My initial impression of Yoyogi Park was formed from brief glimpses of treetops by its bordering wall and nothing more; for most of the journey to Little Nap, my destination at the time, I stared fixedly ahead, with the purposeful determination that comes with bad weather. I spied the shop's facade on a side street lined with bare trees, just off one of the entrances to the park. Sheathing my sodden umbrella, I ordered a filter coffee and claimed a stool by the window. In my notebook I compared the dark swaying trees outside to alien skeletons and drew a childish picture of a wolf. I need not have bothered; the coffee shop, cosy and thoughfully designed, required no such intervention to justify the visit.
On my second trip the sky was clear and calm, and any chilliness was offset by persistent sunlight. I passed through the park's main gates with my sagging backpack and quickly discovered I was in no hurry to be anywhere else. Just the right amount of people had been scattered over the park for it to feel lively without being inhibitively crowded. People walking small, jacketed dogs. People sitting alone at communal tables, flipping through textbooks. People holding hands and tracing aimless paths. I remember them all in black or grey or muted colour. I wandered under a dark, vertebrae-like canopy, over dirt and fallen leaves and shadows. Down the central strip I heard the saints marching and fumbling. Ducks drifted under a bridge. Beyond the lake, a vast field dotted with picnickers. I sat on the concrete border of a pond and watched nearby branches turn black with murder.
The famous shrine next door could not match Yoyogi's deft way with a crowd. Here, itinerary whores stream down the wide gravel path and compete to take identical photos at each feature. Despite the considerable efforts of its architects, serenity is stamped out. I flitted through and finished my day elsewhere.