Author: admin

Back in middle school, I found escape in the strangest way—through ink, paper, and stamps. Pen pals. A fading ritual, like handwritten postcards and phone calls that cost money. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the first time the world cracked open for me. A kid in central Pennsylvania, writing strangers on the other side of the planet, curious about people, their food, their chaos. I was addicted to history and the strange ways humanity stumbled forward. But Japan? That wasn’t even on the radar yet.

Then came Chris.

High school. He had this calm confidence and stories—real ones. He lived in Germany. Four years in Japan. Not as a tourist, but as someone who belonged there. My eyes were wide. I wanted that. I wanted stories that came with weird breakfasts and long train rides through rice fields. Chris didn’t hoard the experience—he wanted me to see it, to feel it. The music, the places, the rhythms of a culture that wasn’t mine. Meanwhile, I was stuck in a place where the most exotic thing on the dinner table was a stromboli with too much American cheese.

Central PA was small. Not just the town—the mindset. Food came in beige. Music came through static radio. Everyone had plans, but none of them involved passports.

Life, of course, doesn’t give you things easily. I wanted Japan, but Japan wanted a visa, a degree, a job lined up. And I had none of that. Just a part-time grind and a calendar full of missed chances. When I had the time, I didn’t have the money. When I had the money, I was someone else’s responsibility.

Fast forward through a blur of airports, checkpoints, and false starts—Japan still hadn’t happened. I checked off places: Germany, the Middle East, a few corners of the world that smelled like dust and diesel. But Japan? That damn checkmark stayed empty.

I once had a trip booked—free, even, thanks to airline miles. But I gave it up. Used the ticket to send my kids to see their grandparents. The kind of sacrifice you do and then forget to pat yourself on the back for.

Years later, I had the time. I had the money. But I also had a wife who didn’t get it. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe it was resentment. I didn’t care anymore. I’d been overseas, grinding 12-hour days for 90 days straight in the Middle East. A slow boil in the desert. All I needed was a week to feel human again before I returned to the domestic reality of bills and passive aggression.

But she didn’t like that.

I remember calling home. Her voice—tense, accusatory. I was “vacationing” instead of rushing back like a good husband. But she didn’t understand. I needed distance. I needed Tokyo. I needed something for me, or I was going to bring the storm home.

I didn’t tell her how long I’d be gone. Why fight over it? This was my battle, and I’d already won it.

I wanted to visit my pen pal in Niigata, finally meet the person on the other end of those letters from my childhood. But the clock was ticking. I only had three full days in-country. I’d save Niigata for another time.

So there I was—standing in Dubai airport, bags packed, ready to board a plane to Japan. A strange calm came over me.

It wasn’t just a trip.

It was finally punching that ticket I’d been carrying around since I was 12.

The plan was simple. Get on a flight in Dubai, get off in Japan. What could go wrong?

I landed at Haneda just past 11 PM, and that’s when it hit me—Tokyo might be the city that never sleeps, but its trains sure as hell do. They stop. And when they stop, they don’t care how tired, lost, or culture-shocked you are.

So I did what I thought was clever—I booked a capsule hotel right at the airport. Sleek. Futuristic. Quintessentially Japanese, right?

Wrong.

Customs was quick, but the moment I stepped into the terminal, I realized I had no idea where I was going. Signs in English? Kinda. But not really. I wandered aimlessly, like some midnight zombie with a carry-on. Wasted a cab driver’s time only to end up right back where I started. Sorry, man.

Eventually, someone must’ve noticed I was the only foreigner pacing around like a confused raccoon. An airport security guard approached—gentle, with a warm smile and that perfect Japanese kindness. His English was rough, but better than my Japanese. He personally walked me to the capsule hotel entrance like I was some clueless backpacker in need of saving.

And there it was—tucked into the belly of the airport, almost too unassuming. My first real night in Japan. I was buzzing with excitement. That electric kind. The “you made it” kind.

I slid my luggage into a space barely big enough for one man and his regrets. The capsule was 6-by-6, just enough room for a bed, no illusions of privacy. I thought I’d be anxious about my stuff, but I’d come to learn—nobody touches anything in Japan. There’s a quiet code here. A respect.

But capsule life? It was not the cool sci-fi dream I imagined.

The walls were thin. Paper-thin. On one side, rhythmic snoring. On the other, something that sounded like a solo performance best left undocumented. That was my cue: no sock sessions tonight. Eyes forward. Keep it classy.

Bathrooms? Communal. Showers? Also communal. No stalls, no curtains—just a row of exposed showers like it was bootcamp all over again. I skipped it. Shy? Maybe. Tired? Definitely.

I lay there in that glowing plastic coffin, the fan humming like an anxious whisper, scrolling through hotel listings. I needed comfort. I needed familiar. I booked a Hilton. I had status, after all. Points to maintain. A bed that didn’t come with rules about masturbation.

But even there, lying in that glorified locker, I felt something real. A sense of arrival. Of crossing a line I’d dreamed about since I was twelve.

I also felt the urge to fix the hotel’s broken English instructions. Maybe they’ll change it. Maybe they won’t. Doesn’t matter. What mattered was this:

Tomorrow, the trains start running again. Tomorrow, I leave the airport.

And tomorrow, I wake up to my first real full day in Japan.

By now, I had Google Maps—my digital compass, my lifeline in a land where the streets curve like ramen noodles and addresses are a Zen riddle. The Tokyo train system? Still a cryptic beast. But like everything else in Japan, it made sense once you surrendered to its logic.

Luggage in tow, I boarded the train from Haneda to Shinjuku, that neon-soaked nerve center where reality frays just a little around the edges. It was quiet. Orderly. But not cold. I didn’t blend in—nobody ever does here—but a pair of kind, older Japanese women clocked me immediately: foreign, confused, probably carrying too much.

They let me sit in the “silver” section. For the elderly. For the injured. For the tired traveler with wide eyes and a dumb grin. I nodded my thanks. They smiled. No words needed.

The Hilton in Shinjuku treated me like a lost dignitary. Polished English, polite bows, keys handed over like I was royalty returning from exile. I was upgraded—big room, lounge access, clean sheets and hot water that didn’t come with shame.

I dropped my gear. Changed into something that didn’t smell like jet fuel and defeat. And I did what any wide-eyed tourist in Tokyo would do: I stepped outside and headed straight to the vending machines.

Not just machines. Icons. Shrines to convenience and weirdness.

You’ve heard the legends—beer, cigarettes, maybe even used panties for the depraved and the desperate. Japan doesn’t judge, it just delivers. But what I found that morning wasn’t filth. It was something better.

Black Boss.
A canned coffee with a name that punches you in the throat. No milk. No sugar. Just attitude and caffeine. I cracked it open. Took a sip.

I didn’t feel like a boss.
I felt like a man who’d spent 20 years trying to get to this moment.

The city didn’t roll out a red carpet. It didn’t need to. The crosswalks pulsed. The neon buzzed. I started walking toward Shibuya—the legendary crossing. That sea of motion where hundreds move like a choreographed hallucination.

I still wasn’t sure how I felt. But I was here.

And that was enough—for now.

I knew I had to do it.

The Crossing.

Shibuya—chaotic, cinematic, absurdly photogenic. I’d seen it a thousand times in films, blogs, and pixelated YouTube clips. But now, I was here. No screen between me and it. Just the city. Moving. Breathing.

Before I stepped into that river of humanity, I paid my respects to the Hachikō statue. A loyal dog who waited years for a master that never came home. The story punches you right in the chest—pure devotion wrapped in rusted bronze. Japan loves its ghosts.

The internet told me to visit, and for once, it wasn’t wrong.

Then I crossed.

Once. Twice. Five times.

Not because I was lost. Because I needed to feel it. That rush of strangers brushing past with perfect indifference. No one shoving. No one yelling. Just silent movement—hundreds of lives intersecting for mere seconds before splintering off into the city’s veins again.

Each time I crossed, something shifted in me. A surreal mix of awe and melancholy. This wasn’t just a tourist box to check. It was the moment.

I was here. Finally. Really.

But it was bittersweet.
Because every step reminded me that I wouldn’t be here long.

And sometimes, the most beautiful places are the ones you know you can’t stay in.

The train ride was smooth. Of course it was. In Japan, even chaos arrives on time.

I was headed to Akihabara—the technophile’s sanctuary. A shrine built from neon, circuitry, and obsession. If Tokyo had a heartbeat, this was its electric pulse. You don’t just visit Akihabara. You plug into it.

For me, this wasn’t about anime girls or capsule toys—though they were everywhere, staring at you from vending machines like glitchy avatars. No, I came for the gear.

I did the sensible thing. I went lens hunting.

Back then, I still traveled with a DSLR. Phones weren’t there yet. They couldn’t capture what I needed—the wide shots, the edges of temples, the breath of a crowded alleyway at dusk. I needed glass. Something sharp. Something honest.

I found it.

A beautiful wide-angle lens. Expensive, sure. But what the hell. I’d earned it. After months of grinding in the desert, buried in sweat and sand, this was my gift to myself. Not a Rolex. Not a watch. A tool. Something to document the world properly.

Akihabara didn’t stop moving. Every alley held another world. Arcades. Camera shops. Maid cafés. Walls of blinking light and 8-bit nostalgia. You could lose hours here. You should lose hours here.

But even surrounded by the digital, I felt something grounded.

