Kyoto.
If Tokyo is the neon-soaked fever dream of the future, Kyoto is Japan’s memory palace. A place where time didn’t stop—it just slowed down, poured itself a cup of matcha, and watched the seasons pass. You walk through narrow alleys lined with aging wood and whispers of geisha footsteps, only to find the stones beneath your feet have been smoothed over for modern soles and silent Teslas.
This city is a strange cocktail of reverence and reinvention. One part moss-covered shrine. One part high-end espresso machine. A dash of Instagram fatigue. Shake well. Serve over ice-cold tradition.
But let’s be honest: Kyoto’s no secret anymore. It’s been discovered, dissected, and devoured by every tourist with a phone and a Lonely Planet guide. During the day, the streets swell like a tourist parade—selfie sticks, rented kimonos, tour guides with flags. You can’t breathe. Kyoto doesn’t want to ban you—it just wants to exhale.
So I do the only thing that makes sense. I wake before the sun, when the mist still curls around temple roofs and the city hasn’t yet put on its costume. That’s when it speaks.
Still, hidden in this polished chaos are pockets of old money. The kind that doesn’t need to shout. You’ll see it—sleek European cars gliding past crumbling tea houses, a glint of a designer watch under a kimono sleeve, the effortless grace of people who don’t need you to know they’re rich. They just are.
Kyoto is contradiction. A museum that breathes. A sanctuary invaded. A quiet echo of what was, still humming beneath the surface—if you’re willing to listen.
After a breakfast of eggs and existential dread at a Denny’s in Machida City—because where else do you start a journey than in the most American place in Japan—we rolled toward Yokohama with a mission: catch the Shinkansen and ride it like kings.
Sure, flying is cheaper. But the Japanese? They’re romantics. They still believe in trains. Steel, precision, silence. For $200, I booked us two seats in the first-class car—because coach was full, and frankly, Tyler sitting next to a random guy after the chaos of Osaka with Kipp? Not happening. I wasn’t about to relive that ticket-buying circus again. This time I came prepared. I downloaded the app. Japan, ever the polite apocalypse of modernity, has finally made face-to-face transactions obsolete. No counter, no human. Just your phone and whatever dignity you have left trying to decipher kanji with a 4% battery.
We boarded. I looked around. Beautiful train. Quiet. Comfortable. And yet, the Wi-Fi? A joke. Spotty at best. I turned off their futuristic fantasy and flipped on 5G like a caveman with taste. Hotspotted Tyler. Settled in. Watched a San Diego Wave game because priorities exist. Those are our girls. You don’t just skip a match.
I called it a watch party. All beers were on me. No one came. Still, the spirit was there. Me, my screen, the hum of the rails, and a silent toast to a team halfway across the world.
We pulled into Kyoto like ghosts arriving in a city of memory. Tyler’s first thought? Ramen. Of course. My heart swelled. Feed the boy, feed the soul. We went hunting—bellies loud, luggage in tow. But lockers were full. The station was a maze of people and dead ends. Restroom first, then ramen. No lockers. Screw it. Straight to noodles. That’s the only path that made sense anyway.
So there I was—cold beer in hand, bowl of steaming ramen in front of me, sitting across from a teenage human garbage disposal named Tyler. It was perfect. We found this hole-in-the-wall ramen shop near Kyoto Station, and like saints descending from the travel-weary heavens, the staff took our bags without blinking. Just wheeled them to the back like it was no big deal. No forms. No fuss. No “liability waiver.” Just hospitality, Japanese-style.
Then came the basket.
See, in Japan, putting your backpack or bag on the floor is sacrilege. Like walking into someone’s home with your shoes on and wiping your feet on their soul. The woman—kind, but with the silent force of a temple priest—handed us a basket. For our bags. Like royalty for our dirt-covered gear. It’s not just cleanliness here. It’s ritual. It’s respect. The floor isn’t just a floor—it’s sacred ground. Or maybe I’m thinking too much.
Tyler devoured his bowl like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Slurped almost every last noodle and obliterated the pork. That’s a parenting win right there. Me? I went spicy. Level 2. Which, for a white boy, felt like climbing Everest in sandals. It was the kind of spice that pretends to be friendly until it sneaks up behind your organs and lights a match. I’ve had tamer heat at Indian joints labeled “danger.”
We paid, thanked them profusely, stepped out into the Kyoto air like champions.
Then it hit me.
That subtle shift in the gut. The deep rumble. The betrayal.
Beer and spicy ramen? That’s a devil’s cocktail. Within ten minutes, I was sitting on an 8 out of 10 on the “am I going to shit myself in public” scale. Japan’s one flaw? Public restrooms are a game of hide and seek, and you’re always losing.
