Osaka. A city once steeped in the blood and smoke of Japan’s reunification, where the shadow of Nobunaga still lingers near the ancient stone walls of its castle. The battlefield is long gone. Now, it’s a war of flavor — takoyaki, okonomiyaki, and a thousand other gifts from the street-side griddles. Osaka feeds you, and it doesn’t apologize.
But my kid? He couldn’t care less about any of that. The history, the battles, the ghosts of samurai — all drowned out by the buzz of vending machines and the glow of anime screens. He’s here for the soda with too much sugar, manga that makes no sense to me, and the art of doing absolutely nothing. And maybe, that’s enough.
I didn’t script Osaka. It was meant to be a break in the rhythm — a place to drift, to be spontaneous. After a week on the move, Tyler and I needed to breathe. Last time I passed through here with Kipp, we spotted this sleek hotel near Osaka Castle. I made a mental note: next time, we stay there.
So we did. It’s a little more upscale, a little more space to stretch out. Clean lines, quiet corners. And attached to it — oddly, beautifully — a Lutheran church. Stained glass, spire, the works. I thought it might be nice to catch a service. Of course, we missed it by a day.
No incense. No hymns. No fun.
I thought the day was done. Nara had drained us — the deer, the temples, the slow, steady burn of travel catching up. I was ready to crash. But Tyler was hungry, and when your kid’s hungry, you move. No debate. Just action.
“What do you want?”
“McDonald’s.”
Perfect.
He’s been chasing the differences, poking at the edges of the familiar. Japan McDonald’s is a different beast — the land of teriyaki and odd toppings. We ordered something that doesn’t exist back home: a teriyaki chicken sandwich stacked with potatoes. Not fries on the side. On top.
Tyler hated it.
I had the lemongrass teriyaki. It hit the spot. He picked at his, gave it a shot, but didn’t finish. Still — he’d eaten plenty that day. I didn’t push it. He was full enough. We finally crawled into bed, the city humming just outside. Sleep came quick.
We started the day the right way — Denny’s, again. Yeah, that’s right. In a country full of culinary wonder, we went back to the American diner with a Japanese soul. Because I know Tyler will actually eat there. Pancakes? Check. Miso soup? Also check. A weird combo, but it works. He ate well. That’s what mattered.
The plan was the Osaka Zoo. It was close enough to walk. But then the skies opened up — not a drizzle, not romantic light rain — a full-on downpour. Sheets of it. We made it a couple hundred feet before giving in and buying umbrellas from a corner shop like amateurs.
When we got to the zoo, something felt off. It was empty. Silent. Just us and the rain and the animals hiding from it. No crowds. No noise. The kind of quiet you don’t expect in a city like this. Turns out, no one goes to the zoo in a storm. But we did. And it was kind of perfect.
The Osaka Zoo delivered — even in the rain. Maybe because of the rain. Sure, the tiger exhibit was closed, but that didn’t matter. We’d seen enough of the cool guys.
The giraffe, though — massive, elegant, towering over the grey sky and empty walkways. That was Tyler’s moment. Soaked shoes, dripping umbrellas, and pure, unfiltered joy. He was in it. Present. Smiling.
We made it happen. Despite the weather. Despite the weariness. We had our moment. And in travel, that’s everything.
After the zoo, we wandered back to the hotel — damp, content, ready to crash. But when we got there, the room wasn’t ready. Still being worked on. I looked at Tyler. “Wanna go back out?” He nodded.
This wasn’t the plan. Normally after a few hours out, I know better — Tyler needs downtime, needs to decompress. But something shifted. A second wind hit. We felt alive. This wasn’t sightseeing anymore. We were playing.
So I gave him a mission — something we could both chase. “Find me a manga,” I told him, “one with an art style I could use for my dark comedy.” Suddenly, we had purpose. A quest. We hit Book Off, darting up and down the aisles, flipping through panels, laughing at covers, debating the weird stuff. Tyler found something for himself to read. I kept digging for inspiration.
I’m not much of a manga reader, not really. But I want to make one — something twisted, something funny, something real. A family project, maybe. Something we could all leave behind.
I did my usual scan of the retro games, half-hoping to find a lost treasure. And there it was — a Globe CD, 100 yen. A steal. But I left empty-handed. Not every win has to come in a bag.
We made our way toward the Running Man — the Glico icon, mid-stride, arms up, forever celebrating. He’s a symbol of Osaka now, but fun fact: the model was actually Filipino. Just a guy frozen in time, fronting a thousand tourist photos.
As we walked along the canal, I caught a glimpse of something familiar — Ayumi Hamasaki, splashed across a glowing ad. A face from the early 2000s, Japan’s pop queen. Most people moved on, but I never really did. Her songs still hit. Nostalgia with a beat.
We strolled the Dotonbori canal, neon buzzing, reflections dancing in the water, and there it was — the giant Don Quijote quote sign looming overhead. Osaka doesn’t whisper. It shouts. And here, in the chaos, we were just part of the noise.
We climbed all the floors — every neon-lit, overcrowded, wonderfully chaotic level of Don Quijote. A mega-store fever dream. Everything you didn’t know you needed, stacked to the ceiling. Tyler found some hair clips, happy with his little treasure.
And yes, there’s that section — the one everyone whispers about. The adult toys. Spoiler: it’s nothing you can’t order off Amazon back home. I’m not hunting for anything, just being honest. Japan’s kink shelves aren’t as wild as people want to believe.
Okay — maybe I spent two minutes looking for a women’s beer girl costume. You know, the kind with the Asahi logo and the tray? Nothing. Just cheap knockoffs or sad cosplay leftovers. I’ll piece it together at home.
Purchases in hand, we slipped back into the Osaka night, headed toward the strawberry ice cream joint Vince and Penn introduced me to last year. Some flavors are worth repeating.
As we walked up, I spotted it — the ridiculous, wonderful Osaka octopus photo booth. One of those cut-out boards with a cartoon takoyaki chef and a hole for your face. I told Tyler to do it. He rolled his eyes, but he did it. Head through the hole, looking absolutely ridiculous. Perfect. One of those moments you freeze in your mind. Pure joy. A memory sealed.
We grabbed our strawberry dessert — sweet, messy, nostalgic — and wandered to one last Book Off, still chasing manga and meaning in the shelves. Then it was time to head back.
Tyler’s second wind? It carried us. We didn’t just pass time — we had fun. Real fun. The kind you can’t plan. The kind that sticks.
For me, this was the highlight. This was the part I’ll remember most.
On the way back, somewhere in the guts of the metro station, I found it — art. Not graffiti. Not ads. Real wall art. Bold strokes, raw talent. It wasn’t trying to sell me anything. It just existed. And it hit me.
This is what Osaka needs more of. Not just food stalls and neon — soul. People need to paint. To claim these concrete walls and make them speak. Lighten this city up. Crack it open. Let it breathe.
Art like that doesn’t just decorate. It invites you in. Makes you feel something on your way to somewhere else. That’s the kind of city I want to keep coming back to.
