People. Lots of people.
Weaving through Ueno Station is like walking through any other busy part of Tokyo on a weekday afternoon. Businessmen hurriedly stream to and from train cars; groups of students casually trek back home; confused tourists stand off to the side checking their phones for directions. I’m jostled on all sides as I make my way towards the exit. So far, Ueno is nothing out of the ordinary.
However, emerging from the station, I come across a bit of a different scene than I’m used to. Rather than entering out into the city, I find myself at a single street. On the other side is a single restaurant, fronted by trees. People are crowded underneath the trees, lazing about in the shade to escape the summer sun. The initial mass of people that followed me out divides between the only two directions available: left and right. I have no plans. Seeing a wider path to the right, I turn in that direction.
As I travel away from Ueno Station, the initial hecticness fades into a still-busy but serene scene. Initially I’m unsure where exactly I am, or what the purpose of the place I’m in is, but the further I walk it becomes more clear that this is a park. Tall, majestic trees line massive walkways. People of all ages – many Japanese – flood the entire walkway, navigating around each other casually. The moment I realize that it’s a park, and notice the high saturation of Japanese individuals, it becomes clear that this is a place for locals themselves to come. It’s not just a tourist spot, it’s a gathering place for Japanese people as well.
I come upon a large square, leading in all directions to a variety of places. A pole in the center indicates where everything is. In the corner is a large, Edo-fashioned Starbucks, congested with tourists. To the right, a long, straight path arrives at an imposing temple. Signs for museums also point that way. Forward, I can see the front of the zoo. Beyond its tall walls, a woman’s voice drones in a megaphone.
In spite of the largeness of the surrounding buildings, it’s the trees that call the most attention. They stand front and center, majestic sentinels. Every building exists in the background of these looming flora, bits of walls and posters peeking between the foliage and trunks. The trees hug the sky, separating the park from the bustle of the city.
To the left, the path gets narrower and the trees get thicker. I go that way. As the museums and temples drift away and nature takes over, the tourists thin out. Instead, I see more locals. They sit quietly, walk slowly, play around, and simply exist. Elderly Japanese individuals rest on the stone walls that line the path, sitting in the shade and talking among themselves. Groups of young people – students, friends, couples – frolic about taking pictures with flowers and laughing. A young man sits advertising his YouTube channel. Families stroll.
The people here walk slowly. They’re not in a hurry to be anywhere or do anything. This is a place where trees and gardens provide a shelter against the city environment, a place where the ringing of trains and bustling of city streets falls away into the twittering of birds and rustling of wind in leaves. I realize I’m speeding past everybody. I take a breath. I slow down.
I keep walking until I spot a small stairway cutting through the bushes down the hillside. It’s lined with short red torii. Torii are meant to be gateways between the physical and spiritual world, and walking through these I feel the truth of that more than ever before. It’s like entering into an entirely different world. All signs of the city and crowds disappear behind the red gates. Stillness takes over. Emerging on the other side of the gates, I find myself in a place that feels stuck in time. White paper lanterns covered in black kanji hang from the eaves of a small wooden shrine. A chōzuya, a station of water with wooden ladles at which to purify oneself, stands quietly in the corner.
There is only one other person here. She’s young – maybe thirty, tops – and is quietly purifying herself at the chōzuya. She doesn’t notice me, or if she does she doesn’t pay attention. Proceeding to the front of the shrine, she throws in a coin, bows twice, claps twice, and prays. When she is done, she pulls a long rope that rings a bell hanging from the ceiling. From this interaction, I feel that Ueno Park is more than just a getaway from the city for the locals; it’s also a spiritual place. From the quiet, isolated shrines stacked along the hill to the open roads where individuals sit in the shade of the peaceful trees, Ueno Park is a place to slow down, be in the moment, and focus on things outside the hecticness of daily Tokyo life. It’s a place people go to find seclusion and peace, a place where they can think and be with themselves and each other without the distractions of the city.
I proceed down more stairways, through more shrines, until I eventually find myself at the bottom of the hill back on open roads. Although the trees have disappered and the roads have opened up, I’m still not in the city. Instead, I’ve discovered Shinobazu Pond, a vast expanse of koi and water lilies. The city makes an appearance in the background, feeling far away behind the trees and, in front of the trees, the pond. Tourists begin to reemerge here, where they had disappeared in the small shrines. In the middle of the pond, the Benten-dou temple stands, and tourists gather along the narrow wooden bridge leading out to it. Bright-colored vendors sell food along the edges of the pond.
As I walk through the temple and out the other side, I find myself on a walkway lined with willows that winds through the pond. Young individuals enjoying rented canoes and swan boats float on the open waters on one side of the path. Children on bikes whip haphazardly through the crowds. Three come right at me, almost hitting me. The last bows her head and says in hurried, accented English “sorry” before speeding past. As the noise and energy picks back up, I feel myself gradually arriving back onto the city streets. Sure enough, as I reach the end of the winding pathway three minutes later, I find myself standing at a crosswalk surrounded by tall buildings and bright advertisements. The park is left behind me. I’m back in the chaos of Tokyo's city.
Comments