• Sapporo at f*ck o’clock in the morning. Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

21:30. The countdown begins.
One hundred minutes, all you can drink, a meagre ¥3,000 (around £15.50), a steal. Conversational Japanese lessons online average around ¥4,000, so through misguided mathematics this all makes sense to me. Sit at the counter that seats only six, and see where the sweet night sends you. Imperfect strangers brought together by little more than unquenchable thirst. A band of boozehounds who, for 100 minutes, will drink together and be the best of buddies. It’s Friday night, I’ve some sadness in my soul, and sometimes it’s better to be where nobody knows your name.

Midway down a plywood alleyway packed with slender, intimate bars and restaurants on the second floor of a grey, faceless five-story building much like any other in Sapporo you can find this temple to tequila, this altar to Asahi Super Dry, this church of cheap kicks and cheer. At the basement level is a train station and, earlier in the day, by some dumb luck and lack of direction, I stumbled upon this alleyway whilst confusedly clambering stairs and aiming for the ever-elusive exit. At that early hour none of the places were open save for one; a tiny coffee shop, the outside draped in baseball posters. Through a yellowing glass window I saw two elderly men watching the teams pitch and thwack and dash and catch on a static-flecked CRT screen, coffee steaming and ashtrays piled high with butts, a woman in pale makeup standing beside them perusing yesterday’s results in a broadsheet newspaper dense with indecipherable text. A slim window into a world that will soon be washed away with time.

The densely-packed, informal, intimate comfort of the places in this alleyway looked too good to miss. It felt much like the backstreet drinking dens a friend in Osaka introduced me to in 2022. A slice of history; the grubby underbelly of cities often idealised by the uninitiated as peaceful, pristine, all hushed respectful tones and stifling social codes. Certainly true for the most part, there are seemingly impenetrable codes written into every interaction and situation in Japan, but dare to dig a little deeper and you will be welcomed with rowdy roaring, clinking cups, ruddy red grins and stumbling steps to piss-bespeckled toilet stalls. It never quite reaches the deplorable depths of a coked-up scrap and a Stella glass to the chin in the car park of the Pig and Giblet on a Friday night, but let’s leave the homesick nostalgia for another time.

On returning to the alleyway at 8pm, I found all my dreams made flesh. Well, plywood. The bars were all packed and humming, with restaurants ranging from cheap grilled meat skewers and noodle soups to luxury steaks and seafood to soak up the drink. I started in a vinyl bar tucked in a tidy little corner at the end. Dim orange lights and antique table lamps, coffee and tobacco infusing the warm air, every corner, every shelf stacked with a lifetime’s ornaments and trinkets. The master and a solitary punter engaged in conversation. I perused the handwritten menu and ordered a beer. My confidence was shaky and so I sipped and steeled myself. A record player span sixties jazz until it came to a crackling, gentle halt and the master swiftly swept off to flip sides. I eventually slid into the conversation and, glass by glass, my confidence mysteriously grew. A familiar spiel, the ‘jikoshoukai’, or personal introduction, a well-rehearsed bit of patter. It went splendidly and so I felt very big and very clever.

Ego bolstered and confidence soaring, I eventually left in search of something new.

21:32. Highballs and high spirits.

98 minutes left to go and I sit with three men each in their early-thirties.
Kou likes 90s UK R&B. He is handsome, sporting a pristine white hoodie and a jauntily angled baseball cap. He has a manic energy I find electrifying. He leaps from person to person, topic to topic, exuding youth and confidence.
Aki sells cars. He is quieter, gentler. I tell him of my plans to move to Sapporo in the future and he promises me a good deal on a hatchback large enough for a drum kit but small enough for the narrow city backstreets.
Riki is large and muscular. He sits on the furthest stool and doesn’t say much but he has a remarkable warmth. When he smiles, he smiles entirely.

Ku-chan pours the drinks tonight. She is sweet, welcoming, and curious about me as not many Westerners find their way to this part of the city. She loves action movies, hip-hop, an tiny and adorable species of bird called the ‘snow fairy’, and Family Mart fried chicken at midnight. There’s an enchanting and rare magic to her eyes. I could stare into those eyes forever. All cool charm and charisma and devastating beauty. I fear I am letting myself in for a world of hurt as we talk, but I give myself over gladly because I am a fool, and who am I to question this heart that beats regardless?

The clock tocks on and conversation turns to partners, wives and pasts. Aki is married, Kou is single and steadfast in remaining so and Riki keeps his cards close to his broad chest. Ku-chan says she likes Western men. Macho men. Those men that are a fine mix of muscle and magnetism. I regret not doing more press-ups. I mourn my lack of magnetism. I nonchalantly suggest that maybe an anxious, stick-thin, six-foot frame and a short-trimmed beard might be masculine enough.

It would not.

Their Japanese is swift and casual and it’s hard to keep up. Riki wears a bandage on his nose. He is warm and funny and has the vague air of a boxer, but I worry he may be a hoodlum. I would prefer not to be pummelled into a fine paste tonight, so I ask casually if the bandage is from some violent incident. He laughs. “No! I snore at night. The strip helps open my airways!” and he inhales with a snort. It makes no sense to me but in keeping with politeness I smile and nod and say, “Ahh, I see!”

Time slips away as smoke curls in blue clouds beneath soft orange lights. Ice tinkles as tumblers are drained and filled again. J-pop bounces around the room—pristine melodies swirling through the tobacco-polluted air. We four punters float, carefree clouds briefly mingling in the ink black sky, before the wind carries us away into the night.

These places are a welcome distraction for a lost soul like me. In so many places just like this I have been welcomed into a new world and treated kindly, with tremendous generosity. Some small connection, a fleeting moment shared. I can open my heart and share my soul and these temporary friends will sit and listen. One reason I love it so much here is how deep conversation can go in a short space of time. These people I have known for barely an hour and yet we open our hearts, pour out our souls and listen and nod in quiet understanding. I hold deep gratitude for those I have met here and in other places much like this, gratitude for their warmth, their kindness and their sharp but tender humour.

It’s eleven o’clock, and the jig is almost up. Tomorrow’s tasks tug us apart as time ticks on. We thank each other for the night, gather our belongings. We bow and thank Ku-chan for her kindness and service. We bow and thank each other for the time we shared. We exchange social media details knowing we may never talk again and then we each walk home alone, routes split in every direction, grateful for 100 minutes of life, 100 minutes that briefly burned with hope.

Maybe one day that 100 minutes will stretch into a lifetime. Maybe one day there will be a Ku-chan that sits not opposite, but beside me.
The right time.
The right place.
The right person.
And these bars will lose their appeal.

Any time now…

23:13. The countdown begins.