I followed a performance,
and found a city to return to

I had not started out wanting to visit Tokushima. There was a performance I wanted to see, and Tokushima happened to be where it would take place. Only after learning that SIS/T, the group Kano Miyu belongs to, would appear at the Naruto × Korea Fair on March 20 did I look properly at the place I had always put behind other Japanese cities.

If I passed up this chance, would I find another reason to go? The wish to see the show gradually acquired a second feeling: curiosity about somewhere I had never been. I knew the name Tokushima, but could not picture its streets or what I might see on stepping out of the station.

Despite visiting Japan many times, I had chosen familiar Tokyo, Osaka or Fukuoka and left Shikoku for later. Now that deferred place had become my destination. It felt different from the ease of returning to a city I already loved. The uncertainty of going somewhere unknown made the act of leaving feel more real.

Waiting for permission to leave

My request for annual leave, submitted about three weeks before departure, was turned down once. The performance date could not move, while my own plans remained unsettled. I still wanted to go too much to give it up, so I spoke to work again. Even now, writing about a trip I did eventually take, I remember that getting the leave had seemed further away than boarding the plane.

Wanting to go did not mean I could simply leave; nor did the wish conveniently disappear when permission became difficult. In the end my leave was approved on the condition that, after returning, I would do two days' work in one. Before I could take time off, I had to promise time back.

It felt a little like borrowing energy from my future self, but that was how much I wanted this trip. I did not want the difficulty of obtaining leave to become a pressure to see absolutely everything. For those three days, I simply hoped to put down some of the thoughts that work had tangled up and be properly present in front of the things I had come to see.

Why I chose a base in Tokushima

Looking for accommodation turned unfamiliar place names into practical problems. I considered staying around Naruto, where the event was being held, but available rooms and onward journeys made the choice less straightforward than I had expected. Places close together on a map can feel quite different with luggage in hand.

I wanted to avoid arriving in an unfamiliar region and exhausting myself just trying to find my hotel. Those ordinary concerns kept interrupting the pleasure of deciding to travel. Eventually I chose the area around Tokushima Station. I wanted to know my way back at the end of the day and have somewhere nearby to eat.

I was not flying in for the performance and leaving immediately, so I wanted time to walk through Tokushima itself. Above all, knowing that a room is waiting somewhere you can find even late at night makes a first visit feel lighter. That was the reassurance I wanted to arrange first.

Travelling together, with a change of rooms

The trip also began differently because I would not be travelling alone. Another Korean traveller was attending the same event, and we naturally arranged to travel together. That meant we could share the first night's accommodation. I had originally booked a single room, but the hotel let us switch to a room for two for an additional charge, which was a welcome bit of flexibility.

For the second night we could not find the same arrangement and booked separate hotels. One evening we would return together; the next, separately. This was not a trip whose pieces had fitted neatly from the outset. Still, I decided not to treat each small complication as a sign that the whole plan was falling apart. Having already worried about whether I could leave at all, staying in different rooms seemed like something manageable within those three days.

The pull of somewhere unfamiliar

Tokushima was a region I had never visited. That made it feel more difficult, and also made me want to go. Its unfamiliarity brought genuine uncertainty, but I thought that same uncertainty might make it feel more unmistakably like a journey. It was a different kind of anticipation from revisiting a city I already knew. I also wanted a short break from the thoughts that work had left crowding my head. Some sea air and a performance I had been looking forward to sounded like enough. A trip does not have to begin with only one reason.

Only the night before, it became possible

I bought the flights on the evening of March 18. Once the leave was finally confirmed, even conditionally, I could choose a plane for the following day. With departure so close I worried about the price, but it was less forbidding than I had expected. After paying, what I had been holding onto as a possibility became an itinerary.

I could stop asking whether I would go and begin wondering what I would see. There was little time to prepare, but I welcomed that change. The return ticket cost KRW 273,000. I had braced myself for buying it a day before departure, yet the first thing I felt was less about the sum than the relief that I really could go.

I had not prepared at leisure, and the work awaiting my return was still there. That night, though, I wanted to stay a little longer with the fact that I would be in Tokushima tomorrow. Those three days had been difficult to obtain. While I was there, I wanted to actually see the place.

I took the Airport Railroad from Hongik University Station. It was a station and a train I could use in ordinary life, yet pulling a suitcase towards the airport made the morning feel different. I had booked only the night before, so part of me still had not caught up with the departure. The train, at least, was travelling steadily in the right direction.

My part now was to follow that movement rather than keep holding onto yesterday's worries. As it turned out, the schedule fitted this trip better than I had expected. On a journey of just two nights and three days, it kept travel time manageable and let us start exploring soon after arrival.

Leaving in the morning made a particular difference: the afternoon in Japan would still be ours. The first day could be the beginning of the trip, rather than a day consumed by getting there. The outward and return times were comfortable, too.

Neither flight was painfully early, nor awkwardly timed to swallow an entire day. On the way home there would be no need to force an early-morning rush, which helped the whole itinerary feel steadier. Small decisions like these accumulate into how tired a trip leaves you. This schedule reminded me of that once again.

The morning journey to the airport

I travelled to the airport on the Airport Railroad from Hongik University Station. A departure morning has its own atmosphere: not quite fully awake, but already carrying a tension that will not let you slip back into an ordinary day. Wheeling a suitcase onto the train felt like the beginning itself. A different destination can change familiar surroundings.

The line, platform and carriages were the same, yet knowing that I was heading to the airport altered the scene. Looking around, I could see other people moving in the same direction, with far more suitcases than usual. Simply joining that stream made me feel that the journey was underway before I had even left Korea.

I reached Incheon Airport at about eight. I had allowed a generous margin deliberately: this would be my first time using an airport lounge. Contrary to my expectations the airport was not especially crowded, and the flow through it seemed smooth. I could move calmly to the next step without feeling that I needed to hurry.

Check-in, and choosing the window

I checked in at the F counters in Terminal 1. Since I had not checked in on my phone, I expected a wait, but the line was short and moved quickly. How long this part feels can depend heavily on the day; this time I was fortunate. Choosing a seat also stayed with me. I was offered an emergency-exit seat, but turned it down despite the extra space. The reason was simple: I wanted to take photographs. A view through an aircraft window can make a flight more than a means of transport. I asked for a window seat and was able to get one. Sometimes such a small choice changes the direction of the experience.

Out through departures, sooner than expected

After check-in came the security check and departure formalities. I tend to think of Incheon as a place with crowds, so I had expected some queuing, but this time the movement hardly broke. There was no long bottleneck; it felt as though I could keep walking all the way through. My gate was 16, and I entered the airside area at around 8:30.

Having reached the airport at eight, I had completed the whole departure process in a little over half an hour. That felt remarkably quick for Incheon, leaving me free to prepare for the next part without watching the clock anxiously. With that margin, airport time stops feeling like empty waiting and becomes part of the trip. Simply knowing that there is no need to rush can settle the whole atmosphere.

Towards the lounge, and the reality of leaving

I had arrived early specifically because I planned to try an airport lounge for the first time. Finishing the formalities sooner than expected left even more room in the morning, and I could make my way there naturally. I had checked the Sky Hub Lounge's position in relation to Gate 16 beforehand, so finding the direction did not take much wandering. During that short walk through the airside area, the fact that the trip had begun finally started to register.

The airport's particular mixture of tension and anticipation gathered around me. I was no longer preparing to leave; I was actually in the process of leaving. I walked towards the lounge after clearing departures. Before reaching the airport I had thought mainly about getting through check-in and the checks successfully.

Once those were finished earlier than expected, a space opened up between tasks. It was good to have somewhere to sit for a while before boarding. A journey that had been difficult to begin did not have to start in a rush. After checking the gate, I decided to let this waiting time be a little more comfortable.

I had been through airports many times, but never used a lounge. Usually the timing was wrong, or I passed by wondering whether it was worth paying separately to enter. This time a booking-service benefit let me open that door. It was hardly a grand undertaking, yet a new space can still bring a small sense of expectation. I wondered how it would change the time before departure that I normally spent in much the same way.

Booking flights and hotels through Trip.com had gradually brought me to Diamond status, with two complimentary airport-lounge visits as a benefit at the time. Until then, a lounge had belonged to the category of things I might like to try someday. Now the circumstances finally lined up. Perhaps that was why entering felt like more than simply choosing a place to sit: it gave the beginning of the trip a small lift.

Choosing Sky Hub

With Gate 16 ahead of me, I chose the nearby Sky Hub Lounge. I appreciated not having to walk far across the airport.

A space I could finally try

The adult entry price I had noted for Sky Hub was around USD 45. With the exchange rate added to the calculation, that was not a casual amount for me, and ordinarily I would have thought twice before paying. This time I could try the place through my membership benefit. Saving money was pleasing, but what felt newer was waiting for departure inside a lounge I had always walked past.

Room to breathe before departure

Inside, the lounge was quiet and orderly overall. It felt distinct from the public waiting area: there were people, but it did not feel crowded. Once I sat down, I understood how a place could turn pre-flight waiting into a short rest. Food was served buffet-style, with more variety than I expected. There were light meal options, bread, fruit, desserts and drinks. Compared with the prices in airport restaurants, the selection seemed worthwhile. It was a comfortable setting for trying a little of several things without eating a heavy meal.

Meeting up before the flight

While I was there, the fellow Korean traveller joining me on this trip arrived and we met up. Airport meetings can be surprisingly awkward when timings do not align, so having one place to wait was another advantage of the lounge. We ate, talked about various things, and gradually felt more excited about the journey ahead.

That short time before departure began to feel like part of the trip rather than a gap before it. Around half an hour before departure, we got up and headed for Gate 16. About thirty minutes before departure, I left for Gate 16. All I had done in the lounge was put small portions of food on a plate, meet someone I knew, talk and sit for a while.

Yet I could feel the difference that little interval had made. It is easy to think that beginning a trip requires doing one more thing. This time, by not hurrying for a moment, I had given myself room to accept that I was leaving. That was enough to make a first lounge visit a good one.

I boarded and took the window seat I had requested instead of the roomier exit-row seat at check-in. For this short flight, watching the scenery approach Tokushima mattered more to me than stretching my legs. It was another flight to Japan, but this time I was heading somewhere I had never landed before. Last night the question had been whether I could go; now I wanted to know what we were passing over.

My flight was scheduled to leave Incheon at 10:10 a.m. on March 19 and arrive in Tokushima at 12:15 p.m. It was ZE671, operated by a Boeing 737-800. These may look like ordinary numbers, yet they shape the rhythm of a whole trip. Leaving in the morning and arriving around lunchtime meant that, once we landed, the day could continue straight into exploring.

Boarding a familiar kind of low-cost flight

We boarded at Gate 16, without any particular complications: join the line, step aboard, find the seat and put away the luggage. I had repeated that sequence many times, but settling into an aircraft still brings the feeling that departure is finally real. The cabin was familiar low-cost-airline territory, from the seating and legroom to the overall arrangement. There was no complimentary meal or personal screen. With a flight of roughly two hours, though, I did not find those absences particularly uncomfortable. Without much else demanding attention, I could simply be in transit.

A window seat makes the flight part of the trip

Having secured a window seat, I could watch the view throughout the flight. Looking down from above felt like part of the journey, rather than just time spent getting somewhere. Immediately after take-off, the surroundings of Incheon receded quickly. Then we rose above the clouds and the everyday world began to feel more distant. The same broad scenery continued for a while before the ground gradually returned as landing approached.

Near Tokushima, the sight of sea and city in the same frame was especially striking. A city seen through an aircraft window always looks a little unfamiliar. It is no longer the outline on a map: terrain, buildings, sea and rivers all come together in one view. Looking at that, I felt I had already entered the region before reaching its airport.

The particular feeling before landing

The flight lasted a little over two hours. There was scarcely time to find it long, but it was not so short that the journey felt insubstantial. It was just enough time to accept the movement itself rather than try to accomplish something. Towards the end, the aircraft began to descend slowly and the scenery sharpened.

Ships on the water, a continuing coastline, and the outline of a city gradually taking shape: watching that progression, I felt myself entering a place before I thought simply of arriving. As we descended, the distant shore and buildings came closer. I started thinking again about which bus we would need outside the airport and whether I would find my way after reaching the station.

Unfamiliar things would be waiting; this was a first visit. Still, I did not mind that unfamiliarity. Soon I would step out into a place I had so far only looked up in photographs. Even the last part of the flight felt too valuable to spend looking away from the window.

After landing at Tokushima Airport, I walked towards immigration. Compared with moving through Narita, Haneda, Kansai or Fukuoka, everything was much smaller. I was used to airports where the end of the walk never seemed to come into view, so this short route was almost unfamiliar in itself.

The atmosphere felt different immediately. I had not seen the city yet, but already sensed that these three days would differ from the Japanese trips I usually chose. Scale was the first obvious contrast. The layout was far simpler than at the large international airports I knew.

Only three immigration booths were operating, and the compact space meant very little walking. The distance from the aircraft was short and there was no uncertainty about which way to go. At this size, it felt almost closer to a well-organised regional terminal than to my usual image of an airport. That did not seem like a disadvantage.

For a first-time visitor, the lack of complexity was reassuring. There was little chance of getting lost or being pushed along by a crowd. At a large airport I often move with the flow of countless other people; here I could move at my own pace. That difference was larger than I expected.

A slower, more visible arrival process

There were only three immigration booths, so I could see each person moving through. A moment I would have passed through at a larger airport felt a little longer in this small space. Perhaps that was why the strongest feeling was not anxiety but the reality that I had arrived. It was like passing slowly through the first doorway of the trip.

What one sentence in Japanese can leave behind

At the immigration desk, I naturally began speaking Japanese. The simple questions and answers went smoothly enough, including the purpose and length of my stay. Then I missed the meaning of one sentence. I hesitated and answered, ‘Wakarimasen’—I do not understand.

That short admission cleared things up. The officer smiled and said that my pronunciation had sounded natural, so they had assumed I spoke Japanese well. Such brief exchanges can stay with me surprisingly long on a trip. Only a sentence or two passes between people, yet the atmosphere and expression remain with it.

As someone studying a little each day, that reaction meant more than a compliment. I knew I still had a great deal to learn, but had nonetheless experienced a moment of being understood. Our short conversation ended, I received the landing-permission sticker, and immigration was complete.

Baggage, customs, and the actual pace of a small airport

One floor below immigration was baggage reclaim. There were not many belts in the small room, and the arrangement was straightforward. Most of the checked bags were already out, so collecting ours was easy. In fact there was hardly any waiting; we could move directly to the next stage.

Customs was the slower part. Only two lines were operating there as well, and the checks seemed more thorough than I had expected. Bags were opened individually, so the queue shortened gradually. This made one characteristic of a small airport clear: fewer people do not automatically mean faster processing when the number of staff is limited too.

The overall atmosphere, however, was much calmer and felt less pressurised. I did not have to stay conscious of a large stream of people behind me as I might at a major airport. The line was not moving particularly fast, but waiting felt relatively unhurried. Eventually our turn came, and we passed through customs without a problem, finishing the arrival formalities.

A little information before leaving the airport

Before going outside, there was something worth picking up: a flyer for the Tokushima Bus Pass distribution campaign and a coupon card, visible after customs. They were easy to pass without much thought, yet could matter to the practical journey. For someone planning to use public transport, the bus pass in particular made more difference than its modest appearance suggested.

I never ended up using the coupon card, but the Tokushima Bus Pass proved useful on later journeys. Learning about something like that at the start can make the route ahead easier; missing it can add needless complications. It reminded me how much travel depends on when information reaches you. One small piece of information at an airport can change the shape of a day.

Just before stepping outside

With all the entry formalities finished, only leaving the airport remained. But this moment means more than walking outdoors. The movement carried by the aircraft and the airport corridors comes to an end, and a different rhythm begins. Time, surroundings and the language around you change.

For me, it is one of a journey's clearest transitions. We headed to the information counter to collect the bus pass. I had not yet fully understood how much easier it would make our movements afterwards. Outside, we would have to find our own way.

A different tension remained from the relief of having confirmed the trip, but it was not entirely unwelcome. Now came the work of checking one direction after another. First, though, I was glad to have safely reached the point where I could do that. We would pick up the pass here and head into central Tokushima.

What I received at the information counter after showing my passport was a paper bus pass with dates to scratch off. At first it seemed like one more small piece of visitor information; in practice I took it out each time I boarded or left a bus. In an unfamiliar place, even change and payment methods can take up more attention than expected. At least for the first journey, that was one concern removed.

It made the new city feel a little less difficult. The information counter is among the first things to notice in the airport, near the centre and small enough to walk past. This was where we picked up the free Tokushima bus pass. It may look like an ordinary tourist leaflet at first, but it can make a real difference to the flow of getting around. Knowing to collect it before leaving the airport, rather than passing it by, changed our first movements.

Collecting the free Tokushima pass

It did not take long to receive a paper bus pass at the information counter. The ZE671 flight I had arrived on was eligible. Having the pass in hand made me feel more at ease about the next journey.

Two usable days, and choosing when to use them

The pass could be used for two days, marked by scratching the dates on the paper. It was a simple arrangement, though at first I paused over which dates to reveal. Because the user chooses the days, it matters to decide how they fit the itinerary. Once ours were marked to match our plans, moving around became easier. For the routes we took in Tokushima, this single pass covered much of our main travel.

From the airport straight towards the city

After collecting the pass, we stepped outside to the bus stop immediately in front of the airport. The airport's small scale made the route straightforward; following the movement outside naturally brought us there. A bus for Tokushima Station was already waiting when we emerged, so we could board without another wait. At larger airports I often have to calculate the transfer or match the timetable more carefully.

