After an afternoon spent wandering the cobblestone alleys of Gion and Higashiyama, among ancient wooden machiya and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, hunger finally won out.
We decided to put Ivaxa in charge of finding a place that offered top-notch quality without breaking the bank—if we had let Nijiro pick, we would have blown a fortune, as usual.
Phone in hand, Ivaxa was tapping away on Google Maps, cross-checking spots and their reviews.
"I've found this ramen shop," he said, calm but firm. "It's called Kyoto Ramen House: 4.9 stars on Tripadvisor. Reviews rave about the high-quality food, huge portions, and reasonable prices. Only catch—it's all the way across Kyoto, in the west side."
"Now that you mention it, we haven't had ramen once this week," Nijiro said, firing up the Skyline R32 with a roar that echoed down the quiet alley. "What do you guys think?"
"Everyone good with that?" Mrekk asked, popping open the door of his Corolla.
"Yeah," we all said in unison, and we headed off toward the ramen shop.
The drive took twenty minutes, carrying us from the stillness of Gion into an urban landscape that felt like another world entirely.
Western Kyoto unfolded in front of us as though we had switched cities: there were still low-rise houses, but modernized, with the occasional building a little taller than the rest.
It didn't resemble anything we had seen so far—not the skyscrapers of Shibuya, and not the traditional eastern side of the city either.
This was the part where I felt most at ease: it wasn't exactly like my little hometown, but at least I didn't feel overwhelmed by towering skyscrapers or Buddhist and Shinto temples.
I stepped out of the car, the multi-story parking garage smelling of concrete and gasoline, and looked around, stunned.
"Wow... are we still in Kyoto?" I said, eyes wide.
"To be fair, there are modern areas in the east too, not just machiya... but we've stuck to the most traditional alleys today, so it feels like you're in a completely different city," Nijiro said, locking the Skyline with the key—his early-2000s car didn't even have a remote.
We headed toward the ramen shop, walking down from the parking garage and strolling along streets that were starting to come alive as evening approached.
The shopping center that housed the place was a blaze of lights and sounds: windows full of limited-edition sneakers, anime gadget stalls with Pikachu plushies, and bubbly Japanese pop jingles blasting from the speakers.
The Kyoto Ramen House sign glowed red and white, a welcoming beacon amid the chaos.
Inside, the vibe was a perfect blend of tradition and modernity: wooden tables scattered around the room, stools lined up along a counter overlooking the open kitchen, where pots bubbled away and chefs in bandanas barked orders in Japanese.
The scent of hot broth and soy sauce wrapped around me like a warm blanket, making my stomach rumble even after that Michelin-starred lunch just hours earlier.
We settled at the counter, the laminated menus a little sticky under my fingers, and I glanced up, feeling slightly out of place.
"Guys, I've never had ramen," I admitted, a mix of embarrassment and excitement in my voice. "What do you recommend?"
"Seriously!?" BTMC exclaimed, his Totoro propped awkwardly beside him, taking up the space of a sixth customer. "Never had ramen? Christian, you're in Japan—this is a crime!"
"Kyoto ramen has its own style," Nijiro explained. "The Kyoto Shoyu Ramen is perfect for a first timer: chicken and fish broth, flavored with soy sauce."
"I'll go with the sensei's recommendation," I said with a laugh as we placed our orders.
I snapped the wooden chopsticks apart with a satisfying crack, the sound making me feel ready for something new.
When my ramen arrived, the hot steam hit my face, releasing an intense aroma: slightly sweet soy sauce, hints of chicken broth, and a marine aftertaste from the katsuobushi.
"I should've started eating ramen way sooner," I thought, closing my eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth slide down and heat me from the inside.
"Guys, I've got a proposal," Nijiro said, setting down his chopsticks with an intriguing smile. His eyes sparkled under the restaurant lights, lit up with the excitement of someone who had a plan.
"What's that?" Mrekk asked, slurping his noodles with a curious look, the spicy broth bringing a slight flush to his cheeks.
"You guys fly out Wednesday night, right? Around midnight?" Nijiro went on, tapping his fingers on the counter.
"No—me and Mrekk at two, Christian at one, BTMC at midnight," Ivaxa corrected.
"Either way, you're all around the same time," Nijiro said with a casual shrug. "How about we stay in Kyoto tomorrow too? We've got nothing planned anyway, and there's still so much to see."
I thought about it for a second, sipping the broth as the flavor enveloped me.
Another day in Kyoto meant more temples, more alleys, more adventures with this group that was starting to feel like a real team.
