The Glico Glow

A nearly youthful mother with twins, alternating between sleep and whimpering. A French couple trying to teach each other Japanese vocabulary in English. My neighbor made an attempt at conversation in his native tongue, only to abort it halfway on his own.

There was no free food—Jetstar, after all. We ordered a bento box, which was surprisingly good: rice, teriyaki chicken, pickled vegetables. We ate with chopsticks, naturally, something you could handle effortlessly. You whispered something in my ear that I will not repeat. The flight attendant with the curly bangs kept an eye on us; I think she found me attractive. I leaned against your shoulder, the new scent rising from my neck. I felt your breath.

Osaka greeted us with drizzle and the typical airport concrete—Kansai International, built on an artificial island, a technical marvel. I shivered as we stepped out. I was happy.

We took the Nankai Airport Express—not the fast Rap:t, but the normal train. The Rapid Airport Express ran in Art Deco-style cars and required reservations.

More time, more glances, more closeness. The carriage was clean and pleasantly air-conditioned. I leaned against you. You looked out the window; I studied your reflection. The train ran over bridges, through suburbs. I noted the meticulously clipped hedges and power lines like musical staffs across the sky. We passed neighborhoods where pachinko parlors squeezed between residential blocks. The amusement arcades reminded me of crash-landed spaceships.

We got off in Namba. The city smelled of soy sauce, concrete, and summer rain. You navigated with confidence; I let myself be guided. Our hotel lay between Dotonbori and Shinsaibashi on a quiet side street—where the neon signature of the urban arteries flickered faintly as a reflection on wet cobblestones.

Paper walls. Wooden floors. Minimalist vitrines with ceramics. Flat, almost floating lanterns. The world was bathed in warm light. Something new had begun.

In the courtyard, a fountain tinkled among round stones and bamboo. Every detail was thoughtful, dedicated to the sacred, quietly beautiful. My body remembered something it had never experienced.

Behind the reception desk stood a young man in uniform, hair neatly parted, posture impeccable. He bowed lightly, barely more than a breath’s motion—formal but not distant. You spoke with him. I stayed a step behind, watching the subtle movements of your shoulders, your profile, the way you created space with few words. I loved how you moved in unfamiliar surroundings: reserved yet bold. Secretly, I had dedicated Rilke’s Panther to you, though in optimistic verse. For you, there were no bars, and your gaze was never weary of life.

A scent of freshly brewed tea hung in the air, mixed with cedarwood. The city noise stayed behind the shoji walls. You took the key card, bowed lightly, and turned to me.

“Come,” you said, insistently. You had that way of saying things in public that gained their own meaning in bed.

The key card clicked softly. The room was cool. You drew the curtains. The rooftops of Osaka spread below us like a sea of concrete and neon. I slipped off my shoes and held back a private moment of arrival. Then we celebrated the instant together in an embrace.

We ate in an izakaya hidden in a side alley. A red lantern lit the entrance. The soft hiss of the yakitori grill. We sat on stools at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, ordering chicken skewers with sweet soy sauce, pickled lotus root, and grilled eggplant. No doubt, you knew your way around. You had told me you’d never been to Japan before. Were you some sort of agent? The thought struck me suddenly.

Dotonbori was the pulsating madness: the Glico Man, dancing crabs, neon signs screaming in color. Tiny temples. Wind chimes. I held your hand, felt as if in a bright-sweet dream. I felt desire and trust, secretly asking for more. Did you have a plan for later? Did you intend to marry me?

The day clung to our skin, the night belonged to our shadows.

The Glico Man is the illuminated figure of a running athlete with arms raised, gracing the Dōtonbori Canal since 1935. An advertisement for Ezaki Glico, maker of sweets like Pocky. The runner has become an unofficial symbol of Osaka, pulsing effectively in changing colors.

Dōtonbori is Osaka’s wild heart: neon signs, fast-food stalls along multiple food streets, garish restaurants with oversized crabs, octopuses, and pufferfish. It smells of soy sauce, fried batter, and a sea breeze.

Away from the main arteries, quiet alleys lie, dimly lit by paper lanterns. They form sacred in-between spaces, framed by Shintō shrines and Zen gardens.

Osaka was once Japan’s commercial center. The nation’s cuisine. Here, wealth of fish, rice, and ideas flowed through the canals. By the 16th century, Osaka was a booming metropolis with warehouses, markets, and theaters.

While Tokyo became the political heart, Osaka remained the people’s heart: honest, direct, pleasure-loving, dirty, and proud. The locals speak Kansai-ben, a dialect full of humor, warmth, and bite.