L, DK, WTF: Understanding the Sorcery of Japanese Apartment Codes
And why your Tokyo closet might legally count as a bedroom.
There are a lot of confusing things about moving to Japan.
The train schedules. The cash-only restaurants that look like spaceship command centers. The fact that convenience store fried chicken is better than anything you’ve eaten at a wedding.
But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepared me for Japanese apartment listings.
You think you’re pretty smart. You’ve rented places before. You once negotiated a $40 rent discount because the ceiling fan made a noise like a dying parrot.
But then you open up a Japanese housing site, and the floor plan says “1LDK, 2F, 38m²” and your brain just… stutters.
One what? What’s an LDK? And why does the living room look like a hallway with trust issues?
Welcome to the sorcery of Japanese apartment codes — where units are measured in tatami, kitchens are sometimes metaphors, and the toilet might be in a different zip code.
Let me help.
Decoding the Ancient Scroll
Here’s the basic structure:
The number at the front = number of bedrooms
Then come the magical letters:
L = Living room
D = Dining room
K = Kitchen
So a 1LDK means: 1 bedroom + Living + Dining + Kitchen
Simple enough, right?
But wait — it gets weirder.
A 1K? That’s one bedroom and a kitchen. But not a real kitchen. Just enough space to boil noodles and cry.
A 2DK? Two bedrooms and a dining/kitchen combo — perfect if you plan to eat curry 24/7 and never sit on a couch again.
Then there’s 1R — the studio of shame. “R” stands for “room,” which stands for “no walls, good luck.” You sleep where you cook. You cook where you cry. It’s all the same floor.
Some places have Lofts, which are technically not livable space — but you will absolutely live in them anyway. Especially if you’re tall, broke, and into slanted ceilings.
Pro tip: if the listing brags about “mezzanine sleeping,” it means you’re sleeping in a crawl space one sneeze away from a concussion.
38 Square Meters of Confusion
Japan lists apartment size in square meters (m²), which sounds helpful until you try to convert it to anything meaningful.
38m² = about 409 square feet.
“Oh,” you say. “That’s not so bad.”
Yeah. But they count everything. The entryway? Counted. The space behind the washing machine? Counted. The balcony where pigeons go to die? Counted.
I once toured a “spacious” 35m² unit where the fridge was in the hallway, the bathroom door hit the sink when opened, and the bedroom window faced a wall with more texture than sunlight.
“Very bright!” the realtor said.
I nodded. Because his suit was crisp and I was afraid.
Oh — and get ready to see things measured in tatami mats (畳). Yep. Some older listings will tell you room size based on how many tatami mats fit in it. The average tatami mat is about 1.62 square meters. Do the math wrong and you’ll be trying to cram a double bed into a space the size of a yoga mat.
The Toilet Situation
You know how in the U.S., your bathroom is one sacred, combined space?
Not here.
In many Japanese apartments:
The toilet is in its own tiny room (like a guilt closet)
The sink is in the hallway
The shower is in another room that looks like a sanitized coffin
It’s called a unit bath, and it’s designed for maximum hygiene and maximum inconvenience.
Romantic, right?
You’ll get used to it. Eventually. Until then, prepare to open four doors just to brush your teeth.
Welcome to the Floor Plan from Hell
Japanese floor plans look like they were drawn by a guy halfway through a Sudoku puzzle.
Everything is labeled. In kanji. On a grayscale map the size of a Pop-Tart.
Symbols everywhere:
A triangle = a sliding door
A square with a dot = a sink
A circle with lines = a washing machine hookup
If you’re lucky, you’ll get a compass rose so you can say things like “the window faces south!” like that means something to your dog.
Pro tip: The genkan (entryway) is not a room. But it takes up 10% of your apartment. And it will absolutely trip you in the dark.
And closets? Maybe. If you’re lucky. Japanese apartments tend to have very little built-in storage, so if you were planning to hang up your wardrobe, prepare to meet your new best friend: the garment rack.
Rent vs. Reality
You find a “dream” listing:
¥78,000/month (about $500)
1LDK
41m²
Close to station!
