My body’s different in Osaka than it is in Seoul.
Maybe it’s something about the Dotonbori River and the other rivers in the city, along with Osaka Bay, that makes it feel so much colder. In Seoul I could wear a sweater with my breath coming out in puffs of white in zero degrees and I would be cozy. But six to ten degrees in Osaka and I fold, slipping wool gloves onto delicate fingers and finally putting my hot packs to use.
Two things became the driving force of this trip: I needed to get away, and I wanted to wear my Human Hope knockoff sweaters. Preferably somewhere cold enough, before all the spring tourists. And I was starting to miss this city a little too much.
The first thing I did when I arrived was to walk the couple blocks that would lead me to the Dotonbori Bridge. I looked out over the view, and there was this sense of, What now?
I came to find a lot of solace in the looser, as-you-go style of travel I tried in November—letting go of the pressure and staying comfortable didn’t have to mean sacrificing new experiences and discoveries. They could go hand in hand. People say there’s not a lot to do in Osaka, but the way I saw it, this only made it perfect for this kind of meandering.
I made a map of places I specifically wanted to stop by just so I could take pictures of the ridiculously fun larger-than-life shop signs around the river. I ended up not needing to consult it at all—most of them were side by side, literally jumping out at you as you passed. The best part was finding a number of them that I hadn’t even heard of.
They remind me of how it felt when I first came here and what it was like to come across one of them when I had no prior knowledge or expectations. Crossing what I thought was an ordinary side street, only to find a bright red giant crab claw sticking out of an otherwise unassuming storefront. It’s still one of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken.
I didn’t bring my Canon G9X on any of the trips I took last year, thinking it would weigh me down when my phone was good enough for documentation. Now that I was intent on going slower and really capturing what I saw and experienced, I made sure to have it on me all the time.
It’s not a Ricoh GR or any of the other viral cameras, but I’m still so in love with it and think it takes stunning shots and makes such a huge difference.
I made a playlist before I left, with the theme of depression walking alone at night in a city where the closest person who might care about me is thousands of miles away. I put it on while waiting for the light to turn green at the first crosswalk, and of course it starts off with j-hope’s “Safety Zone.”
I didn’t cry in public (and we all know I’m the last person who would ever care if I did), but I almost wanted to, you know? For the catharsis of it all. I just stopped by the riverfront and took it all in with a rattle in my chest as the music drowned everything out. Waiting for that sense of healing, and welcoming it when it settled over me.
It’s only my first night, and it’s a feeling I would chase through the rest of my days here.
For the last few years, whenever I thought about returning to Osaka, I would think to myself that I could spend my entire stay just discovering everything Dotonbori had to offer. It was this hyperbolic notion, because surely it would be a waste of having flown all this way and I’d grow bored of it.
But it was proving too cold to go on day trips or Make the Most of It. The point of this trip was to relax and float along, so I gave myself permission to do just that. My hotel offered access to all of these areas and neighborhoods that I never even knew were so close until I was in them. Shinsaibashi and Namba were a given, but Amerikamura was right there, and so was Minamihorie—an instant favorite of mine that won me over not with its endless row of vintage stores, but with its unique architecture, quaint parks, and arts and culture spots.
Just the surrounding streets were full of scenery and moments that I desperately wanted to remember as I saw them, like this little okonomiyaki place that I’ve always found so fascinating to look at.
I spent my last two days perfectly happy walking my little walks, exploring on foot and thoroughly inspecting the shelves in every konbini. Like I had all the time in the world, like every day could look like this, like I could get used to it. Getting to know it like it was mine.
There’s something about depression walking on the Dotonbori bridge that everyone knows. My initial impression of Ebisu Bridge—impossible to cross on a Halloween marked by tragedy in another city—had left me with dread, but I’ve come to find a strange comfort in routinely finding myself, well, by myself in a sea of people and movement and chaos and noise. Couples holding hands, friends spending time, families making memories, and me.
Dwarfed by the billboards and the bright lights, which I’ve only recently learned have been there since 1935. Looking up to admire them and bask in their presence instead of keeping my head down staring at my feet.
And then there’s depression walking on the other side of the street, on the Dotonbori bridge that no one takes except to get someplace, where it’s just me and the quiet and the river in the faintly glittering dark.
Nobody stops on Shinebisu Bridge. In the morning it’s a silent witness to how the day unfolds; the shops and restaurants won’t open until later. At night it becomes a safe passage as tourists wind down or stumble around in search of one last thing to do, because this is Dotonbori and there’s always something to do.
I’m the only one who ever seems to slow down, who pretends to check for messages that are never there just so I could pause and look out into the water that no longer ripples because it’s late and the boats have stopped cruising.
The first time I crossed it, I thought: How come no one ever talks about this? Because no one ever comes here, and there’s nothing to see but a large body of water. But that’s exactly what I love about it. It becomes something I consider a secret, something only for my own. And as always, I feel like I never stay and look long enough.
Osaka makes me feel like I’m part of something.
Encountering people who make me believe in kindness, in wonder, in the importance of wanting and happiness. Tourist traps that remind me not to take myself too seriously. Equal parts kitsch and genuine beauty that will always make it worth it to stop and point and shoot. Streets paved evenly enough to support me on my feet. Rivers deep enough to drown out my grief.
Osaka makes me feel like myself.
I took this with my phone on my last full day, but I think it might be my favorite from this trip. Another thing I learned recently is that the giant crab on the sign of the Kani Doraku flagship branch has been around since at least the ‘50s.
I went back so I could take this before I grabbed dinner, because I was curious about what it would look like.
I don’t think I’ve ever had this certainty where I knew I wouldn’t be back someplace for the foreseeable future. But that’s exactly what I was thinking about as I walked to the middle of the Dotonbori Bridge on that final night. I had seen everything there was to see, for now at least. It was time to say goodbye for a while, and I’ve never been good at goodbyes.
I started to walk away, but the light at the crosswalk was red and I could still feel the everlasting glow of it right behind me. So I stopped, and I turned back for one last look. For real this time.
But as always, of course, I was left feeling like I didn’t stay and look long enough.