The other side of Tokyo

Forest at the Meiji-Jingu shrine, Tokyo. Photo by Yasuifumi Nishi.

Tokyo. Everything you've seen in the New Zealand media is there: crowded but super-efficient trains; people wearing masks against bird flu; gaggles of youths in wacky Gothic-Lolita-style outfits in Harajuku; whole districts of love hotels with prices posted outside for a "stay" or "rest"; hostess bars with photographs of their staff outside; and so on. But there's so much more to it.

For five days last September, I stayed with an expat Dunedin friend in his guesthouse in the suburbs - a homely area of trees full of singing crickets, little market gardens and kombini (convenience stores) which are everywhere in Tokyo, well-stocked with onigiri rice balls and even oden (stuffed deep-fried tofu) floating in broth on the counters.

Trees and walls are placed cleverly to give privacy to the little houses and apartments.

Drinks vending machines are also everywhere, even in quiet suburban neighbourhoods, to ease the pleasant tropical heat, and apparently with hot drinks to warm up the winters.

And yes, I tried Pocari Sweat, and I liked it - it turned out to be a mildly lemony sports drink.

I drank a lot of Sweat on the day we took a bush walk in the beautiful rolling wooded hills at the end of the local train line.

The bush looked a lot like Dunedin's cloud forests, with the addition of stone Buddha statues, little puce-coloured frogs, and allegedly, giant flying squirrels, although we didn't see any.

At the train station on the way home, we happened upon a matsuri festival parade celebrating the end of the summer heat.

The whole town seemed to be out watching, with kids in pyjamas looking excited but bemused.

Blokes were wandering about in team uniforms of two-toed white boxing sneakers, loincloths, happi coats with bright sashes round their derrieres, scarves and headbands, drinking the tasty Japanese beer.

Tokyo's people seemed wonderfully kind.

When I went into a shop to ask for directions in my ludicrously bad Japanese, someone would spend several minutes asking around the entire staff, then draw me a map, explain it (often in English), take me outside to point the way, and maybe even follow me down the street to give better directions! Hand-drawn maps are an everyday part of life in Tokyo, because most streets are curly, un-named, un-numbered and un-mapped.

Thanks to some prior research at the Dunedin Public Library, I not only knew where to find the best local bush walks, but could explore some of Tokyo's city heritage.

I blissed out in the peace of the cedar forest of the Meiji-Jingu shrine; I saw the old bridges over the rivers; I explored the washi shops where gentlemanly staff showed me marble seals and brilliantly-coloured traditional Japanese paper; and roamed the peaceful old-fashioned neighbourhood of Yanaka, full of cats, bicycles and traditional sweet shops.

Some things made me smile on the roads.

Two or three men in white gloves would direct even pedestrian traffic around any sort of construction works, no matter how small the job or how quiet the suburban street.

And neighbourhoods were distinguished not only by arches welcoming one to certain streets, but also by special local motifs on the drain covers.

It was good to see that even in the super-metropolis, people retained a sort of small-town sense of place.

• Melissa Bryant lives in Kew.