Here, the journey continued directly from arrival, which left an impression on me. We put our suitcases in the luggage compartment below and climbed aboard. Initially there was room to spare, but more passengers arrived and eventually almost all the seats were filled, with the folding aisle seats brought into use as well. Watching this, I understood that this airport-to-city route was a basic connection used by more people than I had first imagined.

Getting my first sense of Tokushima from the bus

The bus began by passing the relatively quiet surroundings of the airport. Buildings stood farther apart and the roads felt open; it seemed looser and less dense than my image of a city. The atmosphere changed gradually as we approached the centre, though it never became Tokyo's compressed urban landscape. The city took shape while retaining room between things. On the aircraft I had still felt strongly in transit. Here, the sense of having arrived became clearer. The view beyond the window was drawing closer to ordinary reality, and that process itself felt like the beginning of the trip.

The simplest part: getting off

When I got off at Tokushima Station, I showed the driver my pass. It was unfamiliar at first, but I found it reassuring not to have to calculate a fare separately.

A piece of paper that changed the first day's rhythm

This one pass made the airport-to-station journey remarkably straightforward. The saving mattered, but more noticeable to me was the reduction in travel stress. We could leave the airport and continue into town without a complicated extra process.

For our journey it felt less like an optional extra than something I was very glad we had collected. As the trip continued, I repeatedly thought how much more awkward things might have been without it. At the station, I put the pass away again. I had learned one way to use the buses and gained a point of reference to find again later.

Before the trip, the whole city had been unknown. Now the route from the airport to here was something I had experienced myself. It was hardly a great achievement, yet I felt more at ease. As I rolled my suitcase towards the hotel, it finally felt as though I was spending my first day in Tokushima.

I wheeled my suitcase from Tokushima Station towards THE GRAND PALACE. Finding accommodation in a new city always takes a little attention: the dot on the map has not yet become connected to the lane in front of me. When we found the hotel through the shopping streets west of the station, my first thought was relief that it was not far. Knowing where I would return that first evening gave me more room to look around.

On the way from the station's western side, we passed a narrow shopping lane. It was neither large nor glamorous, but the local atmosphere made it more memorable. It felt like somewhere people lived rather than a district arranged around tourists. Walking there on the first day, I naturally thought: this is different from Tokyo.

Beyond the lane, one right turn brought the hotel into view. Despite it being my first time there, I did not get particularly lost; a quick look at the map was enough. Easy-to-find accommodation matters more than expected at the start of a trip. After travelling, simply avoiding one last tiring search can change how the arrival feels.

A lobby one floor up

The lobby's position struck me as slightly unusual. I tend to picture a hotel lobby directly on the ground floor; here it was on the second floor. Stairs led up from the entrance and an elevator was available too, but with the space so compact we naturally used the stairs. The layout seemed unfamiliar for a moment, then reassuringly straightforward in practice.

Check-in began at three in the afternoon, while we arrived around one. Our room was not yet ready, so we left the luggage at reception and decided to go out for a while. There was time before we could settle into the room, but being able to walk without a suitcase already made things lighter.

Rather than chase another distant sight, I wanted to eat nearby and get to know this neighbourhood a little. We would be returning along these streets anyway. If I could turn an unfamiliar lane into the route back to our hotel now, perhaps I would wander less that evening.

After leaving the luggage, we went into Menya Rokkon. I did not have much energy for seeking out a distant first meal, and my stomach was not especially settled. Rather than compare several celebrated restaurants immediately after arrival, I mostly wanted somewhere nearby to sit and eat. We chose it because it was in front of our hotel, yet it would become the first taste of this journey.

I ordered without knowing that this was a bowl I would later remember when thinking of Tokushima. The shop was unshowy, with a modest sign and the look of a neighbourhood ramen place that had been there a while. I had read that it was known for tsukemen—noodles served separately to dip in broth—so there was little hesitation about going in. It was a meal chosen to fill the time before check-in, but after eating I knew I would remember the place for more than its convenience.

Settling straight on tsukemen

I looked over the menu and ordered tsukemen. On a first visit, I tend to want the dish that made me curious about the place. Since I was not feeling entirely well, I chose the regular size rather than push myself. Inside was the familiar layout of a small Japanese ramen shop, with few seats and a generally quiet mood. Some people ate alone; others sat in pairs talking softly.

The absence of unnecessary noise made it easier to concentrate on the food, which suited me. When the food arrived, the first thing I noticed was the quantity. It was far more than I expected from a regular portion. I had deliberately ordered that size because I was not in perfect condition, yet now I wondered whether I could finish it. I was briefly taken aback, then decided to start eating and see.

The difference was in the broth

The first mouthful eased some of my concern about the portion. The dipping broth was much thicker than the tsukemen I had eaten before, different enough to notice immediately. Its consistency was almost like curry. Rather than just wetting the noodles, it came up with them. Each mouthful carried a concentrated flavour; I did not need to coat the noodles heavily for it to be enough. The broth lingered while I chewed. Rich did not simply mean relentlessly salty. At the next mouthful I found myself adjusting the balance of noodles and broth to try it another way.

Noodles that kept pace with the broth

The noodles were well matched to it: thick enough, springy, and able to hold the broth without losing their own texture. It was not merely a powerful soup but a balanced dish. Tsukemen can become tiring partway through, yet I barely felt that here. One mouthful led naturally to the next without breaking the flow. In the end I ate almost all the noodles I had initially doubted I could finish. It was different from rushing a meal through hunger. Even while feeling below my best, I wanted another mouthful. When I recall my first meal in Tokushima, that thick dipping broth is still what comes to mind first.

A short lunch window to remember

The opening hours I had checked at the time were 11 a.m. to 2:45 p.m.; this was not somewhere I could return for dinner. I was glad we had found it in the gap before check-in and made a mental note to plan a lunchtime visit if I came back. At first such a short schedule can be surprising, though shops concentrating on a single meal period are not unusual in Japan.

I had also seen the possibility of an earlier close if ingredients ran out. That makes a restaurant somewhere to fit your day around, rather than somewhere you can assume will always be open. Perhaps that is part of why it stays with you. Places you have to make time for can leave a stronger impression while travelling.

A first meal that raised expectations

The person who had worried about finishing the regular portion had nearly emptied it. Sitting before that bowl, my first thought was not an evaluation of how successfully I had chosen the trip's first meal. It was simply wanting another mouthful even though I did not feel completely well. Until then I had no familiar streets or restaurants I wanted to return to in Tokushima. By the end of lunch, I had at least one. I knew I would think of that thick broth on a future visit. One meal had brought the first day's city a little closer.

After lunch, we walked towards the river. I had vaguely expected Japan to be warmer, but a strong wind blew under the overcast sky. In the rush to leave, I had brought the coat I was wearing in Korea, and was glad of it. Had I dressed more lightly, I suspect I would have wanted to get indoors quickly rather than look around. I kept my coat on as I walked. Tokushima on that first day was colder than the spring afternoon I had imagined, but perhaps that made me take in the river more slowly.

An unplanned view on the way to the park

On the way to Aibahama Park, we crossed a pedestrian bridge. I had not marked it as a viewpoint, yet from the top the surroundings opened up at once. Seen from above, Tokushima felt quieter than I had expected. There were few cars, and the spaces between buildings kept the view from feeling enclosed.

It was distinctly different from the density of Tokyo or Osaka. Looking across it, I thought less of a tourist destination than of a place where people lived. I took a few photographs and came down again. Brief moments like this sometimes stay with me longer than planned sights, perhaps precisely because I meet them on the way rather than arrive expecting them.

Along the Shinmachi River, time slows

The first thing that catches the eye at Aibahama Park is the Shinmachi River. Rather than simply an area of greenery, it feels like a walking space stretched along the water. The riverside paths, with benches and places to rest at intervals, naturally slow the pace. This felt less like somewhere to pass quickly through than somewhere to stop and spend a little time. Watching the river quietly settled my thoughts. Nothing spectacular had to happen; simply seeing the water move seemed enough to put things in order. Time like that matters more than I expect at the beginning of a trip.

A passing boat, and a passing thought

As I stood looking at the river, a small boat carrying passengers went slowly by. It was not a large sightseeing vessel, more a modest boat that I guessed was following a route along the Shinmachi. Seeing it brought an unexpected thought: perhaps someone who had arrived on our flight was aboard. People who had reached the airport at the same time were now experiencing this city in entirely different ways.

A playground, familiar and unfamiliar

In one corner of the park was a small playground, where children who looked about primary-school age were running around. It was an ordinary scene, yet that may be why it stayed with me. I thought about how I seem to see children spending a weekday afternoon freely at a playground less often in Korea than I used to.

Perhaps after-school classes and indoor activities play a part. Here, the sight of children simply being outside felt almost unfamiliar to me. That was why I remembered it. It was not a scene arranged for a traveller, only a moment of daily life; sometimes those moments feel more special than a designated sight.

A quiet city's first impression

Aibahama Park felt closer to Tokushima's everyday life than to a major tourist attraction. It showed the city without exaggeration. Walking here after our first meal turned out to be a good choice. Instead of hurrying through places immediately after arrival, I had slowed down once and looked around, and that made the rest of the day feel easier to continue.

I looked at the passing boat and the buildings across the river, then walked on. I kept thinking of our fellow passengers, now dispersed along their separate routes. Some might already be at a famous sight; others might be eating or resting in a hotel. I was here, looking at a river. I could let a brief standstill count as my journey too. Simply knowing that the first afternoon still lay ahead felt unexpectedly generous.

Even after our riverside walk, there was time before check-in. Returning to the hotel just to wait seemed a waste, so we went into Awagin Hall. I had only noticed the exhibition sign at the entrance; this was not a show I had come intending to see. Entering somewhere I have not researched brings few expectations, but also no predetermined response.

I thought I would look around briefly. That light intention held me in front of the works longer than expected. The hall was beside the park, so it fitted naturally into our walk, and from outside it clearly looked like a cultural building used for performances and exhibitions. It had not been part of the plan, but places like this sometimes prove unexpectedly satisfying on a trip.

We decided to go in without another round of searching or deliberation. Inside, the day's information showed that an exhibition of works by members of the Tokushima Prefecture Artists Association was underway. It seemed to be held in the third-floor exhibition space. I went up without much expectation; it would become one of the more memorable parts of the visit.

A casual visit to work that was anything but casual

There was a broader range of work than I had expected. It was not only painting: textiles, crafts and carved stone pieces gave the exhibition considerable variety. Initially I intended one quick circuit, but as I began looking at each piece my steps slowed. They felt less like finished objects made for display than traces of sustained work over time. Closer up, their details became clearer: the texture of brushstrokes, the weave of fabric, the marks left in shaping a stone surface. Seeing those traces, I naturally wondered how much time had gone into completing each work.

Works in which time seemed visible

The strongest impression was of being able to see time. From a distance there was a single finished object, but within it lay repetition, revisions and countless decisions. In many pieces I felt something of that process, rather than merely observing its result. Perhaps that was why I stopped before individual works instead of scanning the room quickly. Some I could have walked past; others held my feet in place for reasons I could not easily explain. What I could feel clearly was the concentration within the work.

What an exhibition means away from home

One question kept returning while I looked: would I have made a special trip to see this in Seoul? Probably not easily. Seoul has plenty of exhibitions like this, but in daily life I often put them off rather than set aside time to visit. I am busy; it does not have to be now. Away from home, the situation changes. An awkward interval between plans, time that seems too valuable to let pass unused, leads me through a door. Inside, I end up spending a much fuller hour than expected.

The concentration a quiet room allows

The exhibition space was quiet overall. There were few visitors, so no crowd, just people spending time with the works at their own pace. That setting made concentration easier. I found slowly looking in a room like this more absorbing than moving through a noisy exhibition. I repeatedly stopped before a piece, walked a few steps, then returned to look again. The pattern emerged naturally. Without the feeling of racing a schedule, it was closer to simply remaining somewhere for a while.

Staying longer than intended

In the end I stayed far longer than I had planned. I had come in to fill time, yet on leaving the thought was not merely that it had been fine, but that it had been unexpectedly good. An experience like that can give the rest of a trip greater substance. Finding satisfaction somewhere I had not expected much is one of the things that makes travel interesting.

What remains from an unplanned stop

This exhibition had never been on the itinerary. Still, I thought it might remain with me for a long time. Sometimes such moments stay more strongly than famous sights: entering with little expectation and leaving with something deeper than I had anticipated. I had come to pass an empty interval before check-in, but after leaving I could hardly call that time empty.

The weave of a textile and the marks on worked stone stayed with me—things visible only when I looked closely. Why do I stop in front of them on a trip when I could see similar exhibitions in Seoul? Rather than force an answer, I wanted to remember that I had stopped that day. Time spent somewhere unplanned had become a real part of the first afternoon.

Walking behind the hotel, I came to railway tracks and a level crossing. As I was about to cross, the barrier lowered and the warning sounded, so I stopped with everyone else. I had not come specifically to see trains; I was simply learning the streets around the hotel. During that brief wait, my attention turned to the tracks. Perhaps I noticed them more because I do not often encounter this scene in Korea.

Looking around a city, I thought, does not always mean entering a building. A little further on, the crossing had appeared naturally in our path. Its form, now hard to find in my everyday surroundings, drew my eye on its own. Barrier down, warning ringing, both drivers and pedestrians stopped: an ordinary scene with a curious suggestion of time held still.

A scene still present in regional Japan

Level crossings remain common in Japan. In smaller regional cities such as Tokushima, roads and railways often meet at ground level rather than being fully separated. Older rail networks and the city that has formed around them leave transport and daily life overlapping in a very visible way. Thinking about cost and the existing shape of the city, I could see why that landscape might remain. Looking at it, I thought less of inconvenience than of a city whose movement was still allowed to slow for a moment.

The train stopped, then reversed

The movement of the train was what surprised me most. Usually I imagine a barrier lowering, a train passing and the barrier rising again. Here the train stood across the road, then, rather than continuing ahead, reversed back along the track. I guessed it had something to do with the tracks leading towards an end point or a depot, though I did not know the precise operation.

Regional railways in Japan include many single-track sections, and changes of direction can be part of their movements. To someone seeing it for the first time, proceeding so far and then reversing looked unusual. Locally, though, the moment passed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Waiting, and the people who waited

While the train blocked the road, all the vehicles remained stopped. What impressed me was the mood of that wait. I saw almost no impatience or horns being sounded. People simply stood or sat waiting for the movement to finish, as though this were a normal part of the day's flow. I imagined that in my own everyday surroundings, frustration might have been the first reaction. Here it seemed to be accepted as one piece of daily life. Perhaps that is why the waiting itself did not feel uncomfortable to me.

A city's slower rhythm

Watching, I began to sense something of Tokushima's pace. In a city organised around moving ever faster, I find it hard to imagine such an arrangement lasting. Efficiency and speed tend to bring separated crossings or tracks underground. Here, rails still crossed the road and there was still time when people and cars had to pause. For a moment, that felt like room to breathe rather than an inconvenience. Being a visitor may have helped me see it that way, but I felt the city's own rhythm was part of it too.

What a brief scene leaves behind

The crossing was not a special attraction, only a structure within everyday life. I think I remember it not simply because it was uncommon to my eyes, but because of the difference in pace it contained. Once the train had passed, we could cross and continue. People briefly stopped and then resumed their separate directions: a scene that probably meant very little to those who lived here.

Yet I photographed it. It made me think about how differently a traveller and a resident can see the same space. On another visit I might pass through without noticing; this first time, I looked for longer. I was glad that unfamiliar way of seeing was still available to me.

At around three, we returned to the hotel and opened the room door. Until then, eating and walking around had felt like beginning the trip entirely outdoors. Inside, there was finally time when I could stop. I noticed the twin beds and the orderly space. More immediately comforting than whether the hotel was special was the fact that this was where I could come back tonight.

I could put down the luggage I had brought from the airport. Knowing at booking that it was a three-star hotel, I had not set especially high expectations, but the room felt much better kept than I had imagined. The space was not oppressive, and the twin-bed arrangement was neatly organised. There was room to move even with the suitcases open. That practical fact felt more useful than a floor-area figure.

Since landing I had been carrying luggage, finding directions and moving between a restaurant and a park; now I welcomed somewhere I could lay things out. Small differences in space can feel large while travelling. Here, at least, I did not have to keep turning sideways around my bags. It did not feel markedly inferior to some four-star hotels I had stayed at in Tokyo, and in terms of value I found parts of it more satisfying.

A bathroom, and somewhere to spend the day

The bathroom was a familiar compact unit with a bathtub and basin. Looking around, I thought it would serve the day comfortably. Once I had taken photographs, there was not much more to inspect, but that very ordinariness was reassuring on the first afternoon.

In a city where I kept having to work out something new, the functions inside my room could simply be straightforward. I was less delighted by discovering exceptional facilities than relieved that I could rest for a while. The afternoon was not over and I intended to go out again. Before that, having a room in which to catch my breath loosened something in me.

Rather than assess whether I had begun the trip successfully, I could briefly accept that I had made it this far safely. It had been a morning of travelling through the airport and onwards. Unpacking and resting for a short time was enough. I did not need to seek out special facilities; I could return here later and work out tomorrow's route.

One place I now knew how to return to

I had weighed the distance from the station, nearby food and access towards Naruto when choosing accommodation. Sharing a room on the first night and staying separately on the second meant it had not been a single simple booking. I thought I might remember this hotel first if I returned to Tokushima. Less for an inventory of its fittings than for walking here from the station and comfortably setting down my bags.