This wasn’t just tech.
It was possibility.
And in that moment, standing beneath a tangle of signs and sounds, camera in hand, I felt ready to go find it.

I was still figuring it out—this camera, this city, this moment.

The Canon DSLR hung around my neck like a tool I hadn’t quite mastered. I fumbled with exposures, tried to catch light in ways I didn’t fully understand yet. But I knew I’d get there. Eventually. Sometimes you have to take the bad shots before you find the good ones.

Akihabara was a maze. Bright. Loud. Beautifully absurd.

I walked—no, wandered—through it like a pilgrim in a place of worship he couldn’t quite explain. I didn’t know when I’d be back. Or if I’d be back. So I made the most of it. I climbed the stairs in tiny stores stacked like circuit boards, each floor more chaotic than the last. Floors that smelled like hot plastic and ambition.

I passed walls of retro games, blinking machines screaming for attention, the soft glow of nostalgia wrapped in LCD and grime. I didn’t play anything—I just watched. Took mental snapshots. Noted what was there, and more importantly, what might not be in ten years.

Time’s funny like that. You don’t feel it passing until everything you remember is gone.

Eventually, the adrenaline wore off. I felt it in my legs, in my spine. I’d been running on excitement and vending machine coffee. I needed a break. So I headed back to the Hilton. My temporary sanctuary. Familiar sheets, hot water, silence.

Rest wasn’t just welcome. It was necessary. I was still learning how to be here.

And tomorrow, there’d be more to see.

Back at the Hilton, I took the elevator to the lounge—VIP access. One of the few luxuries that actually meant something when the real world started to fray at the edges.

I poured a Scotch. Then another.

I wasn’t drinking to celebrate. Not really. I was drinking because I’d been drinking hard for the last three months with brothers-in-arms out in the Middle East. Men who were exhausted, sun-scorched, missing their families, and just trying to keep it together. We didn’t toast much. We just tried to feel normal for a few hours between the shifts and the silence.

But here—back in civilization, back in Tokyo—I felt it coming on. The unraveling.

I didn’t go to the bar. I didn’t chase women. I didn’t make bad decisions that would leave scars. I stayed in the room.

And I broke down.

Not loudly. Not violently. Just enough.

My hands shook. My breath turned shallow. The room started to close in—but the view was still there. Tokyo at night, glowing beneath me. I stared out the window. I waited 18 goddamn years for this moment. I should have felt triumphant. I should have felt something like joy.

Instead, I cried.

Because my wife—my partner, the one who should have stood beside me—wanted to take this away. She didn’t understand why I needed this trip. Why I couldn’t just come straight home like a well-trained dog. She couldn’t see how close to the edge I was.

Or maybe she did. And didn’t care.

Before I boarded that plane, for the first time, I truly considered divorce. Not out of hate. Out of clarity. We weren’t a team. She couldn’t handle me traveling—and maybe she just couldn’t handle me.

She was coming off her time in the Navy, starting over with a low-paying job, clawing her way toward General Atomics. I wanted to be supportive. I tried. But I was broken, too. Worn thin by life, by deployments, by the thousand compromises we both stopped counting.

We didn’t fight fair anymore. She barked. She projected. She’d unravel, and I’d be expected to play therapist, husband, and punching bag all at once.

This time, though—I barked back.

On the phone, somewhere between accusation and desperation, I raised my voice. Maybe for the first time. I was tired of always being the one to take the hit.

And yeah… maybe if I had flown straight home, things wouldn’t have gotten worse.
But they wouldn’t have gotten better either.

She was a control freak. She hated when I left. She hated when I didn’t bring her. She hated my friends. Especially Rick.

But Rick was there.

I called him, somewhere around Scotch number three. The guy my wife loathed, the guy who’d been through fire with me since high school. He picked up. No judgment. No clichés. Just calm. Just presence.

He talked me down.

The shakes stopped. The room stopped spinning. The noise in my head quieted, just enough.

I climbed into bed, the city still buzzing outside, and for the first time since I got here, I slept.

I made it to Japan.

And the one person who should’ve celebrated with me… scorned me instead.

I didn’t need much. Just support. Just someone who understood the weight I carried.
But she wasn’t that person anymore.

The next morning, I wandered Tokyo with no real plan—just a camera in hand and a quiet ache in my chest.

I made my way toward Edo Castle. I wanted old stones, old wood, old silence. Something ancient to remind me that not everything had to be shiny and fast. The grounds were peaceful—well-kept, precise, surrounded by the quiet discipline Japan is so good at. I snapped photos, experimented with framing and exposure. I wasn’t just sightseeing. I was cataloging. Mapping out a mental grid. For the next time. If there was a next time.

Not far from the castle, I descended into one of the city’s underground malls—those endless subterranean mazes lined with shops, bakeries, and little cafés that smelled like soy and sweetness. A world beneath a world. Tokyo’s layers run deep.

Eventually, I found myself near Tokyo Station.

It’s a beautiful thing—red brick, European curves, standing proudly like a remnant from a different age. It feels like it belongs to another city. Another time. I stopped and stared, appreciating it the way you do when you know you’re about to leave something behind.

But hunger always wins.

I ducked into a building overlooking the station and found a quiet restaurant. No crowd. No pressure. Just me and the weight of tomorrow. The woman handed me an English menu—gracious, no judgment. I ordered curry. Warm, simple, comforting. A meal made for reflection.

Tomorrow I’d go home.

Whatever home meant anymore.

My kids—Ophelia, now Tyler, and little Orion—were waiting. They were still young. Still adaptable. Maybe too young to realize how far I’d gone, and why. I missed them. Ached for them. But this was my reality: I traveled to keep the lights on. To make sure they had what they needed. And yeah, I chased adventure too.

Because I wasn’t getting love at home.

Not anymore.

My wife? She’d made it clear—this wasn’t about us. It was always about her. Her struggles. Her anxiety. Her noise. Her silence. Her rules. Her scorn.

And I couldn’t fix that.

I used to think if I just tried harder, if I came back sooner, if I spoke softer… maybe. But no. Her unhappiness was her own. A storm she refused to name. And it spilled into everything. The kids. The house. The dinner table.

She didn’t do much. Not really.
She cooked. And bitched.
She bitched about cooking.

And when she wasn’t doing that, she was angry at the world. At me. At herself, probably. I’d try to help—give advice, offer solutions—but she didn’t want that. She just wanted someone to blame.

So I sat in a quiet restaurant in Tokyo. Ate curry by myself. Looked out the window.

And realized there was nothing left to fix.

I walked back to the hotel. Took one last glance at the Tokyo skyline. Then I slept.

Because tomorrow, I’d board a plane and fly home.

To what, I still wasn’t sure.

It was early. The kind of quiet only big cities know—before the trains fill, before the horns start, before the vending machines start to hum louder than your thoughts.

I was heading back to the airport. The same way I came. There’s comfort in symmetry when your life feels like anything but.

This trip—my first to Japan—wasn’t a highlight reel of sushi, temples, and cosplay selfies. It was quieter. More personal. The kind of trip you don’t post much about because you spend most of it stuck in your own head.

I respected my wife enough to want her blessing.
I didn’t get it.

So I got up early and rode the train south to Yokohama. I didn’t know what I was looking for—peace, maybe. Forgiveness. A sign. There was a small park just outside the station, up a hill. Nothing special. No hidden temple or Michelin-star noodle shop. Just some benches. Some silence.

I climbed the hill. Sat down.

And I thought about all of it.

What if I’d never married? What if I’d made Japan my home back in the ’90s, when the itch first started? Could I have been happy? Maybe. I could have chased a job. Married a local girl. Stayed. But even in that dream, I saw the cracks—marrying for visas, chasing novelty instead of meaning. That wasn’t me. Not really.

I did love my family. My kids, without question. Ophelia—now Tyler—and Orion. They were waiting for me back home. Waiting to carve pumpkins and laugh. To have their dad.

And my wife? Sometimes I loved her too. But we were broken. Worse, we were silent about it. She couldn’t give me what I needed, and I couldn’t pretend anymore that everything was fine. I kept waiting for her to calm me, ground me, see me. But all I got was resistance. Projection. Control. Her unhappiness had become the houseguest we all lived with.

Still, leaving them behind to chase freedom? That was the coward’s dream.
And I’m not a coward.

I sat there on that bench and asked myself a hard question: What am I chasing?

Success? Validation? Peace?
Maybe I just wanted to finally say, I made it. That I clawed my way out of nowhere. Paid for my own life. That the boy who started with nothing was now here, in Tokyo, because he earned it.

I didn’t celebrate this trip.
I marked it.

Eventually, time was up. I walked down the hill. Took the train. Boarded my flight. Headed back to San Diego.

Halloween was coming. My kids were waiting for Daddy. And so, I put the costume back on—the husband, the father, the dependable man.

No one knew I’d be back in the Middle East just a month later.

But that’s another story.

I first came to Okinawa in 2018, hand in hand with my wife, looking for quiet and to see family. We were chasing turquoise water and something older than time—part Japan, part something else entirely. The kind of place where the air hangs heavy with salt, and even the ghosts wear flip-flops. It was all red-tiled roofs, Awamori toasts, and slow conversations with people who never seemed in a rush to get anywhere. That trip was peace.

