The City That Never Stops: Welcome to Tokyo

Every morning, just as the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon and paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, a young girl named Yuki opens her eyes. Her alarm clock hasn't even gone off yet—she simply knows, in that magical way children do, that it's time to wake up. The small clock on her wooden bedside table shows 6:30, and outside her window, Tokyo is already beginning its daily dance of movement and energy.

Yuki stretches her arms high above her head, her purple pajamas rustling softly as she yawns. She lives in a cozy little apartment on the sixth floor of a building that looks, from the ground, almost like a stack of colorful boxes. Each "box" is someone's home, with their own stories, their own dreams, and their own mornings just like this one. Yuki's apartment isn't large—she shares a small bedroom with her younger brother Kenji, and the kitchen is so tiny that her mother sometimes has to cook with the bathroom door open so someone can pass by—but to Yuki, it is perfect. It is home.

From her window, Yuki can see an ocean of buildings stretching all the way to where the sky meets the earth. There are tall towers covered in glass that sparkle like giant diamonds when the sun hits them just right. There are older wooden houses with red tile roofs, their small gardens filled with carefully trimmed bushes and colorful flowers. There are buildings covered in bright signs with glowing letters, buildings with tiny windows like eyes squinting in the morning light, and buildings so tall that their tops disappear into the clouds. It's like someone took every kind of building in the world and arranged them all in one enormous neighborhood, and then made thousands of copies of that neighborhood in every direction.

This is Tokyo, and it is one of the most amazing places on our entire planet.

But what exactly is Tokyo? If you were to look at a map of Japan—that long, thin island country shaped a bit like a dragon or perhaps a noodle curling through the ocean—you would see Tokyo sitting almost right in the middle of the eastern side. It clings to the edge of the largest island, Honshu, and faces the vast Pacific Ocean. Tokyo sits on a kind of bowl-shaped piece of land, surrounded by hills and mountains on one side and opening up to a beautiful bay on the other. That bay, called Tokyo Bay, reaches out into the ocean like a welcoming hand, and it's this geography that helped shape Tokyo into what it is today.

Now, here's something that might surprise you: more than 14 million people live in Tokyo. That's more people than live in entire countries! Can you imagine that? There are many countries around the world with fewer people than the city of Tokyo. The whole country of Australia, with its vast deserts and giant cities, has only about 26 million people—so Tokyo alone is more than half as populous as all of Australia. Countries like Norway, Ireland, and New Zealand all have populations smaller than Tokyo. It's as if Tokyo swallowed up a country's worth of people and said, "Yes, all of you can live here with me."

Yuki slides out of bed and pads barefoot across the cool wooden floor to her window. She presses her hands against the glass and looks out at the city waking up below. She can see the tiny ant-sized people walking on the streets far below, rushing to catch buses and trains, heading to work and school, beginning their day just as she is beginning hers. The morning sun catches on the metal tracks of the train lines—that's the railway system, the amazing web of train lines that connect every corner of this massive city. From up here, the trains look like silver rivers flowing through the concrete landscape.

Yuki's favorite thing to do in the morning is to watch the trains. She can see three different train lines from her window: the bright blue line that carries people north, the green line that curves around the bay, and the red and white train that zooms along an elevated track, making a screeching sound as it rounds a corner. Each train is packed with people, so many people that sometimes they have to wait for the next one because there's no room to squeeze in one more person. But they always get where they need to go, thanks to the clever system that keeps all those trains running on time.

"Yuki! Breakfast is ready!" calls her mother's voice from the kitchen. The smell of rice, grilled fish, and miso soup drifts through the small apartment, making Yuki's stomach rumble. She takes one last look at the city outside her window, at the buildings that seem to go on forever, at the tiny people and their tiny trains, and smiles. She has lived here all her life, but every morning still feels like the first time she's seeing it all.

Yuki hurries to the bathroom first—she shares it with her whole family, so everyone has to take turns. She splashes water on her face, brushes her teeth (counting carefully to make sure she brushes for the full two minutes like her dentist told her), and combs her dark hair into two neat pigtails. Then she changes into her school uniform: a white shirt, a dark blue skirt, a bright red jacket with her school's mascot embroidered on the pocket, and a yellow cap that she wears on the walk to school. She looks at herself in the small mirror on the back of the bathroom door and nods with satisfaction. Perfect.

At the small dining table, Yuki's family is already gathered. Her mother is pouring hot green tea into small cups, her father is reading the newspaper on his phone (though he looks up to smile at Yuki), and her brother Kenji is making a mess with his rice, picking up individual grains with his chopsticks one at a time just to see if he can. Kenji is only five years old, so he's still learning how to use chopsticks properly. Their grandmother, who they call Obaachan, sits at the head of the table, her hands wrapped around her warm tea cup.

"Good morning, Yuki-chan," says Obaachan, her face crinkling into a warm smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, Obaachan," Yuki replies, sliding into her seat and folding her legs under her. "I dreamed about trains again."

"Ah, trains," says her father, finally putting down his phone. "That's all you ever dream about. You're going to grow up and become a train driver, aren't you?"

"Maybe," says Yuki, grinning. "Or maybe I'll design new train lines for the city!"

Her mother sets a bowl of rice in front of her, along with a small plate of grilled fish and some pickled vegetables. "Eat well," she says. "You have a long day ahead of you."

Yuki picks up her chopsticks and begins to eat. As she does, she looks around the small dining room. The apartment isn't fancy—they don't have a large house with a big backyard like some of her friends in other countries might have—but it's filled with love and warmth. The walls are covered with family photos: Yuki as a baby, Yuki learning to walk, Yuki on her first day of school. There are drawings that Yuki and Kenji made taped to the refrigerator. There's a small altar in the corner with a photo of Yuki's grandfather—her father's father—who passed away before Yuki was born.

Speaking of grandfathers, there's another grandfather Yuki is very close to. He lives in a different part of Tokyo, in a neighborhood called Asakusa, which is one of the oldest parts of the city. Every Sunday, Yuki's family visits him for lunch, and it's during these visits that Yuki learned most of what she knows about Tokyo's history. Her grandfather, whom she calls Jiichan, has stories about Tokyo that could fill a thousand books.

After breakfast, Yuki kisses her mother and father goodbye, gives Kenji a playful flick on the forehead (which makes him stick out his tongue at her), and heads out the door. She takes the elevator down to the ground floor—something she still thinks is exciting, even though she's done it thousands of times—and steps out into the bustling street.

The morning in Tokyo is always busy, always full of movement. People in suits hurry past wit