Osaka

My dreams had been flooded with images of Japan months before I stepped out of the airport taxi onto a narrow street in Osaka’s Kita Ward.

A long flight from Sydney had hazed my mind and body with that restless malaise that only comes from extended periods in cattle class. As I clambered out of the taxi, stiff with hunger, I was enveloped by the gentle briskness of the late November air. The taxi driver helped unload our bags, bowed politely, and ushered us toward the hotel reception. Yet despite the chill, his brow was glossed with a thin film of sweat.

Our plane, as expected with the budget airline we’d chosen, was late to land. We found our driver pacing beside his van, forehead slick, in the taxi rink outside Kansai Airport—not because we had delayed him, but because we wouldn’t make it to the hotel at the time quoted on our pre-booked fare. He was sweating on our behalf.

It was of utmost importance to the driver and his company that they uphold our scheduled hotel arrival time, set when the taxi booking was made. He then executed, with almost comical precision, an escapade through the web of highways and heavy evening traffic, making up time with every swift manoeuvre—much like a game of Mario Kart. Headlights flashed, expressways twisted, skyscrapers towered above us as the Toyota van sped through downtown Osaka. Order must be restored, I imagined him thinking. My duty must be upheld. Maintaining the composure of a samurai, the beads of sweat were the only giveaway of the stress undertaken to perform such an exercise. We arrived on time.

This was my first glimpse into the complex and beguiling world of the Japanese, where politeness and obligation tangle into a confusing and often misrepresented idea of their culture. It wasn’t sushi, vending machines, or anime characters—just a man sweating on our behalf for a reason I couldn’t quite understand. Yet, here was my chance to try and understand the culture that had deeply fascinated me from the moment I booked flights on a whim months earlier. I wasn’t sure at which point in the trip I realised that was an impossible feat.

The street was dimly lit by a series of lemon-coloured streetlights, with lime green bicycle lanes painted on either side of the smooth asphalt. People slipped past us silently in ones and twos, their heads wrapped in scarves and baseball caps, paying little or no attention to the spill of luggage we’d created outside the hotel.
It’s late now. Check in, throw the bags in the room and go out. You must go out.

We lapped the block maybe two times in our tired stupor, attempting to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings we had stumbled upon. I was thinking how much I loved the morning flight from Sydney to anywhere in Asia. You wake up early in your own bed and by late evening, you find yourself in a place completely foreign—your reality tears apart like paper. You’re hungry too. The complimentary light meal on the flight leaves a certain knotting in the stomach that only a steaming bowl of mystery broth and a cold beer can cure.

The streets of Kita Ward are a tangle of small bars and boutiques that bunker beneath the underpasses of Osaka’s arterial expressways. Smells of sesame oil and fish stock billow out of extraction vents in alleyways, wrapping around lanterns and flashing neon signs. People of all walks line the footpath, chatting and giggling, while streams of tiny cars and trucks wash through the web of streets.

Most people are orderly. However, one salaryman, briefcase in hand, walks out onto the zebra crossing of a busy intersection and traces one of the stripes, pacing back and forth around the white rectangle. He’s chortling to no one between draws of a cigarette. I can only guess that long days and nights have stretched him into delirium.

It’s a sombre metaphor for life for many businessmen in this country—a carousel of work, trains, coffee, and booze that spins many into a cycle of quiet despair. This particular man broke rank, stepped out of line, and performed his act in front of the whole street like a lost jester—more a cry for help than a performance.

After a few swoops through some back streets close to our hotel, we find a spot in a small, unassuming haunt full of similarly dressed, suited salarymen. After being thrust into two seats in the back and pointing to pictures on a menu in front of a young, uninterested waiter, food is ordered. Barely a sound is exchanged between the waiter and me before a tall glass of beer, frosted in ice, slams on the table. Foam spills down the sides, and before it all settles, I take a long, quenching sip.

Reset. Ask yourself, “Where the hell am I?”

I look around the room—low ceiling, low light, lots of posters with faded images of whiskey bottles and kanji strewn across the walls. People line the bar with their faces hidden in large bowls, slurping loudly and washing down their mystery meals with handles of beer or whiskey soda. An open kitchen in the ‘L’-shaped room reveals two younger men with tea towels wrapped around their heads, tending fastidiously to numerous woks and vats of boiling liquid. The harsh light in the kitchen turns their skin blue behind plumes of steam as they toss handfuls of noodles into a cauldron of boiling water.

Like being in a silent film, the room is in a flurry of movement but with no sound to accompany it. The only notable sound is a short burst of instruction from the waiter to the chefs.

Food appears at my table only minutes later—a piping hot bowl of shoyu ramen, my first meal in Japan. Thick slices of chashu pork belly drift in a soy-rich broth, flecked with pork fat, spring onion, and bamboo shoots. The ramen noodles lurk silently underneath.

I eagerly spoon some of the broth into my mouth, which immediately scalds my tongue. The glass of beer is still ice cold and quickly soothes me. Gingerly, I tuck back into the meal, and even so, the broth explodes on my tender tongue with powerful flavour—rich sweetness and deep umami that are reminiscent of something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Something recognisable, but now so vivid and three-dimensional, it’s completely new.

This common theme stuck with me throughout the whole trip. It became clear to me that my understanding of Japan was just a sum of all my misunderstandings. I was familiar with the Japan I had so scrupulously combed over at home—going to great Japanese restaurants in Australia, reading books, and watching videos of Japanese food and philosophy. But there was something different. A dark energy that magnetised every cell inside me to the depth its citizens held. The things that surprise and move you most are often closest to the familiar.

In this case, the ideas I had of Japan are as true as they are untrue.