This abode of mine Adjoins a pine grove, Sitting on the blue sea. And from its humble eaves Commands a view of soaring Fuji.
—A Samurai's Waka (A.D. 1460)
On wintry mornings, when the sun burns off the pearl and filthy mist, Fuji still soars beyond the freeway. And every week a dozen tank cars rumble through the pine grove of the Imperial Palace, hosing dust and soot from the drooping needles. The harbor itself, and the once limpid Sumida River where warrior-poets repaired, are now thick with wastes—both human and industrial. Yet there is scarcely a resident of Tokyo who could not compose a stately, sympathetic waka in the shade of his humble eaves.
Tokyo, the world's largest and ugliest city, is at the same time its most dynamic. Founded in the 15th century by a poetically minded samurai named Do-kan Ota, it wore the name of Edo during its early, bucolic years. Then the populace found its major thrill in watching whales cavort through the clear, blue waters of the bay. But by 1720 Tokyo had attained a population of a million—making it the largest city in the pre-Industrial Revolution world, and whale-watching gave way to more active pursuits. With the Meiji Restoration in 1868, Tokyo came into its own. It assumed the status of seat of government, as well as its new name, which means simply Eastern Capital. It has dwelt for nearly two decades beneath a cloud of dust that hid its expansion—a trebling growth that took the city's 3,500,000 population at war's end to a current 10.6 million. In the process Japan became the world's fifth largest and Asia's only industrial power. Five years ago, when Tokyo won the bid to host the XVIII Olympiad, the furor of that growth redoubled. And next month, when the Games open, Tokyo will clearly show that the sound and fury of its past signify something.
"All for the Olympics." Japan has spent nearly $2 billion to refurbish Tokyo for the Olympic Games. Last week, as the finishing touches were applied, the dust and din of the past three years began to lift, revealing shiny new buildings, glistening overhead superhighways and a network of fine, wide roads that is already speeding up traffic considerably. Four superexpressways slash like sword scars through 62 miles of the once impenetrable capital, while 25 miles of new subway bore beneath the random, rickety scab of slums, pachinko parlors and noodle shops that is home to most of the city's population.
Nearly 10,000 buildings, ranging from four to seven stories in height, have mushroomed near the city's center. And many more have come down, for "transitory" is Tokyo's middle name. Even Frank Lloyd Wright's earthquake-proof Imperial Hotel, built in 1922, is threatened with replacement by a highrise, moneymaking skyscraper. But most of the buildings razed have been scabrous shanties along the narrow, unnamed streets trod by geta-ed feet which comprise most of Tokyo's byways. The new roads—$470 million worth of them—will ease the burden of Tokyo's cab drivers, who have a hard time finding their way around and usually require written directions (in Japanese) to reach a destination. The reek of setting cement permeates Tokyo like a geisha's scent, and roadside cafes are mounted with plastic shields to ward off the dust stirred up by building.