As the daylight faded, tens of thousands of stranded office workers wandered the streets of Tokyo, waited in long lines for packed buses, or, for a lucky few, sat in cabs stuck in slow-moving traffic. Others stood in lines in front of the few public phone booths that remain today in central Tokyo. In many cases, the lime green public phones were their only way to reach relatives since most mobile phone networks offered sporadic or no service for several hours after the quake struck.

Many pedestrians in downtown Tokyo gathered in front of buildings with window displays featuring flat-panel screens to watch live television broadcasts of the widespread damage. Employees of the Asahi newspaper, a major Japanese daily, stood on street corners in the Ginza handing out free copies of a four page special edition with a five inch headline that read: "Giant Earthquake In Eastern Japan."

But for a few minutes after the ground began to rattle, the concern burned into stoic Tokyoites' faces was much bigger: What if this was the "big one?" A major quake is often seen as overdue since the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake that left more than 100,000 dead in a flattened city.

The air of calm with which most people here regard the possibility of such a quake was punctured. As thousands poured out of buildings, uncertain where to go next, many residents who tend to brush aside the small tremors that regularly course through the city were faced with a reminder: Its buildings may be strong, but Tokyo isn't earthquake-proof.

"This is the worst quake I've ever felt that was based so far away from Tokyo," said Kiyomi Suzuki, 69 years old, who was stranded outside Tokyo train station. Ms. Suzuki has lived in the area all her life.

Although there were few signs of damage at street-level, emergency-service sirens could be heard from all directions and people stood in small groups outside houses and shops, many looking nervous and puffing on cigarettes.

In the Otemachi business district, near Tokyo Station, hundreds of displaced workers milling around amid concrete and glass skyscrapers experienced how a tremor feels, and sounds, first-hand. At 3:24 p.m., a large aftershock struck, shaking the ground and causing hundreds of windows to rattle simultaneously in eerie rustles. Witnesses gasped, looking up at skyscrapers swaying gently, and construction cranes shaking violently atop half-completed buildings.

Many herded to the nearby Imperial Palace Gardens, where there are no tall buildings. Workers in white and yellow hard hats from UBS and Citigroup were among those in the park. Some retreated underground, to escape the risk of falling glass. Near Tokyo Station, windows fell from buildings and glass shattered on the sidewalk.

The air of calm eventually returned both above and below ground, as strangers exchanged pleasantries and yarns of previous quakes. Meanwhile, Tokyo Metro's station announcers did their best to relay what information they could. Mostly, though, the messages were repeated announcements: "Tokyo Metro apologizes for the delay in your train services. This is because of a very big earthquake."

The scale of that earthquake was clear as TV stations broadcast footage of tsunami waters breaking over northeast Japan. In silence, Tokyoites gathered around the few high-tech mobile phones able to break into the saturated cellular network to see images of more terrifying scenes were elsewhere.

In the early evening, after TV stations relayed a rapid, sober statement from Prime Minister Naoto Kan, clad in a light blue workers' jacket, the country's Chief Cabinet Secretary, Yukio Edano, said the government is now acting on the premise that the earthquake that struck northern Japan is the largest ever to hit the country.

The inside of The Wall Street Journal newsroom wasn't immune to the raw shock. Workers in the office, located on the 19th floor of an Otemachi district skyscraper, quickly moved from business-as-usual handling of typical quakes to a startled realization that the building across the way was moving from left to right. In a few seconds, the swaying became so violent that staff had to hold on to desk and chairs. Knuckles tightened, and faces grew pale.

 Finish Article : WSJ.com