Then came 2023. Different scene. No wife. Just me and my two teenagers, rerouted by a typhoon that decided Osaka wasn’t safe enough for anyone. We landed in Okinawa again—not planned, but needed. And it welcomed us like only Okinawa can: with hot sand, hibiscus blooms, and that quiet, unshakable defiance. This place has been battered by storms, wars, and tourists, and yet it smiles like an old fighter who knows it still has its teeth. Again, we were able to see family and it worked out well.

This isn’t Tokyo. It’s not even really Japan in the way you think Japan is. This is Okinawa—where American military bases cast long shadows and grandmas still dance Eisa in the street. It’s contradictions on a plate. Pork belly and sea grapes. Peaceful beaches with a complicated past. A place that forces you to slow down, to sweat a little, to listen.

This isn’t a story about vacation. It’s about what happens when you wash ashore somewhere that remembers everything and forgives nothing. Welcome to Okinawa.

We woke up too damn early in Osaka. Not for adventure, not for romance—just to catch a 9:45 AM flight out of Kansai before the trains turned into a sweaty game of human Tetris. I’ve been around long enough to know: dragging kids and suitcases through rush hour is masochism. So we moved early, quiet, dodging puddles like it meant something. Umbrellas up, heads down. Tyler and I walked like ghosts through a city that still hadn’t forgiven us for waking it.

The train south was clinical. Silent. Japan’s transit system is a meditation if you let it be. No one’s yelling, no one’s late. You just disappear into a humming machine and hope it spits you out somewhere better.

Kansai Airport is burned into my brain at this point. I could walk it blindfolded. There’s that Lawson’s down the corridor—the one with the perfect egg salad sandwiches. Still there. But the storefronts shift. Old ones gone. New ones trying too hard. That’s the nature of airports. Nothing stays. But memory does. I thought about Kipp. We were just here not long ago. Same floor. Same rhythm. Airports remember. They store the versions of you that passed through. You just don’t get to keep them.

No time for nostalgia though—security was the usual sterile dance. We got on the plane, settled in. Tyler’s asleep before takeoff. I’m staring out the window, letting the hum of the engines wash away Osaka’s gray. Two hours. Then it’s Okinawa.

We land. The door opens and the world changes. The air here doesn’t hit you—it hugs you. Damp, hot, smells like seaweed and machine oil. Okinawa doesn’t greet you with grace. It smothers you with its truth.

We get shuttled to Avis, because this is Japan and nothing ever happens by accident. Everything is procedure. Efficient, courteous to the point of comedy. They bow. They print. They apologize for being too helpful. And here’s where I draw the line in the sand:

Don’t screw around with some off-brand rental company in Japan. You’ll think you’re saving money until you’re lost, arguing with a guy whose English consists of “Hello” and “No.” This isn’t the moment to be clever. You want corporate. You want Avis. Nissan. Toyota. The boring names. The ones that speak your language and don’t disappear when your GPS craps out halfway to the beach.

Travel isn’t about cutting corners. It’s about surviving the chaos long enough to enjoy the moments that matter. Sometimes that means ordering the beer you know, renting the car you trust, and skipping the boutique disaster with a hand-painted sign.

Because when you’re a dad, dragging teenagers through storm-soaked train stations, chasing blue skies and something that looks like peace… boring is beautiful. Predictable is freedom.

And Okinawa? It’s waiting. Again. Different. Always.

At the airport, I bribed Tyler with ice cream. It wasn’t breakfast, but it kept the wolves at bay until we could get to the main event—lunch. In Japan, food isn’t just a meal. It’s a mission. And mine was Kura Sushi.

We made our way to the Aeon Mall, that towering temple of commerce where teenagers roam free and air conditioning is religion. I knew where I was going—straight to the rotating paradise. Kura Sushi. My spot. My brand. I trust it like an old friend who never asks questions, just pours you a drink and says, “Eat.”

Two years ago, Tyler sat here quietly, a kid learning the ropes. This time? Same mall. Same chain. But everything’s different. He’s grown. We both have. But I think we screwed up—sat in the wrong section. The conveyor belt was wiped clean like locusts had come through. No sushi in sight, just the echo of crying babies and the low hum of happy families chewing.

So I went full special-order mode. Tapped the screen like a junkie and summoned an army of nigiri, rolls, and sides. The plates stacked up. The robot sent reinforcements. We got fed. Tyler, hooked on the prize system, promised to eat a few more plates for a shot at the capsule toy game. He won. Of course. Kid’s got luck and an appetite now.

Me? I had two beers. The good kind. Cold, slightly bitter, and perfectly irresponsible. Two beers hit hard in a place like Okinawa, when the body’s still shaking off travel and you haven’t had enough carbs to soak up the day. But I walked it off. Dad duty. We couldn’t check in yet, so we drifted through the mall like ghosts. Bellies full. Hearts light. Waiting for the next thing to hit us.

First stop—familiar ground. The Pokémon Store. Like moths to neon flame, we always end up here. There’s something sacred about returning to a place where nostalgia meets capitalism and punches you right in the wallet.

I pinged my buddy Dai, a fellow Siren and card addict, because that’s what you do when you’re in the motherland of pocket monsters. He fired back his list like he’d been waiting all day. Then, like any true collector, he revised it five minutes later. I respect that level of madness.

Not long after, another message: “Can you drop $50 on Pokémon cards for me?” That’s not a favor—that’s a calling. This is why I came with a half-empty dufflebag and a willingness to smuggle foam Pikachus like I’m crossing an embargo line. These aren’t just souvenirs. These are currency. Social capital. The kind of loot you can’t find on the mainland unless you know a guy.

Tyler found something too. Of course he did. You don’t walk into that place and leave empty-handed unless you’ve got a heart made of stone. We kept moving, weaving through the mall, the air buzzing with that clean Okinawa fluorescence. Here, in this southern outpost of the Japanese empire, are things you can’t get anywhere else. Specific. Limited. Regional.

This isn’t just shopping. It’s artifact hunting. Strip mall archaeology. And we’re good at it.

We found ourselves drawn back to the bookstore—a place we wandered into two years ago, back when Tyler was shorter and my knees didn’t click so loud. Same store, same scent of ink and paper, same calm hum of quiet readers and fluorescent lights. There was a Hanshin Tigers magazine on the shelf that made me think of Kipp. Maybe I’ll grab it for him. Or maybe I’ll wait until the guilt of not buying it outweighs the weight in my carry-on.

Tyler, naturally, beelined to the manga section like it was sacred ground. Photos were mandatory. Ritual, even. For him, it’s a catalog of joy. For me, a reminder that bookstores still matter—especially here, where even comic books feel like cultural artifacts.

I hunted for something more obscure. Japanese Bass Magazine—the one with those elusive AA= interviews. A needle in a kanji-covered haystack. No luck this time. Maybe I’ll break and drop $35 on eBay later, but part of me would rather pay the 1000 yen in-person just to hold it immediately. I love books. They ground me. Make me feel like I’m still a part of the analog world. And in a place like Okinawa, that means something.

We made it to the hotel, finally. Bags down, shoes off, air conditioning on full blast.

Later that night, I took a solo pilgrimage to the Family Mart. Midnight alleyways, the scent of ramen and damp pavement in the air, dodging bikes and the occasional kei car barreling through like it’s a racetrack. It’s peaceful, in a weird, reckless way.

Picked up snacks, drinks, and laundry soap. Tyler had apparently reached laundry crisis levels. Travel with teens and you’ll find yourself doing detergent runs in a foreign country at 10 p.m., heart full, head quiet.

These are the moments. The small ones. The ones that don’t make postcards but stay with you forever.

The next morning, I woke to the kind of sunrise that makes you question everything. Pink sky bleeding into the ocean, the light filtering through the curtains like a whisper. I laid there, not exactly awake, not ready to move, just chewing on a thought I’ve had more than once: What if I stayed?

Not forever. I’m not that romantic. But maybe summers. Maybe two weeks at a time to disappear, unplug, reset. Okinawa has that effect on you. The pace is slower, the food honest, the rent laughable. Five hundred bucks a month gets you something livable here—try pulling that off in San Diego without also living in a van down by the border fence.

My American money stretches like yoga pants after Thanksgiving. Sushi for a few bucks, beach everywhere, and a sunset that never lies to you. Why not decompress here between gigs? Recharge here, then fly back in time for SD Wave games. Stream the matches when I can’t. Pretend I’m still part of it all while living in a place that doesn’t ask so much of me.

Tyler was still asleep. I let him have a few more minutes before shaking him gently. Aquarium day. One of our best traditions. If we left now, we could beat the buses and the mainlanders. And in Okinawa, beating traffic means buying yourself a better kind of day.

You wouldn’t know it from the brochures or the Instagram reels, but one of the best museums in the world sits quietly in Okinawa—tucked among the palms and war memorials, far from the tourist stampede. No flashing signs. No “world-famous” anything. Just stories, scars, and soul.

We drove for over an hour to get there, just in time for the doors to open. The air was already thick, sun baking the asphalt before noon. But inside, cool air and silence. Tyler lit up the moment we stepped in. He remembered this place—not vaguely, not like a kid barely recalling something. No, this was rooted. It meant something to him.

He dove into every exhibit like he was searching for something. Not rushing. Reading. Feeling. This wasn’t a stop on the itinerary—it was a return. A quiet homecoming to memories stitched into a younger version of himself.

You can’t fake connection like that. You can’t buy it at a gift shop.