I walked fast. Very fast. Crossed a bridge like it was the Bataan Death March. Found a bathroom—miraculously—and entered like a pilgrim reaching salvation. Crisis averted. For now.
Wiped the sweat off my face, grabbed Tyler, and we finally headed toward the central office to check in to the hotel. Civilization resumed. But I’ll never look at spicy ramen the same again.
We got shuttled to our final destination—Resi Stay Hotel. But not just any room. No. This was the Hello Kitty Room. Yes, I booked it. Unironically. For Tyler. As a thank-you for those grades, for grinding through school, for surviving this father-son fever dream of a trip.
The room? A pink explosion. A shrine to Japan’s most powerful deity: Sanrio’s silent queen. Hello Kitty on the walls. Hello Kitty on the bedsheets. Hello Kitty judging you quietly from every angle with those soulless, adorable eyes. We got the free gift bag—towel, souvenir doll, and a Hello Kitty-branded bottle of water like it came from her own sacred spring.
But I had one question.
Did this sanctified space—this kawaii temple—have Hello Kitty toilet paper? I had to know. After what I’d done to that public restroom earlier, it felt only right to turn my Kowaii dirty ass into a Kawaii clean one.
I opened the bathroom door like I was unsealing a sarcophagus. Drumroll. Silence. No fanfare. Just… a normal bathroom. A good one. Bidet, warm seat, the works. But no Hello Kitty TP. Maybe that’s just too much power in the wrong hands. Or maybe they know people like me would steal it and frame it. Either way—crisis averted.
Tyler and I settled in. He was happy. That’s what mattered. I hit the 7-Eleven like a true Japanese tourist: snacks, drinks, canned coffes.
We ate. We chilled. We passed out. It was a good day. A weird day. The kind of day that stays with you—like a Hello Kitty towel in your suitcase and a faint burn in your gut from Level 2 ramen.
We woke up early—real early. Still jetlagged, but it worked in our favor. Out the door by 5 AM, when Kyoto is still stretching its limbs and the only sound is your own footsteps echoing off centuries-old wood and stone. This is the time you come. No crowds. No tour groups with matching hats. Just fog, still air, and a city whispering its past to the few willing to listen.
The streets were empty. Perfect.
Hours from now, they’ll be jammed with selfie sticks and TikTok dreams. But right then? We had it to ourselves. Every shot I took had that clean, cinematic look. No photobombers. No distractions. Just the beauty of Kyoto and my kid moving through it like he belonged. Tyler crushed it—walked most of the way like a little samurai-in-training. Total champ.
Then came the shrine. The one Kipp and I missed last time. The one that haunted me. This was that trip. The one that was supposed to happen. The trip where it all came together.
We didn’t make it in 2023—typhoon season blew that dream away. And yeah, Orion was supposed to be here too. He earned it once. But this time? No grades, no go. I feel bad. I really do. He missed out. But sometimes life teaches the lesson the hard way.
This trip was for Tyler. He stepped up. He showed up. And now he gets to remember these quiet Kyoto mornings when the whole world still felt asleep, and it felt like the city opened just for him.
We hiked down to the train station, legs still shaking from the morning’s photo safari, and made our way over to the shrine—Fushimi Inari Taisha. The social media holy grail. You know the one: the 1,000 vermillion torii gates snaking through the forest like some ancient, sacred algorithm built for Instagram.
But we weren’t here for likes. We were here early—before the influencers woke up, before the cosplay crowd showed up, before Kyoto’s spiritual arteries clogged with the tourist bloodstream. It was just us, a few locals, and the quiet thump of our shoes against stone.
We walked the first part of the path, Tyler doing his best impression of a morning person. He made it, though. Tired, but present. That’s all I could ask for. We didn’t summit the whole mountain—but we tasted the magic.
Then we headed north by train. Kept going until the tracks said no more. Our goal? Kinkaku-ji. The Golden Temple. Kyoto flexing. But when we got there? Closed. Like a velvet rope across a dream.
Tyler looked at me. Waiting hours wasn’t an option. The mood was shifting. So we started walking—hoping the next train station would make it all make sense. But this one? Straight out of 1970. No signs, no machines that made sense, just a vintage artifact pretending it could still function in 2025.
Screw it. I hailed a cab. Told the driver one word: “Pokémon.”
If the Golden Temple won’t open its gates, Pikachu always will.
We grabbed coffee and camped out like proper fans, waiting for the Pokémon Center to open its doors. Tyler was chill, but I had purpose. This wasn’t a casual visit. This was a mission. I had been sent by a friend—Dai, the Sirens’ mascot himself, the man who wears a damn Pokémon suit to games like it’s a second skin. He tasked me with hunting down the limited Kyoto-only male and female plush set. Not just rare. Mythical. Expensive online. I was the courier of dreams.
But when the doors opened?
Gone.
