Tokyo

It squats on probably the most expensive square kilometre on the planet, forces public transport in the world's largest metropolis on a long detour, and houses one of history's most reclusive families. To add to the mystery of Tokyo's Imperial Palace, the number of mere mortals who have wandered its hallowed interior could probably fit inside a telephone box.

Well, a pretty big telephone box, admittedly. Once in a while, the drawbridge drops, those big old iron gates squeak open and a suitably cringing member of the hoi polloi is summoned across the moat for an audience with the Emperor. Usually, the invitee has translated the complete works of some 16th-century haiku poet, but sometimes a real degenerate sneaks in. Me, for instance.

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