On arrival I still knew very little about the city, but finding a room to return to had not been difficult. That was more reassuring than I expected. The first day was not finished. I intended to rest a little and leave again, but now I knew where I would come back.

I had walked from the station, left my bags and returned to collect them and go upstairs. That small sequence created a familiar stretch within a city I had never seen. What I remember is not a prediction of how memorable the room would be, but how it put me at ease that afternoon. Ordinary reassurance like this also gives a traveller energy to continue.

I had seen the name Awa Odori repeatedly since arriving at the airport. I knew it was Tokushima's representative dance, but so far I knew it only as words. I came to the hall because I wanted to see it for myself. The main purpose of this journey was tomorrow's performance, so I approached this first-day show with relatively light expectations. Afterwards, the sound stayed with me before the name did.

The memory turned out larger than the anticipation. Perhaps the most immediate expression of the dance's place here was the airport itself: Tokushima Awaodori Airport. An airport named not only for its city but for a dance is not something I encounter often. Naturally, I began to feel I should see that dance while I was here. The place to do so was Awa Odori Kaikan.

Choosing a ticket on the ground floor

On entering the ground floor, we found the souvenir shop and ticket counter straight away. The interior was not as large as I had imagined, but there was enough for visitors to browse. Tickets for the performance alone were available; I chose the three-part set including the daytime show, entry to the Awa Odori Museum and a return trip on the Bizan Ropeway.

On the day of our visit, March 19, 2026, the adult price was JPY 2,640 per person. The combined arrangement made sense. Rather than seeing one show and leaving, I could experience several sides of Tokushima from the same building. There was little time until the performance, so we made one quick circuit of the shop and went directly upstairs to the second-floor hall.

Drawn straight into the rhythm

The performance lasted about forty minutes, with the energy rising almost as soon as it began. If I had vaguely associated traditional performance with something restrained, the rhythm and force quickly corrected that expectation. The dance began with the instruments and the whole moved as one continuous flow.

Repeated gestures formed its centre, but there was life in their rhythm and precision in the group movement. What could look simple at a glance was clearly carefully coordinated in practice. Photography and filming were allowed provided no flash was used. That made it a welcoming place not just to watch, but to leave with a record of what I had seen.

Simple gestures, a rhythm that keeps pulling you in

The basic movements of Awa Odori appeared relatively simple: arms raised, legs moving repeatedly with the beat. That simplicity gave the dance much of its strength. The same gestures continued without becoming dull. Instead, as the rhythm grew familiar, I was drawn further into it. The contrast between the men's and women's styles particularly caught my attention. The men bent their knees and moved powerfully in a low stance; the women remained upright, hands raised, with a softer continuity of movement. They were dancing the same dance, yet the atmosphere each created felt completely different.

The sound completes the dance

The music made the performance more powerful. It was not merely accompaniment behind the dancers but something fully joined to them. Drums, shamisen and flutes carried the rhythm, with calls such as ‘Yattosa, yattō-yattō’ repeatedly drawing the whole forward. The sound stayed in my ears. Even after the show, its beat went around in my head for a while. I felt I had received it through my body rather than simply watched a performance.

When the audience becomes part of the show

What impressed me was that it did not end with watching. Towards the close, the dancers taught some simple Awa Odori movements and gave the audience a chance to participate. Many people went up onto the stage and danced together. That sight remained particularly vivid.

Watching the audience follow along, I thought that movements which looked simple might not be so easy to sustain in rhythm. For a short while the room was no longer divided neatly into performers and spectators. That made this feel less like a bonus activity than the final part that completed the show. It was a chance to step a little way into the culture instead of ending at observation.

Why this dance belongs to Tokushima

After the performance I understood more naturally why Awa Odori represents Tokushima. Not merely because it is an old tradition, but because people still participate in it and keep it alive. It felt connected to local life, a continuing current rather than a performance isolated from its surroundings.

Upstairs, the journey continues by ropeway

After the show, our route led naturally to the upper floors. Awa Odori Kaikan is not only a performance venue: the ropeway station is directly above. Its cable cars climb Mount Bizan, and at that time of year the operating hours made timing important. With the last departures around late afternoon, going up soon after the performance was the most natural sequence for our day. On the ascent I found the rear car a good choice for looking back over the city. Coming down, the front gave a better view. Knowing that little detail made the ride more satisfying.

Tokushima seen from above

At the summit of Mount Bizan, central Tokushima spread out below us. It was not a huge city, which made its overall shape easier to take in: rivers and roads with low buildings continuing between them. The lack of overwhelming complexity gave the view a sense of steadiness. I thought it might look even better after dark, but the relatively early end to the ropeway's operating day left that as a regret. We would have to descend before the sky was fully dark. On another visit I wanted to arrange time for the night view too.

A place that brought Tokushima into focus

The show and the ropeway ascent were connected within a single building. Here I could see both the dance I had been curious about on arrival and the shape of the city itself. It became somewhere I would think of returning to, whoever I travelled with next time. Even after leaving the hall, the calls and instruments remained in my head.

Rather than hear another explanation of Awa Odori's fame, I wanted to recall the movements I had just seen. A show I had entered with little expectation could stay like this. Tomorrow's performance—the one I had travelled for—was still ahead, yet already the first day had given me another stage to remember. I began to see that the trip would not be filled by its original purpose alone.

After riding up and standing at the viewpoint, I saw the city I had just been walking through spread below. Buildings followed the rivers, and the view opened far into the distance. A moment earlier I had been thinking about which street led where; here those same streets belonged to one landscape. It felt different from arriving, finding lunch and locating a room.

For a little while I could step away from navigation and simply think: I have come all the way to this city today. Bizan is not an overwhelmingly high mountain, but perhaps that helped me see the city clearly. Low buildings spread around the rivers in a form that looked relatively orderly rather than tangled, and that made the scene feel settled.

Looking across the open view, I gradually felt the reality of being away. It was a sensation that had been harder to notice while travelling, checking in and eating, but here it became clear. I also wanted to see the view at night, though the ropeway finished too early for that on this visit. If I returned, I thought I would like to plan a day that let me stay for the city lights before coming down.

A small café, with an unexpected character

There was a small café on one side of the viewpoint. Rather than an ordinary sightseeing café, it seemed to follow a particular theme. The exterior had a distinctive atmosphere and the interior focused on character merchandise more than on being a general rest area. Photography was not allowed, and entry was limited.

At first we could not go inside because all the seats were occupied. The person travelling with me asked politely in Japanese, and we were allowed a brief look on the condition that we took no photographs. It was only a short visit, but clearly different from a conventional tourist café. The space felt organised around sustaining a particular concept, rather than simply serving drinks.

Another kind of view beside the lookout

A little way from the viewpoint stood a structure that caught my eye: the Peace Memorial Pagoda. At first I took it for a sculpture, but closer up it was larger than I had expected, with a form unlike the Japanese buildings I usually saw. Its distinctive tapering shape, I learned, was based on the architecture of Myanmar, formerly Burma. Built in 1958, the tower commemorates those who died on the Burma front and expresses a wish for peace. It houses Buddhist relics donated by U Nu, then the prime minister of Myanmar, and also serves to honour the war dead.

More than another feature in the landscape

Looking at the tower, I felt another layer to the place beyond an object beside a viewpoint. Travel often directs my attention towards visible scenery and immediate experiences. Meeting a space like this brings the region's history and memory into the same field of attention. Since it is a place of remembrance and peace rather than simply a sightseeing point, the atmosphere naturally became quieter for me.

What remained on the way down

Bizan was more than a place to admire a view. There was the perspective across Tokushima, the unexpected themed café we briefly entered, and the peace memorial nearby. Each was quite different, yet following them in one sequence gave the place more dimensions. At the summit, I had wanted the night view too. That day, however, we needed to descend before it was fully dark.

A view I could not see did not diminish the one in front of me, though the regret remained. I began thinking about what time I would come up on a return visit. Only a few hours earlier this had been a city I had never visited; already I was choosing a time for the next one. At the same time, I was glad it was still only the first day.

Walking a little farther around the summit, I found myself turning toward a small shrine. Once I looked away from the distant city, there were things to notice close by, too. A few steps away from the people gathered at the lookout, it was quieter. I had not come looking for it because someone had told me it was famous.

After so much moving and taking pictures, it simply felt like somewhere I could stand still for a moment. At first I might easily have walked past. It was neither large nor elaborately decorated, yet something made me look back. Most visitors who had come up by ropeway stayed around the lookout. Here there were fewer people, and perhaps that was why it felt quieter still. My feet took me in that direction almost of their own accord.

A Shrine at the Top of a Mountain

Closer up, I could make out the name: Tsurugiyama Shrine, written 劔山神社. When I picture a Japanese shrine, I tend to imagine a substantial precinct with a long approach leading in from the entrance. This place felt rather different. It was closer in scale to a little house that had been adapted for another purpose, fitting naturally into its surroundings.

Rather than a facility placed inside a sightseeing destination, it felt like something that had belonged here all along. Japan has many shrines connected with mountains and the natural world. Encountering one in this modest form made that relationship feel more immediate to me.

Why a Shrine Here?

At first I thought of it simply as a shrine on a mountaintop. Reading about it afterward, I realized that such a setting was hardly unusual in Japan. Mountains have long been regarded as sacred, and high peaks in particular as places where deities dwell. Building shrines on summits and mountainsides belongs to that tradition of treating the landscape itself as sacred ground.

The name Tsurugiyama also brought to mind Mount Tsurugi, the well-known mountain in Shikoku. The shrine's name seemed to suggest a connection, although I could not say more than that. What interested me was the possibility that its location was not merely unusual: the place itself might be part of its meaning.

Small, but Difficult to Walk Away From

The shrine really was small enough to look around in a few minutes. Yet I found myself lingering. It was not the size or ornament that held me, but almost the opposite. Surrounded by the mountain, with few people nearby, the sound seemed to fall away. Standing in front of it, I stopped for a while without needing to do anything in particular. The steady momentum of the trip loosened its hold. A pause like that, brief as it is, can change the rhythm of an entire day.

What the Weather Added

The sky was not clear that day. There was a little wind, and the view looked softened rather than sharply outlined. I would normally count that as a disappointment, but here it seemed to contribute to the place. In bright sunshine the shrine might have felt more like a sightseeing stop. Under that gray sky, its stillness came forward. I did not mind the weather. Looking back, I think it suited the shrine.

An Unplanned Place That Stayed With Me

The shrine had not been on my itinerary. Before taking the ropeway up, I had not even known it existed; I discovered it while looking around the summit. Sometimes it is precisely these unplanned places that stay with me longest. Somewhere I have researched in advance comes with a set of expectations.

A place I enter knowing nothing can feel like a discovery in its own right. Nothing special was happening there, and it was not a place with a spectacular attraction. What it offered was somewhere to stop. Just outside the sequence of looking at the view, taking a picture, and moving on, it seemed all the quieter for being slightly removed.

A Brief Break in the Journey's Momentum

I cannot have spent long there—probably only a few minutes. Even so, it felt as though the continuous forward movement of the trip had been interrupted. One moment I was moving from one new scene to another; the next I was standing still, doing nothing. Looking around once more, listening to the wind, and turning back toward the distant view felt like a small rest. What mattered was being somewhere that did not require me to accomplish anything.

Why I Remember Something So Small

There was no monumental building here, no lavish decoration. If I remember it, I think it is because of its setting and atmosphere rather than its scale: a small shrine at the top of a mountain, with a quietness that made me slow down naturally. Coming across even one place like this can alter the impression of a trip. Among the parts of the day that pass quickly, there is now a memory of having stopped.

The Kind of Moment a Journey Sometimes Needs

Travel keeps me moving: look, take a picture, move on, look again. There is nothing wrong with that rhythm, but without a break the scenes can begin to resemble one another. Somewhere I can stand for a little while and do nothing gives the day room to settle.

Returning toward the lookout, I thought I would remember this place even though I had not stayed long or done anything remarkable. Beside the broad landscape there was now the quiet in front of a small shrine. My usual hurry to finish one place and move to the next had eased. When I think of Mount Bizan, I remember the city below, but also the time I spent walking quietly around it.

After coming down by ropeway, I went upstairs to see the museum. I had watched the performance and been up the mountain; this would complete the visit, I thought. But admission had already closed. The afternoon I had imagined unfolding from one thing to the next came to a halt in front of a shut door.

It was more frustrating because I had not arrived terribly late. My first thought was what might have happened if I had come a little sooner. It was about 5:15 p.m. I kept wondering about those ten or fifteen minutes.

If I had arrived far too late to have any chance at all, perhaps I would not have replayed the order of the afternoon so much. I had enjoyed the performance and the mountain, only to realize afterward that this door had been closing while I was elsewhere. I was left with the disappointment of missing something that had seemed well within reach.

Rearranging the Afternoon at the Door

What if I had come straight here after the performance? What if I had left the mountain a little earlier? I rearranged the afternoon in my head. At the time, the route had seemed natural, so I had followed it. Now that the door was closed, the alternatives were easier to see. Things that seem obvious after a trip can escape me while I am in motion.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had assumed that buying the combined ticket meant I would manage to see everything. More than the lesson about checking closing times, I regretted how a brief check might have changed the afternoon. It was not something to blame myself harshly for, but neither could I forget it immediately. The performance had only just made me curious about the dance.

What Was Still Visible

I did not turn away without seeing anything at all. A few displays and visual elements around the entrance could be viewed from outside, and I was able to photograph those. There were costumes resembling the ones I had seen onstage and images related to Awa Odori. It was only a small glimpse, but enough to suggest the atmosphere inside. Seeing it made me imagine all the more that there was much more beyond the entrance. It was not a proper museum visit, but the experience was not entirely empty either. Standing outside for a moment and imagining what lay within had a meaning of its own.

Wanting to Understand the Dance a Little Better

I did not go inside, so I cannot describe the exhibitions as though I saw them. Looking at the information near the entrance, I thought I might have learned more about the costumes, instruments, and story of the dance I had just watched. I had arrived at the performance without those questions. Now that I had them, the place where I might have followed them was closed.

A little earlier I had still been hearing the calls and rhythms; now I wanted to know how the dance had been handed down. I had not come intending to study it. Enjoying it had made me want to know more. That was why it did not feel as though I had merely missed one museum. I had lost the chance, for that day, to follow a new interest a little farther.

The photographs and information outside made me more conscious of what I had not seen. A handful of things visible from the entrance could not substitute for a visit. Still, I looked around instead of turning straight back. I wanted to keep what I could see, and thought that if I returned one day, I would remember standing here.

The Connection That Should Have Followed the Performance

The feeling I had first received from the performance was still with me, which made it harder to leave. Words I might have passed over in a book could become interesting after seeing the dance onstage. I wanted to follow that connection. It had stopped halfway today, but the interest itself had not disappeared. Writing down a place I failed to visit might become a note for next time.

I did not want to fill that gap with explanations gathered afterward and pretend I had learned them here. The museum remained a place I had not entered. What I felt at the performance and what I might have learned inside were different things. Leaving that distinction intact felt more honest to the disappointment of the day.

If I returned, I wanted to find the answers for myself. Next time I would check the performance, museum, and ropeway times first. That was less a recommendation for someone else's itinerary than a reminder to myself, so I would not have to turn away from this entrance again. It seemed a shame to lose a new curiosity over a matter of timing.

Disappointment, and the Possibility of Another Time

The fact remained that I had not seen the interior. What I did learn at the closed door was what I wanted to know more about. I was more curious about the dance than when I first entered the hall. Remembering that, I could not call the afternoon wasted.

Instead of covering the disappointment with the next item on the itinerary, I spent a little more time looking at what was visible outside. Everyone misses somewhere on a trip. This was my missed place that day. It was a small but clear reminder that wanting to see something now does not mean every door will be open.

I had no definite plan to return, but I knew I would think of this door after going home. Places do not have to be famous to stay in the mind. I had thought I could enter, then could not; I had watched a performance, then wanted to know more. Those feelings overlapped. One part of Tokushima I had not seen remained here.

Leaving Something Unseen

When I look back at the pictures from outside the museum, I will remember the afternoon I missed rather than the works inside. I did not need to turn disappointment into a polished lesson. I was late, I missed it, and I wanted to see it another time. That was enough to remember. As I turned away, it was still an unvisited museum.

I did not want to recast that as a good thing. I had bought a ticket and got the order wrong, and I was disappointed. Yet the curiosity the performance had stirred did not disappear at the door. Next time I wanted to check the time first and go in. Nowhere else had made me quite so aware that there was still a Tokushima I had not seen. With that thought, I left the hall.

Leaving the hall, I walked back toward the station. I still regretted missing the museum, but I did not want to rush to fill the rest of the first evening because of it. The distance was walkable, so I looked around as I went rather than finding transport.

Under the gray sky and wind, the city's colors were subdued. Yet it looked different from when I first arrived. I was now connecting places I had passed during the day with the station I was returning to. The sky had still not cleared, and a little wind moved through the streets.

The light gave everything a lower, quieter tone; in a way, it seemed to bring the city's character into clearer focus. I was not walking especially fast. More often I paused to look around. It felt less like traveling to a destination than taking in the scenes between one place and the next.

A Different Kind of Busy Center

The area around Tokushima Station is a center of activity for the region. Shops, restaurants, and transport are gathered around it, so by ordinary expectations this ought to be one of the liveliest parts of the city. The basic ingredients are all there: a long line of bus stops, orderly taxi ranks, and people moving in and out of the station building. Once I was among them, though, it did not feel quite like the bustling district I might have imagined. There were certainly people, just not packed together, and little noise. Everything seemed to move a beat more slowly.

