Centuries ago, women who traveled on foot from Edo (now Tokyo) to the Japanese imperial capital of Kyoto along the Tōkaidō Road were bound for an adventure. Everyone making this 300-mile journey encountered happy things and melancholy things, strange things and dangerous things.
As a rule, I shy away from extreme tourism. But I’ll break that rule if the guide is Japanese artist Utagawa Hiroshige. Exploring his ukiyo-e series The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō feels like taking on a road trip down one of history’s most storied routes.
Volumes have been written about the beauty of Hiroshige’s woodblock prints and the men who pursued the Tōkaidō’s sensual pleasures. So I’m focusing instead on the women—all of them, not just the courtesans.
A little history and a road map
In 1601 the Japanese government set up 53 way stations to aid travelers along the Tōkaidō Road. Soon each station was enveloped by taverns, tea houses, food stands, and rustic inns.
At regular intervals along this scenic coastal route, officials turned away anyone who lacked the proper credentials. Predictably, women were subjected to a physical examination far more often than men.
Hiroshige’s series of woodblock prints starts in Edo—the artist’s birthplace—and journeys westward. Out of the complete set of 55 prints, I’m highlighting thirteen that represent the vibrant mix of women you might have seen along the way.
Rise and shine
In Hiroshige’s day, huge wooden gates known as kido enclosed large sections of Edo. These gates opened at 4 a.m., allowing early-bird travelers to reach the coastal way station of Shinagawa just as the first rays of morning light streaked across Tokyo Bay.
In his woodblock print Shinagawa; Shoko Detachi, people wait patiently as a feudal warlord and his entourage march through the village. Three teahouse maids strike a pose as the samurai walk by. Next door, a man quietly observes the procession from the shadow of a doorway.
Further down the road in Kanagawa, the scene becomes more animated. Two maids actively tug at travelers, coaxing them into teahouses with stunning views of the bay. Nearby, a child stops and stares at their surprisingly aggressive behavior.
As evening arrives
Late in the afternoon, travelers often search for overnight lodging in Totsuka, located about twenty-five miles from Edo.
In Totsuka: Fork in the Road at Motomachi, a man gets his foot caught in a stirrup and tumbles from his horse. He narrowly avoids falling into the arms of a pretty maid—to the chagrin of his female companion and the bemusement of a bystander on the bridge.
Small boards dangling from the inn’s eaves display the names of tonight’s guests, most of whom will gather after sunset to share stories over cups of warm saké.
Admittedly, it can be challenging to distinguish workers from travelers in Hiroshige’s scenes because he portrayed all of his figures with the same careful attention to detail.
Views of Mount Fuji
The desolate stretch of road near Hara must have felt eerie and exposed, especially since most women traveled on foot. In early 19th century Japan, wheeled carriages were virtually nonexistent.
In Hara: Mount Fuji in the Morning, two women pause to speak with their porter. Behind them Mount Fuji towers over the stark landscape, rising so high that it pierces the picture frame.
For centuries, this active volcano was worshipped as a female deity. Men who reached its summit believed they would experience a spiritual awakening and find true happiness.
In its heyday, the Tōkaidō Road was among the most sophisticated transportation arteries in the world. Laid deep with gravel and covered with sand, it featured natural water drainage on both sides.
Several major rivers along the route were left bridge-free to slow down invading troops. Hiroshige beautifully captures how these deliberate barriers disrupted daily travel. At the Abe River crossing in Fuchū, he depicts women hiring palanquin-bearing porters or piggybacking on the porters themselves.
Yam soup in Mariko
Following their river crossing, women often stopped by Mariko’s popular Chōjiya teahouse for a bowl of grated yam soup. This local specialty was immortalized in a haiku by the legendary Edo-period poet Matsuo Bashō:
Young leaves of plum—
and at the Mariko way station
a broth of grated yams
In Hiroshige’s print, a tall freestanding sign advertises the soup known as tororo-jiru. Meanwhile, two sparrows twitter away on the roof while a baby naps on the back of a woman who—as it turns out—is a distant ancestor of the restaurant’s current owner.