This is what travel should be. The places that make you feel something—even if you can’t quite name it.

This—this—was why we came.

Not the flights, not the mall, not even the sushi. It was this. The big tank.

There’s a spot in the Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium where the world just stops. A darkened room, cool and quiet, where an impossible wall of water rises in front of you like a dream. Whale sharks drift by like silent gods. Manta rays sweep past like they’re dancing in slow motion. Time doesn’t just slow—it disappears.

Tyler stood there for over five minutes, locked in. No phone. No noise. No questions. Just him and the fish, like he was plugged into something deeper. I watched him from the bench behind, not moving, not speaking, just witnessing.

This was the longest I’ve seen him sit still outside of a screen. But this was different. This was his moment—pure, undistracted awe. And somehow, that made it mine too.

Travel gives you a lot. Headaches, receipts, sunburns. But every once in a while, it gives you a perfect silence. A memory you don’t have to take a picture of because it brands itself right into your chest.

That was the big tank. And that was everything.

There are things money can buy—and sometimes, they’re worth every damn coin.

For 500 yen, we got a front-row seat to wonder. A table pressed up against the glass of the big tank, the best view in the house, no VIP badge required. I ordered Tyler a kid’s meal that came in some goofy themed box with cartoon fish smiling too hard, and for myself? The official Okinawa Aquarium beer—whatever the hell that meant. Cold, local, perfect. I added ice cream to the mix because why not? If you’re going to indulge, go all in.

We sat there for 45 minutes, just watching the endless ballet of ocean giants float by like it was nothing. Tyler didn’t fidget. He didn’t ask for a screen. He just watched—eyes wide, head tilted slightly, completely present.

This wasn’t entertainment. This wasn’t distraction. This was magic. A rare, sacred kind of stillness that modern life almost never allows.

He was happy. I was happy watching him happy. And for once, nothing else mattered.

It’s the little things—plastic trays, cold beer, soft light through blue water—that hit the hardest. That stay the longest. That make you wonder why we ever thought we needed more.

At the bottom of the stairs, right where the aquarium lets you out to pretend you’re not emotionally wrecked by whale sharks, there’s a quiet path that leads down to the sea. Steps that cut toward tide pools and shoreline calm. We found it. Closed.

No real explanation. Just a rope and some official-looking barricade that said, Not today. A few years ago, Tyler had splashed through those very pools with Orion and Jaxon—barefoot, laughing, the tide wrapping around them like a secret handshake. Those memories were still fresh, still salted. But not today.

I don’t know why it was closed. Could’ve been erosion, or jellyfish, or a supervisor with a clipboard and a power complex. Doesn’t matter. It stung. But we weren’t sunk.

There’s always another plan. That’s the beauty of island life. Down the road, there’s a beach with soft sand and zero complications. Or even Okuma—the military-run strip of paradise where the fences are tight but the water’s warm and clean. We had time. We had options. That’s more than most.

And then came the tour buses. Dozens of them. Doors hissing open like bloated metal beetles, spilling out packs of tourists—mostly Chinese, mostly loud, mostly charging straight for the front of whatever line existed. I’ve seen this dance before. Selfie sticks, shouted commentary, elbows out. It’s not about where they’re from. It’s about energy. And right then, I needed peace, not combat.

So we packed up. Slipped out before the chaos stuck to our skin. Sometimes, knowing when to leave is just as important as knowing where to go.

Heading south, somewhere between the big fish tanks and the promise of air conditioning, I made the call—Let’s stop at Nago Pineapple Park.

If you’ve ever seen those sunny, over-posed photos from the Dole Plantation in Hawaii, you get the idea. This was the Okinawan version: cheaper, weirder, and trying just hard enough to be charming. There’s a ride—because of course there is. An automated pineapple cart that drives you past plastic dinosaurs, tropical plants, and animatronic cheer so over-the-top it becomes surreal. It’s organized chaos with a pineapple aftertaste.

Then comes the gift shop—a temple to all things yellow and acidic. Pineapple ice cream, pineapple cakes, pineapple wine, pineapple rum. Shampoos, soaps, and yes, pineapple underwear. Socks too. Probably something for your mid-level manager who thinks climbing rocks on the weekend makes him interesting.

Tyler loved it. Especially when I agreed—without much of a fight—to pose for the obligatory “pretend to be pineapples” photo. One of those glorious tourist traps where pride goes to die and memories get made. I leaned in. For him. For the story. For the trip.

But like all novelty, it wore off. All good pineapple things come to an end.

Truth is, I don’t even like pineapple. The flavor’s fine. The symbolism? Not so much. There’s this code, this quiet nod among certain groups—swingers. Pineapples on the porch. Pineapples on the t-shirt. Let’s trade spouses and act like it’s no big deal. Not my world. Not my thing.

My ex-wife’s boyfriend was into that. I heard things. Read things. The kind of guy who gets caught surfing swap sites by his teenage son, then lies about it like it’s a pop-up ad. I knew what he was. I knew what she chose. And that’s who they are.

But that’s the past. That’s their club, not mine.

I’ve got something better now. Someone loyal. Real. No codes, no games—just shared laughs, good mornings, and truth in the quiet parts.

So yeah, I posed with the pineapple. I took the photo. Then I walked away, back to the car, back to what matters. Some things you taste. Others you leave behind.

I pointed the car toward Orion Happy Park—the Okinawan brewery that makes the beer I default to whenever life requires something cold and forgiving. I’ve been here before. More than once. It’s a kind of pilgrimage. But this time? Thursday. Closed. Who closes a brewery on a Thursday? I don’t know. Probably a crime against tourism. But I was fine. I stopped in, nodded to the ghosts of beers past, and moved on.

Because I knew exactly where I needed to be.

Manga Shoku.

Think of it as the Book Off of your dreams if your dreams involve dusty racks, rare finds, and sweating through your shirt in record time. A true Japanese super thrift—messy, magical, full of ghosts from the 90s. I’d been here before. Two years ago, I scored big. And the bathroom? Same one. Same miserable hot box. I took a proper Okinawa-style dump in tropical humidity and cursed the gods for inventing seasons. It’s a ritual now. Like leaving a coin at a shrine, just grosser.

Then I started digging. That holy thrift hunt. The kind that turns grown men into giddy children.

Mini CDs. Real ones. Amuro Namie, The Brilliant Green, and Globe. Globe mini-CDs. That’s the kind of thing that doesn’t just show up. That’s a time capsule someone cracked open and priced at 150 yen. I bought them without blinking.

Tyler found a couple of statues—probably something anime, probably something breakable, definitely something he’ll carry like treasure.

I hit the retro game aisle and struck gold. My light gun. The one I’ve been trying to find since the last time I missed it by a shelf. And then—yes—a Famicom horror game for my buddy Vince. No Zelda though. Not yet. The grail still eludes me.

There I was, buried in the retro game section, flipping through old cartridges like a man possessed, when it hit me—not the game, not the smell of dust and aging plastic—but the sound.

Amuro Namie.

“Concentration 20.” Blasting through the store speakers like it had something to prove. That album dropped 28 years ago, but for me, it’s frozen in time—1997 in a bottle. The voice of Okinawa’s queen, echoing through a thrift store stacked with forgotten treasures. It wasn’t just nostalgia—it was an anthem. My anthem. A personal shopping soundtrack. When Namie plays, I spend.

Two years ago, in the same damn store, I was mid-sweat, mid-crap, cursing the humidity and the ventilation, when Speed came on—the other Okinawan legends. Four girls, one sound, and a flood of high school memories. I sat on that toilet and laughed out loud. Who programs a thrift store bathroom playlist this perfectly?

Okinawa has its own rhythm. It’s not Tokyo cool or Kyoto refined—it’s something grittier, more honest. You don’t just hear Namie or Speed here. You feel them. In the radio static. In the shopping aisles. In the bathroom stalls.

It’s not just music. It’s homecoming. Every damn time.

But this was only Day One. There’s always tomorrow. Always another thrift pile to crawl through, another bathroom to curse, another memory to pocket.

This is how I do Okinawa. Not beaches and tours. Not temples and TikToks. Just sweat, nostalgia, and the satisfying click of a mini-CD sliding into an old stereo.

Glorious.

The next day, we woke up late—slow, hazy, and unbothered. The sun was already high, and the air carried that humid coastal heaviness that makes you question your life choices. We drove south, past the tourist gloss, past the signs you can’t read but pretend to, toward something raw.

We stopped at a McDonald’s—not because it was sacred, but because it was there. A shrine of beige predictability. Tyler didn’t love it anymore. Maybe he never really did. Tastes change. People grow up. At least he had pancakes. There’s comfort in that.

Today wasn’t about food, not really. It was about chasing ghosts through thrift stores, following the scent of someone else’s forgotten treasure. I wanted to make it to the southern tip, where the maps stop being useful and the best stories don’t come with directions.

We took the backroads—the ones that snake through forgotten villages and rusted vending machines, where the jungle starts to win. I was looking for Peace Park. That was the plan. But plans don’t mean much when you’re chasing ghosts in a rented car. We found something else instead. Something Tower. The kind of place that’s too quiet, too still. No crowds. No tour buses. Just Tyler and me.

We stood there, looking out at the ocean, the wind brushing our faces like a reminder we were alive and far from everything. Tyler tolerated me—his patience running on borrowed time. I know how it goes. The clock ticks louder when you’re traveling with a teenager. There’s a limit. And when it’s up, it’s up.

