each brings its own rewards. The park is spectacular in spring, when more than 400 Somei Yoshino cherry trees bloom around the English garden. In autumn, maples blaze crimson around the pond and along Momijiyama—“maple mountain”—on the park’s eastern edge, the color lingering into early December. But even on an ordinary afternoon, there’s something to see: a gray heron standing motionless at the pond’s edge, birders angling for the snapshot.

Relaxing rituals

Quiet in Tokyo isn’t always found outdoors. At Kuro Mame, a 10-seat specialty coffee salon in Kamiyacho hidden behind the mammoth Azabudai Hills shopping complex, a single cup becomes an hour-long ritual. Inside, sand-colored walls curve around the room, while slender oval windows filter the afternoon light. A golden coffee pot—owner Emi Fukahori’s trophy from the 2018 World Brewers Cup championship—gleams on a recessed shelf.

There’s no menu. Fukahori chats briefly with each guest and selects the beans from a row of black canisters behind the stone counter to prepare a bespoke cup. When I visit, she pours a varietal from Finca Sophia in Panama, grown at 6,890 feet, into a black-and-white Arita-yaki porcelain cup. Only 77 pounds of this lot were produced; Fukahori says she bought the entire harvest. The brew is floral and nutty, displaying notes of jasmine and bergamot, before giving way to a long, honeyed finish.

From Kuro Mame, it’s a short subway ride on the Hibiya line back to the Ginza section of the city. Located on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, Sushi Kadowaki announces itself with the sound of trickling water from a stone basin. A softly lit corridor leads to an intimate room anchored by a curved cypress counter and a traditional wooden icebox. Behind the counter, chef Takatoshi Kadowaki slices fish into bite-size morsels, layering them over perfectly seasoned rice. Kadowaki chats easily with guests between courses. We joke about our mutual love of champagne, and he tells me he once dreamed of becoming a pizzaiolo before finding his way to sushi (and a stint in Philadelphia). As his team roasts sheets of nori (a type of dried seaweed) over an open flame, the scent drifts across the counter.

The omakase tasting menu varies with the seasons—in winter, perhaps buttery keiji salmon, a fish so rare that it’s called “phantom salmon;” in spring, hoshigarei (spotted halibut), prized for its silky texture and clean flavor. But Kadowaki’s signature is o-toro (fatty tuna) seared tableside with hot charcoal, served still sizzling.

A few blocks away, jazz streams from the speakers at Bar Landscape, a basement boîte with brick walls and a dark wood counter. Kazuma and Tamiko Matsuo, the award-winning husband-and-wife team behind the bar, are immaculately dressed in plaid blazers and black bow ties. Bar Landscape specializes in twists on classic cocktails, often made with seasonal Japanese fruits. I order a martini made with a variety of naturally sweet tomato; served in a frosted glass, it’s surprisingly refreshing, with a pleasant tang and a hint of basil oil.

Later, back at Fufu Tokyo Ginza, I sink into a deep hinoki (cypress) tub filled with mineral-rich water drawn from the hotel’s private well in Atami, on the Izu Peninsula in Shizuoka Prefecture. In Tokyo, soaking in natural onsen (hot spring) water is a relatively new luxury, made possible by modern engineering and logistics. For much of the city’s history, though, onsen bathing meant leaving town.

Hot springs

For generations, Tokyoites have traveled to Hakone for salubrious soaks. The area sits about 90 minutes by train southwest of the capital, tucked into steep, wooded slopes. The town originated as a rest stop on a grueling mountain passage of the historic Tokaido Road—a place where travelers paused to bathe and sleep before continuing on. Hakone’s hot springs have been documented since the Nara period (710–794), valued not as mere indulgence but as medicine to soothe fatigue and restore the body. Today, the landscape retains its timeless beauty: rugged mountainswith forests closing in around narrow valleys, Mount Fuji towering above Lake Ashi.

Hakone’s long association with rest and relaxation is perhaps best embodied at Gora Kadan, a 20-minute taxi ride from Hakone Yumoto Station. The 41-room ryokan (traditional Japanese inn) stands on the former site of a summer villa built for Prince Kan’in Kotohito in 1930. The original Western-style building now houses the property’s Japanese restaurant, Kaiseki Kadan, while guest rooms and communal spaces occupy sleek, modernist structures set into the hillside. The lobby is architecturally theatrical: A 390-foot pillar-lined corridor overlooking the meticulously manicured garden leads toward the baths, the recently renovated spa and a heated outdoor pool.

Check-in isn’t until 3 p.m., which leaves me time to explore. I spend the morning at the Pola Museum of Art, situated within a protected stretch of forest just a 10-minute drive from Gora Kadan, its architecture designed to recede into its natural surroundings.

I wander through galleries displaying selections from the museum’s collection of roughly 10,000 artworks, including masterpieces by Monet, Picasso and van Gogh alongside contemporary artists like Kohei Nawa and Shinji Ohmaki. Outside, a nature trail dotted with sculptures winds through woodland, skirting a wetland area where you might catch sight of a spotted woodpecker—or even a tanuki, the raccoon dog that symbolizes good fortune in Japanese folklore.

When I return to Gora Kadan, the pace slows. The other guests and I pad through quiet corridors draped in lightweight cotton robes called yukata, lingering in the garden and sipping tea in the lounge. The rooms are spare and tranquil with tatami (traditional woven flooring) underfoot, and in the alcove, a seasonal scroll above a single flower arrangement. My room has a cypress tub adjacent to a wide balcony overlooking the mountains; I sit for a while, watching as they fade to silhouette at dusk. At dinner, the kaiseki meal unfolds in a procession of small, precise courses served on ceramics whose shape and color reflect the season. Afterward, there’s nothing I need to do and nowhere else I would rather be.