Roughly 130 miles west of Edo, the Tōkaidō Road ascends steeply into the Sayo Mountains. In the print Nissaka: Sayo no Nakayama, five travelers stop to reflect on The Night Weeping Stone—the sole witness to a horrific crime. Even the samurai who passed by stops and looks back.
According to legend, mountain bandits murdered a pregnant woman on this spot, staining the boulder with her blood. Hearing the stone’s supernatural cry for help, a traveling priest rushed to the scene and delivered the dying woman’s unborn child.
Today, locals say the stone still weeps every night for the young mother, whose son eventually returned to these mountains to avenge her death.
In Kakegawa it’s Mother Nature who poses the threat. A master at capturing motion, Hiroshige depicts an older woman as she struggles against a fierce wind while crossing a trestle bridge.
Overhead, a sudden gust snatches a child’s kite. The wind carries it high above the wetlands toward Mount Akiba, a famous shrine dedicated to the god of fire.
Hot tea in Futakawa
Before crossing the swift Toyo River, three traveling musicians stop for a cup of tea in Futakawa. Each woman is carrying a samisen, a three-stringed lute plucked with a bachi.
Behind them lies the Monkey Plateau, a unique landscape of open scrub and stunted trees. To convey its eerie strangeness, Hiroshige masterfully used bokashi, a method of manually wiping ink off woodblocks to create dreamlike color transitions.
He typically used up to twenty different colors to produce a single print. Each hue in his meticulous stamping process required its own block of hand-carved wood.
Akasaka after dark
In Akasaka: Scene at an Inn, the man on the far left returns from a hot bath, while in the dining room, a man with a shaved crown relaxes on the floor as a maid brings him a meticulously prepared meal served across two trays.
On the far right, courtesans apply their makeup. Behind them, a stack of red and blue bedding rolls hint at the evening’s entertainment.
Back then, the Japanese government restricted inns to no more than two courtesans to maintain a degree of control over public morals. The women wore thick face powder formulated with white lead, and it is my forlorn duty to report that it caused many of them to die before the age of twenty.
A beacon in the rain
Further up the road in Tsuchiyama, where the Tōkaidō crosses the Yasu River, a torrential spring rain drenches travelers as they head toward a way station hidden among a cluster of sugi trees.
To depict the rain, Hiroshige initially used white ink. However, he later switched to black because, in his view, white lines evoke the essence of a soft summer rain rather than a heavy spring downpour.
It is autumn in Minakuchi, where three women hang gourd shavings to dry while another slices a ripe calabash gourd. Known as kanpyō, these shavings are traditionally boiled with soy sauce and sugar, then tucked into sushi rolls.
Ten miles to the west lies Ōtsu, a popular tourist destination on Japan’s largest lake. Hiroshige’s print captures a shopworker gently rolling up a folk painting for a waiting samurai.
Behind her, a painted image of Oni no Nembutsu—a mystical goblin used to hush crying babies—hangs on display. Meanwhile, across the street, a woman tries to hush a childishly drunk patron.
Through her eyes
A woman’s 300-mile journey reaches its emotional conclusion when she crosses the Great Sanjō Bridge and sees Kyoto’s magnificent palaces and temples for the first time.
As a memento of the trip, The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō became an immediate bestseller and deservedly so.
Hiroshige is at his finest when he’s painting a landscape, although he rarely depicts nature in isolation. Instead, he populates each scene with everyday figures who draw us into their world without aggressively asserting their presence. His characters are good company—and good company makes a long journey seem shorter.
Epilogue
While traveling through Japan on a lecture tour in 1922, Albert Einstein was profoundly moved by the integration of art into daily life. To honor his trip, he was presented with a full-size volume of The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō as a gift.
