The Ryugumon Gate, reminiscent of the Ryugu-jo Palace, is exotic because it originated in China

I recently found myself at Fuda Tenjin Shrine in Chofu, an ancient sanctuary whose roots are etched deep into Japan’s tenth-century chronicles. To pop-culture enthusiasts, however, it is famous for another reason: its sacred grove was said to be the hidden home of GeGeGe no Kitaro, the iconic manga yokai who defended the human world from malevolent spirits.

Yet, as I wove through the bustling crowd of devout visitors, I found no trace of the eerie, shadow-drenched atmosphere where a supernatural being might lurk. The grounds were swept to absolute perfection, meticulously organized, and thoroughly sanitized. In fact, it was managed with such seamless efficiency that it felt like the kind of modern, rule-bound space that would actively expel someone like Kitaro—an eccentric figure of no fixed address and questionable origin. To my eyes, this pristine sanctuary seemed entirely incompatible with the ambiguous, beautiful gray zones of life.

Feeling a bit detached from this overly polished shrine that seemed to have severed all spiritual ties with its resident monsters, I began a sluggish walk back toward Chofu Station. But my melancholy was short-lived. Along the main road, a peculiar structure abruptly hijacked my attention.

It was the gate (sanmon) of Daiso-ji, a temple of the Shingon sect of Buddhism. To call it unconventional would be an understatement; it possessed a wonderfully stubborn individuality. The lower half was a stark white, plaster-coated arch, upon which sat a traditional wooden tiled roof. In architectural circles, this is known as a Ryugu-mon—a Dragon Palace Gate. It looked like a fantastical relic plucked straight out of the fairy tale of Urashima Taro and his journey to the undersea kingdom. While such eccentric architecture might exist elsewhere in Japan, encountering it here, in the neat suburbs of Tokyo, was a rare treat.

Standing before this rare gateway, a wave of exoticism washed over me. While it conjured images of Urashima Taro’s submerged metropolis, it simultaneously evoked a distinct Chinese aesthetic. This was no coincidence. The Ryugu-zukuri style heavily reflects architectural trends imported from Ming Dynasty China, originally favored by the Obaku sect of Zen Buddhism. As the style took root in Japan, its sheer visual flair transcended sectarian boundaries, prompting temples of entirely different lineages to adopt it.

I find this historical "looseness"—the delightful nonchalance of ancient Japanese builders who happily copied another sect simply because it looked spectacular—immensely endearing. For a flâneur like myself, structural whimsy and visual pleasure are far more nourishing than rigid, square-toed dogma.

As I looked up, basking in the joy of this architectural anomaly, the vibrant green leaves of a Japanese maple cascaded over the structure, glowing translucent in the early summer light. Through the frame of the white arch, I watched a quiet tableau of modern life: two masked adults and a small child, holding hands, strolling gracefully into the frame, perfectly at home in the beautiful gray zone of the suburbs.