From Ōtsuka to Ikebukuro: Shōwa Vibes, Streetcars, and the Sleazier Side of Town

Unusual Views Along the Northwestern Yamanote

My quest to find some of Tokyo’s half-hidden treasures and overlooked spots takes me to Ōtsuka Station. This plain-looking area apparently has little to offer besides Ōtsuka Golf Plaza, one of the very few driving ranges to be found in central Tokyo (another one is near Komagome Station). These places are usually located in suburban wastelands near rice paddies and shopping malls, but this particular example is sandwiched between a school, a hotel, and a mammoth condo. Some of the hotel guests have the pleasure of watching a storm of golf balls being fired toward them, only a green net stopping them from smashing their windows.

The Yamanote Line’s 30 stations. (© Pixta)

Getting off at the Yamanote station, one cannot help but notice the colorful streetcars. Ōtsuka, indeed, is where the Yamanote loop intersects the city’s only surviving tram line—the Arakawa Line. (Some would say that Tokyo has two streetcars, the other one being the Setagaya Line. I don’t count this light rail hybrid a true “streetcar” because it never joins car traffic, running from start to end on a dedicated right-of-way.) Tokyo used to have an extensive streetcar system. Then some bureaucrat decided they were old-fashioned and a nuisance before proceeding to dismantle the whole network, one line after another.

Tokyo’s trams often wind their way through old neighborhoods. (© Gianni Simone)

The first big find of the day is just in front of the station. We tend to associate the shitamachi (blue-collar downtown) with Ueno and other eastern districts, but here, in Minami-Ōtsuka, lies a busy neighborhood with its own pocket shōtengai (commercial district). More than a typical shopping street, Sun Mall is a small, compact labyrinth of narrow alleys and the obligatory local shrine, Tenso Jinja, whose two venerable trees, said to be more than 500 years old, tenaciously hang on despite the pollution and urban congestion.

Sun Mall is a typical shopping district near Ōtsuka Station. (© Gianni Simone)

Tastes of Older Times

Although I’m supposed to stay faithful to the Yamanote Line, the pull of the streetcars is too strong to resist, so I temporarily betray the circular railway and venture south following the tram tracks. The single cars of the Arakawa Line progress in a dignified amble, grazing house fronts and shop signs, thus offering the kind of excitement that other train lines – including the Yamanote – can’t provide. Here’s a different city with toy-like trams, weathered wooden walls, potted plants, and lazy cats. This informal, almost intimate contact between the train and the city is one part of the thrill of riding the streetcar.

After crossing Kasuga-dōri, I turn left in search of traces of the past. Until the mid-1950s, this street was surrounded by rice fields, and still in the mid-1970s, there was a wholesale butcher, another shop selling leather goods, and many small lumber dealers. They are all gone, but the alleys behind the row of new buildings hide a secret—another one of those temporal black holes where time has almost stopped.

The more I push ahead into the neighborhood’s bowels, the more I discover improbable remnants of the Shōwa era (1926–89). Many of the houses are barely standing, and they all show signs of old age. Beyond tacky would-be neoclassical façades and ancient two-story condos, I unveil narrow passages filled with flowerpots, wild bushes, and little mounds of trash, fascinating in their own way.

The Shōwa-era Tokyo townscape can be found only a short walk from Ōtsuka Station. (© Gianni Simone)

In an essay written for Nippon.com, the well-respected photographer Ōnishi Naruaki tells about his fascination for garbage:

Back when I first became interested in photography and scrabbled together the money to buy a camera, the first thing I photographed with my proud new acquisition was a rubbish dump. I felt strangely invigorated as I took pictures of the piles of flotsam and jetsam that had wound up there: detached mannequin heads, futons leaking their stuffing, scraps of leftover lunches, and faded glossy magazines with discolored images of naked models. This was the final resting place of the detritus of a consumer society. Something about it stimulated my imagination.