The shelves were stocked with the usual suspects—Pikachus, Eevees, Charizards on every damn shelf like they’re the McDonald’s of the Pokémon world. But no Kyoto set. No elegance. No exclusivity.
Tyler picked up what he wanted. Happy kid, mission complete for him. Me? I left empty-handed. But I wasn’t done.
Because then, like fate slapping me on the back, I found it. In the bookstore downstairs. There it was—in the display case. The Kyoto set. The exact pair. Male and female, posed together like royalty under glass. Not for sale, but undeniably real. My eyes locked on them like Indiana Jones spotting the Ark.
For a moment, I thought I could just… ask. Maybe they’d crack. Maybe Japan had room for a desperate dad on a plushie quest.
Nope. Not for sale. Just a museum piece now.
Dai would have to wait. The hunt continues.
Packing light means traveling smart—but it also means making sacrifices. I hadn’t planned to buy much for myself. My real treasure chest—the second dufflebag—waited for me in Okinawa, ready to be filled with all the Japanese goods I didn’t know I needed yet. That was the plan.
But then I found the book.
It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t beg for attention. But it called to me. A quiet little thing that promised to explain everything I’d been trying to understand since the moment I landed: How do the Japanese think? Not just what they do, but why.
Why the silence?
Why the ritual?
Why the refusal to leave work early even when there’s nothing left to do?
It was a doorway. Not a souvenir—an answer. I’ll read it. I’ll write about it. An essay later. Something reflective. Something real.
But for now, the moment was gone. Tyler was hungry. Kid’s stomach always knows when it’s time to move. I knew exactly where to go. No fuss, no delay. Kura Sushi. Conveyor belt magic. Tap, pick, eat, done. Simplicity. Like the country itself—controlled chaos made beautiful.
Book in bag. Mind racing. Stomach growling. Onward.
Kura’s the spot. It’s where I take the kids because it delivers the joy of sushi without the dread of checking your bank account afterward. Anywhere else, it’d be a $200 sit-down experience with a side of judgment. But in Japan? $27. That’s it. For 20 plates, dessert, drinks, and a good time.
Tyler crushed six plates. Solid performance. Respectable.
Me? Fourteen.
Do I feel shame? No. That’s amateur guilt. These aren’t the baseball-glove-sized rolls you get back home. These are baby nigiri. Bite-sized. Sushi snacks. Tiny art pieces built for children, chihuahuas, and tourists pretending to be polite.
But I wasn’t here to pretend. I’ve been walking miles, hiking shrines, and carrying emotional baggage along with my real one. I’m exercising. I’m sweating. I’m rebuilding muscle. This was protein. This was fuel. This was recovery.
We paid. Smiled. Walked out full and guilt-free.
The trip marches on. So do we. Onward to whatever comes next.
We stepped out of Kura, stomachs full, spirits high. Tyler’s eyes immediately locked on the claw machines like a heat-seeking missile. Kid’s got a sixth sense for arcades. This one was small, tucked away—probably forgotten by most—but it had just enough flashing lights and plastic prizes to do the trick.
While he was laser-focused on plushie domination, something else caught my eye. Not a game. A sign. A message. Subtle, but loud enough if you know what to look for.
It was outside a photo booth. One of those purikura setups where you get your kawaii on, add sparkles, cat ears, anime eyes. Innocent enough. But the fine print?
“No two males allowed.”
That stopped me.
Because this is what I’m here for too. The layers. The contradictions. The quiet tensions under all the surface harmony. Japan presents as polite, modern, forward-thinking. But underneath? Some things haven’t moved. It actually translated “No men only.” But still, it had a graphic logo and we knew what it meant.
I’m a freedom guy. Libertarian, to the core. Live how you want. Be who you are. Love who you love. Just don’t send me the bill. But this? This silent, printed wall against two guys taking a stupid glittery photo together? That’s where Japan quietly draws the line.
Girls together? Fine. Two girls, one guy? Now we’re talking. Sexy, even. A sandwich, as the bro culture might call it—consensual, fantasy-driven, and apparently, ethical. I’m sure the Mormons are welcomed here since Japan allows polygamy photo shoots. But two guys? Too far.
Never mind that this is a country awash in gay hentai, homoerotic manga, and TV dramas dripping with sexual ambiguity. You can read it, watch it, fantasize about it in the comfort of your home. But bring it out in public? Pose with another guy in a photo booth? Nope. Not here. Not yet. However, they can have a guy in a sailor suit that could possibly be gay. YMCA song cued up?
It’s the silent kind of exclusion. Not shouted. Just posted. And that’s what makes it so sharp.
The machine blinked. Tyler tried again. I stood there for a moment, just taking it in. A country of contradictions. Still beautiful. Still magical. But like anywhere—still learning.
