The first snow of the evening drifted down over Sapporo like someone had shaken a great pillow in the sky. It fell without urgency, settling onto the shoulders of office workers, melting on the backs of taxis, softening the neon along Ekimae-dōri until the whole street glowed with a gentle, diffused haze. I walked with my hands tucked into my coat pockets, letting the cold pinch my cheeks awake. There was something about Hokkaido air—its clarity, its honesty—that made every breath feel like it carried the weight of a small memory. Even the pavement seemed to shine with its own quiet purpose.
The streets narrowed as I turned toward Susukino. Lanterns hung like low moons over the alleyways, their red-orange light breathing warmth into the night. Somewhere a radio played an enka ballad, thin and sentimental, the melody slipping between the buildings like a ghost looking for someone who had long since moved away. Then, at the bend of an alley I’d wandered into by instinct rather than knowledge, I saw it: a wooden menu board, hand-painted kanji curling like steam.
The photographs were slightly faded, but they felt real enough to warm my stomach: a bowl of buttery miso ramen crowned with sweet corn, a plate of jingisukan still sizzling on its iron grill, scallops the color of pearls. It seemed to promise not just food, but refuge. A place to sit and thaw, to let the night move past without asking anything of me.
A gust of wind rattled the sign. From inside I could hear muffled laughter—easy, unguarded. Someone clapped. Someone else called for another beer. For a moment I stood there, reading the menu as if the characters could tell my fortune. Maybe that was why I hesitated. Hokkaido has a way of opening little doors inside a person, showing them things they thought they’d put away. I wasn’t sure if I wanted company or solitude, warmth or the ache of wandering. I only knew that the menu felt like an invitation, handwritten and honest.
I stopped. The street signs glimmered faintly; the whole night seemed to wait for my decision. I imagined the door sliding open. Steam would burst out, carrying the smell of broth and ginger. A young chef in a bandana would out, squinting into the darkness. “Do you want to come in?” he would ask, not unkindly. And I would bow and and politely decline.
I smiled at the scene I had just imagined. A bowl of miso ramen in the warm confines of this restaurant would have been welcome. But the streets beckoned and my journey had just begin.