That morning, it was the rain that woke me up. I can hear it tapping on the roofs and on the ground through my open bedroom window. The atmosphere is so smooth that I soak into it. I even go back to bed after breakfast, wrapping myself for a while into that fleeting feeling of being at home.
When I set foot in Namba a few hours later, it’s by a mix of chance and spite, the district I’d planned to visit that day being too trashy to be charming.
In Namba, I saved the address of a tea house, Wad. I find it in the corner of a street, second floor of a small, white building. No sooner had I slid open the door than I was taken aback by the atmosphere. I’m told it’s fully booked at the moment, but I can reserve a seat for 1:30pm. I’ve queued for far less than that here in Japan. I say yes without any second thought. In the meantime, I’ll stroll around the district. 

1:30pm. Here I am again. While waiting to be seated, I take photos of everything I can: floating white linen veils, golden light flowing through the window, antique wooden furniture, subdued vibes. I’m taken to the counter, a long plank of rough wood, cut from the height of the tree, following the natural curves of the trunk. I silently marvel at the beauty of the materials, the apparent simplicity of the place, which is in fact sublimely warm, dense, subtle.

At the other end of the counter, there’s a guy sitting alone, deep in conversation with the barista. I can’t make out his age. He has a camera beside him.
I order an iced matcha, and keep photographing the tea room from every angle. Then I take out my travel diary to bring it forward a little, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t help but overhearing their conversation. They’re talking politics, society, business, travels, and I pick up snippets of information that start to pique my interest in my neighbor, and I’m dying to join in the discussion. The barista keeps pouring him tea, and meticulously prepares my matcha. I try to limit the glances I cast to discreetly signal my presence.

Twenty-ish minutes pass where I pretend being busy, when I hear the barista tell my neighbor that after talking to him for a long while, he’s gonna talk to me. I smile. He asks me if I’ve been listening to what they were saying. I say I have been yes, a little, we laugh, then my neighbor turns to me and damn, besides looking interesting and owning a nice camera, he’s handsome.
I totally ignore the fact that I’m dressed like a 80’s gym teacher – pale yellow hoodie, purple leggings, white high tennis socks and sneakers – and we start chatting. We talk about Japan of course, and about travels, and about photography obviously. We tell each other where we’re from, and by the way, our first names. He’s D., from Germany. The barista, S. by name, goes back and forth in conversation, all the while preparing some tea in thick handmade ceramic cups, pouring water with a wooden ladle. I can’t take my eyes off the ceremony, steam rising from the jars, dancing leaves. 

I don’t know how long we stay there, talking from one end of the counter to the other, but I end up thinking they gonna kick us out, the place is small and people queue up to get in, and here we are, chatting, chatting, and my iced matcha is long gone (it was a delight, by the way). S. asks us if we have a program for the night. He suggests we come to his place to continue our discussions and listen to music. He says he’ll make us some tea. D. and I look at each other, neither of us having any specific plans. We say yes.
S. is the only one in the tea room who speaks English (he lived in the United States for several years) and we can tell from his smile, his joyfulness, how curious and excited he is about meeting new people. He tells us about Osaka and his passion for music. We then start talking about music. He asks us if we wouldn’t mind moving to the side to free up a seat. I migrate to the free stool next to D. He has ordered a Kakigori, a large mound of shaved ice flavored with sweet syrup which looks like a snowball, and he shares it with me. 

One, two people take the place I occupied a little earlier, sip their beverage and leave, and we’re still here. I can’t describe the warm and enveloping atmosphere that floats around us, the plan wasn’t to spend the entire afternoon in this café, but I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
S. starts chatting to a newcomer at the counter, a girl from Singapore who seems nice and funny. When she’s about to leave, he tells her we’re having drinks at his place in the evening, if she wants to join us. She says okay.
We finally initiate a move to leave around 5pm. Outside the streets have already flipped into the dark light of late afternoon, as the day sets early over here. We have to meet S. at his apartment at 9/9:30pm. I don’t know what we gonna do until then. But I’d like to stay with D. We quickly realize we‘re both staying in the same neighborhood of Osaka, which is quite far. Neither of us need to go back there now. We decide to stroll around Dotonbori, maybe grab some food. We’ll see. 

We walk into the dusk, through the streets of Ame-Mura and their crazy thrift shops, getting closer and closer to the bustling heart of Osaka. Dotonbori and its huge, garish signs, its crowds, its lights. We keep talking all along. We stop to take pictures. Then we start looking for a nice restaurant, where we wouldn’t have to queue. It takes two tries, but in a tiny street we find a little Okonomiyaki that doesn’t look much, but seems appealing. We take place at the back of the room. It’s hot as hell with all those cast-iron hobs lit up all around us.
There is something strangely delightful about sitting there opposing D. whom I didn’t know until a few hours ago. We know almost nothing about each other, and yet nothing seems more natural than sharing this moment. It’s not a date, although it could look like it. These are the impromptu travels’ encounters. Once again, we stay long after finishing our Okonomiyaki, which the waitress has adorned with Mario and Luigi’s faces, skillfully drawn with mayo. 

We then resume our stroll, in search of a little dessert, then a liquor store in order to not arrive at S’s empty-handed. With all this and by the time we’ll get to his apartment, it’ll be 9pm-ish. The four hours flew in a blink. 

S. welcomes us as kings. The kitchen and living are small and cosy. He lets us each choose a cup in the small backlit window shelf, from his collection reminiscent of the models displayed at Wad. We then climb up a retractable ladder into the loft he arranged with a small table and legless chairs, called Zaisu. There is also a piano in the corner. Muted music blares from the large speaker. He serves us a glass of aged barley Shōchū on the rocks. It’s delicious.
The girl from Singapore joins us shortly afterwards. She’s called N., and travels by herself as well. S. fills up bowls of tortilla chips, pistachios and pickles, puts water to boil for the tea, and tops up our glasses with Shōchū.
The evening unfolds in a suspension of time, along words, laughters and questions we ask one another. There are so many things unknown to us and so many things we want to know about each other, each one of us being a small door opening onto a new culture, inhabited by a rich and infinite knowledge we’re happy to share. We tell each other our stories, our societies, their expectations, what makes family relationships and love relationships in Singapore, in Japan, in Germany, in France. We drink endless cups of tea. Hours fly by. Midnight, 1am,  2am. I don’t want to think about my alarm clock going off at 7:30am as I need to catch my train to Hiroshima. 

Several times, I think that I’m somewhere in Osaka in the middle of the night, in the flat of a Japanese guy I met this very afternoon, with a German and Singaporean, and that this moment is as extraordinary as unexpected, and was definitely meant to be. Only travel can offer such intense and spontaneous moments in life. I already know this is gonna be one of the most precious memories of my Japan’s journey. 

We leave the apartment at 3:30am. We say goodbye in the street, who knows if we gonna see each other again. But it’s all there anyway. 

D. and I share a taxi back to Shinsekai. It speeds through the empty orange streets of the sleepy city, while in the backseat we reminisce about the day, thinking how crazy it was, how everything was set up for us to meet at this counter, even though neither he nor I had really planned to be there. It’s 4am when the car drops us off. I wish the ride last longer.
Happy coincidence – once again -, we will both be in Hiroshima for the next two days. I’m about to tell him that it would be nice if we tried to meet again there, perhaps, when he gives me a hug and says: see you tomorrow in Hiroshima, we can have dinner together!
It’s not a question. This prospect brings a smile over my face. Of course, I say yes.

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