22/8/2025 Ryo
There are many reasons I’m glad to have become an adult.
Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid becoming one of those people who endlessly pine for the “good old days.”
One of the things I appreciate most is that I can now drink alcohol.
And I don’t just mean that in the literal sense.
As a kid growing up in the countryside, alcohol wasn’t something you bought at a store yourself. It arrived at the back door of our house along with salt, soy sauce, and other essentials—delivered by the local liquor store in what you might call a “Sazae-san” style.
Back in the days of “Tokkyuu” grade whisky, imported spirits were far beyond reach—not that I knew it then; I’ve only come to understand that as an adult.
Fast forward to today, and the act of drinking itself has become incredibly easy.
Convenience stores are open 24/7, and they carry a surprisingly decent selection of wine and whisky.
In that sense, the barrier to alcohol has never been lower.
But there’s a place that has always supported Japan’s drinkers—an institution that goes beyond convenience. That place is the “Nomiya-gai,” the bar districts—the underbelly of the city, some might say.
So when I say I’m glad I can “drink now,” I don’t mean simply putting alcohol to my lips.
I mean I can enter those places. I’m allowed into the world of the Nomiya-gai—and that, to me, is what truly matters.
Because drinking alcohol is easy. But learning how to truly enjoy it—that’s something you can’t master on your own.
You learn it from watching the veterans, the seasoned drinkers, those who have sat on the same stools night after night.
And it’s in the Nomiya-gai that these people live, in all their complexity and quiet wisdom.
Here in Suginami Ward, Tokyo, I’m surrounded by these pockets of old-school charm.
Bars, izakayas, yakitori joints, bistros, yakiniku places, and of course, the ever-mysterious snack bars…
These clusters of establishments form something close to sacred ground.
To those who haven’t matured emotionally, they can even feel uncomfortable—unwelcoming, almost.
Let me make one thing clear: I do not condone alcohol-related harassment or pressure.
But it’s also true that I’ve learned more than I ever expected from these drinking spaces.
They’ve become, in a way, more comforting than home.
Because the Nomiya-gai is not just a place to quench your thirst or fill your belly.
It’s a place filled with ways of living—with pain, with joy, with loneliness, with pride and little lies we tell ourselves.
It’s where human connection exists right alongside isolation.
It’s where we learn, through shared pain, how to walk the road of life.
And so once again, I find myself stepping into this intersection of lives.
Once again, I seek to heal the wounds of my soul.
(Though I still haven’t quite figured out how to deal with the hangovers.)