After the arcade, Tyler gave me the green light to chase my fun—the hunt. Not for plushies or claw machine glory, but for something rarer: retro games and musical relics. The real treasures.
Pickings were slim. Most places have moved on—retro is only cool if it fits on a Switch cartridge or can be streamed with ironic detachment. But then I found them. Small, square, translucent gems: the mini CDs from the late ‘90s. Singles. Remixes. Alternate takes. Back in the day, these things were $20–25 a pop. You had to want them.
Now?
Less than a dollar.
And there they were. All of SPEED’s singles. Every last one. Just sitting there like forgotten pieces of my own timeline.
SPEED wasn’t just a girl group—they were a soundtrack. My buddy Chris introduced them to me after his stint in Japan during high school. Their music hit me at the exact moment I needed something bigger than suburbia. Late ‘90s. The awkward, hungry years. Their songs weren’t just catchy—they were a lifeline.
I wanted to live in Japan. SPEED made that dream feel real.
They broke up, of course. That’s the story. Four girls from Okinawa, launched into the machine. Fame came fast. The collapse came faster. Solo careers tried and failed. A reunion tour or two. But Japan moves quick. You age out of relevance here.
In America, we let artists age with us. Here? They’re gracefully retired before 30, replaced by the next sparkly face, the next idol cycle. SPEED got the spotlight. Then the shadow.
But today, I found them again. Sitting in a dusty rack in the back of a secondhand shop. Waiting. For a dollar.
A quiet reward for chasing the past.
Added below is one of my all-time favorites from SPEED—“White Love.”
No, not white power (let’s not get it twisted), and definitely not white American love. It’s “white” as in something pure, maybe divine. Maybe just a lyrical combination that sounded cool in ’90s J-pop. Doesn’t matter. It works. It felt like something.
That song wasn’t just catchy—it was cinematic. Snowfall in your chest. A song you’d hear at the end of a teenage love story where nothing goes right, but somehow it still ends with a smile and a walk home in silence.
“White Love” carried all that emotion. All that hope. It was tender, not cheesy. Powerful, not preachy. And back then, it said to a young version of me:
“It’s okay to feel everything. Even if you don’t know why yet.”
I didn’t understand all the lyrics. Still don’t. But I didn’t have to. That’s the thing with great music. It finds a way in, even when the language doesn’t.
After snagging my nostalgic SPEED CDs at Book Off, we drifted down the escalators into yet another retail rabbit hole—this time, a 100 yen store. The Japanese equivalent of a dollar store, except better. Cleaner. Cheaper. More respectful of your wallet and your need to buy three dozen things you didn’t know you needed.
I went in for laundry soap. One mission.
But then, like a beacon from the sock gods—there they were.
I’d been running this whole trip on one pair of socks like some kind of backpacking monk. It was time to upgrade. And what do I find? Not just any socks. Not bland, functional, utilitarian foot covers. No. I find Western Polo Texas.
Who?
Western Polo Texas.
Let that sink in. Who in Texas plays polo? Nobody. You know what Texas has? Rodeos. BBQ. Trucks. Guns. Baseball. Texans don’t ride horses with mallets—they ride bulls with beer guts. They tailgate for the apocalypse.
And yet here, in a Kyoto dollar store, the myth of Texan aristocratic polo lives on. The logo? Not even close. No mallet. Just a guy on a horse with a rope—probably about to lasso a lost Japanese tourist gone wandering the El Paso desert in search of a nonexistent polo match.
I had to laugh. I mean, how do you not?
Socks in hand, pride intact, 0.75 cents spent like a king—I win.
We headed back to the hotel, one step closer to clean laundry and slightly less shame. A small victory, wrapped around my feet.
Before we said goodbye to Kyoto, we made one last stop—back in the heart of the old district. A place I’d only seen through filtered Instagram shots and whispered travel blogs: the Starbucks.
But not just a Starbucks. The only one of its kind in the world.
No glass cube. No cold corporate design. This one lives inside a restored traditional machiya—a wooden Kyoto townhouse that still breathes history through its beams. You walk in, and it smells like cedar and memory. Old wood. Old world. But behind the counter? Gleaming espresso machines, perfectly trained staff, and a menu that walks the line between global chain and local charm.
This wasn’t just coffee—it was a curated contradiction.
The staff greeted us with that signature Japanese warmth, the kind that makes you feel like a regular even if it’s your first time. And for me, it was my first time. I’d seen the photos. Read the hype. And now, here I was, sitting on tatami mats in a 400-year-old structure, sipping an iced latte.
It was a treat. A pause. A perfect little cultural remix before the next adventure.
After finishing our drinks, we walked the ten minutes back to the hotel. Bags packed. Spirits up. Then south we went—toward Nara. Toward the deer. Toward whatever was waiting next.
