After our whirlwind through a country still finding its footing, Kipp and I were ready for something different—someplace calm, clean, and effortlessly refined. He wanted food, real food, and I knew exactly where to go.
I nudged him toward Japan. First stop: Osaka. Then, on to Tokyo.
A delay set us back a day, which meant Kyoto would have to wait for another trip. But that’s how it goes sometimes. You plan, and the road does what it wants.
When we landed, the air felt different. Lighter. Smoother. We made our way through customs and found our friends—Vince and Penn—waiting at a Starbucks nearby, just as we’d arranged. Smiles, hugs, the comfort of familiar faces in a place we were about to dive into headfirst.
Vince and Penn knew exactly where to take us—a tucked-away Osaka spot specializing in savory pancakes. The kind that sizzle on a hotplate right in front of you. They tossed on squid and octopus like it was second nature. To our surprise, it worked. The flavor was rich and balanced—you could barely tell it had seafood, and that was part of the magic.
Afterward, we grabbed some strawberry ice cream. Simple. Cold. Perfect.
Before they caught their train back to Tokyo, we made one last stop for a quick group photo beneath the iconic Osaka Running Man sign. A moment captured—four friends in the neon heart of the city, full and happy.
Osaka’s canal-side streets are a sensory overload—in the best way. Neon storefronts stacked high with wild advertisements, the smell of grilled street food curling through the air, and a steady hum of energy that never really stops. For anyone who loves food, this place is paradise.
Kipp and I only had a few hours to explore the strip, soaking in what we could before hopping into a taxi bound for one of my must-see stops: Super Potato, the legendary retro game shop.
But Japan has its own way of reminding you who’s in charge. The store was closed.
So we walked. Through narrow streets packed with energy, past clusters of young girls in matching uniforms handing out flyers for something we couldn’t quite place. I offered up my go-to Japanese phrase—“It’s OK”—as a polite brush-off. It got a few laughs.
Maybe I said it wrong. Maybe it was the way I said it. Or maybe someone actually understood me. I still don’t know. But we kept walking, a little more lost, a little more amused, and still glad to be there.
With few other options, we decided to walk. The nearest decent train station wasn’t close, but that’s Japan—you’re never too far from something interesting.
In true local fashion, we made a pit stop at one of the ever-present vending machines. You could be in the middle of nowhere and still find a machine offering everything from iced coffee to canned soup. We dropped a few hundred yen and came away with a couple of perfectly chilled drinks—sweet, refreshing, and exactly what we needed.
The walk stretched on for about a mile, past quiet backstreets and glowing signs. Eventually, we found a good station—clean, efficient, everything working like clockwork. We hopped on the next train and made our way back, tired but content. Sometimes, the in-between moments turn out to be the ones you remember most.
The next day, we found ourselves just a short walk from Osaka Castle. Naturally, I kept up tradition—snapped my signature shot: me, beer in hand, crushing one in front of something historic.
Osaka Castle, though? A bit underwhelming. The lines to get inside were long, and word was the ventilation inside was about as forgiving as a summer subway car. We passed on the interior and instead strolled the grounds.
Kipp and I got into a half-serious debate about medieval warfare—specifically, whether archers stationed at the top of the walls could actually pierce armor with Japanese bows. Given the elevation, draw strength, and distance across the moat, we figured they probably could. Practical history lessons, beer in hand.
After a short rest under the trees, we polished off our drinks and continued wandering the city. Osaka had more stories to tell.
Kipp humored me with a detour—another retro game shop, this one well off the tourist track. The kind of place where the shelves are dusty, the signage is faded, and the good stuff hasn’t been picked clean by camera-wielding visitors with conversion apps and inflated eBay expectations.
That’s where the real finds are.
And sure enough, I scored a couple of Sailor Moon SNES titles—authentic, affordable, and cheaper than the inflated prices back home. It was a small victory, but a satisfying one.
We took that win and called it a day. Knocked out a quick load of laundry, caught up on some rest, and tried to settle in.
The beer vending machine in the hotel? Broken.
So was my heart.
In proper form, it was time for Kipp to experience his first Japanese baseball game. The last time we sat side by side at a ballpark? Sometime in the early ’90s—Dodgers vs. Phillies. Our parents dragged us out, and that game just wouldn’t end. I swear it went 20 innings. I’d have to look it up to be sure, but the memory feels eternal.
I made no promises this time. No walk-offs, no extra innings. Just the hope for a clean nine and maybe a run or two. What we got was a packed stadium and nosebleed seats that could double as cardio. But once we settled in, I remembered exactly why I came.
There she was—majestic, graceful, practically glowing… and carrying a keg on her back.
The legendary Japanese beer girls.
Each one scaling stadium steps with military precision, pouring ice-cold beer straight from the tap strapped to their backs. A beautiful, efficient miracle.
With every pour, I grinned like an idiot and blurted out, “Aishitemasu!”—which, of course, was the wrong word. I meant “Arigatō.” Didn’t matter. Beer was in hand, the crowd began to sing, and for that one moment, everything was exactly as it should be.
As the game stretched on, reality set in—our backs were killing us. These seats weren’t made for slouching Americans. They demanded posture and discipline we hadn’t trained for.
We bailed to the inner concourse for a breather. That’s when it happened—Kipp crossed a line he can’t uncross. He bought an Osaka Tigers hat.
Instantly, he was transformed. Local fans noticed. One particularly enthusiastic supporter lit up at the sight—here was a foreigner pledging allegiance, mid-game, no less. He asked for a photo with us, and just like that, Kipp was in. An honorary Tiger.
I had to laugh—how many white guys are walking around as die-hard Hanshin Tigers fans? Probably not many. If the beer girl downstairs had been wearing a shirt with my face on it, the night would’ve peaked right then.
But I digress. We were full—of beer, of street food, of whatever they were serving inside that stadium. We hauled ourselves back to our seats, grabbed another round, and let the chanting crowd carry us through the night.
And then, it happened.
The home team clawed their way back from behind, and when Nakano stepped up and slammed one over the wall, the place exploded. The kind of roar that shakes your bones and makes you wonder if you’ve just witnessed something historic. Maybe we had.
The energy was electric. Pure joy. Fans screamed, fists pumped, and for a few beautiful moments, everyone in that stadium was united by the same high. And we were lucky enough to be part of it.
With grins stretched across our faces and just the right amount of beer in our system, Kipp and I made our way out, shoulders bumping through the crowd, hearts full.
Back at the hotel, we crashed hard—resting up before the next chapter of the journey. Tokyo awaited.