The Older Buildings Along the Way

One of the first things I noticed as I walked was how many older buildings remained. Weathered signs and aging exteriors appeared here and there. Some places looked as if they were no longer trading, with dark windows or visibly empty interiors. The contrast felt stronger because this was the station area. I tend to expect the busiest districts to change fastest, yet time seemed to move differently here. I did not see the buildings simply as old. They felt like clues to the present condition of the city.

What Remains, and How Quickly Things Change

It seemed to be more than a matter of one particular building, something connected with the city as a whole. Tokushima is relatively small in population by Japanese standards and does not have the pace of redevelopment of a major metropolis. Older buildings and shopping districts remain in place, with some spaces gradually left empty among them. Rather than a completely revitalized commercial center, it felt like a center being sustained. Because change was not happening rapidly, traces of the past and the present could be seen together.

Looking Down from an Overpass

The pedestrian overpasses were another thing that caught my attention. There were more than I expected, and I went up one almost without thinking. From above, the station area took on a different shape. What had seemed quiet at street level revealed its arrangement more clearly: the long row of bus stops, the tracks carrying trains in and out, and the movements of people between them. It was a good place for photographs. The vantage point seemed able to hold the structure of the city in one frame, rather than merely record another stop.

A Center That Works Quietly

This was unmistakably a center of Tokushima, but it worked differently from the busy districts I was used to. It was neither noisy nor excessively crowded, yet the necessary things were all here. That made it feel more real to me: a center where people actually lived, rather than a place arranged for visitors.

Getting a Feel for the City's Pace

The walk was more than time spent getting somewhere. It gave me one of the most direct impressions of Tokushima's atmosphere. There was nothing showy or forceful about the scenes, but I could begin to feel the pace at which the city moved and the way it was put together. Taking pictures and walking on, I realized I was slowly getting to know the station area.

When I first arrived, I had looked only for the direction of the hotel. Now I noticed side streets and views from the overpasses. It was not so much that I had seen a great many new things as that I had a little more room to look at the same city. Tokushima that day does not remain in my memory as a dazzling place. It remains with the image of myself slowing my steps under the cloudy light.

While looking around Tokushima Station, I stepped into Starbucks. It is a name I can see almost anywhere, yet in a city I have never visited before, a familiar sign is welcome. I was less intent on drinking coffee than curious whether there might be something sold only here.

There is a small impulse to enter a familiar store when everything else is new. This time, too, I went over to look at the shelves. I had simply been walking through the station when Starbucks caught my eye. There was nothing inherently special about a brand I would encounter almost anywhere, but such places seem to stand out more when I travel.

Familiarity alone can be reason enough to step inside for a moment. That was exactly how it happened this time. Rather than needing a coffee, I wanted to look around, get a feel for the store, and see whether there was any merchandise particular to this area.

Not Quite What I Had Hoped to Find

Inside, it was much like any Starbucks I knew: seats, an order counter, and people spending their time in familiar ways. My attention went naturally to the merchandise. Japan has a wide range of regional tumblers and mugs, and I wondered whether I might find a Tokushima design I could not buy elsewhere. Looking around, I did not notice any regional item that particularly stood out. Most of the products looked familiar, and I could not find anything that felt exclusive to this place. I made a quicker circuit of the store than I had expected and left.

How the Same Place Can Play a Different Role

On a trip, a place like Starbucks often becomes somewhere to rest: a seat after a long walk, time to sort things out or plan the next route, or simply somewhere to spend a little time without thinking. This time it was different. The day's movements were already underway, and I did not feel a particular need to interrupt them for a break. Almost naturally, the store became a place to pass through rather than stay. It was curious how the same kind of place could serve such a different purpose depending on the circumstances.

Passing Through Somewhere Familiar

Starbucks has a similar shape wherever I find it. That familiarity can create an even stronger contrast when I am traveling. Walking in is reassuring, but it can also make the place feel less distinctive. On one trip I might stay a long time; on another I simply pass through, as I did here. Tokushima belonged to the latter case. I entered, but did not settle in. Rather than a vivid memory on its own, it was a brief scene within the day's movement.

A Scene Can Remain Without a Purchase

That does not make it meaningless. A day of travel is built from these little passages as well as the memorable destinations. Places I merely pass through still connect one part of the day to another. This is not a story about choosing something I liked and buying it. I looked around and came out with nothing.

I did not have to manufacture a special response to every place I visited. If I did not find what I hoped for, I could leave, and my feet could carry me on to the next shop. Starbucks inside the station remained just such a short scene. More than anything I bought, I remember myself looking around a store here as casually as I might at home.

Leaving Starbucks, I looked around the shopping center connected to the station. I had not set out to buy anything in particular. Outside the drugstore, though, the unsettled stomach that had been bothering me since earlier in the day came back to mind. Being on a trip did not mean my body would cooperate with the itinerary.

I kept thinking that another short walk might help, then felt uncomfortable again; even browsing the shelves was different from usual. Tokushima was no exception to the familiar usefulness of a station shopping center. It was not enormous, but most of what I might need was gathered here, making it a natural part of a visitor's route.

An Unexpected Stop for Stomach Medicine

Matsumoto Kiyoshi was right beside Starbucks, so I wandered over. I had intended only to browse, but my stomach still felt uncomfortable—perhaps because of something I had eaten that morning—and I ended up buying a digestive medicine. I remember the price as about JPY 360. The neatly arranged shelves and quick checkout typical of Japanese drugstores meant I could buy it without much fuss. Moments like this do happen when I travel. Having somewhere nearby to deal with an immediate need is undeniably convenient.

A Different Scene Downstairs

Following the shopping center down to the basement, I found more restaurants than I expected. Ramen, tonkatsu, curry, and simple rice bowls: a familiar range of Japanese meals, gathered in one place so it was easy to choose. When I cannot decide what to eat on a trip, somewhere like this offers a very practical answer. Seeking out a famous restaurant has its appeal, but comparing several options side by side is enjoyable too. These are places used by local residents as naturally as by visitors, which gives them a more everyday atmosphere.

A Change of Pace Upstairs

Upstairs, the mood changed again. There were clothing and general-goods stores, but what struck me was not anything particularly unusual. It was how calm and quiet everything felt. Rather than the crowds of a big-city mall, it seemed a place people came to look around when they needed something. I came away with the impression of a place that moved slowly. It was somewhere for an unhurried look, rather than hurried consumption.

The Game Corner That Stayed in My Mind

The amusement area upstairs was the part I remembered best. Crane machines, capsule-toy dispensers, and arcade games were gathered together, a recognizable piece of Japanese popular culture. Alongside the usual plush toys and figures, some of the prizes were less expected. There were machines filled with everyday things such as deodorizing products, Coca-Cola, and instant noodles. That gave the place an oddly practical quality. It was not only somewhere to win cute objects, but a play space connected with daily life. I found something distinctly entertaining about that detail.

Not Dazzling, but Enough

Taken as a whole, this was not a shopping center of extraordinary size or glamour. It was, however, enough to deal with things I needed on the trip, spend a little time, and continue the day's route. Above all, it seemed to show the city's atmosphere in an ordinary, believable way. When I think of the shopping center, the stomach medicine I needed that day comes to mind before the amusing products.

I might have felt I should keep eating well and walking because I was traveling, but my body did not always feel that way. At such moments I had to stop and get what I needed. That made the building more than somewhere for a tourist to browse: it had helped me through the day. There was a small story inside it that the photographs alone would not reveal.

Across from the station, I went upstairs inside Amico. I was not on my way to buy anything. Curious about the stores above, I kept going and reached Kinokuniya. Coming to the city for a performance did not mean everything I looked at had to concern music.

I also wanted to see what books people chose and what they read in their spare time. Entering the bookstore, I felt I could slow my steps a little more. The building was not particularly flashy or arresting from outside. Inside, though, its variety of shops drew me naturally upward.

It struck me as a more everyday shopping space, one likely to be used more by local people than tourists. Rather than seeking out such a place deliberately, I often find myself stepping into one while walking. That is also how it becomes a natural part of a day's travels.

What I Found Upstairs Without a Plan

I had no particular purpose here, either. Taking the elevator with only a vague curiosity about what lay above, I went as far as the eighth floor. There I found Kinokuniya. My first impression was the scale. It seemed to occupy almost an entire floor, more like a substantial bookstore in its own right than a small shop inside a shopping center. In a regional city, the existence of a bookstore this size made an impression on me.

The Reassurance of the Kinokuniya Name

Kinokuniya is one of Japan's best-known bookstore chains. From its Shinjuku main store in Tokyo, it has grown to major cities across Japan and to locations abroad. Seeing the name suggested more than somewhere selling books; to me, it promised a certain breadth of selection and care in how it was arranged. The range inside supported that impression.

Literature, self-improvement, practical guides, magazines, and manga were balanced across the shelves. Magazines had a substantial presence, too. Fashion, travel, food, and lifestyle titles together offered a glimpse of current interests in Japan. The shelves felt like more than an invitation to buy a book: they were an indirect way to see what people were paying attention to.

Beyond Books

Part of what made the store interesting was that it did not sell only books. There was a separate section for CDs and other recordings. In an age when so much music is heard through streaming, I was struck by the continued existence of a space centered on physical records. The K-pop section especially caught my eye.

Among recordings by Japanese artists, albums by Korean performers were displayed in their own section, with a greater variety of artists than I expected. Scenes like that make me feel how music moves between countries and audiences rather than remaining within one national market. Finding it while traveling can bring a sense of connection stronger than the simple feeling of being abroad.

Quiet Enough to Linger

The bookstore was calm and quiet as a whole. It was not crowded; people were finding the books they needed or browsing slowly. Almost without noticing, I slowed down too. Even without buying anything, a leisurely circuit of the store was a pleasant way to spend time. After moving from place to place on a trip, I sometimes need somewhere that lets me lower the pace. This place did exactly that.

A Cultural Space in a Regional City

In a big city a bookstore of this size might not feel remarkable. Encountering such a concentrated cultural space in a regional city like Tokushima carried a different meaning for me. It was not simply where books changed hands, but where people spent time, found information, and developed their tastes. It was not as visually spectacular as a sightseeing destination. Even so, it seemed an important glimpse of how the city's daily life and culture were sustained.

Finding Everyday Places While Traveling

On a trip it is easy to focus on famous attractions and photogenic places. A bookstore is closer to the lives of the people who actually live in a city. The books given space, the music being sold, and the atmosphere in which people spend their time can make the city feel more understandable and real. I came out after looking through the books, magazines, and music displays.

Visiting a bookstore away from home, I can browse for a long time even when I cannot read everything. What is someone's ordinary neighborhood store becomes a new way for me to see the city. I was glad, too, to find familiar Korean artists in the music section. Just when I feel a long way from home, a recognizable name briefly makes the distance smaller. If I returned to Tokushima, I wanted to leave room for this kind of time between the tourist sights.

After resting at the hotel, it still felt too early to stay in for the night. I did not quite want the first day to end. I had little energy to seek out somewhere far away, so I chose the castle ruins that looked close to the station. Perhaps I would see the city lights from above.

On the map it had seemed like an easy walk there and back. Once I entered the dark path, it became a rather different outing. Tokushima Castle's ruins had been a natural choice: not far from the station on the map, with that faint promise carried by the words “castle ruins.” Daylight might have been better, but I set off thinking an evening visit could be worthwhile too.

A Harder Night Walk Than Expected

I began climbing toward the ruins from west to east and found something different from what I had imagined. I had expected a well-kept path, but long stretches had almost no lighting, and much of the ground was uneven. Walking was less easy than I had anticipated. It felt closer to a modest hike than a casual stroll.

It was about eight in the evening, and I did not pass a single person on the way up. That made the atmosphere stranger. Rather than walking through a tourist site, I felt as though I was passing alone through somewhere completely empty. In the quiet, all I could hear was my footsteps and the wind.

An Unexpected Emptiness at the Top

The top was not what I had pictured. A few streetlights stood around a broad, flat area, with no particular structure or viewpoint drawing my eye. Having climbed some way, I had hoped for a night view, but the thick trees left little open sightline. It became easy to understand why no one was here at night. It was not so much the disappointment of finding nothing worth seeing as the practical realization that there had been little reason to climb up at this hour.

What I Began to Notice on the Way Down

I did not stay long at the top and soon began descending. On the way down I had more room to look around, noticing things that would have been clearer by day: a small pond-like area and monuments quietly occupying their places. One of them, the Children's Peace Monument, caught my attention.

The Children's Peace Monument

From outside it looked relatively small, but there was a meaningful story behind it. Built after the war as a symbol of hope for lasting peace, it was especially striking for the part children had played. Elementary and middle-school pupils across Japan, as well as children in the United States, had sent stones and fossils, which were reportedly used in the monument itself. It was difficult to see the details at night, but learning that background left me with a different feeling about having stood there.

Hachisuka Iemasa and the Beginnings of Tokushima

A little farther on, I found the statue of Hachisuka Iemasa, who built Tokushima Castle. Granted this territory by Toyotomi Hideyoshi in the late sixteenth century, he helped establish the foundations of Tokushima. He built the castle in 1586 and developed the region around it, supporting its economy through industries including indigo and salt.

Awa Odori, now so closely associated with Tokushima, is also said to have begun around this period. The present statue was erected again after the war, replacing an earlier one that had been lost. Seen that way, it was more than a piece of sculpture: it represented something of the city's beginnings.

A Steam Locomotive Almost Lost in the Dark

A steam locomotive was displayed in one part of the grounds as well. Number 68692 had reportedly spent about 46 years in service, traveling more than three million kilometers. Numbers like that made it seem more than a static exhibit; it had carried something of an entire era. At night, however, its black body all but disappeared into the darkness, and it was hard to examine closely. I thought the display would have made a much stronger impression in daylight.

Looking Toward Tokushima Station from the Overpass

Looking south from the castle grounds, I could see Tokushima Station. Its layout allows parts of the railway inside to be seen from outside, so even at night the trains arriving and departing were visible. Their lights moved through the darkness more clearly than I expected, changing the atmosphere of the place. Everything around me was still, and only those moving lights in the distance seemed alive.

Not What I Expected, but Still Part of the Night

The evening walk had not delivered the sights I hoped for. That did not make it entirely meaningless. I had encountered a stillness I might not have felt by day, the sense of moving through an empty place, and historical details hidden within it, all at an unhurried pace. Coming down, I thought there had been no need to climb up at this hour. I could not honestly write that I had seen the night view I expected.

The path was dark, and the reward for the climb was not much of a view. Still, the station lights and trains I saw on the way down stayed with me. Rather than feeling I had chosen every part of the day perfectly, I had learned something I could only know by going. Thinking I would like to see the castle grounds again in daylight, I went to find dinner.

Coming down from the castle grounds, I turned into the lanes west of the station. I had gone out wanting to see a little more of the day; after walking back down, what I wanted first was somewhere to sit comfortably. I was curious about Donoura's sea-bream ramen, but my stomach was still not quite settled.

It was a little disappointing to be choosing food carefully on the very first day. Even so, I did not want to ignore how I felt simply to be able to say I had eaten the famous dish. Turning into the western lanes, I found Donoura Ekimae. Set back from the main road, it had the atmosphere I associate with a Japanese ramen shop tucked into a side street.

It felt more like somewhere local people came and went naturally than somewhere arranged around tourists. I had heard beforehand that the shop was known for a broth made with sea bream, so I had wanted to try it. But I had already eaten noodles at lunch and still felt as though I had not fully digested them. Choosing what to order needed a little thought.

Why I Did Not Choose Ramen

The sea-bream ramen interested me, but my stomach had not felt entirely comfortable since the lunchtime tsukemen. Choosing an amount I could manage now seemed better than adding another famous dish to the list. My companion ordered the sea-bream ramen; I chose a rice-bowl-style dish topped with sashimi and added edamame. From memory, the edamame was around JPY 400, with a generous portion for a side.

Sitting in the same restaurant, we chose different dinners to suit our own hunger and condition. I was quite happy with that decision. Meal times can become irregular while traveling, making it easy to feel out of sorts. At such times, balancing things with something lighter rather than forcing a heavy meal can make more sense for me.

Edamame, and Eating at My Own Pace

The edamame left a particular impression. It is something I can eat in Korea too, but in Japan it feels a little different. More than a simple difference in taste, perhaps it is how it fits into being away from home. Lightly salted and soft in texture, it was easy to keep reaching for, and I felt comfortable eating it.

Because my stomach was unsettled, I ate slowly. Picking up a little edamame at a time suited how I felt that evening. It was not that I believed the food had any special health benefit; I simply liked being able to control the pace and amount. Perhaps that is part of why I increasingly choose edamame over ika somen—thin strips of squid served like noodles—when traveling in Japan.

Kaemeshi: Rice After the Noodles

My companion's ramen used a sea-bream broth. I was interested in this different direction from the pork-bone soups that often come to mind with ramen. Near the end came kaemeshi, rice added to the broth left in the bowl. I had noted the price at about JPY 250.

This extra stage of the meal was interesting in itself: once most of the ramen had been eaten, the remaining soup could become the base for finishing with rice. With the noodles gone and broth still in the bowl, rice turned it into another part of the meal. I liked the idea of starting in one bowl and ending with a different texture. If I returned when my stomach felt better, I wanted to try the whole progression, from ramen to rice.

A Familiar Kind of Ramen-Shop Interior

The shop had the familiar layout of a Japanese ramen restaurant: an open kitchen, counter seating, and tables. Beyond making efficient use of space, that arrangement lets the preparation become part of the experience. Watching the cooking in view gave me a greater sense of confidence in the food. My companion added rice to the broth after the ramen; I slowly ate my own rice dish and edamame.