What they don’t mention:
It’s next to a pachinko parlor open 24/7
The neighbor plays flute at 2 a.m.
Your shower water pressure is “gentle regret”
The walls are made of wet cardboard and apologies
Oh, and guess what? That price doesn’t include maintenance fees, which can range from “no big deal” to “do you even want hot water?”
Plus, you’ll need:
Key money (a gift to your landlord. Yes, really.)
Deposit (often 1–2 months)
Agency fee (usually 1 month)
By the time you move in, you’ll have spent enough to buy a small boat. Or a very nice kotatsu table.
And don’t assume your place comes furnished. Most Japanese apartments are bare bones — no bed, no couch, not even a fridge. Which leads us to…
Rent It or Regret It: The Furniture Question
Let me save you the surprise heart attack: you will probably need to furnish your place. Completely.
No, not just with cute décor. I mean everything. Most apartments are entirely unfurnished. Like, “where do I sit?” unfurnished.
Which means your options are:
Buy furniture (and eventually sell it or beg someone to take it)
Rent furniture (yes, this is a thing — and it can save your sanity)
Embrace the floor and develop excellent posture
Rental services like Tokyo Lease, Nitori Rental, or CLAS offer monthly packages. Want a bed, table, fridge, and microwave for six months? Done. It’s like IKEA with a return policy and less trauma.
If you’re only in Japan for a year or less, renting furniture is a lifesaver. Unless you want to spend week one trying to haul a futon up a spiral staircase.
And let’s not ignore the joy of rented air conditioning. That glorious, humming box above the window? Not always included. Sometimes it’s BYOAC. As in: bring your own cool breeze or suffer.
“Close to Station” — The Most Deceptive Phrase in Japan
Japanese listings love saying “5 minutes to station!” like it’s a badge of honor. But here’s what that really means:
Five minutes if you’re sprinting downhill with no groceries
Eight if you’re dodging umbrellas in August
Twelve if you’re dragging a suitcase and your will to live
Proximity to the station is everything in Japan. It determines rent, convenience, and how often you’ll curse the existence of stairs. But it also might mean you’re living next to a ramen shop with a 2 a.m. rush or a high school marching band that practices on weekends.
Yes, it’s close. No, you won’t always love it.
What About Pets?
You’ve got a dog? A cat? A slightly judgmental rabbit? Good luck.
Many apartments have a strict no pets policy. And the ones that do allow animals often charge a “pet deposit” so hefty you’d think your Shih Tzu was a wrecking ball with fur. You might even be asked to submit a photo of your pet with the application — presumably so the landlord can judge whether your animal is cute enough to tolerate.
In rare cases, you’ll find pet-friendly buildings with dog-washing stations and shared green space. But more likely? You’ll end up in a walk-up with a three-floor stair sprint every time your schnauzer needs to pee.
And if your pet barks? Get ready to receive complaints written in formal Japanese that Google Translate will render as “Your dog’s voice is impolite.”
Why Does Any of This Matter?
Because if you’re moving to Japan — even for a few months — this will be your reality.
You’ll read listings like they’re ancient riddles. You’ll squint at floor plans while texting your spouse, “Is this a wall or a bathtub?” You’ll measure your suitcase and realize it’s bigger than the entire kitchen.
And you’ll still do it. Because the weirdness is part of the charm.
You’ll come to love your tiny balcony. You’ll learn to make tea in a one-burner kitchen. You’ll eventually find a 1LDK that doesn’t smell like sadness.
And one day, you’ll have a friend move to Japan. And you’ll be the one saying, “Ah, yes — this one’s a 2DK with a north-facing window. Not ideal in winter.”
You’ll sound like a wizard. Or a realtor. Or someone who understands how to live in less and love it more.
Did this help you laugh through the chaos of apartment hunting in Japan? Clap it up. Leave a comment. Share it with your Japan-curious friends.
And if you’re into early retirement, slow travel, or rants about convenience store genius and bidet supremacy — we’ve got more stories for you. Come wander with us.
Because figuring out how to live in 38 square meters is a weird, wonderful life skill.
No closet required.
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