Tokyo: Samurai Kendo Class & Swordsmanship with Instructor

4.83

(126 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

I’ll admit, I was nervous walking into that little dojo near Ueno—my shoes squeaked on the floor and I could already smell the faint tang of sweat and wood polish. Our instructor, Mr. Sato, just grinned and handed me a folded kendo uniform. “You’ll sweat more soon,” he joked. I fumbled through tying the hakama (those pleated pants) while my friend tried to mimic the bowing etiquette—we probably looked ridiculous but Sato-san didn’t seem to mind. He explained how kendo isn’t just about swinging a stick; it’s about respect, posture, and something deeper I still can’t quite put into words.

The first time I put on the helmet—the men—I could barely see out of those narrow slits. Everything sounded muffled except for Sato-san’s voice echoing across the polished floorboards. We practiced footwork, then learned how to shout from our bellies (“Kiai!”). My arms shook after the third round of strikes, but there was this weird satisfaction in hearing bamboo clack against bamboo. At one point we tried a mini match against him; he let us land a hit (I think), then showed us how it’s really done—so fast you almost miss it.

Afterwards, we sat on the floor catching our breath, sipping bottled water and laughing at each other’s red faces. Sato-san told us stories about his own teacher and how kendo shaped his life since he was nine—something about patience and learning to lose gracefully. I still think about that quiet moment when everyone fell silent before our last bow; you could hear rain starting up outside, soft against the windows. It felt like we’d stepped out of Tokyo for a bit—and maybe out of ourselves too.