A visitor at Meiji Shrine in the Shibuya district of Tokyo in July 2025. Photo / Malin Fezehai, The New York Times
This city, one of the most populous in the world, has mastered the art of compression.
During rush hour, white-gloved oshiya, or pushers, squeeze commuters into packed subway carriages.
Hotel rooms are sometimes barely larger than the bed inside them.
Major intersections teem with pedestrians, traffic and flashing billboards.
As a photographer and journalist, I was familiar with Tokyo’s density but wanted to explore its quieter side.
I set out to chronicle the peaceful gardens, cafes, atriums and shrines where people don’t just escape the noise; they find pockets of community, solitude, and refuge.
Hitoshi Abe, a Japanese architect and professor at UCLA, explained that Japanese design excels at creating spaces that evoke tranquillity.
“A little garden the size of a tatami mat can feel like a miniature of nature,” he said.
“Japanese design creates small environments that connect you to something larger.
“A bonsai mimics a full tree. A tearoom with one flower and the sound of boiling water can recall the feeling of being deep in nature.”
This sensibility is rooted in the concept of shichu no sankyo – dwelling in the mountain inside the city – a design philosophy that brings the essence of nature into even the most urbanised spaces.
Researchers have established that spending time in nature has health benefits and that quiet, minimalist environments can reduce stress.
The tendency to prioritise stillness and connection to nature “is one of the core aspects of Japanese design”, Abe said.
Tokyo is home to thousands of Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples, many of which date back centuries, serving both spiritual and ecological purposes.
They can be vast in size, like the 68ha Meiji Shrine and its surrounding forest, or compact hideaways – small courtyards shaded by ancient trees, tucked between buildings.
When Kenji Kureyama, an artist and yoga teacher, feels the need to unwind, he goes to Setagaya Hachiman, a well-known shrine in the Setagaya area of Tokyo.
Green areas in the city feel like small reprieves, he explained, and offer cooler air.
“It’s like a desert where you find these oases,” he said.
Kureyama, 40, notes that more developments now try to incorporate greenery. “It’s about making the city, and our wellbeing, coexist with nature,” Kureyama said.
One example is KITTE Garden, a rooftop park above a shopping complex. Lawns and views of Tokyo Station, a major railway terminal, invite visitors to pause and reconnect with nature.
Public gardens and museums’ courtyards scattered across the city can also offer a break from the crowded streets.
The Nezu Museum, in Tokyo’s vibrant Aoyama district, is renowned for its collection of traditional Japanese and East Asian art, its modern architecture designed by Kengo Kuma and a serene garden featuring bamboo-lined pathways and teahouses.
The museum’s entrance hall is a popular escape, and its garden feels worlds away from the city.
Once a quiet place where locals came to appreciate the art, the Nezu Museum has become a popular tourist attraction, said Junko Tokoro, who works in communications at the museum.
Staff members encourage visitors to maintain a peaceful atmosphere by refraining from taking pictures inside the gallery and keeping their voices low.
In some venues – bookstores, reading rooms, small listening bars – silence is favoured.
At the book cafe R-za Dokushokan, near a busy shopping street, silence is a commodity hidden on a second floor.
To find it, customers climb a narrow stairwell to reach an arrow-shaped sign that reads: “This is a place to spend time quietly. Talking is not allowed.”
The owner, Taiki Watanabe, 55, opened the cafe in 2008. He said he wanted people to have a moment to have a conversation with themselves.
“Such conversations are born naturally in moments of stillness,” Watanabe said.
The place is filled with old furniture, books and lush plants, and the only sounds are ambient.
“These organic elements give visitors the feeling of being deep in a forest, far removed from the real world,” Watanabe said.
Members of the coworking space and gallery Midori.so, in the Nakameguro district, may not experience the quiet of the forest, but their office feels like it’s encased inside of one, as the building is enveloped in thick ivy.
The building’s previous owner, Tomomochi Suga, lived there with his mother and became reclusive after she died. Ivy began to creep up the building, and he let it take over.
When one of Midori.so’s founding members, Tomoji Oya, 42, and his colleagues asked to lease it, they promised to create community and bring in young, creative people.
The collective now includes Japanese and international members, each of whom was interviewed before joining.
“Good vibes only,” Oya said, smiling.
For him, the space feels like a chinju no mori – the sacred grove traditionally surrounding a Shinto shrine. The grove was a place where outsiders or wanderers could find refuge.
Tokyo’s crowded streets and stations can be overwhelming at times.
Yet, Abe, the architect and professor, believes the city’s genius lies in its balance – blending tradition with modern life and connecting people to something larger.
“It shows how people can live peacefully even in the most intense environments,” he said.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
Written by: Malin Fezehai
Photographs by: Malin Fezehai
©2025 THE NEW YORK TIMES