But I needed this. I had stared at this speck on Google Maps during lunch breaks back home, eating microwaved leftovers and pretending I wasn’t daydreaming. This wasn’t just a pin on a map—it was a promise to myself. And now, here we were. I had to finish it. I had to stand here, see it with my own eyes, and breathe it in—just once.

We pushed north toward Naha—untouched territory. Still wild in our personal mythology. We hadn’t plundered this one yet. The city unwrapped itself slowly, like it was waiting to see if we deserved it.

We dipped into a thrift shop, one of those places that hums with the low buzz of forgotten lives. The usual suspects were there—rows of basic CDs, a few tired shelves of forgotten pop. Then I spotted her—Amuro Namie. The Concentration 20 CD. A classic. One I probably already owned, but for a few yen? That kind of find still hits like a sugar rush.

And then—there it was. A Wii drum set, 100 yen. I paid ten bucks for the same damn one in Tokyo last summer. And yet, I felt victorious, like I’d just unearthed buried treasure. These are the strange joys you live for out here.

The games were lacking. Shelf after shelf of shovelware and disappointment. But the place had energy. Quirky, lived-in, sincere.

Then I saw them.

The bugs. Massive. Alien. Like something cooked up in a fever dream. I don’t know what it is about Okinawa, but when nature shows up, it doesn’t knock first.

Japan has these beetles—big, shiny, armored things with menacing pinchers like they’re ready for war. Stag beetles, rhinoceros beetles… little tanks with legs. The kind of bug that would give a grown adult pause. I first saw them back in 2016, passing through Niigata. They were in vending machines, pet shops, convenience store corners—sold like candy. Just a few bucks and you could own your own miniature kaiju.

You can’t bring them back to the States—some customs law, or maybe just common sense. I’m not even sure they’re legal. But here? They’re prized. Kids name them, feed them jelly, even stage battles.

I know Orion would love them. The shiny armor, the slow, deliberate crawl. It’s that perfect mix of nature and sci-fi. Something ancient, something alive. In another life, maybe I’d have bought one too. Just to keep on the dashboard. A little reminder of how strange and beautiful the world can be.

I was within walking distance of a half-dozen thrift and used stores—a personal paradise, a minefield of nostalgia and buried treasure. But the sun was creeping up, and Tyler’s patience was melting with it. Teenagers and heat don’t mix. Their tolerance burns off quicker than sunscreen on Okinawan asphalt.

I called an audible—McDonald’s. Cold drink, AC, a brief truce. You learn to pick your battles. The fortitude of teenagers isn’t built for marathon junk hunts in tropical heat.

But I had one last stop in me. Naha’s Book Off. Just a quick hit, a peek, a hope.

And there it was—like fate on a shelf. A cart full of mini-CDs. The kind they stopped making decades ago. Slim, strange, and perfect. Amuro Namie, globe, The Brilliant Green. I went in with a mission. I came out heavy. I did well. Damn well. A haul for the ages. Tyler didn’t say much—but he didn’t need to. I was already riding high.

I would’ve gone south—chased the turquoise waters and quiet coves, let the beaches wash the day down to a hum. But I could tell Tyler wasn’t up for it. No spark. No push. So I called it. Turned the car north, let the AC blast, and headed for something safer—American Village.

It’s not a place I’d usually go for. Too polished, too curated. But I knew I could give Tyler something familiar there. The cat café. It’s always the same with teenagers—if it’s their idea, their thing, they come alive. And for thirty minutes, he did. Purring cats, chilled air, and peace. We were good.

Lunch was a compromise. He turned down the Indian-influenced curry I was craving, so ramen it was. Plain. Predictable. This kid’s picky and it stings a little—like all the years you spent eating everything on the planet were wasted on someone who’d rather just not.

After the café, we took a walk down the beach. The tide was out. A dead-flat stretch of hot, wet sand. Miserable. Beautiful, but miserable. Tyler had hit the wall. No more charm left in the day.

So I did the only thing I could—I took him home.

Later that evening, the day took a turn for the better—we met up with family. Cassie, Jaxon, and Eve rolled out, and just like that, the mood lifted. We went to the one place you can always count on to please every picky eater and cautious palate: Kura Sushi. Conveyor belts, touch screens, prizes for plates—it’s the great equalizer of family dinners in Japan.

Honestly, I should just get the damn T-shirt. I’ve earned it by now.

We caught up over plates of salmon, tamago, and mystery rolls we picked just because they looked cool on the screen. The kids laughed, swapped stories, and for a while, everything felt easy. That rare kind of travel night where no one’s melting down, the food is flowing, and the memories just sort of make themselves.

Eventually, we wrapped it up and drifted back home—full, tired, and content. A quiet end to a long, wandering day.

The next day, we had time to kill—the kind of day where anything felt possible, but only within strict limits. I thought maybe Tyler would wake up with beach energy. Sand, sun, maybe a swim. But that didn’t happen.

I knew the rule. The sacred law of travel with teens: only two events a day. Any more than that and the gears start grinding. Overload. Meltdown. So I adjusted. I could do ten things before lunch and still want more. But this wasn’t about me.

We went with the safest bet I had—the mall. Familiar ground. Air conditioning. Vending machines. It even had a wrestling ring set up, roped off in the center like some surreal shopping center showdown. Japan always surprises you like that.

We grabbed a few last-minute gifts, wandered the narrow backstreets on foot, slipping past alleys and storefronts that felt frozen in time. Made our way back to the hotel with enough left in the tank for one more ritual: food.

Ramen. Again. Not my first choice, not my last. But sometimes you just lean into it.

Then we waited. Bags packed. Bellies full. Killing time until it was time to head out to the ball game—our final event of the day, just under the wire.

We took a taxi down—no way was I gambling on parking chaos. I’ve been burned before. Two years ago, Tyler and I had wandered near this same stadium, just passing by. I remember thinking, someday, we’ll be back here for something real. And here we were. Not just walking by, but stepping inside—for a soccer game.

FC Ryukyu. Okinawa’s own. I didn’t know if they were any good—and honestly, I didn’t care. This wasn’t about league tables or playoff hopes. This was about being here, in the moment, with the roar of a crowd and something cold in your hand.

And speaking of cold—beer. 800 yen. That’s it. A far cry from the insult that is SnapDragon Stadium back home and their $18 beers. Suck it, San Diego. Here, food was cheap too. Bento boxes, fried chicken, island specialties—most under 1,000 yen. We loaded up like kings on a budget.

Joe and Jaxon met us there. We grabbed our tickets and skipped the cheap seats. Splurged a little. Sat where you could actually watch the game. And for once, everything lined up—the food, the weather, the people. It was a good time, no qualifiers. Just good.

It was Joe’s first soccer game here. He mentioned he’s been to some of the basketball games on the island—said they were intense, rowdy, electric. I believe him. But tonight, it was soccer. FC Ryukyu under the lights. Beers in hand, kids watching wide-eyed, we settled into the rhythm of the match.

Joe and I kept the beers coming. Why not? No one’s driving, the prices were fair, and the night was young. Somewhere between sips, I started noticing things. Not just the game—but the feel of it. The vibe.

The home crowd was small. Passionate, but quiet in comparison. Then came the away team—decked out in green, chanting, bouncing, flags waving like a military parade. I didn’t even know where they were from, but they brought energy like they were storming the gates.

Still, Okinawa tries. I saw a little girl waving a Ryukyu flag with all her might, her face lit up with the kind of joy only sports can bring. That mattered more than any scoreboard. This may not be the big leagues. But maybe that’s the charm. It’s smaller, more intimate, more… real.

The warmups felt different too. Like the team needed the crowd. I wondered if they felt supported. I hoped they did.

A decent number of Americans dotted the stands. Military maybe. Tourists. Expats. I couldn’t tell. But it made me wonder—does Okinawa really rally around soccer? Or is this just a footnote in a baseball and basketball island?

I kept thinking… if there were a trolley line going north, would more people come? Would it help? Maybe. Maybe not.

Then I saw him—the mascot. A big blue whale making the rounds. The island’s version of San Diego Wave’s Dai. Friendly. Floppy. Cool. I wondered—was the person inside doing it for love or for yen? Dai does it for free. For heart. What about this one?

Meanwhile, the game… was rough.

Down 3–0. No spark. No rhythm. The home team looked lost. Ball control was shaky, like a PE class at recess. Everyone chasing the ball, no shape, no strategy. And when one of them did break free—it was the solo hero run. A desperate dribble and hopeful shot. Like no one told them this was a team sport.

Where was the cohesion? Where was the connection?

But still—we stayed. We drank. We cheered. Because sometimes, you don’t show up expecting greatness. You show up because you were meant to.

Just when you thought you’d seen it all—when the night had played every card—it happened.

A guy ran onto the field.

At first, I didn’t believe it. That kind of chaos doesn’t happen here, right? But there he was. A blur sprinting across the pitch, arms wide like he was born for this moment. And for a split second, we all asked the same question: was he an American? Or just a local islander with nothing left to lose?

Maybe the game was his final straw. Maybe this was his exit. A personal mic drop, midfield.

Then came the security guard. Poor guy never stood a chance. Leather dress shoes vs running sneakers? That’s not a chase. That’s a formality. The kind of pursuit you do to say you tried. The runner pulled away with ease, gliding like he’d trained for this. By the time he reached the opposite end, the guard had barely left his quadrant. He didn’t even pretend to close the gap.

