Looking Behind

A Cold Morning in Osaka

Quiet streets and the remnants of the evening.

It is still dark when I step off the elevator.

The spacious lobby is eerie in its stillness, hushed from the overnight calm. Usually, it’s a buzz of frantic activity: lines at multiple counters; bags are being collected, and the central area is filled with seated patrons chatting. The coffee shop hums with conversation, and on the mezzanine, people gather regularly for breakfast.

Not now, most are sleeping. The spaces around me are dimly lit, quiet, and every chair is empty. The coffee shop is closed, darkened behind glass doors, and I don’t see another person except the lone desk clerk, who casts a kind smile in my direction.

He understands. Plenty of airline crew stay here, and every night someone comes wandering through, jet-lagged and hoping for an early cup of coffee.

Coffee is not on my agenda right now, but the outdoors is.

The glass doors slide open with a hiss, and the winter air, cold and dry, strikes me instantly. I haven’t checked the temperature. I’m wearing every warm item I have, plus a windbreaker borrowed the night before from a fellow pilot. It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

A doorway before dawn.

The streets are quiet as I step onto the sidewalk. Even the main street, usually busy with activity, is deserted. The streetlights blink in haunting succession, directing no one. I am wandering, but I am seeking an area: a nearby neighborhood with a mix of traditional buildings.

That’s what I’m drawn to: a window into another world, another experience.

I turn off the main street into a narrow alleyway and stop, marveling at the mix of brick and neon. In the shadows, I fumble for my camera, trying to capture the feeling of quiet, the contrast of materials, and the peace that settles over me as I take it in.

My gloveless hands are no match for the bitter cold. I slip the camera back into its bag and shove my hands into my pockets, hoping to warm them.

Quiet storefronts and morning stillness.

Around another corner stands a carved figure in stone, fierce and formidable; unusual to my eye. Another attempt at a picture.

As I walk, the sun begins to rise behind me. Slowly, it spreads down the street, highlighting the buildings in front. I turn, wondering if I can see its origin.

I can.

Gently, it spills out of the darkness, washing the street in a soft, golden glow. For a moment, I pause, simply watching. One sign catches the light, then another, mixing with the fading grey of night.

Morning finds the street.

The light does not bring warmth with it, not yet. Reaching for my camera again, I am surprised to find the air remains bitterly cold on my hands. Still, it is a beautiful scene, and I am spellbound, trying to capture it.

A block away, I see a man moving toward me. As he draws closer, I notice the newspaper tucked under his arm. There is a dignity in his stride; these streets are part of his morning routine, familiar and known.

I return to my camera, focusing on the shot, until he is almost in front of me. Then he stops, regarding me curiously as he studies my camera. An amused expression spreads across his face as he spins on his heel, exaggerating the turn to look behind him.

We stand quietly, side by side, looking in the same direction. I am sometimes captivated by how well we all communicate without language. He is teasing me, crossing his arms as we look down the street, engaged in a wordless conversation that clearly asks, “What could possibly be so interesting on these streets I walk every day?”

After a moment or two, he turns back to face me. His expression has softened. Smiling at me, he says gently, “Pretty.”

In that moment, the cold is forgotten as a warm joy floods through me.

“Hai,” I say, returning his smile. “It’s pretty.”

He nods, acknowledging our brief moment of shared understanding, then, with a slight bow, continues on, resuming his dignified, purposeful walk. I remain in place, reflecting on a quiet street on another continent, in a different language; a moment that needs no interpretation.

He disappears into the distance, leaving the streets empty once more.

A peaceful discovery.

I continue on, slower now, softer, as the sun follows me down the street. At the corner, I come across a small park. My focus shifts to coffee, and through the trees, I can see the lights of a small shop on the other side.

Crossing the park is the shortest path, and I quicken my step, following the stone walkway, intent on a hot beverage and a break from the cold. Something, however, catches my eye, and I pause, turning to look behind me.

Morning offerings at the temple dedicated to the Medicine Buddha.

Tucked in the trees, off to the side, I notice a small temple. I had walked right past it. Quiet, almost entirely glass, it reflects the foliage around it, nearly hidden from sight. Inside, I see a lone figure setting up for the day, carefully working around a large carved statue in the center. Golden light glows from hanging lamps, and a hint of incense drifts toward me. As I stand, I hear a soft murmur of water and notice a small pond with a stone statue at its center.

Absorbed in the scene, coffee, for the moment, is forgotten.

Yes, pretty indeed.