I push on, and almost in a trance, try every nook and cranny, every steep incline, up and down, up and down, careful not to stumble on the worn-out stone steps. Once again, the seemingly endless flights of stairs show how Tokyo, far from being flat, is a multilevel city full of slopes and small hills. I’m almost tempted to see where they lead, but I can’t stray too far from my route. It’s time to return to the Yamanote Line and modern Tokyo.

The Changing—and Unchanging—Faces of Ikebukuro

From the crumbling old houses near the streetcar line’s Mukōhara Station to the elevated expressway that forms the border of central Ikebukuro, it only takes a leisurely 10-minute walk. Yet, once again, the change in scenery and mood is as abrupt as it is surprising, even for someone who is used to Tokyo’s topographic quirks.

A lot has changed in the districts east of Ikebukuro station. The site of the brand-new Ike Sunpark, for instance, was originally the Tokyo branch of the government mint. For many years, the coin-making factory was the object of antipollution and antinoise campaigns. Then, in 1984, the local neighborhood association collected more than 100,000 signatures and petitioned the minister of finance to put the area to better use. Finally, in 2016, the mint was moved to Saitama Prefecture. The park, which opened four years later, is also designated as a temporary evacuation area in case of disasters.

Ike Sunpark has replaced the old government mint. (© Gianni Simone)

A little farther away, the Sunshine 60 Building stands where a jail was located. Sugamo Prison specialized in political prisoners and after the war housed many war criminals. One would think that jails would be found in remote areas, far from society and people. However, Sugamo Prison was located relatively close to houses, a railroad line, a major road, and a bus route. The inmates could likely see or at least hear buses and trains passing by. Maybe their closeness to everyday life and an unattainable freedom was part of the punishment.

For better or for worse, the opening of the Sunshine City complex in 1978 was a major catalyst for modern urban development. Up until then, skyscrapers were built with a specific purpose in mind, such as the Kasumigaseki Building, which in 1968 became the first modern office high-rise in Japan. Nowadays, on the other hand, urban development centers on large complexes combining office space, apartments, entertainment, and dining, and Sunshine City was the pioneer of this trend.

This said, though the skyscraper features a hotel, an aquarium, amusement parks, a planetarium, and a theater, and has become a temple to consumerism, it has done little to change Ikebukuro’s dubious character and problematic past, as confirmed by the exquisitely downtrodden park at its base, mostly populated by salarymen on their smoke breaks and a few homeless-looking guys.

In The Tao of Travel, Paul Theroux declares: “Apart from some obvious hellholes—Mogadishu, Baghdad, Kabul—every city has its high-risk neighborhoods. It is in the nature of a city to be alienating, the hunting ground of opportunists, rip-off artists, and muggers.” For many years, Ikebukuro held this role, and even today, some people can’t help smirking whenever they talk about it. It could be its perceived grittier, sleazier character; or maybe the fact that the district attracts many people from the uncool prefectures north of Tokyo.

More recently, however, Ikebukuro has experienced a renaissance of sorts, coming to be associated with otaku culture and otome (female fans of manga and anime) in particular. Otome Road, for instance, may at first sight look like an unassuming 200-meter-long stretch between Sunshine City and the central district around the station, but some of the most popular otaku shops and cafes can be found along or near this street.

Ikebukuro may at long last have landed on the Cool Tokyo map, but I’m rather nostalgic for the “good old days.” Therefore, before catching a train home, I take refuge in the backstreets near the station where the district’s infamous sleazy quarters are still alive and kicking. Thankfully, Shin-Bungeiza, a movie theater that specializes in Japanese classics and reruns, is still there, surrounded by love hotels and nude theaters and overlooked by the tall tower of the incinerator plant, the area’s new landmark.

Wedged between the Metropolitan Expressway and the bifurcating rail tracks, this incinerator plant is one of the Ikebukuro skyline’s newer landmarks. (© Gianni Simone)

The pervasive smell of sewer mixed with a whiff of ramen broth coming out of the many cheap diners make me wonder that Ikebukuro may even claim the title of smelliest stop on the Yamanote Line.

(Originally written in English. Banner photo: The flagship store of the Seibu-Parco empire forms the eastern facade of Ikebukuro Station. © Gianni Simone.)