The runner disappeared behind the stands like a ghost, no curtain call. I’d bet anything he jumped a fence and walked home barefoot with a grin. Because here? You probably can.

Eventually, security sauntered over to the spot where it all began—30 feet from us. We must’ve been sitting near him. He was right there. Just a quiet guy with a loud idea.

No one gave him up. No pointing, no whispers, no moral grandstanding. In a weird way, we all kinda respected it. He gave the crowd something the scoreboard didn’t.

And yeah, we lost the match. But who cares?

We came. We ate. We drank. We saw Okinawa’s home team. And we witnessed a legendary sprint across the sacred grass.

We won this night. All of us.

But the night wasn’t done—not yet. The game was over, sure, but we still had one more chapter to write. Dinner.

Joe knew a spot. One of those places you don’t find on TripAdvisor. We walked there from the stadium—just a few blocks, but a world away from the noise and lights. This was where the locals went. No English menus. No Americans. Just the low hum of conversation, cold beer, and real food.

They had fries for the kids—the universal peace offering for picky eaters. And for the rest of us? Japanese comfort food done right. Salty, savory, and just greasy enough to feel like a reward.

Joe and I knocked back a couple more beers, talking about everything and nothing. That good kind of tired started to set in. Tyler was fading fast—his meter hit zero. That was our cue.

We wrapped it up. Caught up. Filled up. Drifted into the night, full and happy.

A cool breeze, a quiet taxi ride home.

One of those nights that doesn’t need fireworks to be unforgettable.

I woke up with that familiar dull throb behind the eyes—a mild hangover, the kind that whispers you’re not as young as you think you are. It’d been a while. But no time to linger. Today was a transition day. Check out, return the rental, shift gears.

We piled into the car one last time. I was oddly comfortable, like I’d grown attached to this little vehicle that had taken us from thrift shop to stadium to sushi joint. But first things first—I had to feed the kid. Tyler doesn’t run on fumes. So it was 7-Eleven again. Lifesaver. Always there. Always stocked. Japan’s version of a loyal friend.

I wasn’t done yet, though. There was still one last thrift store calling my name. One final chance for buried treasure. CDs, games, something weird and wonderful. Had to make it count.

And gas—I had to figure that out. It’s never as straightforward as you think. But it went fine. Smooth, even. Like I’d done this a dozen times before.

We dropped the car, caught the shuttle, then rode the metro into Naha. Back in the thick of it. Urban hum, heat rising, bags in hand. But our hotel check-in wasn’t until 3 p.m., so we had time to kill. Time Tyler didn’t want to kill.

He was done. Cooked. Mentally checked out. But we pushed through. We made it.

Some days aren’t about adventure. They’re about endurance. And today—we endured.

We finally checked into a modest hotel by the beach—fifty bucks a night. That’s it. No frills, no pretensions, but clean, close, and exactly what we needed. One block from the market, a few minutes from the sea, and a straight shot to the airport when it’s time to disappear again. It’s the kind of place you don’t brag about, but remember fondly.

That night, we met up with some old friends—Emi and Jeff. Emi and I go way back. Twenty-five years and counting. She’s one of the few people I’ve managed to stay in touch with through all the life detours. We grabbed Japanese hotpot, swapped stories over sodas and beer, and for a moment, everything felt simple and good. It was also nice to finally meet Jeff. Very cool people!

The next day was slow. As it should be. I walked to the market and brought back rice and curry for Tyler. Stocked the fridge with too many drinks. Eventually, I convinced him to get into the water. It was warm—like it had been waiting for us. He eased into it, started swimming on his own. That felt like a win.

Later, we went back to this ramen spot we hit two years ago. Still amazing. That’s the thing about certain places—you don’t need to Yelp it. You just go back. You know it’s good. That kind of comfort is rare.

As this trip winds down, I’ll admit it—this one felt long. Good, but long. I don’t know when I’ll be back in Okinawa, or even Japan. Life’s changing. I’ve got teenagers now. High schoolers. And the truth is, unless they bring home straight A’s, these kinds of trips won’t be on the table. They’ve got to earn it. We all do.

For years, I toyed with the idea of living in Japan full-time. The dream, the fantasy. But I’ve come to realize—I’m a San Diego guy. That’s home. That’s where my family is, my work, my roots. The sun sets just right there. And no place is gonna pay me like home does.

Still, these trips—they matter. They slow you down. They remind you of who you were, and who you’ve become. I’ll keep writing them down. For Tyler. For the rest of my family. So they can look back one day and say, “Yeah, we were there. That happened. That was us.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’ll be enough.

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.

2025 June – Okinawa, Japan

The older I get, the more things start to matter. Not in that vague, philosophical way you hear in bad movies—but in the bone-deep, oh shit kind of way. The kind where you realize you’ve been on autopilot too long.

I go to work.
I do the thing.
They pay me.
The loop is efficient. Clean.
Predictable.

But time? That’s the bastard I can’t tame. It slips. It speeds up. It erases.

Lately, I’ve felt it most when music dies. When a band I loved quietly fades away, breaks up, retires, or worse—becomes unrecognizable. It’s like watching your childhood dissolve in real time.

Regrets? Of course I have them. I’m not some monk.
I’ve said no to things I shouldn’t have.
Concerts. Moments. Tokyo nights that could’ve been.

But this time, it was different.
This time it was AA=.

All Animals Are Equal.

A name that sounds like a political statement but hits like a lightning bolt to the chest. Hardcore. Digital chaos. Japanese underground noise that once clawed its way above ground, briefly. Just enough for people like me to notice.

The bassist? Takeshi Ueda—the Takeshi—from The Mad Capsule Markets. A man who made the bass sound like a chainsaw fighting a synth demon.

In the States, no one knows this stuff. Not really. Maybe Chris. Chris is the one who handed it to me like a secret, years ago. He said, “You need to hear this.” And I did. And it cracked me open.

(Photo of me with my bass in 1998 and guitar in 1997)

I wanted to be Takeshi.
I wanted to make noise that mattered.

So when a ticket came up?
I asked my wife. She said yes.

That was the first miracle.

Then I needed a partner in crime. Chris couldn’t do it. But Kipp? Kipp was in. My brother—fresh off surviving a world tour with me—agreed to a metal show in Japan. Not his scene, but he’s game.

We booked the cheapest flights out of LAX, eyes half-shut, wallets half-empty, and zero regrets this time.

Because when a chance like this shows up, you don’t say no. You don’t wait.

You go.

Kipp and I crashed at a hotel near LAX the night before the flight. Nothing fancy—just strategic. Long-term parking locked in at a discount rate, like a guy trying to outwit the system with spreadsheets and street smarts. I wasn’t about to blow the budget before we even left the ground.

Two tickets—$500 each.
Zipair.
Bare bones. No frills.
LAX to Narita direct, like a bullet with leg cramps.

I planned it right.
I’d done this enough times to know what matters. Not the champagne. Not the aisle upgrades.
It’s about the landings. And where you sleep once you hit the ground.

Hotels were somehow over $100 a night. For what? A bed and a bathroom the size of a broom closet?
Maybe it was sumo season. Maybe Tokyo just decided to flex.

But I found a loophole.

An Airbnb for $50 a night. Minimalist. Quiet.
Kipp got the soft bed. I took the pull-out.
Because he was tolerating this trip. Not craving it. Not chasing a band across the globe like I was.

So I made damn sure he was comfortable.

We landed.
Kipp—seasoned now. You could see it. The ease in his shoulders. The rhythm of a man who’s done this enough to recognize the arrival smell of Narita: sanitized air, tired faces, and vending machines full of mystery drinks.

It had only been six months since we were here last, but stepping off that plane felt like walking back into a story mid-sentence. Like we never left.

We checked in, dropped bags, shook off the flight.
Then did the only thing that made sense.

We walked.
And we ate.

Because that’s how every good chapter in Japan begins.

We stayed near Skytree—just close enough to touch the future, just far enough to walk back into the past. Asakusa was in reach, and we wandered there, boots crunching against the cold pavement of a January Tokyo that wasn’t interested in snow, just clarity.

My first winter in this city. No flurries. No drama. Just crisp air, clean skies, and a kind of stillness that made the neon feel sharper. We were dressed right. Layers, gloves, purpose.

Jet lag hung off us like a second coat, but we didn’t fight it. We walked through it.

I’d built in a buffer—one day before the show. A quick trip, yes, but not rushed. I’m old enough to know you need a little space. Time to breathe in a place. Time to feel it again before the chaos.

And at night? The crowds were gone. Streets usually teeming with camera flashes and confusion were suddenly wide open. Empty. Ours.

Kipp and I strolled through it like locals who never moved away. Talking like we always had—no effort, no catching up needed.

We weren’t tourists.
Not this night.
We were just two brothers, back in Tokyo, where everything felt familiar and absolutely new at the same time.

Something you learn when you travel to the same place often:
Go back to the restaurants that fed you right.

Forget the bucket list spots and Instagram darlings. Go where you were full, happy, and didn’t need to sell a kidney to pay the bill.

For me, that place is Kura Sushi.

Kura in San Diego was my first intro to the glorious, hypnotic dance of conveyor belt sushi. Tiny plates circling like edible slot machines. You watch, you wait, you strike. Precision gluttony.

