I arrived at Tsukiji as Tokyo was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. While some cities build monuments to gods or kings, the Japanese built this cathedral to seafood. By 2008, this market was already a living museum—a place that would, in just ten years, exist only in photographs and memory.
The old man with his purple cup stands like a sentinel at the edge of time. He doesn’t pose for my camera; he probably doesn’t even notice it. His gaze drifts somewhere beyond the present moment, perhaps to the thousands of identical dawns he’s witnessed in this same spot. The weathered hands that hold his cup have likely prepared more fish than most people will eat in a lifetime. What secrets of the sea does he know? What changes has he witnessed as Tokyo transformed around him while his daily ritual remained constant? In his profile, I see not just a man but an entire vanishing world.
The market awakens long before most of Tokyo stirs. By 3 AM, trucks have already delivered their precious cargo from ports across Japan. At the entrance, weathered wooden signs and lanterns hang above narrow passageways, marking the threshold between ordinary Tokyo and this parallel universe of commerce. The alleyways seem to inhale as the first vendors arrive, exhaling steam from early morning tea and broth. Follow the most purposeful walkers—they know where they’re going—and listen for the first calls between old friends who see each other only in these blue hours before dawn.