I’ve done it. You’ve probably done it too.
Climbing the narrow stairs of the Shibuya Starbucks, clutching a burnt grande Americano you didn’t really want, hoping to catch a glimpse of that Lost in Translation feeling.

The famous crossing spreads out below like a living grid, and for a moment you convince yourself you’re witnessing something profound.
It’s okay — we were all young once, and Tokyo is generous enough to let you believe in your own cinematic importance.

But the older I get, the more Shibuya Crossing feels strangely hollow. If you’ve ever rushed across it on the way to a meeting, or in my case, to a wedding shoot with too much gear and not enough time, you’ll know what I mean.

The crowd becomes binary: ones and zeros pulsing across asphalt simply because the signal told them to. People reduced to flow, to volume, to throughput.

Cut to this crossing in Ropponmatsu, Fukuoka — unremarkable in every guidebook sense. I photographed it from the Science Museum, of all places, a building dedicated to reminding us how insignificant our existence is on the cosmic scale.
And yet outside, life feels more tender.
People, cars, bikes, strollers, buses — all negotiating the same space with unspoken empathy, soft choreography, a kind of accidental grace.

Around the corner is a kick-ass Chinese shoyu-style ramen place, which is very un-Hakata like.
Nothing performative — just good broth, good noodles, good timing.
Like a warm cup of genmaicha in a clay teacup.