In Tokyo, it’s no different. But better.

Kipp and I? We’re professionals now. This isn’t just a meal. It’s a performance. A quiet duel between hunger and discipline—and hunger always wins.

We sat down, nodded to the screen, scanned the QR code like seasoned locals, and got to work. One plate after another. Tuna. Eel. Fried chicken. A rogue pudding cup. Somewhere around the 30-plate mark, we lost count. Time slowed. Soy sauce spilled. And we didn’t care.

Because this wasn’t just sushi.
It was ritual.
Memory.
Muscle memory.

And in that moment, in the warm glow of a familiar Kura in the middle of Tokyo, we ate like kings.
Kings with no shame.

We were out late—full bellies, cold air in our lungs, walking off the weight of 30 plates of sushi and a quiet night in Tokyo. The kind of night that doesn’t ask for photos or posts. Just your presence.

Only 20 minutes from Asakusa to our place near Skytree. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet walk through shuttered shops, soft-lit vending machines, and the occasional buzz of a passing bike.

And this—this—was the part that stuck with me.

We didn’t own anything here. No apartment lease. No permanent address.
But for a few days, this was ours.
This city. These streets. This simple rhythm.

We had money. Enough to burn if we wanted to. We could’ve done the luxe version—fancy rooms, taxis, $300 omakase. But we didn’t. We were good boys. On budgets. Focused. That’s how these trips happen. Not with extravagance, but with intent.

We walked.
We saved.
We made it work.

And as we climbed back into our temporary beds, settling in for the next day, there was this quiet satisfaction.

We weren’t tourists.
We were travelers.
And we were exactly where we needed to be.

We started early—7 AM, give or take. Still dark enough to feel like we were cheating the system, reclaiming the streets before Tokyo could wake up and clutter them with its usual chaos.

Another 20-minute walk back to Asakusa. Same route. Different vibe. Morning calm, vendors still shuttered, and the city stretching out of its sleep.

But first—coffee.
Not some overpriced pour-over in a themed café. No.
Vending machine golden drip—the soul of my Japan mornings.

Warm can. Hands around it. Steam rising into cold air.
This was my ritual.
This was the taste of every trip I’d ever taken here.
My kids even know it by name. They’ve learned to love the hum of the machine, the clunk of the can dropping, the hiss as it opens in the cold.

Then—Denny’s.
Yeah, I said it.
Not because I long for pancakes and Americana, but because I know this: Kipp doesn’t eat wet eggs. And Japan loves wet eggs.

We needed an American breakfast to survive the day.

Denny’s in Japan isn’t the same circus you find stateside. It’s cleaner, calmer, and somehow more respectful of your digestive system. But when we walked in, signs were everywhere—seasonal strawberry drinks and desserts. Big pink promise. Banners like a love letter from spring.

Guess what?
They were out.

Someone either beat us to the punch or there was never enough to begin with.
And honestly? I get it.
It’s winter. Strawberries aren’t easy.
Still, the kid in me wanted to yell.

But I didn’t.
Because the coffee was endless.
Because Kipp was good.
And because I was full.

We paid.
Stepped outside.
And with no strict itinerary—just vague ideas and the whole damn city waiting—we started walking.

That’s how the best days always begin.

There are parts of Japan I intentionally leave untouched.
Little corners of the map I don’t check off.
Not because I forgot—but because I need something for later.

Ginza was one of those places.
I shelved it. For years. Ten, to be exact.
And now, Kipp and I walked it together.

Wide streets. Marble façades. Luxury stacked on luxury.
Cartier. Chanel. Stores that smell like polished wood and quiet wealth.
A fossil of Tokyo’s old money scene.

It felt like a museum where the currency is relevance.
Not many people come here now—not like they used to.
The cool kids have moved on.

But we were here for the walk.
The experience. The echo of what this district used to mean.

And tucked between all that gold-leaf elegance and sleek storefronts?
A sign of something very current: Shohei Otani.

The guy’s a legend. Plays in LA, but worshipped here like a national treasure.
Billboards, jerseys, posters in store windows.

Japan doesn’t forget its heroes.
Even when they leave, they’re still here—bigger than life.
Otani’s not just a player. He’s a symbol.
Of excellence. Of pride. Of how far Japan can reach.

And there we were—two guys from California, walking through a shrine of capitalism, surrounded by reminders that no matter how far you go…
home still claims you.

Every now and then, Japan throws something at me that stops me mid-stride. Not a temple or a bowl of perfection-level ramen—but something modern. Clever. Thoughtful.

This time, it was a 3D billboard—the kind that plays tricks on your eyes and your sense of reality. Kipp and I had just finished a marathon walk. From Ginza to Roppongi, burning calories, chasing conversation, racking up 20,000 steps like we were training for something.

We didn’t have anywhere to be—yet.
Just killing time before a lunch show.

So we hopped a train to Shinjuku and started wandering. The billboard caught our eye—floating, morphing, bending reality with marketing. It was ridiculous. It was genius. It worked.

We ducked into Book Offs, as is tradition. Hunted for retro games.
Same routine, new city.

Only now?
$20 a game.
For stuff we used to find in a bargain bin for pocket lint and loose change.

I get it. Nostalgia has a price tag now.
Someone will pay it.
It just won’t be me.

As we walked through the chaos of Shinjuku—past love hotels, capsule signs, and vending machines that never sleep—we thought of Vince and Penn, our crew from the last round.

We missed them.
This was their kind of weird.

And we were ready for it again—
the creepy, the offbeat, the only-in-Japan kind of stuff that makes you feel alive and a little uncomfortable at the same time.

Shinjuku delivers that. Every time.

For years, I’d heard the whispers—
Robot Restaurant, Shinjuku’s neon fever dream.

The greatest show on Earth, they said.
Was it Yakuza-funded madness? Or just fueled by $60 tickets and an endless stream of jetlagged tourists looking to be blown away by something truly, unapologetically Japanese and weird?

I missed it in 2018.
My stepdaughter collapsed from the heat that trip, and the idea of dragging her into a laser-soaked basement carnival didn’t feel like the right move.

In 2023?
Still shuttered—just another casualty of the COVID-era silence that dulled so much of what made Tokyo electric.

But now?
It was back.
Sort of.
Rebranded. Reborn.

The Samurai Show.

A name less cocaine, more culture.
I’ll allow it.

I had waited a decade. Ten years. I didn’t come here to be polite. I came to be overwhelmed. And yes—I paid.

The old chaos of Robot Restaurant had been tamed. The glitter cannons traded in for narrative arcs.

Now it was Good vs Evil.
Samurai. Demons. Laser swords.
And somewhere in the middle of it all—bikini armor and battle cries.

It wasn’t just a show. It was a spectacle with purpose.

And then—near the end—things shifted again.
The girls dressed down. Legs out. Bruises visible like battle scars or maybe something else. A second job? Maybe. Japan is layered like that.

But the one that stole the show?
The drummer.

This guy didn’t stop.
Mounted on a moving platform, flying around the room, hammering the beat like his life depended on it. A human engine wrapped in rhythm and sweat.

I was grinning like an idiot.
It delivered. Every weird, wild, borderline-inappropriate promise.

I waited ten years.
And Shinjuku—you beautiful, degenerate circus—you gave me exactly what I came for.

Thank you.

Kipp had picked TeamLabs in Roppongi—his call, not mine. One of those immersive digital art things. Sensory overload for the Instagram generation. Still, I was curious.

We hopped the train from Shinjuku, like pros at this point, weaving through Tokyo’s underground like we were born into it. Out the window, Tokyo Tower pierced the skyline—an Eiffel knockoff, sure, but still a sight that makes you pause. I’d seen it before, but like everything else I love in this city, I leave some bites uneaten. Save something for next time.

Just before the museum, a ramen shop called to us with the siren song of boiling broth and springy noodles. We ducked in. Slurped down bowls of comfort. Big mistake.

Because not long after, inside the echoing LED womb of TeamLabs, I started to feel it—hot, heavy, that post-ramen bloat setting in like a lead blanket in a dreamscape. Immersion has its price.

TeamLabs was… something else. The kind of place that delivers exactly what the brochure promises—an immersive, interactive environment, bursting with color, light, movement, even scent. A full assault on the senses.

Kipp was in his element. This was what he came for. A visual feast.

Me? I got something too—vertigo. Dizzy, nauseous, overloaded like a hard drive pushed past its limit. They nailed it. Well done, museum. You got a reaction.

The final room? A cathedral of strobing lights, flickering like a million tiny suns. That one broke me. I was cooked. Sweating ramen and regret.

We woke up the next day and, once again, Kipp played tour guide and court jester. We walked. And walked. And walked some more—because that’s what you do in Tokyo. You walk until your feet scream in six languages.

This time, we passed through Akihabara. The neon temple of nerd-dom. We clocked the “fat girl bar” was open—yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like—but we’d already hit our quota of strange and slightly uncomfortable for the week. Hard pass.

Eventually, we made it to Ochanomizu. It took some wandering to figure out where to catch the view, but we found it. A scenic overlook tucked away like an old jazz record in a second-hand bin. Other tourists were already posted up, snapping pics. I took mine, too—me in the frame, checking off a tiny box on the ever-growing bucket list.

A small win. A quiet moment. Worth the blisters.