We were sitting together but having different dinners. Eating the signature dish was not a requirement for having traveled well. What I needed was the ease of knowing I could eat this much and bring the first day to a close. More clearly than an explanation of everything special about the restaurant, I remember sitting there and choosing a meal that suited my body that day.

On the second morning, I thought less about how much I could eat than about hoping my stomach would feel better. I had spent the previous day keeping an eye on how I felt, and today I needed to go to Naruto for the sea and the performance. This was the day I had been waiting for, and I wanted it to begin well. That did not mean piling my plate high.

I looked around the breakfast area and slowly chose what I felt able to eat. I had booked a room with breakfast included, so there was no need to search outside: I could eat in the hotel. On a trip that choice can matter more than I expect. Having to go out first thing adds another task; being able to reach breakfast by elevator is more than a minor convenience, especially when I am still not feeling entirely myself.

Including Breakfast Turned Out to Be a Good Decision

When booking, I had wondered whether I really needed breakfast included. In the end I thought it was a good choice. It had cost roughly KRW 10,000, which did not seem especially expensive compared with eating out in Japan. More than that, I could eat without another journey. Small demands accumulate into fatigue while traveling, and removing one morning errand was a considerable advantage. It saved time and energy as well as something that could be calculated in money. On a morning when I had not fully recovered, I felt that benefit particularly clearly.

A Ground-Floor Dining Room That Did Not Try Too Hard

Breakfast was served in the restaurant on the hotel's first floor. My first impression was that it was not overdone. There was none of the elaborate decor or imposing atmosphere of a luxury hotel. Instead, it was neatly arranged, with an uncomplicated route through the room. The tables were spaced well enough for me to eat quietly without feeling crowded against other diners. I often find such rooms more comfortable when traveling. Somewhere I can sit down and eat naturally is easier to enjoy than somewhere that makes me feel I must be on my best behavior.

What It Means to Have a Choice

The breakfast was a buffet with a reasonably balanced selection. The Japanese dishes included rice, miso soup, several side dishes, eggs, and fish. There was enough for someone who preferred a Japanese-style breakfast to put together a satisfying meal. There were also bread and other Western-style options, salads, fruit, and simple desserts, with coffee and other drinks to help myself to. The greatest advantage was choice. Feeling well, I could eat something substantial; feeling less well, I could keep it light. Having that option in itself was reassuring while away from home.

Yesterday Made Me Less Ambitious with My Plate

This was not a morning to be greedy. The heavy, indigestion-like feeling of the day before had not entirely gone, so I chose more cautiously. Normally I might have tried a little of everything. Here I took small amounts of food that felt easy to eat and gave myself time. I preferred it that way. It reminded me that choosing for the body I had that morning mattered more than forcing myself to eat a lot. Such small judgments accumulate and affect how a trip feels as a whole.

An Unexpected Detail: TOVITA

One particular item at breakfast stayed in my mind: TOVITA, a Japanese tonic drink sold for fatigue. Small bottles were set out for guests to take. Drinks of that kind are common in Japan, but I do not often encounter them as a casual part of a hotel breakfast. Partly curious and partly feeling the need, I picked one up and drank it. It may simply have been psychological, but I felt a little more put together, a little lighter than the day before. Away from home, even a small change in how I feel can seem significant.

The Morning Finding Its Rhythm

After eating, I brought over a cup of coffee. It was less about the drink itself than taking a moment to settle into the day. Sitting near the window, I drank slowly and arranged the coming itinerary in my mind. Yesterday's movements and today's plans began to join up naturally. These pauses help give a trip its rhythm. Travel is not only movement. When I stop to let things settle, the next part of the day can remain clearer in memory too.

Breakfast as a Small Reset

This may not have been an extraordinary meal that would stand out on its own. In the course of the trip, though, it worked something like a reset: a time to take stock of yesterday's tiredness and discomfort and put myself in a position to begin again. Because that happened naturally, without pushing myself, the breakfast mattered enough. By the time I set down my plate, I felt a little more ready to move.

The hotel breakfast had not solved anything grand. It had given me time to sit, eat, notice how I felt, and think about the next journey. Yesterday everything had been new; today I already knew the way to the station. I took that small familiarity outside with me. At last, the day of the performance I had come to see had begun.

After breakfast, I left my luggage and walked through Poppo-gai toward the station. Yesterday I had followed this way while trying to find the hotel. Today the first feeling was not of entering somewhere new, but of walking a road I had already walked. Only one night had passed, yet some of its unfamiliarity had gone.

I did not know all the shops, but at least I remembered which way to turn at the end. Travel is curious that way: a road feels different from the second time onward. The first time I concentrate on checking directions. The next, I begin to notice what is around me. That was how I came to pass naturally through the Poppo-gai shopping arcade once more.

The Sound of the Name Poppo-gai

The name Poppo-gai comes from the Japanese onomatopoeic sound of a train. “Poppo” brings a steam locomotive to mind, fitting a shopping street so close to the station. The name alone suggests somewhere bright and lively, with people coming and going, open shops in a row, and a constant hum of sound. What I actually encountered was moving in a rather different direction from that image.

Walking Between Closed Shopfronts

The closed shops were the first thing I noticed inside. Shutters appeared at intervals; signs remained above places that looked as though they no longer traded. These must once have been spaces people moved through and used, yet now some seemed held in a moment of stillness. It is a scene I have encountered in other regional Japanese cities: a shopping street that was once central gradually losing some of its role, with the remaining shops keeping it going. I felt this place might be part of that same pattern.

Daily Life Had Not Disappeared

That did not make it a dead space. Among the closed shops were businesses still open: a florist, a barber, small general stores, drinking places, karaoke, and ramen shops, holding their places here and there. They were neither large nor showy, and that made them feel more real. My strongest impression was of places used by people living here rather than designed for tourists. The street felt less like somewhere disappearing altogether than somewhere continuing at a smaller scale.

The Quiet of the Morning

It was morning, and the arcade was relatively quiet. It was not a busy hour; I passed few people, and the whole place seemed to move slowly. In that atmosphere I slowed my steps too. Rather than rushing through, I looked at things individually: one shop, one sign, an old stretch of wall.

Between Sadness and a Record of Time

What I felt while walking was not only regret. There was a certain loneliness in the closed shops, but the scene also seemed like a record. It made me imagine how the street had once looked, how many people had passed through, and what stories might have accumulated. It felt like somewhere holding time, not just a place to shop.

Why I Reached for the Camera

In a space like this, I naturally pick up the camera. Nothing is spectacular, yet ordinary scenes can remain with me longer: closed shutters mixed with open shops, old signs, a path continuing between empty premises. Together they create an atmosphere. Here I wanted to capture the feeling of the street as a whole rather than one particular subject.

A Starting Point for the Day

Poppo-gai meant more than a passage on the way somewhere else. It was where the second day began, a place to take in the city once more before setting out. Coming through to the station, I remembered the direction I had walked yesterday. Too little time had passed to call the place familiar, but it was no longer entirely unknown either. Even that degree of familiarity is welcome while traveling. Today I would have to find new roads in Naruto. Before that, a lane I had already walked served as my starting point. Beginning a new day in a city I had first reached yesterday quietly put me at ease.

I stopped again at the 7-Eleven west of the station. It was where I had bought a drink, thirsty after arriving on the first day. I had not been coming here for days, but seeing the entrance gave me the simple reassurance of knowing where to go.

The same chain exists in many cities; this particular shop held yesterday's version of me. I remembered getting off at an unfamiliar station and looking for water first, and felt glad to see it. Beyond being a convenience store, it was also one of the first places I had entered on this trip.

After arriving at Tokushima Airport and traveling to the station, I had stepped inside before I really understood the arrangement of the city. I had not managed to buy water at the airport and was very thirsty by then. I remembered buying a drink here as soon as I arrived. Passing again on the second day, what I felt first was not simply recognition of a convenience store but familiarity with a place I had already experienced.

What Returning to the Same Place Can Mean

Sometimes a journey brings me back to somewhere I have already passed through. The feeling on a second visit is quite different. The first time I am exploring an unfamiliar space; the second, it seems already part of my route. This 7-Eleven had become such a place. On the second morning, I went in naturally, without turning it into a special destination, and even that small action made the continuity of the trip tangible.

A Morning Stop to Pick Up What We Needed

The reason for stopping was straightforward: we wanted water and drinks before setting off. Basic preparation like that can matter more than I expect when traveling. If the journey is long, there may not always be somewhere to buy something along the way. Getting it beforehand is simply easier. I quickly picked up what I needed without much deliberation. The tidy shelves and efficient checkout of a Japanese convenience store made it possible to buy the right things without staying long.

Something We Hoped to Find, but Did Not

There was another purpose to the visit. My companion wanted a paper bag or something similar to hold a gift. Japanese convenience stores often sell small everyday essentials as well as food, so we hoped we might find one here. One part of the store did have a Daiso section. It was small but carried quite a variety of useful items, enough to make it seem promising for a simple purchase. The paper bag we wanted was not there, though. We found similar things, but nothing in the right shape or size, and left without solving that particular problem. Small failures like this belong to a trip too.

What a Convenience Store Becomes on a Trip

Convenience stores are everywhere, but their role changes slightly when I travel. They are not only places to buy things. They can be a brief pause between journeys, or somewhere to replenish what I need quickly. Japanese convenience stores are especially well organized for that purpose, which lets them fit into an itinerary almost unnoticed. This one, too, felt less like somewhere I had visited once than a place that kept joining one part of the trip to another.

Yesterday and Today in the Same Shop

This 7-Eleven held memories from both days. On the first, I had entered with the tension and thirst of a new arrival. On the second, I returned already a little more accustomed to the city. It was the same place, but the circumstances and feelings gave it a different meaning. I came to remember it not simply as a convenience store, but as a point connecting the start of the trip with its next stage.

Setting Out Again

In the end we bought only water and other drinks and moved on. It was a short stop, but one more link in the day's unfolding route. I carried the drinks outside. More than any special product I might have discovered, what mattered to me was having returned today to somewhere I had entered yesterday. In a city I did not know, I now had a shop I did. Before leaving home, I had thought first about the performance venue and the sights. In practice, little repetitions like this could put me at ease as well. With our preparations in hand, we headed toward the station again.

We entered Tokushima Meihinkan because my companion needed a paper bag for a gift. I had not deliberately put a souvenir shop on the itinerary. Looking for something practical led me to look at regional sweets and other products too. Travel can begin a little detour through somebody else's errand.

Somewhere I might have passed if I were alone made me stop for a while. That was how we naturally found our way into Tokushima Meihinkan, the regional-goods shop inside the station. It was a compact souvenir counter right in front of the ticket gates. Though not large, it was arranged so that I could take in a range of Tokushima specialties at a glance.

The Original Mission Was a Shopping Bag

We had not come here for souvenirs at all. My companion needed a paper bag to put a present in. We had not found the right kind at the convenience store, and wondered whether a station souvenir shop might offer a wider choice. Even simple things can be surprisingly hard to find while traveling. Something I could normally pick up without thinking sometimes seems to disappear exactly when I need it. A souvenir shop can therefore serve not only as somewhere to buy gifts, but somewhere to fill a practical gap.

How Looking Turned Into Buying

At first I intended to check the shopping bags and leave. Looking at the displays one by one changed the mood. There was a good variety of sweets and food made with Tokushima specialties, neatly packaged and clearly suited to taking home as gifts. In a place like this, an unplanned look can turn into a purchase quite naturally. That was what happened here too.

Naruto Kintoki: A Choice with a Local Name

What I chose was a Naruto Kintoki tart cake. It used Naruto Kintoki sweet potato, one of Tokushima's representative local ingredients. Known for its sweetness and soft texture, the variety is sometimes called the “queen of sweet potatoes” in Japan. The tart therefore felt like more than a snack; it carried an ingredient closely connected with the region. Knowing that background made buying the cake feel less like simply picking up confectionery and more like trying a local specialty for myself.

Imagining the Taste, and What to Drink with It

The tart had sweet potato worked into a filling and piped onto its pastry base. Even looking at it suggested a rich flavor: the potato's sweetness and soft texture at the center, supported by the nuttiness of the tart shell. I imagined the kind of composed sweetness I associate with Japanese desserts. A product like this sets me thinking not only about eating it, but about how I might best enjoy it. Milk might soften the sweetness; warm green tea might bring the sweet potato's flavor into sharper focus. The possible pairings came to mind before I had even taken it home.

JPY 777: A Small Detail I Happened to Notice

The price was JPY 777. I had not chosen it because of that, but the number caught my eye at the till. Three sevens in a row has the familiar look of a lucky number in Japan too. A small detail like that can remain surprisingly clear in a travel memory. It was not something I had sought out, yet the number became part of the experience. These little things accumulate and give the memory more dimensions.

A Small Shop Doing Enough

Tokushima Meihinkan is small in size, but it serves more purposes than its footprint suggests. It gathers products associated with Tokushima and offers travelers a final place to sort things out before moving on. Perhaps that was why it felt less like merely a souvenir shop than an intermediate point: somewhere to finish one part of the trip before the next began.

One Last Choice Before We Left

We ended up buying souvenirs along with the shopping bag. It was a short but satisfying visit. The shop had not been planned, yet I had encountered a Tokushima specialty and we had found the thing we needed. With the bag sorted and our preparations finished, it was finally time to go to Naruto.

It had not been a morning of major sightseeing, but buying water and getting ready to carry the gift made the people and performance waiting for us feel closer. Even the small things we packed carried the purpose of the day. Once our brief time preparing at the station was over, anticipation pulled me toward departure rather than staying any longer.

With our errands at the station finished, we looked for the bus to Naruto. Today was the day of the performance that had started this whole trip. Before it, I wanted to see the sea and the whirlpools too. A night in Tokushima had made the city a little more familiar, but this route was new again.

Checking where the bus would arrive, I felt yesterday's growing ease mixed with the nerves of heading somewhere I did not know. Naruto Park, and the whirlpools I could see there, were among the places I most looked forward to. I wanted to see for myself a scene I had known only through photographs. This journey therefore felt like more than transport; it was as if another part of the trip was properly beginning.

The Number 18 Bus, and a Confusing Start

We decided to take the bus from Tokushima Station toward Naruto, choosing the number 18. Getting started proved less straightforward than expected. At the stop, I could not clearly make out the number and was not certain where to board. Japan's bus system can be convenient once I understand it, but arriving somewhere for the first time brings these small uncertainties.

We asked someone nearby and, following a suggestion that it might be over there, moved to another platform. Once there, it did not feel as though our bus was going to come that way. We went back and checked again. In the end, the place where we had first been standing was right. It is a familiar part of travel: having information but not quite trusting it, and changing direction in the gap between the two.

The Relief That Came Only After Boarding

Back in the original place, we waited, and before long the number 18 arrived. Only once I was aboard did I feel the tension ease. When the journey starts, there is less to work out. I can let it carry me toward the destination. Sitting down and looking out of the window that morning, I began to feel that we were really leaving Tokushima city and traveling toward Naruto.

Passing the Airport Again

Rather than going straight to Naruto, the route passed through the airport. Seeing Tokushima Airport again brought an odd familiarity. Yesterday it had been the starting point of the trip; now I was passing that starting point on the way to its next stage. Returning past the same place made the passage of time feel continuous. The whole ride took about an hour, which did not feel especially demanding.

Choosing Where to Get Off

We could have stayed on the bus all the way to Naruto Park. Instead, we decided to get off near the Otsuka Museum of Art and walk from there. There was a reason for that choice. The museum is well known in the Naruto area and would be worth including if there were enough time. Our day, however, already had a definite commitment.

Deciding What Mattered Most That Day

The Naruto × Korea Fair was our main event in the afternoon, and I did not want to overextend the route. Travel, to me, is less about how many things I see than how the experiences follow one another. We decided to leave a proper visit to the Otsuka Museum of Art out of the day and simply get off nearby, keeping the walk through to Naruto Park. Choices like that shape the density of a trip.

The Free Bus Pass Mattered More Than Expected

We could use the free bus pass we had received the day before on this journey too. Not having to pay another fare reminded me how useful it had been. I felt that especially on a longer ride. More than saving a sum of money, it reduced the sense of effort involved in getting around.

Not Just Moving, but Entering the Next Scene

The bus ride was more than a change of location. It carried us from Tokushima city to Naruto, from everyday streets toward a more unusual landscape. As the view outside changed, the feeling of preparing to leave the station began to loosen. I no longer had to find the way myself; the bus was taking me there. I thought about soon seeing the sea I had known from pictures. The performance was waiting, but I did not want all the time before it to become mere transit. Since I had finally come somewhere new, I wanted the landscape before the stage to belong to my trip as well.

We got off near the Otsuka Museum of Art and walked toward the park. Roads that seemed connected on the map were less certain at each fork when I was actually on foot. There were few people nearby to follow. I kept checking the map in case we were turning the wrong way, while thinking that having come this far we might as well go a little farther.

For a while, finding the right path mattered more than the sea I was hoping to see. We decided to keep going rather than turn back and walked slowly in the same direction. A few minutes farther uphill, the route began to make more sense.

Seeing the word Naruto brought a little more confidence. At first I had been too focused on navigation to notice much else; as I relaxed, the surroundings came into view. Wind passing through, light between the trees, waves sounding in the distance: together they made it feel less like merely walking somewhere and more like entering a particular place.

