Sapporo

I slept well my first night in Sapporo. The day before, I’d made good use of the hotel’s coin laundry and spread out all my damp camping gear to dry. After shaving and showering, I felt reset—back to level zero.

The next morning, while editing reports, I heard the sounds of drumming and flutes drifting up from the street below. I stepped out later and caught up with the source: a lively, roving parade sweeping through the city.

My first mission of the day was to buy a jacket—those cold northern nights were creeping closer. From there, I visited two city icons: the Sapporo TV Tower and the Sapporo Clock Tower, arriving just as the latter struck 1 PM.

In Odori Park, I paused at Black Slide Mantra by Isamu Noguchi, a sculptural curve that invites touch and contemplation. Later, I wandered to the fish market and stopped at Ohiso for a donburi topped with fresh king crab—sweet, briny, and decadent.

I took a ride on the giant Ferris wheel perched atop a seven-story building. Inside, on the third floor, a J-pop band played to an enthusiastic crowd. Around town, women in colorful kimonos and men in traditional dress added a festive, timeless feeling to the city. The large black crows—ubiquitous and vocal—were impossible to ignore.

That evening, I met up with Justin, a fellow Brooklynite and the longtime organizer of Bike and Brew, a weekly Tuesday night ride in NYC. He was cycling from Cape Soya to Cape Sata, and then continuing on to Korea and beyond. We grabbed ramen together, then went for a short ride I jokingly dubbed Sapporo Bike and Brew.

We later joined his friend David, originally from the UK and now an eight-year Sapporo resident. He teaches English here, though I was surprised his Japanese wasn't more fluent. We sat outdoors, enjoying beers and swapping stories. It felt good to speak English and compare notes with fellow travelers.

On Sunday morning, after a light breakfast, I explored a few remaining corners of the city before hopping a train to Es Con Field Hokkaido, an hour away. The Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters were facing off against the Hiroshima Toyo Carp. The Fighters’ fox mascot was everywhere—fans wore fox ears, cheerleaders sported fox tails. The stadium buzzed with energy.

The game was standing-room only. I was amazed at how many Hiroshima fans had made the journey—an entire section waved massive banners and played brass instruments. Their spirit was infectious.

Beer vendors—mostly young women, a few men—climbed tirelessly up and down the steps with small kegs strapped to their backs, pouring fresh draft with practiced ease. The food was next-level. I doubt I’ll ever have salmon roe at a baseball game again.

With two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the Fighters trailing by two, I reluctantly left to catch my train back to Sapporo. At the station jumbotron, surrounded by an ecstatic crowd, I caught their miraculous comeback: a tie, then an 8–7 win in the 10th inning. What a game.

Back in Odori Park, I ran into Gage, a cyclist from Colorado who’d just ridden up from Fukuoka. For dinner, I headed to Ramen Alley and waited thirty minutes for a seat at Teshikaga. The roast pork miso ramen, paired with a cold Sapporo Classic, was worth every second.

Tomorrow, I continue north.