A note: I'm already home from Japan, and have been for the last 24 days! It's been busy and hard to get time to get the last of these letters out, but I want to make sure to finish the story. There are two more left in me after this one. Stay tuned!

Onomichi sits along the Seto Inland Sea, a long, thin city scrunched against the hillside like a favorite scarf lost in the corner of the room behind the chairs. Homes like shuffled puzzle pieces, alleys crossing upward and down, occasionally opening to views of the harbor below. It’s the starting point for the Shimanami Kaidō (a 70-kilometer island-hopping cycling route I would love to come back and do). Onomichi is two-wheel friendly. Pedals. I chose Onomichi based on a few recommendations and youtube videos. It's not nearly as hidden as Tsuwano, but it's got character for days, and it's not my last time here.

Accidental Ramen

On my arrival night, I set out for pizza. I love road-tripping more than most, but after hours behind the wheel I was craving simple and familiar: in other words, cheese on triangle shaped bread. Google Maps search. Cheese located. Digital miracles. I left my Airbnb on foot, camera in tow, ready to chow down.

In the fade of dusk, I followed Google's blue line through narrow streets dappled with vending machines, hungrier at every step. Every memory of pizza I’d ever had stacked like rungs on a ladder I was about to leap from... into melted cheese, but then I arrived to disappointment: a locked door and a dark window.

Exhausted and hungry I began just walking to think. Around the next bend I spotted a what looked like a tiny ramen shop. Eight stools. A fogged-up window. A handwritten sign. I stepped inside to find one empty seat. Mine o mine.

The owner handed me a “menu” if you could call it that. It was a one-ring scrapbook of collaged photos, torn magazine pages, and washi tape; more art project than restaurant document. I ordered tonkotsu (pork-bone broth). Deep, rich flavor. Noodles with just the right bite. It came with a free side of OMG-I-love-this-place.

A German couple sat to my left, and a young Japanese architect to my right. They were the first Westerners I’d spoken to since leaving the States in August. We talked travel, language, and a few handy phrases for getting by in Japan—like gochisōsama deshita (a thank you at the end of the meal). When they left, I got talking with Fumiya-san, the architect. He’d studied in Norway. His English was architected, deliberate, precise as I began to suspect his designs probably were. We talked about how cultures build helpful containers and how fast we modern humans find ways lose those containers like discarded tupperware. He sympathized about the political circus back home. We exchanged info. Hope to bump into him again.

I left that night full in more ways than one. The ramen was perfect, but the company was better. Every good thing about the day had come from the disappointment of not getting what I thought I wanted.

Quiet lessons in polite business at Sen Coffee

The next morning I found Sen Coffee, a minimalist café tucked inside the bottom floor a designer hotel. It’s run by Yusuke, a former latte art world champion, which might explain the precision and detail of the setting.

I ordered a pour-over, Decafe kōhī, buraku, onegaishimasu (Decaf coffee please), and sat in the lobby while about twenty suited Japanese folks drifted into the open space. At the far end of the room, two men took a seat facing the window. The rest of the group arranged themselves neatly around the edges of the room, hands folded, deferential, like an audience of very serious business penguins. Everyone spoke in whispers. Nothing moved. It was quiet enough that I was careful how I put my coffee cup down each time I sipped.

A woman—probably the hotel manager—approached to apologize for the “noise.”
I blinked. “Excuse me? The what?”

For a moment I wondered if she was politely suggesting I leave, but a quick check with Google Translate cleared it up. She really was apologizing for the disturbance—this perfectly silent crowd was, in her view, a disruption.

At home, silence is something you go to sleep to. In Japan, it’s the baseline.

Mountain Man

I met Yama-san, the clerk of a tiny ramen shop a few blocks from the harbor. Big guy, short beard (very rare to have one in Japan), a few tattoos running up his arms short stories. His English was patchy but enthusiastic. “Cool tattoos, man,” he said in English, pointing at mine. I grinned and said kochirakoso! (likewise).

We fell into the kind of easy exchange that doesn’t need grammar, just smiles, gestures, a few stories and laughter filling the gaps while I waited for my meal. I snapped some photos. We exchanged info. Yama-san. Mountain man.

There’s a generosity in small encounters like that. They don’t need to mean much, yet they are the art that shapes the day.

Biking into the unexpected

Like I did in Fukuoka, I rented a bicycle in Onomichi. You don’t chain bikes to anything. You just flip a small piece of metal, that pretends to be a lock, across the back tire and walk away. The idea that your bike will still be there isn’t naive, it’s statistically accurate. No one takes what isn’t theirs. Both because it would be impolite and because there is such a high conviction rate for offenders that there's a strong back-stop not to be a dick.

Riding along Onomichi I caught whiffs of soy, sea-side, and cooking sea-weed. Cats lounged in the shade like locals. Very glad for the electric bike option, I followed streets uphill and down. Every wrong turn came with a small reward: a view of the harbor, a pastry shop I’d have missed otherwise. Oishii! (delicious).

Across the lane, a letterpress studio caught my eye. Drawers of metal type lined the walls, including kanji so tiny they looked hand-etched with needles. These were totemo chiisai (very small). I bought a few cards and managed a halting conversation with the owner about being a designer. We stumbled through English and Japanese, smiling more than talking. She swore my Japanese was great, and I waved her off politely. This is is how Japan saves face. It's an art. I'm sure I blundered it many times, but it's fun to try.

Patterns and asymmetry.

Onomichi, like much of Japan, has a clever trick of balancing opposites. It’s both chaotic and orderly, humble and precise. The ramen bars are packed and playful as adults loosen their ties, but outside and across the way a shinto shrine painted with moss quietly meditates.

I started noticing how the best moments of my time in Japan came from flexibility. Pizza shop is closed? Fuck it. What's next?. Following the smell of broth instead of always hunting for a 5 star review. Riding until the road turned into stairs, and then deciding to walk your bike up the stairs like an idiot, because why not?! None of it planned, all of it worth it.

There’s a word in Japanese—en 縁 (like fate or mysterious connection). Onomichi feels like that a city built on a lot of 縁.

By my last night, I was exhausted in the best way. My clothes stuck to me but I didn't care. My camera card was full. I’d had more small conversations in two days than I’d expected in weeks. I felt full and proud of myself for the courage to stay open. To choose motion instead of certainty. Cycling. Walking. Sweating. Talking to strangers. Ordering food I couldn’t read. Hoping I'd like it. Okay if I didn't.

Serendipity isn’t magic. It’s a reward for participation.

More photos from the journey will keep showing up here.