The rain drums against the tiny restaurant’s window as I press my face closer to the glass, watching the sushi master’s hands work like poetry in motion. Three weeks in Tokyo, and I’m still chasing that perfect bite—the one that made me abandon my economics degree and drain my savings account. My notebook’s soaked from tonight’s adventure through Shibuya’s back alleys, pages warped with hastily scribbled addresses and failed attempts to capture flavors in words.
I catch my reflection and laugh at how ridiculous I must look—this German girl with wild hair and desperate eyes, hunting for something that might not even exist. But every morning I wake up with the same electric anticipation, knowing today could be the day I find it. The elderly chef inside notices me watching and nods slightly. My heart races. Maybe you understand this kind of obsession? This feeling that somewhere in this city lies the answer to a question I can’t quite articulate?