An Unplanned Lookout, and the Onaruto Bridge

Continuing uphill, I came across a small sign for Ochaen Observatory. It had not been part of the plan, but I naturally wanted to stop. It was not a large facility, simply a place from which to look out, as the name suggested. Having climbed this far, it seemed a shame to pass it by. I paused and went up to see the view.

Such places can matter unexpectedly in a journey. Discovered along the way rather than researched in advance, they sometimes stay with me longer. The first thing I saw from the lookout was the Onaruto Bridge. A structure I had known only from pictures was suddenly in front of me, larger and longer than I had expected, stretching across the sea.

It was not merely a bridge that happened to be there. It had the presence of a symbol joining the whole area together. Letting my gaze widen, I saw the sea's colors and the lines of the bridge forming a single landscape. Looking at it was reason enough to remain still for a while.

Sightseeing Boats, Whirlpools, and a Destination Drawing Closer

Looking down, I noticed another scene: boats taking visitors out to see the whirlpools. They moved across the water at intervals, carrying people back and forth. Seeing them gave me a clear sense that I was not only looking at a landscape; something was happening here, now.

The Naruto whirlpools I had seen in photographs and videos were not just an idea attached to a tourist destination. They were continuing to form, and people were moving across the water to see them. That affected me more than I had expected. The anticipation became more concrete than a simple calculation of how near we were.

Watching the direction and speed of the boats, I began to imagine the scene below that I would soon see for myself. For a while, that expectation made the tiredness of the walk easier to forget. The flow of the sea and the boats passing through it overlapped: this was a place where a natural phenomenon and human activity existed together.

What a Brief Stop Changed

Ochaen Observatory had not been planned, yet it ended up doing something important for the day. Had we walked straight past, the route to Naruto Park might have remained little more than a tiring climb. Stopping here to take in the whole view, see the bridge, and follow the boats changed the meaning of the walk.

It was no longer just movement; it was preparation for the next scene, letting anticipation gather naturally. With the bridge and the sea in view, the direction I had just been checking on a map became a landscape I could look at. First came the relief of having found the right way.

Only then did I begin to notice what lay in the distance. The thought of how much farther I had to walk became a wish to go a little farther and see. I liked that change. Although the destination was still ahead, I already felt a little rewarded for having walked this far.

Beyond Ochaen Observatory, we followed the path beneath the bridge. I had vaguely expected a view of the sea to mean stepping out onto an open shore; here, we were walking into an enormous structure. As the bridge drew nearer, the place I had seen in pictures began to acquire its actual scale. The effort of finding our way eased, and I became less concerned with where we were going than with what we would see inside.

The name Uzu-no-Michi appeared near the entrance, beside an orderly approach and a ticket counter. Adult admission was JPY 510. It did not feel expensive for a visitor attraction in Japan, and for the experience ahead it seemed more than reasonable. From the moment we stepped inside, this felt like somewhere to experience with the body, rather than simply another observation deck.

Walking inside the underside of a bridge

Uzu-no-Michi runs through the lower part of the Onaruto Bridge, letting visitors walk out above the sea. At roughly 450 metres, the passage went on farther than I had expected. This was no quick look over a railing: the walk itself was the experience. The metal structure framed openings onto the water on both sides, keeping the sea in view as we moved.

What struck me was that the space did not feel entirely still. With the bridge suspended over the sea, I could sense a faint vibration through the passage when the wind blew, a small movement beneath the walk. It was nothing that felt dangerous, but enough to make me physically aware of standing in a structure above open water. That slight motion made the place much more immediate than a view alone could have done.

The sea beneath the glass

Along the passage, we came to sections of glass floor. At first I approached without much thought; once I stood on one, my feet stopped of their own accord. The sea was directly below, and the height felt greater than I had imagined. It was not merely the idea of a glass floor.

For a moment, the space beneath my feet seemed to open up, bringing a brief, involuntary tension. During our visit, the great coiling whirlpools familiar from photographs were not appearing continuously. Even so, I could see the surface of the sea changing quickly. Whenever the direction or pattern of the water shifted, my eyes moved with it.

More than a sightseeing spectacle

The current in this strait changes with the tides and the time of day. What I saw was the sea as it was that day, rather than the largest whirlpools shown in photographs. If I came back, I wanted to choose the hour after checking that day’s tide chart. Looking out again with that in mind, I sensed more than powerful waves: the whole space seemed to sit within an immense movement of water. Sightseeing boats were travelling through it too. Watching them approach the whirlpools deliberately made it clearer that people came here to encounter a natural process, rather than simply admire a landscape.

Wind, sound, and the space between

The wind was another part of Uzu-no-Michi that stayed with me. Perhaps the position beneath the bridge channelled it, but it seemed to arrive strongly from one direction, making its own sound as it passed through the walkway. It went beyond feeling refreshing: it gave the place an almost living quality.

My footsteps against the metal, the air moving through the structure, and the waves below overlapped into a soundscape peculiar to this stretch of sea. Sight was only one part of it. Sound and touch gave the experience a much greater density. I would not recommend Uzu-no-Michi merely because it is a famous attraction.

Its value lay in how directly it brought me into contact with Naruto itself. Instead of looking from a distance, I had entered beneath the bridge, walked above the sea, and watched the current working below. That proved more memorable than I expected. I had not seen the biggest whirlpools on this visit, yet the moving water under the glass and the wind through the passage stayed more sharply with me than anything I had anticipated from pictures.

On a screen, I might have looked for the clearest image of the current and moved on. Here, I stood for a while, watching it change. When I looked at the photographs later, I thought I would remember the wind and sound that they could not hold. Next time, I wanted to stand here at a different tide.

After enough time by the sea, we needed to make our way to UZUHALL. This was the performance that had brought me here, and I did not want to miss it. A little earlier, lingering at an observation deck had seemed perfectly fine; back at the bus stop, the pace inside my head changed.

Time spent looking at scenery became departure times and arrival times again. I waited, still believing we had room to spare. At first, watching for the time shown on the map app, I thought we could make it comfortably. Some of the pleasure of the sea was still with me.

But the expected arrival passed without a bus. A few minutes late would have been easy to accept. As the wait grew longer without any way to check what was happening, my feelings changed. I did not yet want to start thinking that we might miss the show.

A late bus, and less room to spare

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I stood looking at the road, but the bus I needed did not appear. A small delay felt quite different from having no idea when it would arrive. What had seemed a simple matter of getting aboard became a decision about whether it was right to remain here at all.

By then, I was beginning to think something was wrong rather than merely late. The other people heading in the same direction were still waiting too, but nobody seemed to have reliable information. Once more than half an hour had passed, I kept thinking about the time we had left.

What if I had come all this way for the performance and missed it because of the journey there? Having a fixed appointment felt unusually heavy. At the observatory, I had been able to stay in front of a view I liked. Here I was equally still, yet time seemed to keep draining away.

An obvious cause, with no easy answer

Looking more closely, the likely reason was surprisingly simple. Traffic had backed up. A stream of cars was trying to enter the Naruto Park area, and the bus seemed to be caught in the same flow. If the road would not let vehicles through, checking the time again at the stop would not improve matters.

Watching the traffic gave me some idea why the bus was late, but still no idea when it would reach us. Understanding a little more was not the same as feeling reassured. Knowing why the bus had not come did not put one in front of me. While I waited here, people at the venue would be getting ready to let the audience in. Thinking of the same minutes passing in different places made me more impatient.

While I could still tell myself it would arrive soon, staying put had been the comfortable choice. Now, not moving also felt like a decision. What if I started down an unfamiliar road and missed the bus? Yet being late for the performance after standing here all that time seemed worse. Neither choice felt certain enough, so I kept putting it off.

Stay, or try something else?

I checked the time and looked back at the road. Nothing in front of me had changed, but my thoughts were getting faster. It was frustrating to have so little I could do while I stood there. The same question kept circling in my head: was it right to keep waiting like this?

Should I start walking down now? The performance at UZUHALL would not wait because I was late. That stage was the reason I had travelled so far, and I wanted to try something before more time disappeared. I was not confident that we could walk the whole way.

I simply wanted, for a moment, to change the state of doing nothing but wait. We decided to head a little way down the road. So we picked up our things, left the bus stop, and began walking downhill along the road.

Just as I was giving up, a bus appeared

After only a few steps, a bus came into view at the far end of the road. This time I stopped rather than carrying straight on. The vehicle I had waited for so long unsettled the decision I had just made. My debate about walking receded; all I wanted now was for that bus to reach us.

But there was another difficulty. The distance looked short, yet the bus still needed time to work its way through the traffic. Seeing it should have been reassuring, but the visible movement made the wait more specific. I watched the road again, thinking that all we needed was to get onto that vehicle.

It felt like another ten or fifteen minutes. This was different from waiting for a bus we could not see, but I did not check the time any less often. At least now I knew where to look. As it drew closer, little by little, I began to believe that this time we really would get aboard.

On board at last

The bus reached the stop and we climbed on. I had not realised boarding an ordinary bus could feel so welcome. We had not found some extraordinary form of transport; it was simply the scheduled service we had been waiting for. Yet being able to move forward was enough. Once I was on board, some of the tension I had held during the wait loosened. Hoping a bus would come and sitting inside one, waiting to reach the venue, were completely different states.

We were not there yet, but at least the direction was settled. I could return to looking forward to the performance. Strangely, the road that had been so blocked before we boarded was not particularly congested downhill. The bus moved faster than I expected, and the descent was smooth enough to make the earlier frustration seem almost incongruous.

Arriving before the doors opened

We reached the venue before admission began. I was relieved that the plan had held. Written only as an outcome, this was a journey that arrived on time, but that phrase leaves out all the minutes I had spent hesitating beside the road. I had truly worried that we might be late, which made arriving safely all the more welcome.

Looking back, there was no remarkable judgement to claim. I waited, started walking, then waited again when the bus appeared. Unsure which choice was right, I had tried to avoid missing the next part of the day. How much I wanted to see this performance was revealed at that bus stop as clearly as it would be in front of the stage.

The bus pass, and a familiar routine

The free pass we had collected the day before worked for this journey too. Before boarding, whether we could arrive at all had mattered much more than the fare; once aboard, something prepared earlier helped again. Each little thing I had learnt or arranged in a new city was carrying forward into the next journey. I took a numbered ticket as I got on and completed the ride using the pass.

Having done it once the day before, the process no longer felt quite so unfamiliar. Only a little earlier, I had been anxious about getting onto this bus at all. Now there was simply an established sequence to follow. I was grateful for its ordinariness.

By the time I began looking out of the window, we had left the stretch of road where we had waited. My constant calculations finally slowed. I was on my way to UZUHALL. Believing I would not miss the stage I had come to see let me set the long wait aside for a while.

Only once we were moving

When I remember this part of the trip, the first thing that returns is not the bus number but myself, undecided between waiting and moving. A delay I might normally have let pass felt much larger that day. A performance for which I had struggled to make time was waiting ahead. The feeling of travelling to see something I loved kept changing shape along the way. Reaching the next appointment safely did not make the waiting itself trivial.

I remember having to decide between staying for a bus with no known arrival and trying an unfamiliar road on foot. In the end, simply being aboard and moving towards UZUHALL was a relief. Earlier I had kept checking the clock; now I was allowed to look forward to the show again. A small uncertainty had felt large because it stood just before something I had wanted for so long.

When we arrived at UZUHALL and I saw people waiting to enter, the anxiety left over from the bus stop began to settle. I was where I needed to be, on time. For a moment I thought of everything between the airport, the hotel, the sea, the bus, and this queue. Tokushima itself had not been my original reason for coming.

I had wanted to see this performance here, and that wish had brought me to the city. Only now could I comfortably wait for it to begin. I had completed the advance registration while travelling. Once I knew I could get in, the fear of arriving late because of the bus loosened a little more.

All that remained was to wait for our turn. It was another kind of waiting: at the roadside I had been anxious, while here anticipation was the stronger feeling. Japanese fans who had arrived earlier were standing nearby. I was among people who, like me, had come from somewhere else for this stage.

We spoke different languages and had set out from different cities, but it was heartening to be waiting for the same thing. Getting to Tokushima had meant finding my way through one unfamiliar detail after another. Here, it felt as though I no longer needed to explain why I had come.

A front-row seat offered first

As we went in, I thought somewhere around the fourth row would be fine. The journey had taken longer than planned, and plenty of people were already there. I was glad simply to have arrived in time, and was settling into the idea of enjoying the show from whatever seat I found. Then a Japanese fan who had arrived earlier made room for me near the front.

That was how I ended up in the first row: someone who was there before me had included me in a place they had secured. I was delighted to see the stage so closely, but I also remembered the person who had made that possible. A performance usually brings to mind what happened on stage. Before this one had even begun, I already had a moment of kindness to remember.

I had somehow managed to arrange leave, flights, and accommodation, but this seat had never appeared in my plans. I did not want to remember the pleasure of being at the front as nothing more than good luck. Someone’s consideration had put me at this distance from the stage. Waiting for the show felt a little warmer because of it.

2:10 p.m.: SIS/T sets the day in motion

At 2:10 p.m., SIS/T came on. As the audience turned towards the stage, I stopped thinking about the journey there. Now I only had to watch and listen. I liked the simplicity of that. The reason I had pictured while buying my ticket the night before departure was actually in front of me, and I was sitting inside the venue. I was happy to have reached this moment.

As the songs continued, recognising a familiar melody gave way to the feeling of hearing it here, now. This was different from playing a video. I could not choose the next song at my own pace or pause for a moment. Once it passed, the moment would be over, and that made my eyes linger on the smallest expression or gesture within a song. When they sang in Korean, I felt a little closer.

I was sitting in a Japanese venue, hearing the language I used every day from the stage. Saying the pronunciation was good would not quite capture the pleasure of it. The words reached me more directly, briefly changing the feeling of watching a performance somewhere unfamiliar. For an audience member who had followed them here, it was a welcome moment.

From so close, I could see expressions and glances shifting between songs. I found myself following where Miyu Kanou looked and how she moved her hands—details that passed in an instant in videos. I cannot describe every gesture I saw, but when I remember the performance, small images remain between the larger scenes. I was glad to be watching from this distance.

The front row was both a better place to see the show and a seat someone else had offered me. That stayed in a corner of my mind even as I watched. Rather than resolve not to miss a single expression, I wanted to follow what I could see as it came. I hoped to take home a few memories that I would not be able to find on a screen when I thought back to the performance.

Shigeru Matsuzaki brings a different weight

When Shigeru Matsuzaki appeared, the rhythm of my attention changed. There was an ease quite different from the brightness that had lifted the earlier set. I could simply listen and find myself following his voice; my eyes stayed on stage without my having to concentrate in the same way. I liked being able to encounter two such different kinds of presence in one programme.

With him, the performance seemed to breathe at another pace. Even in a familiar song such as “Ai no Memory,” I heard not merely how strongly he projected, but where he allowed space. It felt as though he had received the energy of the preceding set and carried it onward at a different speed. In “Ai no Memory” in particular, a song I already knew reached me as a voice in the room.

Where he waited and where he gave a phrase strength stayed with me longer than the force of any single note. I could have written that he sang well and moved on, but that day I liked the feeling of not having to hurry while I listened. Instead of waiting for what came next, I stayed a little longer with what I could hear.

The stage did not seem empty even without large movements. That ease impressed me. Travelling far for a performance can make me want to take as much as possible away from it; at that moment, I only needed to listen as the song unfolded. The audience did not have to work to manufacture a moving experience.

Following his voice, being in the venue was enough. During SIS/T’s set, I felt carried upwards with them; during the next, I could settle more comfortably into that space. I did not want to decide which was better. They created different ways of watching and listening, and I could feel the difference from the same seat.

That was one reason I could not reduce the day’s concert to a single impression. In baseball terms, if SIS/T felt like the starting pitcher establishing the game’s momentum, Matsuzaki felt like the closer entrusted with its finish. I did not mean that either was better: each completed the performance in a different way.

After the performance, a gift still to give

Afterwards, I kept thinking about the gift I had brought. I had hoped there might be a chance to hand it over directly, but none was arranged. I was happy after seeing the show, yet disappointed at the thought of carrying the gift home untouched. For a moment I hesitated over how to convey the feeling I had brought all this way. In the end, I asked a member of staff who seemed to be involved with the event to pass it on.

Since I had not handed it over myself, I could not know the process afterwards. I could only ask and leave, but that felt better than bringing it back without a word. Even after entrusting it to someone, I hoped it would reach its destination. Finishing a show and conveying a feeling to someone I supported left slightly different kinds of unfinished business.

I never confirmed the route by which the gift was actually delivered. What I know is that I asked carefully that day and hoped it would arrive. Even when I reread this account later, I do not want to turn that hope into a certain outcome. I want to leave it as doing what I could before I went, and still being glad I had come, despite a little disappointment.

What stayed when I could not photograph it

Photography and video were prohibited during this performance. At first I was sorry I could not record it, but during the show I did not have to choose moments to photograph. Instead of considering how to frame what I saw, I followed the stage in front of me. Once the recordable and the unrecordable had been separated, I gave more of my attention to what I could see.

There were scenes I would not later be able to check against photographs. That did not mean they would all disappear. The voice singing Korean, the expressions I could see up close, and the way I had ended up in the first row returned together. I could not preserve everything perfectly, but how I had watched that day remained with me.

Time without a camera did not feel simply lost. Because I could not photograph Miyu on stage, I photographed two of her cheki—instant-photo portraits—instead. They could not replace a record of the performance, but I wanted an image of the person who had set this journey in motion to remain in it.

