A postman works his way down a back street, squinting at an address in some 町 or other. He is walking through a word that, three thousand years ago, had nothing to do with cities and everything to do with the thin path between rice fields.
町 (machi) is a town, a neighbourhood, a ward. But look at how it is built, because the right-hand piece is the key, and once you see it you will catch it elsewhere. On the right stands 丁, a nail. The oracle-bone scribes drew it as a single long, thin stroke. Hold on to that shape. Put 丁 beside metal, 金, and you get 釘 (kugi): a metal nail. The element means exactly what it looks like, no surprises there. Now set that same long, narrow nail beside a field, 田, and you get 町.
Our oldest source for the oracle-bone script says the nail is doing double work here: it lends the sound, and its thin, straight form traces the narrow path running between the paddies. From "the path between the fields" the meaning grew outward, to the fields themselves, then to a measured plot of farmland. In old China a 町 was a land unit so exact that nine men's labour made one of them.