They say Jimbōchō was just voted the world’s coolest neighborhood by Time Out Travel. I believe it. Walk around a bit and you understand—it isn’t about being trendy in the way Shibuya or Harajuku are.
One of many bookshops lining the streets
Jimbōchō is books. Endless books. Secondhand shops stacked floor to ceiling with everything from Meiji-era magazines to English paperbacks.
“Magic,” a double Ristretto with steamed milk. Walkabout Coffee.
It’s not only the books—it’s the cafés. Coffee served with a kind of reverence. This is where Tokyo comes to read, to think, to write. A neighborhood of intellectual quiet.
Jimbōchō almost feels like it belongs to another Tokyo—the one that pauses, that listens, rather than the neon rush.
Sakura-dori
And maybe that’s why it feels so cool. Not because it’s new, but because it refuses to be new. Coolness here is not performance—it’s presence. Being there on a rainy day just added to its vibe.
Saboru Café. 1955, retro café, but unfortunately, packed, so I couldn’t get in.
A man making an early morning purchase at a local shop, post-revolution.
I’m sitting in Kathmandu, Nepal, where I’ve spent the last three months tangled up in bureaucracy and history—organizing my work visa for Japan while watching a government fall and a revolution unfold. My original flight out with Cathay Pacific was cancelled in the upheaval, and now I’m set to board Air India instead. I’m not as confident about that, but maybe everything does happen for a reason.
It’s hard to sit still. I’m on pins and needles. Because this isn’t just another trip, it’s a return. In 2003, Tokyo was my first leap into living abroad. I landed in Ebisu, and in those sleepless nights I wandered the city lit like a dreamscape in neon, often at 4 a.m., with Jarren, a newfound lost soul. That moment in time was alive with possibility. Since then, I’ve lived in Kobe and Okinawa, and in over 40 other countries, and visited Tokyo a few times. But I haven’t lived there in 22 years.
Now I’m going back—not just to the city, but to teaching EFL again. To walk Tokyo’s streets knowing I once began there and now I’m circling back, older, sharper, carrying every country and classroom in between—it’s going to be mind-blowing.
From Kathmandu’s chaos to Tokyo’s neon, the return feels like destiny looping back on itself.
I first read “The Alchemist” before my first journey to Tokyo all those years ago and out of nowhere, it jumped out at me here in Kathmandu. Again, ‘Maktub.’
And maybe it’s simply ‘maktub,’ as Coelho wrote in The Alchemist—“it is written.” That first leap into Tokyo in 2003, the years spent in Kobe and Okinawa, and everywhere else, the detour through Kathmandu in the middle of a revolution, even a cancelled flight—each piece feels like it was always leading me back. Not chance, not coincidence, but a return that was already written into my story long before I could see the shape of it.
There’s something uniquely comforting about a canned coffee for me. My appreciation for it began back in Japan in 2003, where I first encountered the iconic hot and cold cans from Boss, Georgia, and Fire. Each sip of coffee in a can now takes me back to either the chaotic motion of Tokyo or the early, still mornings of Kobe. Or, to a friend and our road trip in Moldova a lifetime ago. I went on a road trip through Moldova with one of my best friends, who is Ukrainian. We stopped at a gas station on our way to Transnistria and I remember our mutual giddiness when we came upon a couple of canned coffees in the fridge. It’s the simple things in life. Yes, I do get excited, really excited, for things in life which may seem small and valueless to others, but are priceless to me. We both excitedly started telling each other our “canned coffee origin stories.” For me, today, I’m struck at how a simple coffee in a can is able to transport me across the world and back in time. All the while sitting on a balcony under the sun in Florida in 2024. I mean, I can see us laughing in the gas station. I can see myself stopping at one of the many vending machines around Ebisu or at the one I would stop at when I was living and working in Kobe. It feels as though I am reliving those moments right now. In this chair. Is this maybe why there’s no going back? That there’s no reason to go back to a place? Instead, make the memories that will stay with you forever. If you can recall a memory so vividly, why go back?
Do you have a favorite nostalgic drink that brings back memories? Or do you have thoughts on staying in the present and not revisiting the past? Share your thoughts and stories below! ☕️💭
My entire life. Has been amazing. I sit here with absolutely nothing though, at the moment, but flashbacks. Of this life. Of Tokyo 2003, in particular. The emotion was physical. Felt the meaning of it within. A tightening. Did you know how great it was, then? How deep their smiles were? How open their hearts were? – excerpt from my future book
Graffiti is existential ~ and nostalgic ~ and can hit you in your most vulnerable spots:
Taken on a recent train trip from NYC to WPK, FL 1may2024 – Taken through a window while the train was movingLower East Side, NYC in March 2024Downtown Social, NYC, March 2024NYC, March 2024