Remembering why I wanted to come

This performance had been the reason I chose Tokushima. Yet I was taking away more feelings than I had brought. Beside the pleasure of seeing the stage I had wanted to see was gratitude to the person who had offered me a seat, and a small regret over the gift I could not give in person.

Those feelings did not need to resolve into a single one. Leaving the venue with several emotions at once was also part of the day’s experience. On the way out, I remembered hurriedly buying my flight the night before departure. I thought I could now explain why I had wanted to come even after such difficulty arranging leave.

The explanation would need more than a set list or a description of the programme: it would need the expressions seen from the front, the Korean songs reaching the audience, and the time I had followed without a camera. There was still the regret of not delivering my gift myself. Even so, I was glad I had come here and seen this performance.

Outside the venue, I wanted to keep talking with the people who had watched alongside me. I was hungry too. With my companion from Korea and our Japanese friends, I headed for a ramen shop. The show was over, but its afterglow made it too soon to scatter into our separate plans.

When people who have just seen the same thing sit at one table, the conversations left unspoken in the auditorium can finally begin. That was how our meal at Toritotai Naruto started. I had heard that this was more than a standard ramen shop: it was known for a style rooted in the area, particularly a broth made with sea bream. The prospect of something different from the usual pork-bone or soy-sauce base already had me looking forward to it.

A tidy room, with one unexpected detail

The shop immediately felt clean and orderly. Rather than the rough-and-ready image I often associate with ramen shops in Japan, the interior had something of a modern café. We ordered at a kiosk that looked new, with an interface straightforward enough to use without trouble. There was, however, one drawback.

Despite its modern appearance, the machine accepted cash only, not cards. I still encounter this in Japan, but it can catch a traveller off guard. Fortunately I had cash and could pay without difficulty; knowing beforehand would make the visit easier. It was another reminder that plenty of ramen shops in Japan still operate on a cash basis.

Sea-bream broth, and the richness within it

The broth was what most distinguished the ramen. In contrast to the deep brown of the pork-bone and soy-sauce broth I associate with Tokushima ramen, the use of sea bream gave this bowl a visibly different colour. When it arrived, the soup was pale and milky, and my first impression was that this would be something else. A spoonful made the difference clearer. Rather than simply heavy or rich, it tasted clean but deep.

The sea bream’s savouriness held the centre, supported by chicken and other ingredients, producing a satisfying body without weighing it down. Where the dark soy-sauce style of Tokushima ramen often feels intended to accompany rice, this broth seemed complete enough on its own. Rich stock, a raw egg, and rice are a familiar local combination. Against that background, this felt like a further variation on the region’s ramen rather than a repetition of it.

Noodles, toppings, and a proper meal

The noodles suited the soup, neither particularly thick nor particularly thin. With a broth that was not overpowering, they blended into the bowl rather than competing with it. The toppings were similarly restrained, arranged for balance instead of excess. We added rice and an extra portion of noodles, making what became quite a substantial meal.

Those additions felt natural in the setting of a Japanese ramen shop. Good broth can make rice especially satisfying alongside it, and this was that kind of bowl. I had initially imagined just a bowl of ramen, but it had the substance of a full meal. Coming straight after the concert may have contributed, though the food itself was memorable enough without that context.

A meal that let the performance linger

This meal did more than satisfy hunger; it gave the performance somewhere to settle. Music and feeling had occupied the centre of the previous hours. Here, as ordinary physical sensations returned, I could begin putting that experience into words. Over broth and conversation, we returned to the stage we had just seen.

Even people in the same audience remember different scenes first. Hearing someone else added something to the performance I had watched. The ramen stayed with me, but the people around the table were also part of why I remember the shop. I did not have to put away my disappointment that the concert had ended straight away. I was glad to eat while its story continued a little longer.

After eating, it was time to return to Tokushima. I was thinking of taking the bus again. Having waited so long on the road earlier, I was a little concerned about the journey back. Then a Japanese friend offered to drive me to the station. They were heading home to Kobe, in the opposite direction.

This was not a matter of sharing a road for a few minutes: they were offering a deliberate detour to drop me off. Before the thought of an easier journey came gratitude, and the question of whether I could really accept so much. Thinking of the two directions on a map made it clear that this was more than simply travelling together. I did not want to take the offer casually.

Spending a day together did not oblige anyone to reshape their journey around mine. Even as I enjoyed the comfort of a lift, I was grateful for the intention behind that extra drive. The journey I had allowed about an hour for by bus took roughly thirty minutes by car. Written as figures, that is time saved; what stayed with me more was the conversation along the way.

Earlier I had been calculating the time and looking for a bus. Now I was sitting down, talking about the performance. Two journeys in the same day could hold such different degrees of ease. Thanks to that offer, the day ended a little more gently.

People who had watched the same stage

Conversation came naturally in the car, moving from the performance to cultural differences between Japan and Korea, and then to travel. Having just watched the same show, we inevitably returned to it, sharing what we had noticed from different perspectives. We had not first met on this trip. We had known one another for more than a year, meeting online and at other concerts several times.

There was no need to search awkwardly for a subject. I liked having someone beside me with whom to talk again about what we had just seen. Coming to another country did not mean beginning every relationship from scratch. My friend lived in Kobe and said a future concert might bring them to Korea.

I said I would show them around then. Rather than making a grand new promise, the day’s gratitude seemed to continue towards another meeting. If we met again in Korea, I would be the one who knew the way. Receiving help now naturally became something I wanted to do for them next time.

Familiarity from our previous meetings helped, but the time in the car seemed to give the relationship another concrete form. We were not only people who knew one another through a shared performer: we were people who worked out a route home together and discussed meeting in another city. A short drive had become a scene I would remember separately. I thought this journey would stay with me because of people too.

A short journey that stayed with me

The car entered Tokushima sooner than I expected, and without congestion we were soon near the station. Remembering the long wait for a bus earlier made the difference feel greater. We said goodbye near the station. I had reached the place where I needed to get out, but part of me was still in the conversation. I wanted to remember both the easy journey back and my gratitude for the detour. Having talked about seeing one another again, the farewell did not feel purely like an ending. There was still the possibility that next time we might meet in Korea.

Back at the station, with one last journey to make

At Tokushima Station there was still one task left. Our second night was in a different hotel, so I had to retrieve the luggage left at the first. Changing hotels is always a little cumbersome, though a sensible route keeps it from becoming too much. After collecting my things, I returned to the station and took a bus towards the new accommodation.

The ride was not long—about six stops, as I remember—and there was another ten minutes or so on foot after getting off. With the day’s main plans finished, my mind felt comparatively light. The long journey, the performance, and the unexpected complications had all passed. This final stretch felt more like a quiet settling of the day.

Next time, on streets I know

By the time I reached the hotel, the sun had almost gone down and the day was plainly drawing to a close. Since morning I had travelled to Naruto, seen the currents, watched the show, eaten with friends, and come back. Only after retrieving my luggage and making it to the next hotel did I realise how long the day had been. I had looked at the sea, worried on a roadside, and then shared a table and a car with people after seeing the stage I had wanted to see.

My body needed rest, but I felt that I had spent the day well. I could not explain that satisfaction by lining up attractions or counting minutes saved. At the end of this day, faces came to mind too. Even after saying goodbye at the station, collecting my bag, and heading for the next hotel, the conversation in the car stayed with me. This was not someone I had just met; we had seen one another several times.

That did not make the kindness automatic. I remembered the road they had travelled in the opposite direction, along with the suggestion of meeting in Korea next time. I had come to an unfamiliar city for a concert, and was returning for the evening with a relationship I already valued made visible again. Next time, I wanted to be the one showing the way.

By the time I arrived at the second hotel, all the major plans for the day were finished. Century Plaza Hotel was a room booked in a hurry to fit what was available. I could not stay in the same room as on the first night, so the luggage had needed moving, but now I wanted to unpack and rest rather than find something else to see. Since morning I had been to the sea, waited for a bus, watched a concert, and met people.

Entering the lobby made the end of that day tangible. The price was approximately KRW 110,000 including breakfast. For a hotel in a regional Japanese city, it was not particularly cheap, but it did not feel unduly expensive either. In Tokushima, where demand can concentrate around particular dates, I considered it a reasonable choice and one that fitted the overall trip without strain.

It is true that the first hotel had satisfied me a little more in location and overall finish. That did not make this one inadequate; my impression was closer to “this is enough.” Not every choice on a trip can be the best possible one. What matters more sometimes is whether it suits the day and how I feel. On that basis, this hotel did its job well.

The welcome at check-in

I checked in at the ground-floor lobby. The room was not large, but it felt orderly, and the staff left a particularly good impression. There was the politeness I expect in a Japanese hotel, with a little ease within it. The interaction seemed to make people comfortable rather than merely follow a procedure.

Details like that can count for more while travelling than I expect. A hotel is a place to bring a day to a close, not simply somewhere to sleep, and an arrival can shape how the stay feels afterwards. By that measure, this was a good first impression.

Before going upstairs after check-in, I could collect what I needed from an amenity corner in the lobby. Along with basics such as toothbrushes and razors, there were extra towels to take. In use, this self-service arrangement was convenient. Small details like these gradually added to the comfort of the stay.

A room with space to move

The first thing I noticed in the room was that I had some room to move. After several stays in Japanese hotels, I tend to expect a certain degree of tightness, but this room did not feel cramped in that way. I would not call it large by an absolute measure. Still, I could open my suitcase and move around it without much trouble, and the layout left reasonably comfortable circulation space.

The bathroom worked perfectly well for ordinary use, and the room had what I needed for a night. The building was not new, and its age showed a little. The corridors and room did not have the sharply finished quality of a recently opened hotel; they felt like spaces where years had naturally left their marks. That did not translate into discomfort. On the contrary, I had the impression of a property being steadily looked after.

Facilities I wished I had time to use

One feature that caught my attention was the range of facilities: a large bathing area described in hot-spring terms, a sauna, and an indoor swimming pool. This seemed a hotel that included places to unwind physically at the end of a day, rather than only accommodation. At check-in I was told I could use them without an additional charge, but the day had already used up too much of my energy, and I did not try them.

With a little more room in the schedule, I thought I would have made time deliberately. Not using them left a small regret. On a trip to Japan, a bathing facility can mean more than one more item on a list of amenities. Simply having that option can be a point in a hotel’s favour.

A little farther out, and quieter for it

The hotel was not right beside Tokushima Station, and the distance made walking a less convenient option. A bus or car was more practical, so accessibility alone was not its strongest point. In return, the surroundings were quiet, and at night I could rest without noise. It felt less like the bustle of the centre than the steadiness of somewhere a little removed from it. There were enough basic shops and places to eat nearby that staying there was not inconvenient. Overall, the balance was a slightly less convenient location in exchange for quiet.

A hotel that brought the day back into balance

This was not a dazzling hotel likely to dominate my memories of the trip. Its role was closer to keeping the journey in balance. If the first hotel had been a more complete choice, this one let the next part continue steadily. I am not trying to call this the most memorable room of the trip.

What I needed that evening was a place where I could end the day, and here I could do that. Rather than examine every less-than-ideal condition, I wanted to recall slowly what I had seen and whom I had met. I did not need to add anything else in order to make the day better. Having time to open my bag and think about going home tomorrow was enough for that night.

Once I had put my luggage down at the hotel, I did not feel like going far in search of another restaurant. Still, I wanted something small to eat before ending the day, so I walked to a nearby Lawson. There was no appointment to keep on this road.

Thinking of the wait at the park and the rush to the concert, it was reassuring that all I had left was a visit to a convenience store. There was not one directly in front of the hotel; I had to walk about a block. It was a spacing I sometimes encounter in regional Japanese cities, where convenience stores do not sit as densely together as they do in a city centre.

I headed for what looked like the nearest, Lawson Tokushima Minamishowacho 1-chome. The slow walk in the night air felt like part of bringing the day to a close. Walking at night in a place I am visiting can have its own value without any special destination. After this particularly long day, the freedom felt more pronounced.

A quiet neighbourhood store

Inside was the atmosphere I associate with a neighbourhood convenience store in a regional Japanese city. It was not huge, but had what I needed, and I could choose things calmly in the quiet. Compared with a city-centre store, there were fewer people and more room to take my time. I had no particular food in mind and picked up whatever looked suitable for a small snack. Then I noticed the edamame. Exactly two bags were left in the chilled section, each priced below JPY 200. I knew edamame in Japan was unlikely to disappoint me, so I took both without much debate.

The small pleasure of a convenience-store choice

Taking the last remaining item while travelling can be oddly satisfying despite being such a small thing. This was similar: I took the two remaining bags of edamame, and afterwards felt it had been a good choice. I wished I could buy them this easily at convenience stores in Korea too.

On earlier trips to Japan I had often bought ika somen—thin, noodle-like strips of squid—but now that those were easy enough to find at home, I seemed naturally to be looking for something else. Edamame had become that alternative. Light to eat and undemanding, it suited a late snack while travelling. It was less a way of filling my stomach than something to enjoy quietly while the day settled.

A quiet end to the second day

I picked up a few more things, paid, and returned to the hotel. It was only a short walk, but it helped the day find its ending. Back in the room I set out what I had bought, opened the edamame, and ate slowly. Two bags from a convenience store were a very small part of the whole trip. After the day’s large events, though, that small choice matched my pace. I no longer had to go anywhere or see anything else. I turned the performance over in my mind once more and briefly recalled the unfamiliar roads I had followed. On the second night, I wanted to let the day end slowly like this.

On the last morning, I went down to the café on the hotel’s ground floor. Yesterday, breakfast had been followed by thoughts of travelling to Naruto; today, I would need to prepare to leave. The meal might be the same daily ritual, but what waited after it changed how I felt. I was still in Tokushima, with part of a day remaining, yet the approaching end came to mind first.

Choosing coffee and bread, I did not want to hurry this time away. Breakfast was included in the booking, so I only had to go downstairs to Café Arietta. On departure day, I was grateful not to have to find somewhere new to eat. Yesterday’s plans were all complete, and today there was a fixed flight to catch. I wanted this meal between them to be time spent slowly, without trying to accomplish one more thing.

The ease of a room with some age

Café Arietta felt strongly like a place in which time had accumulated. It did not have the sharply finished atmosphere of a new café, but retained the older character of a room kept going for years. That made it more comfortable for me. The light was gentle, and the interior was not excessively decorated, making it an easy place to be in the morning.

The day could begin calmly here. In a room like this, voices seem naturally to lower and movements to slow. That suited my feelings on the last morning of a trip. From the window I could see a little of the ordinary world outside.

Yesterday I had kept moving in search of something new; today, everyday scenes drew my eye more. I would soon leave, but the morning here would continue afterwards. Sometimes, at a final meal in a place I am visiting, a view like this makes me feel that the time I have briefly borrowed is running out. I looked through the window once more.

A semi-buffet breakfast that suited the morning

Breakfast was a semi-buffet rather than a full buffet: a basic plate arrived first, and I could help myself to the rest. After the initial plate there were bread, drinks, and a few other things to add. Compared with the first hotel’s breakfast, there was clearly less variety. Rice and soup were available too, but the emphasis felt closer to bread, coffee, and drinks than to an expansive range of choices.

There were fewer options than at the first hotel, but that morning I was not disappointed by having less to choose. The basic plate, with some bread and coffee afterwards, was enough. The meal seemed to have quietened to match the mood of going home. Rather than busily filling a plate before moving on, I wanted to use a little more of the time I had to sit.

I finished with a few pieces of bread and coffee. I remember being comfortable with that amount of breakfast, rather than deciding which dish was best. I woke my body, noticed yesterday’s fatigue, and slowly accepted that I would need to pack. While I ate, I did not yet have to set off anywhere.

A morning I wanted to sit through a little longer

Yesterday’s performance would remain a special memory, but I thought the time in this café the following morning would come back alongside it. Some moments stay quietly without my concentrating on them as I would a stage. Knowing it was the last morning made my attention linger over an ordinary meal. Perhaps later I would remember this time as a cup of coffee and the atmosphere by the window.

The staff were not especially fluent in English, but they were kind, and I finished breakfast without difficulty. It was another reminder that even where language is imperfect, someone’s manner can leave a thoroughly good impression. Once I cleared my place and stood up, I would have to check out. Nothing remarkable had happened at breakfast.

I had sat with bread and coffee and been treated kindly. Perhaps that was why I could recall yesterday’s sea and performance slowly. A departure-day breakfast is both a time to check what remains and a time to begin absorbing what has already happened. Beside the satisfaction of having eaten well, I was left wanting to stay seated a little longer.

After checking out, I came outside pulling my suitcase. I only needed to get to the station, but I did not want this morning to end as a transfer alone. The sky, grey until yesterday, had cleared. I wondered what it might have been like had the weather been this way since arrival, then felt glad that I could see this Tokushima even on the last day.

Meeting a new expression of a city just as a trip ends makes leaving a little harder. Usually, the final day is given over to transport. This time, the journey itself felt like a scene: less a route from hotel to station than a way of bringing the trip to a close.

Weather that changed the whole atmosphere

The weather was the most striking difference. The heavy sky of the previous days had cleared completely, almost as if it had never been grey, and the city felt entirely different. The same streets and buildings could leave such a changed impression with the weather alone.

Where yesterday’s atmosphere had seemed subdued and slightly pressed down, Tokushima this morning felt brighter and warmer. Sunlight slipped between the buildings and lay across the road and the movements of people, making the whole city look a little more alive. I was reminded how large a part the weather plays in the way a destination feels.

