"Sweet Jesus" were the first words I uttered on disembarking the Narita Express. My blasphemy stemmed not from finally escaping a carriage full of prolific Japanese smokers. After a nine-hour flight I was sucking Marlboros with the best of them. The reason was Tokyo station.

My sense of disorientation was shared by other newly arrived tourists. We stood on the platform looking like we'd been injected with concrete while diminutive men in grey business suits coursed around us towards the escalators. This wasn't so much culture shock as culture stupefaction. I felt as if my head had been slammed in a heavy car door. Chatter, clatter and human matter. Tokyo isn't even the busiest station in the metropolis. Nine stops around the Yamanote line, two million people pass through Shinjuku every day. That surely merits a "Sweet Jesus".

I get self conscious at times like these. I harbour an intense dislike for the gormless tourist. My vanity demands that I stride confidently into a new country. Occasionally I stride confidently in the wrong direction but that's not important - it's the striding that counts. This time I was standing paralysed next to a map of the station that looked like a complex circuit board and I was getting annoyed. It took me forty minutes to find an exit. That just made me angry. I was trying to find Platform 17.

Tokyo is a machine that can never be turned off. It's a terrifying vision of concrete, neon and glass driving onwards and outwards under its own terrible momentum, unashamedly consuming what's left of the countryside. It never really ends. The 350km urban corridor simply changes names as it stretches down the coast: Tokyo, Yokohama, Shizuoko, Nagoya, Kyoto, Osaka. The reason there's so much urbanisation is geographical. Japan is a mountainous country, which means there's not much suitable land for 126 million people to live on. The reason there's so much concrete is historical. With the exception of Kyoto, the major cities were literally reduced to ashes by firebombing during 1944. The traditional paper and wood houses burned well. More died in the firestorms than were vapourised at Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Post-war reconstruction meant concrete and lots of it.

The prefectures, districts, streets and alleys of Tokyo throb with the combined heartbeats of over thirteen million people but a complex web of social conventions, protocols and hierarchies ensures that order prevails. Here is proof that utilitarianism and individualism can work in harmony. In Harajuku, teenagers express their individuality by hanging about the bridge above the station wearing latex ballgowns and heavy makeup. In Kabuki-cho, fetishists can buy used panties from vending machines in the street. If you have a lust for gambling, you can contribute to the six trillion yen frittered away each year on pachinko machines. Social drinking (tsukiai) is not just acceptable but actively encouraged. But there is recognition that with rights come responsibilities. There is almost no crime, no litter and an astonishing work ethic. We might laugh at the regimentation of Japan Inc, but we could walk the streets of any district all night without fear of anything other than sore feet.

The Japanese have embraced other cultures with delight yet they have done so without sacrificing their own. The sight of a kimono clad woman patiently queuing at McDonalds in Shinjuku exemplified this nicely. The backbone of the national psyche is a deeply ingrained ethnocentricity that has safeguarded their ancient traditions and religions from the seemingly inexorable march of western culture. The Japanese call it ittaikan - unity. Perversely, what protects their culture also distances it from visitors. It is very difficult for a foreigner to break down the barriers and find the “real” Japan. Gaijin tend to be kept (very politely, of course) at arm’s length regardless of how long they’ve lived in the country. That’s not to say that the courtesy shown is superficial. On the contrary, it is genuine and overwhelming.

English is not widely understood but neither is there an expectation that tourists should speak Japanese. A little though, goes a long way. Some basic Japanese is not difficult to learn. There is no distinction between the singular and plural and unlike many other Asian languages it is not tonal. This makes it relatively easy to learn phonetically although many years are needed to master reading and writing kanji ideographs. Those Japanese who understand English are likely to be shy about using it for fear of causing offence. The reverse is not true and it is almost impossible to upset anyone by trying a few words. A simple “Ohayo gozaimasu” (Good morning!) brings smiles and bowing. “O-genki desu ka” (How are you?) brings cries of delight. Anything more brings the house down. I said “Arigato gozaimasu. Goshiso-sama deshita” (“Thank you. That was a real feast.”) as I paid a bill at a restaurant. Chaos ensued. The maitre-d’ threw his hands into the air in delight, waitresses bowed so low I thought they were searching for a particularly valuable lost contact lens and chefs were summoned from the kitchen to thank me for thanking them. The memory of the doorway crowded with staff members waving me off will stay with me for a long time.

From the bright lights of Tokyo I took the shinkansen (bullet train) to Kyoto, cultural capital of "old" Japan and home of the environmental treaty that has finally been ratified, with one conspicuous and inexcusable exception. It still retains many of the traditional wood and paper houses, inns and carp filled ponds, particularly around the Higashiyama and Gion areas. There is a serenity about these old houses, temples and castles that contrasts starkly with the bustle of people in the streets. Their lightweight minimalism is practical in the stifling summer heat and in an area prone to earthquakes but it is the pervading tranquility that is most striking. Even the most humble dwelling is in harmony with Buddhist themes of silent nobility and meditation. The splendid castle of Nijo-jo was built for Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa Shogun, and is generally regarded as ostentatious by Japanese standards. By European standards it would barely rate as modest. Yet its lack of pretension gives it quiet, self-assured dignity that compares favourably with the ubiquitous decadence of palaces closer to home.

Wandering the crowded Kyoto streets at night, we were fortunate enough to glimpse several demure geisha on their way to entertain at the private tea houses, their painted faces reflecting the diffuse light of the moon and the paper lanterns hanging in doorways. They are versed in the dramatic arts and are expensive company even for the Japanese salarymen and politicians who employ them. Unfortunately, their dresses, though elegant, are generally unsuitable for outrunning tourists so each poor girl was subjected to the kind of intrusive flash photography normally reserved for the Beckhams. For a moment, it looked at though they might be overwhelmed by the heaving mass. Nevertheless, there was something delightfully ironic about the Japanese being pursued by camera wielding tourists. I felt, as Will Self has a habit of saying, "a sense of delicious schadenfreude". The geisha escaped by ducking into a private inn. Even the heavy face paint couldn't disguise the bewilderment. As suddenly as it had congregated the scrum dispersed, excitably comparing tiny digital images, and I found myself standing alone on the shining cobbles.

In Japan, it is rare to find such solitude in public. It felt strange but not unwelcome. I stood for a moment and savoured it, before confidently striding onward to explore the rest of this wonderful country.