The clock was ticking. The show was coming up fast. But before the night swallowed us whole, Kipp and I drifted over to Shibuya.

We ducked into a kebab joint Hetal and I had scoped out the year before—one of those places you remember but never actually try. This time, we did. Kipp went all in, stuffing himself like he hadn’t eaten in days.

I peeled off afterward, weaving through the chaos of the Shibuya scramble—Tokyo’s beating heart, a five-way pulse of neon and motion—and made my way to Tower Records. I was on a mission.

AA= CDs. They had them. But the prices? Steep enough to make you think twice. I left them on the shelf, whispering a quiet “next time” as I walked away. Some things are better as unfinished business.

Then it happened. Showtime.

We waited patiently—Japanese concerts are a masterclass in order. No openers, no chaos, just a calm procession of fans being called in by group. Precision entry. Like boarding a bullet train to sonic mayhem.

As we stepped through the doors, I caught sight of the merch booth. Jackpot. My buddy Chris had one request: a hoodie. He’s the guy who got me into this music in the first place—dragged me down the rabbit hole of industrial metal, noise rock, and bass lines thick enough to punch through drywall. I owed him. Post-show mission: acquire hoodie.

Downstairs, they handed out a single drink. Probably more if you knew the trick or spoke enough Japanese. We got funneled into the main stage area—a black box of anticipation and sweat. Aside from one lone white dude off to the side, it was just me, Kipp, and a sea of Japanese metalheads, all dressed like we were about to summon a demon with distortion pedals.

And then—it began.

The lights dropped. The bass dropped harder. That first distorted note didn’t just hit—it throbbed, ripped through the air and into my chest like a blunt weapon made of sound. I was in it. This was the moment. Twenty-eight years in the making.

And there he was.

Takeshi Ueda.

In the flesh. My hero. The man who sculpted the soundtrack to my teenage chaos. I didn’t cry—but if I had, no shame. Sometimes something that cool just cracks you open.

I’ll admit, I’m here for the music—not the themes, not the lyrics. But Takeshi? He’s a showman, a force, a one-man seismic event. They played a new song from the upcoming #7 album, tight and brutal and strange in all the best ways.

Two hours later, they wrapped with a surprise—video reveal, new album promo. And yeah, I got it. Of course I did.

Worth. Every. Yen.

These guys aren’t just a band. They’re an experience. A damn good one.

We were handed something rare—exclusive reservation rights to the new album. A kind of golden ticket. But of course, there was a catch. No Japanese address, no dice. So later, I’d lean on ZenMarket, the proxy service every foreign fan learns to worship. That CD would make its way home eventually.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter. This was it. The show. The reason we came.

Something shifted inside me. A slow-burning satisfaction, deep and quiet. Like finally acing a test you’d been studying for your whole damn life. Years of waiting, planning, not being able to make it… and now, here I was. I made it.

I thought about the future—maybe I’ll be back for another show, one day. Maybe. But not while my kids are still teenagers. Their time is now. Mine can wait.

Still, there’s hope. Hope that this band keeps playing, keeps making noise, keeps refusing to fade away. That Takeshi and crew never hang it up.

Because some things you don’t grow out of. You grow into them.

The lesson for me is simple: wherever in the world your favorite band is—go. See them now. Don’t wait. Don’t assume there’ll be another tour, another year, another chance.

Because time moves fast, and artists disappear. Life happens. Borders close. People change.

If only Globe was still playing.

That’s the regret.

So don’t let it happen again. Chase the sound. Buy the ticket. Get on the plane.

You never know when the final encore really is the last one.

The next day, before heading home, Kipp and I made one last stop—Tokyo Skytree.

When I first came to Japan, I remember looking up at that towering steel needle and thinking it was ugly. Too modern, too sterile. It didn’t have the charm of Tokyo Tower or the grit of the neighborhoods below.

But now? I get it. Time changes how you see things. What once felt cold and out of place now stands like a monument to everything this city is—bold, massive, unapologetic. Beautiful in its own way.

From the top, we saw her—Mount Fuji, rising out of the haze like a ghost. A perfect goodbye.

I raised a quiet toast to our trip. To Kipp. To the music. To all the chaos and calm in between.

And I knew—I’ll be back.

When you scroll through social media, it feels like everyone’s on a pilgrimage to see the Nara deer. It’s become the stop—something between a rite of passage and a photo op. But what exactly pulls the crowds in?

Maybe it’s the novelty—deer that roam free in a city, bowing for crackers like polite little hustlers. Maybe it’s the contrast—wild animals coexisting with ancient shrines, vending machines, and crowds of tourists. Maybe it’s just the sheer unexpectedness of it all.

It brings people. It brings money. It makes sense that this would be a hotspot. It’s easy to sell: cute animals, cultural backdrop, low barrier to entry.

But there’s more. There has to be.

Nara’s temples—places like Todai-ji with its colossal bronze Buddha—aren’t just architectural achievements. They’re layered with history, spirituality, and quiet power. Yet in a country rich with shrines and temples, it’s easy for them to blur into one another in a tourist’s mind. You start chasing the experience more than the place.

Still, the deer might just be the hook—the thing that gets people here. And once they’re in, maybe a few stick around long enough to feel what Nara really is beneath the photos and snacks. That’s where the magic is.

Tyler tolerates me. That’s the best way to put it.

Why? Because I’m dad. The navigator, the wallet, the guy figuring out train routes and foreign vending machines and which shrine closes before sunset. I’m the one making this whole thing happen.

Could any of my kids pull this off on their own? Maybe one day. Far in the future. But not yet. Right now, this is my show. The traveling, the chasing, the constant hunt for something weird, rare, or meaningful—that’s what brings me joy. That’s where I feel alive.

Do I care about the Nara deer? Not really. Not the same way Tyler does. They’re cute. That’s the script we’re all handed. But to me, they’re background noise. Side quests.

Still, I couldn’t resist. There was this intro sign—some official thing telling tourists how to behave around the deer—and I snapped a photo of it. With Tyler. Mid-eye roll. Full teen-level disdain.

I did it on purpose.
Because I’m dad.
That’s what we do.

We embarrass.
We fund the chaos.
We make the memory—even if it’s just a photo of your kid wishing you’d stop acting like a tourist in socks from “Western Polo Texas.”

And honestly? That moment’s going in the highlight reel.

Before we touched a single deer, I had a more urgent mission—feed the child.

Tyler wanted sushi, again, but I needed quick, easy, and open. So: ramen. Reliable, hot, satisfying. The kind of meal that doesn’t argue, it just shows up and does the job. I ordered the set—ramen, fried rice, and that perfectly crispy, juicy fried chicken Japan does better than it has any right to. I washed it down with a beer, skipped the spice this time. Learned my lesson.

All of it? Twenty bucks.
That’s my kind of luxury.

And like a veteran traveler, I scouted a nearby restroom before setting out. I’ve done this dance before. Feed first. Locate toilets. Then explore.

We walked in the direction I hoped would lead to the deer. No map. Just instinct and a general sense that the tourist swarm would eventually point us there. But then it started to rain—not a downpour, just a soft drizzle, the kind that makes the moss greener and the old stones shine.

I welcomed it.

Didn’t need the umbrella. Didn’t need to rush. The air smelled clean, like wet leaves and old wood. The kind of rain that slows time just enough to remind you: this is what travel is supposed to feel like.

We walked up the hill, no fanfare, just the rhythm of our shoes on the wet path—when suddenly, in a small fenced side yard, we spotted them. A few deer, just chilling. Tame. Calm. One older Japanese man smiled and handed Tyler some food to share. Kind. Unexpected. A perfect moment.

And then—boom.
We were in it.

Turns out, we were steps away from the main event. The deer didn’t ease in. They stormed.

These weren’t gentle Bambi types. These were cookie fiends. For 200 yen, you get a handful of crackers—basically the deer equivalent of meth. I swear, something’s in those things. Because once you’re holding them, it’s over.

Four deer surrounded us. Eyes locked. No shame. They badgered, bit, tugged, nibbled. One took a swipe at my ass. Another yanked my shirt like we were in a prison yard. It was chaos with hooves. I started to think, if you were naked and still holding cookies, there’s a 40% chance you’d get a deer tongue in places you never consented to.

Tyler got pinched on the finger—just a little bite, a warning shot—but that was it for him. Panic. Full red alert. “They bit me!” Instant crisis.

Emergency? No.
Dramatic kid meltdown? 100%.

I told him to wrap it in his hoodie. Dark color, stop the bleeding. Basic triage.
“No,” he said. He needed Hello Kitty Band-Aids. Not just any bandages. Hello Kitty. Because nothing heals a deer bite quite like Japan’s universal symbol of emotional safety.

We walked away. The deer didn’t care. They found the next tourists to harass, sniffing for ass-crack snacks like little velvet-faced goblins.

We wandered down toward the market, rain coming harder now. Found the Band-Aids. Tyler got patched. Relieved, but still annoyed. Fair enough.

I knew the deal.
Dad law: Two events per kid per day. That’s it.
Travel? Check.
Deer chaos? Check. Done.

Don’t push it.

Adults can power through ten events on caffeine and spite, but kids? They burn out. And we were burning daylight.

So we kept walking. Through the rain. Down the hill. Toward the station.
Next stop: Osaka.
One hour away.
A new city.
A reset.

2025 June – Osaka, Japan

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.

2025 June – Nara, Japan