Tokyo Tower

Stand at the base and tilt your head back. The steel climbs above you in a tight web of orange and white beams. Each one is bolted and braced against the next. On a clear afternoon the paint almost glows against the sky. Listen for a moment: traffic hums along the avenues, a crow calls from the trees of Shiba Park, and somewhere nearby a temple bell may ring. This is Tokyo Tower, and it has watched over this city for more than six decades.

The tower was completed in 1958. That date matters. Only thirteen years earlier, much of Tokyo had burned in the air raids of the Second World War. By the late 1950s, Japan was rebuilding fast, and television was arriving in ordinary homes. The city needed one tall mast that could carry broadcast signals across the whole Kanto Plain, the wide flat region around Tokyo. Several stations shared that need, so they shared one tower.

The outline will feel familiar. Many people compare it to the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and the resemblance is real. The four splayed legs, the tapering lattice, the observation levels part of the way up... all of it echoes that earlier iron tower. But the structure here was designed by Tachu Naito, a Japanese engineer known for his work on buildings that resist earthquakes. In a country that shakes as often as Japan does, that experience shaped every joint above you.

The tower rises 333 metres. When it opened, it stood slightly taller than its Parisian cousin. It is also built from steel rather than wrought iron, and that is where the first surprise comes in. According to widely repeated accounts, part of the steel came from scrapped American tanks. They had been damaged in the Korean War in the early 1950s and were sold for salvage. A machine of war was melted down and turned into a tower for television. Many visitors walk past without ever hearing that story.

Now look at the colours again. The orange and white bands are not just decoration. Aviation safety rules require tall structures to be clearly visible to pilots. That is why the tower wears this striped coat. The shade is often called international orange. Keeping it fresh is a major task. The tower is repainted by hand every few years. Workers climb the lattice with brushes, high above the city, in a job that has changed surprisingly little since the beginning.

For decades, this was the main broadcast tower for Tokyo. Then, in 2012, Tokyo Skytree opened across the city in Sumida. It is far taller, and it took over most digital television broadcasting. Some people expected the older tower to fade into the background. Instead, it found a second life. It still carries some radio and backup signals, but today it is mainly a place for people... a viewpoint, a meeting spot, and a symbol that many Tokyo residents feel quite protective about.

If you go up, the first stop is the Main Deck, about 150 metres above the ground. The windows run all the way around. On clear days, especially in winter when the air is dry, you may see Mount Fuji far to the southwest. Look down too. In parts of the deck, glass panels are set into the floor. You can stand on them and see the steel legs falling away beneath your feet. Children usually love this. Some adults do not.

Higher still is the Top Deck, at roughly 250 metres. Access is usually by a separate guided tour, and it is worth checking ahead whether you need to reserve a place. The design up here is sleek, with mirrors and soft lighting, and the view feels wider and quieter. From this height, Tokyo looks less like a city and more like a landscape. Rooftops, rail lines, rivers and parks spread out in every direction until they disappear into the haze.

Here is the second surprise. You do not have to take the lift. An outdoor staircase climbs from the roof of the building at the base up to the Main Deck. It has around six hundred steps. On the days it is open, walking up is a completely different experience. The wind moves through the lattice. The city slowly drops away beside you. And the orange beams are close enough to touch. Climbers often receive a small certificate at the top.

At night, the tower changes completely. Its standard lighting, known as Landmark Light, was designed by the lighting designer Motoko Ishii and first switched on in 1989. Warm amber lamps wash the lattice from inside, so the tower seems to glow. In some seasons the lights shift to cooler tones. On special occasions, the tower displays other patterns and colours. Many locals glance at the tower in the evening simply to see what it is wearing tonight.

The tower is also a film star. In Japanese monster movies, giant creatures have attacked or climbed it more than once. In one well-known film from the early 1960s, the giant moth Mothra spins a cocoon right on its side. For generations of Japanese viewers, seeing this tower on screen meant one thing: Tokyo itself was in danger. That gives the place a playful kind of fame, and you will spot monster-themed souvenirs in the shops below.

Before you leave, walk a few minutes to Zojoji, the large Buddhist temple right beside the tower. It has long ties to the Tokugawa shoguns, the military rulers who governed Japan from the seventeenth century until the 1860s. Its great red gate and wooden halls stand in sharp contrast to the steel behind them. In one corner of the grounds, rows of small stone figures wear red knitted caps and bibs. Little pinwheels spin beside them. Parents place them there in memory of children who were lost.

So take one last look. From the temple grounds, the orange lattice rises above dark tiled roofs and old trees. Two versions of Tokyo stand in a single view... one built for prayer, one built to send voices and pictures through the air. As you walk away, turn around once more. Wherever you are in this part of the city, the tower is usually somewhere behind you, keeping its place against the sky.