Japan > The beach of Suma

At night, the dormitory is chaotic. Not so much because of noise, but nobody has turned off the lights. Maybe that’s why I sleep a bit restlessly. My neighbor, an older Taiwanese man, snores. On the other side of him, I hear someone banging against the bulletin board. It doesn’t help. Generally, only young people stay here. Sleeping in bunk beds is the cheapest accommodation option in Osaka. On the other hand, it’s a good way to meet other travelers. In the morning, life in the dormitory slowly gets going. I take it easy as well. Today I’ve decided to go to the beach. I walk to Osaka Station and take the train to Suma Beach. I had planned a schedule, but I arrive at the station earlier. An employee at the information desk tells me I can take an earlier train. When I reach the platform, I see that there’s an even earlier train about to leave. As the doors close behind me, I realize I’ve boarded the local train instead of the express. This means it will stop at every station along the way. I briefly consider switching trains, but what’s fifteen extra minutes? I enjoy the mainly urban landscape and watch the people getting on and off. Suma Beach is just past Kobe. The station is literally at the beach—less than twenty meters away. The weather is beautiful today, even warm. Several beach café owners invite me to their terraces, but I walk past them. I stroll along the beach and watch the young people playing in the sea. At one of the cafés, I order a coffee. I hadn’t mentioned that I wanted it hot, so a moment later I find myself with a large glass of iced coffee with ice cubes. Still quite nice. Looking over the beach, I feel comfortable leaving my belongings while I take a swim. It seems safe enough. To be sure, I choose a spot near the lifeguard tower. The water is delightful. I don’t swim too far from shore to avoid making the lifeguard nervous. Hardly anyone goes beyond the shallow area anyway. Further out, there are buoys, which I assume mark the limit.

Japan - Suma Beach only half an hour from Osaka

Far behind those are concrete dikes, probably for protection against high waves or possibly tsunamis. Back on the beach, I let myself dry in the sun, but I can’t stay too long—it’s simply too warm. I move to one of the restaurants for lunch: fried noodles. The waitress asks me where I’m visiting from today. When I show her my travel route, she’s impressed. She even asks if she can follow me on Facebook. In the early afternoon, I take the train back to Osaka, transferring in Kobe. Luckily, everyone I ask understands what I mean when I say “Osaka?” Perhaps in the Netherlands we should pay more attention to tourists, as they probably understand directions just as poorly as I do here. Back at the hostel, I do some laundry. Even though everything is labeled in English, I still can’t figure it out. I catch myself thinking it might be laziness on my part to ask for help. I end up talking with Yuki, the young man who explains the washing machine to me. I’m not exactly sure what his role at the hostel is—guest, staff, or somewhere in between. He studied economics and wants an international career. He doesn’t like the typical life pattern in Japan. I’m surprised, as I had seen a society where people work together for the country. In the Netherlands, everyone tends to look out for themselves. I give him the example of litter on the street: in the Netherlands, people often think it’s the government’s problem to clean up. Here, nobody throws anything away—they take it with them. I learn from him that this mentality can actually be stifling in the business world. I doubt he’ll find utopia anywhere outside Japan—there’s always something. Another young man teaches English to children at the hostel. His role isn’t clear to me either. I suspect they both get free accommodation in exchange for cleaning. He immediately asks about drug use in Amsterdam. Is it really allowed? For dinner, I head to the district south of the station, where many restaurants cater to commuters. People eat at small bar-like counters after work. I open the sliding door of a small restaurant with fewer than ten seats—a sushi bar. They ask me to go around to the entrance on the side street, as this side has no access to seating. The sushi menu has pictures. Whatever I order is freshly prepared right in front of me. Even when I ask if the squid comes in pairs, the dish appears shortly after. Colored cards are placed on the sticks, each color representing a price. The sushi chef only serves three customers at a time; the rest are attended to by colleagues. It feels a bit awkward that he immediately waits as soon as I touch the menu. Once outside, I lose my sense of direction. Which way was the station? I’ve wandered through narrow streets. A man points out that I was going the wrong way and advises me to go underneath. The street is far too hot. Hesitantly, I stand near a stairway. Is this only the entrance to the metro? Below, there’s a full shopping center. Hundreds of people are shopping or heading to their destinations from the station. I walk underground back to the station and from there return to my hostel.