The freedom of quiet morning streets

Perhaps because it was morning, there were few people about. I saw the occasional person on the way to work, shopkeepers getting ready to open, and otherwise a quiet street. A city at this hour has a face quite unlike its afternoon or evening one. It is less a destination and more plainly somewhere people live. These scenes felt closer to Tokushima’s ordinary daily life than to a tourist’s view of the city. Passing through the middle of that ordinary life was what made them memorable.

Familiar places seen differently

Although I was passing through some of the same places, they felt quite different from the day I arrived. Then, I had been checking one unfamiliar space after another. Now I was looking again at places I had already crossed. That difference was larger than I expected. Things that had first appeared as information had become memories. Knowing “I walked here yesterday” made the same street a little more familiar. I think I photographed differently too. At first, I had quickly captured whatever caught my eye. This morning I chose scenes more slowly and deliberately.

A final scene made of light and air

The air itself was memorable. Rather than the dampness of the earlier days, it felt comparatively clear and light, making the walk more pleasant. With both the light and the air changed, even the city’s apparent temperature seemed different. The same place felt warmer, and I naturally wanted to remember the moment for longer. I was walking with a suitcase, yet even its sound seemed part of the scene. Wheels brushed over the ground, cars sounded in the distance, and occasional conversations reached me. Together they formed one small stretch of morning.

Feeling the journey approach its end

Following this road would eventually bring me to Tokushima Station, after which the journey home would begin. That made the walk feel like more than getting from one place to another: it was where I began to feel the trip ending. Later, leaving Incheon Airport, I would remember the night before departure.

Then I had worried whether I could really go; now all three days would already have passed. Inside a schedule I had thought of as merely short, there was unexpectedly much to write down. Tokushima that morning had just that quality: nothing spectacular or forceful, but a view that seemed likely to stay longer for its quietness.

One last scene, quietly kept

This was something like time for putting memories in order. As the varied scenes of the preceding days settled one by one, the shape of the whole trip began to make sense in my head. At its centre was this morning’s view: clear sky, quiet streets, and myself moving slowly through them. The same river and buildings looked different again in sunlight.

I was happy to have seen this side of the city, and sorry that I now had to leave it. On arrival, so much had been unknown that I had felt tense. On departure day, I felt I was leaving a city I knew a little better. I pulled my suitcase, stopped for a photograph, and walked on. Wanting to keep this brighter view too, I was spending the time before the station a little at a time.

There was a little time before I needed to go straight to the station. I wanted to see the castle ruins again in daylight. Walking up the dark path on the first night had not brought the view I hoped for, and I was reluctant to let that be the whole memory. I now had a reason to return to the same place. Approaching from the south, I could see the moat and bridge.

I wanted to look again for myself at what had been difficult to see at night. On the first day, with one thing following quickly after another, the ruins had felt closer to somewhere I passed through. This time I wanted to look with a little more room to spare. My feet naturally turned towards the castle, along the path from the south. At the end of that path, I came to Gejobashi.

Gejobashi, and the time within a crossing

Gejobashi crosses the moat on the southern side of the Tokushima Castle ruins, one of the important approaches to the castle in the Edo period. Its name refers to dismounting before crossing: it is said that even high-ranking warriors and visitors had to get down from their horses and proceed on foot here. Knowing the name and its background changed the simple act of crossing a small bridge.

Outwardly it was an unremarkable structure, but thinking of the time and the role contained within it gave the place greater depth. The bridge itself was neatly formed, with the moat and trees composing a calm setting around it. It was not crowded with tourists, so I could look around quietly. I liked it better for that.

A view suited to the final morning

The morning made the area quieter still, and I could sense its atmosphere more clearly. Sunlight on the water, trees shifting in the breeze, the bridge crossing between them: together these made somewhere to look at rather than merely a route through. On the last morning of a trip, it felt calmer still, with a quiet power to slow my steps. Spectacular places stay in a travel memory, but quiet spaces sometimes remain longer. Gejobashi was that kind of place for me, memorable enough without a special event taking place.

Between wanting more and knowing when to stop

I had wanted to keep going deeper into the castle grounds. I imagined the ruins would have another atmosphere in morning or daytime, and hoped to photograph a few more scenes missed on the first day. But I could not ignore the time. Going farther in might complicate the route and make the walk back towards Tokushima Station take longer than expected.

Decisions like this matter more on the final day. Rather than force in one more sight and throw the whole schedule off, it is sometimes better to stop at a sensible point. I decided to pass Gejobashi and cross once more a bridge I had used on the first day, and leave the route there.

Turning towards Tokushima Station again

As I crossed the bridge, my eyes naturally turned back once more. I had only just left the place, yet wanted a final look. Perhaps that extra glance said something about how much the place had stayed with me. I left the ruins and turned towards the station. I no longer had to regard the first night’s choice simply as a mistake.

Feeling that I had missed something then had brought me back today, and daylight had given me a different scene. I did not know the whole place, but I had at least moved away from the feeling of judging it hastily after a single visit. It was only a little time before going home, yet I did not regret those extra steps. Now it was time for the final meal.

I met my companion from Korea again outside Tokushima Station. A trip that had begun on the same flight and in a shared room on the first night had reached its final meal. We had spent some of the time following separate plans, so sitting together again seemed to join the departure to the return.

We decided to eat Tokushima ramen before going to the airport. As I went into Menoh, I thought that this really was my last meal in the city. The airport was all that remained afterwards. I tend to choose a final meal a little more carefully; it is also a moment when what I want to eat in that place becomes clear.

That choice was Tokushima ramen, at Menoh, which was easy to find near the station.

Tokushima ramen’s distinct character

Tokushima ramen is known for a particularly distinct character among Japanese ramen styles. Its pork-bone broth is seasoned with soy sauce, but richness alone is not the defining feature: sweetness and saltiness arrive together. Thinly sliced pork, a raw egg, and rice alongside are a familiar combination.

A raw egg in ramen may seem unusual at first, but in the bowl it softens the broth’s intensity and brings its parts into balance. In that sense, Tokushima ramen feels less like a single bowl of noodles than a whole meal built with rice. Seeing people order rice alongside their ramen makes the regional character of that combination apparent.

Menoh, an easy place to try the local style

Menoh was right in front of Tokushima Station, making it an easy ramen shop for visitors to find. Inside was relatively tidy, with everyone from solo customers to travellers sitting down naturally to eat. The shop is known for a dependable version of the familiar Tokushima style, which made it an approachable choice even for someone trying the region’s ramen for the first time. We could order at a kiosk, and the menu was straightforward enough to choose without much trouble. The arrangement did not demand much familiarity with Japanese.

A final bowl, with a clear impression

As soon as the ramen arrived and I tasted it, I felt I understood why this was Tokushima ramen. The broth was certainly rich, but it was not merely intensely salty. Sweetness and salt rose together into a strangely compelling flavour. The fatty savouriness of the pork added further depth, and the balance worked well with the noodles.

Being the last meal gave this bowl the feeling of drawing the whole trip together. Yesterday’s ramen had been memorable too, but a bowl eaten at the end acquires a different significance. This meal made it easy to understand why Tokushima is known for ramen. Beyond saying it was good, I felt I had encountered something of the direction of the area’s food culture.

The meal ends, and it is time to go

After eating, I could no longer postpone the fact that it was time to return. I was full, and most of what I had wanted to do was finished. This last meal outside Tokushima Station felt less like simply satisfying hunger than like a final scene in the journey. With the bowl empty, there was no further meal or walk with which to delay leaving. I needed to catch the bus.

On the first day I had chosen food around an unsettled stomach; since then there had been tsukemen, sea-bream broth, and several different tables. Remembering them together with this final soup, the three days did not seem merely short. If someone asked what I had eaten in Tokushima, I thought it would be difficult to answer with only one restaurant. As I stood up, I added this bowl to the end of the account.

Waiting for the airport bus, I looked around the station square again. On the first day I had searched here for the way to the hotel; the next morning I had looked for the stop for Naruto. Today, from the same place, I was waiting for a bus to the airport. Using one point of reference for both arrival and departure made the time between them feel more distinct. The scene in front of the station was no longer entirely unfamiliar.

As soon as I realised I had grown a little used to it, leaving felt sadder by that same measure. On arrival, this had been an unknown starting point; now it was the starting point for going home after everything was done. The place was the same, but the situation changed what it meant. Even the wait for the bus felt like a final stage in putting the journey together.

The practical choice: an airport limousine bus

There were a few possible ways to get from Tokushima Station to the airport, but the airport limousine bus seemed the most ordinary and direct choice. Combining a train with other transport would mean transfers or a more complicated route. With luggage, the bus was the most efficient option for me.

Tokushima Airport is not immediately beside the centre, and choosing one vehicle for the whole journey helped reduce the effort of leaving. I could board at the stop in front of Tokushima Station, where the service ran comparatively closely to its timetable. On the final day, predictable transport mattered more to me, and in that respect the limousine bus felt reassuring.

The last ride, now with a fare to pay

There was one difference this time. On the first two days, the free bus pass had let us travel with very little transport spending. We had already used its two days by the previous evening. The return journey therefore needed a paid fare, and that small practical change made the end of the trip feel clearer. The one-way fare was JPY 800, and I was able to tap a transport card such as Suica to pay. Not having to prepare separate cash made the last journey easier to finish.

About forty minutes between one place and another

The journey from Tokushima Station to the airport took roughly thirty-five to forty-five minutes. Road conditions could make a difference, though it generally felt like a predictable stretch. Once I sat down, I had the sense that the journey home had truly begun. The view passing outside was not very different from what I had seen on arrival, but I was looking at it differently. At first, everything had felt new and unfamiliar. Now I was looking again at spaces I had already experienced, which made each one a little more recognisable.

The final stretch towards the airport

As the airport came closer, the ending of the trip became more real. Tokushima’s airport is small, and arriving there leads naturally into the next procedure. That gave the bus ride more meaning than transport alone: it was the final stretch joining the trip back to everyday life. I was travelling in reverse along the road by which I had first entered.

Similar views passed the window, but I was thinking about different things from three days earlier. The names of attractions came to mind, then the friend who had driven me back or the kindness behind my front-row seat slipped in first. There would be procedures to complete at the airport, but on the bus I was still allowed to look outside. That small amount of travelling time left to me let the journey end gradually.

On reaching the airport, I recognised the spaces I had seen on arrival. Then, once immigration was over, I had needed to step out into an unknown city; today, once check-in was over, I would board a flight home. It was the same airport, but my feelings were different from the first nervousness. The person who had worried about finding the way was now leaving with time spent in Tokushima to carry back.

The short distances inside the small airport made that difference register sooner. Unlike a major international airport, the layout was straightforward, and I hardly had to wonder where to go. Arrival led almost immediately into the thought that now all I had to do was complete the departure procedures.

Check-in and baggage screening, on a smaller scale

The first task was checking in with Eastar Jet. Its counters were not far from the area used when we arrived, and the simple layout made them easy to find. The handling of checked baggage caught my attention. Usually, I imagine handing a suitcase over at the counter and seeing it move automatically away behind it.

Here, I first placed the bag on a separate screening unit, had it checked, and only then handed it over for the flight. The arrangement felt a little unfamiliar because I seldom see it at larger airports. Yet watching each step happen also made it more intuitive. It seemed one of the particular features that the airport’s smaller scale made possible.

One last stretch of time before leaving

After check-in, I went upstairs to a few souvenir shops and a small dining area. It was not extensive, but it felt sufficient for closing the trip. At the time, there were not many facilities available after departure immigration, so it made more sense to eat or browse souvenirs beforehand. With check-in complete, we looked around the upstairs shops one last time.

Our group bought one more souvenir here: a tart made with the local sweet potato. We had seen the product several times throughout the trip, and taking one home at the end seemed a good choice. There is always something curious about that last purchase. The journey is already ending, yet it feels like picking up one more piece of it to carry away.

A different approach to security

The security check before departure immigration was memorable too. At a large airport I expect to place belongings on a conveyor belt and let them move automatically. Here, we put things in baskets and pushed them along by hand for screening in turn. It might initially seem less convenient, but with relatively few passengers there was no great congestion, and the process moved quickly. This too seemed an arrangement made possible by a smaller airport, and it gave me a stronger sense of this place’s particular atmosphere.

The last waiting room

Beyond departure immigration was a small waiting area with a modest retail shop. Souvenirs, including alcohol, were on display, leaving somewhere to buy anything still needed. The waiting room was not large, but that made it feel cosier to me. I could wait for departure in an uncomplicated space. Outside the window, an Eastar Jet aircraft stood close by, and arriving passengers were disembarking one by one. Knowing it was the plane that would carry us away made the end of the trip much more definite.

The quiet sequence at the end of a journey

We did not spend long here, but it was enough time for the trip to settle. There was no spectacular scene or special event. Sometimes these ordinary spaces leave a stronger impression. Waiting to depart, I looked between the plane outside and the small room around me. I had prepared no particular scene to mark the ending.

I completed the necessary procedures, browsed souvenirs in the remaining time, and sat down to wait. Yet now I did not simply want the waiting to finish quickly. Knowing I had to go home, I wanted a little longer to feel that I was still sitting here. The time in which I could hold on to an ending journey was usually as ordinary as this.

There were no complicated routes to find where we waited for the return flight. Once departure procedures were over, I could sit until it was time to board. On arriving in Tokushima, I had first noticed the small airport’s layout. Today, I noticed my own feeling while waiting inside it.

There was no need to open a map and decide what else to see. In front of the plane that would soon leave, I began recalling scenes from the previous three days. Unlike a major airport, I did not need to keep checking different gates or navigate branching routes. Beyond immigration, everything led naturally into one space where I could wait to board.

With the boarding place settled, there was no other route left to verify. On the way here I had wanted to look everything up once more; now I liked being able to leave the map alone for a while. The three days I had arranged were already becoming something that had happened to me. Only while waiting could I begin to think about what they had left behind.

One last moment before departure

I bought a coffee from a vending machine. It was not simply thirst, or a particular desire to try this coffee. I could feel that I really was about to leave, and wanted something tangible to hold through the time before boarding. Choosing one more souvenir and drinking a coffee were small ways of using the few minutes in which I was still in this airport.

Almost everything was done, but I did not immediately feel finished with the trip. Once I boarded, the time of going home would begin. Before that, I could sit and wait, and I did not want to move past that wait too quickly. Reluctance to leave did not necessarily mean wanting to fit another attraction into the day. It could also mean liking the time in which I was allowed to stay where I was a little longer.

I do not remember any exceptional taste to the coffee. I remember myself holding the cup and waiting to depart more clearly. Unlike the wait for a bus that would not come in Naruto, I was waiting this time for a departure that would happen as planned. Yet now I would not have minded time moving slowly. Even within one trip, my relationship with waiting had changed this much.

Eastar Jet ZE672: a short flight, with enough time

The return flight was scheduled to leave Tokushima Airport at 1:05 p.m. on March 21, 2026, arriving at Incheon Airport Terminal 1 at 2:50 p.m. Eastar Jet operated the flight as ZE672, with a Boeing 737-800 on this comparatively short regional route.

The aircraft was much the same as on the outward flight. As I would expect from a low-cost carrier, there were no individual screens, but on a flight of under two hours that did not feel particularly inconvenient. This time I had an aisle seat. On the way out I had specifically asked for a window to photograph the view, so I was a little sorry not to do the same now.

On the other hand, I had time to sit without choosing photographs or waiting for the next landscape. Instead of capturing something new, I recalled what I had already seen. For thinking about what remained of this trip, the quiet flight was not a bad place to be. The short flight made the whole transfer undemanding. After sitting for a little while, we were already approaching arrival, making the end of the journey feel increasingly real.

What remained after returning

The aircraft arrived at Incheon Airport Terminal 1 on schedule. Although I could not see out of the window, the feeling of landing was enough to tell me I was home. After the arrival procedures, I stepped outside. The bread and coffee I had eaten in Tokushima that morning still belonged to this same day, yet familiar speech and streets made them feel a little farther away.

The sense that the trip was over followed me through small differences like these, more than through stepping off the aircraft itself. Relief at returning and sadness at having been in another city’s morning so recently remained together. Leaving Incheon Airport brought back the night before departure.

Then I had worried whether I could really make the trip; now I had spent all three days and returned. There had been unexpectedly much to record inside a schedule I had thought of as short. I thought again of that previous evening’s uncertainty as I left the airport. In the end I had gone, and I had seen the stage I wanted to see.

I could have stopped the account there, but too many scenes remained: the closed museum door, the late bus, a seat made available before I arrived, a car that came back the other way, and the clear riverside on the last day. Returning to everyday life did not erase that time. Now I had memories of my own to bring out whenever I thought of this city again.

Before leaving, I had thought I might never come to Tokushima without this performance. Back home, I found I had more reasons to return instead. The disappointment of reaching the museum too late remained, as did the art museum for which I had not made enough time.

I wanted to see the sea at another tide too. I did not feel I had seen everything without omission. It was closer to the truth to say that the city remained somewhere I wanted to see more of. Parts of Tokushima and the area around Naruto were still unknown to me.

After moving through them for three days, names that had existed only on a map before the trip now felt like places I could walk through again. If I had more time next visit, I would like to look slowly at the places I passed this time. A journey for a performance gathered dancing and riversides, ramen and side streets along the way.

There was a front-row seat a friend made available, and a car that deliberately travelled in the opposite direction. Those scenes come to mind before any count of how much I saw. I had not set out for a city I already loved. I had followed a performer I loved, and along that route begun to know the city.

The consideration of the people I met remained among its landscapes. If I return, it may be for the same reason as this time, or for an entirely different one. But I do not think I will pass over the name Tokushima as just another unfamiliar place again. Inside that name are the three days I spent there in March 2026.