"Not a bad idea," I said, already picturing new incredible spots Nijiro would pick out.
"I'm in," Mrekk added, nodding with a grin.
"Me too, but where would we sleep?" Ivaxa asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Eh, we'll find a room," Nijiro replied, with the confidence of someone who knew Japan inside out. "Kyoto's full of ryokan and guesthouses, no worries."
"I'm good with it, but on one condition," BTMC cut in, raising a finger solemnly. "No waking up before ten. We've got the whole day—no rush."
"Before ten!?" I exclaimed, nearly choking on a noodle. "We'll waste half the day!"
"Better than nothing, right?" Nijiro shot back, laughing, his smile infectious despite my protest. "Besides, BTMC's got a point—we could all use some rest after this intense week."
"Then it's settled," Mrekk concluded, slapping the counter with his hand. "Tomorrow: Kyoto round two!"
We spent the early part of the evening wandering the shopping center, a never-ending three-floor maze.
The vibe was buzzing, with the chatter of customers and J-pop blasting from the speakers.
By the end of our lap around the place, Nijiro and I hadn't bought a thing, Ivaxa just picked up a hoodie, while Mrekk and BTMC grabbed everything in sight, each ending up with more than three bags stuffed full.
Once we stepped outside, the cool night air hit us, sweeping away the shopping center's stuffy warmth and replacing it with the distant scent of street food drifting through the streets.
Mrekk stopped dead in his tracks, his grin spreading wide like he had just had a lightbulb moment. "Guys, karaoke? I haven't been in ages, and in Japan it's an absolute must."
"Karaoke isn't that big in Italy," I admitted, feeling a little embarrassed about all these firsts I was racking up on the trip. "I've never done it—what's it like?"
"Karaoke in Japan is on another level," Nijiro explained, lighting up like he was talking about some sacred ritual. "It's not like in bars where you perform in front of strangers: here you rent a private, soundproof room. You can sing, drink, chat, even study—pretty much whatever you feel like."
"So I don't actually have to sing?" I asked, relieved at the thought of dodging total humiliation with an off-key disaster.
"Well, no," Nijiro said. "But trust me, you'll want to—or we'll make sure you do."
We found a karaoke spot just a few blocks away, a building with a neon sign flashing red and blue, kanji I couldn't read but that screamed good times.
We booked a room for two hours, and when we walked in there was a huge screen for picking songs, two mics on a central table, and a U-shaped black leather sofa running along three walls, turning the space into a cozy nook lit by soft purple and blue lights.
The air smelled clean, with a faint whiff of disinfectant and fresh plastic, and the dead silence of the soundproof room felt almost unreal after the madness of the shopping center.
"Should we get anything?" BTMC asked, scrolling through the digital menu on the karaoke tablet, his Totoro plopped on the sofa like the guest of honor.
"You're still hungry after that tonkotsu?" I said, totally incredulous, thinking about his endless stomach.
"Nah, it's mostly drinks here," he explained. "I'll take a draft beer. You guys?"
Mrekk got a beer too; Ivaxa and I were underage, and Nijiro had to drive plus he didn't drink anyway, so we all went for Coke.
"By the time we're done here, I'll be sober again anyway," Mrekk said, swearing he could handle his booze no problem.
Right after BTMC placed the order, Mrekk snatched the tablet with a huge grin. "First song's mine: I Gotta Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas."
The track kicked in. Mrekk sang with a clear, spot-on voice, nailing the lyrics on screen with a confidence that caught me off guard.
He wrapped it up with an A and 93.7%, the screen exploding in colorful effects like he had just won a tournament.
"Didn't know you had pipes like that," I said, genuinely impressed.
"I've heard this one so many times I know it backwards," he replied with a smirk. "Your turn," he added, shoving the mic at me like it was a dare.
"Me? I'm completely tone-deaf!" I protested, pushing it back.
"Come on, pick something easy," Nijiro said, lounging back on the sofa with an encouraging smile. "What kind of music do you like?"
"I don't really have a favorite genre, but I think I'd do better with American rap," I said.
"Rap's fire!" BTMC yelled, jumping up all hyped. "Who you into?"
"My top guys are Drake, Travis Scott, and 21 Savage," I said, starting to feel a little more confident.
"Bangers! Which track you going with?" BTMC asked, clapping excitedly.
"Jimmy Cooks by Drake and 21 Savage—my all-time favorite rap song," I said, scrolling through the list on the screen.
The beat dropped, my head started nodding on instinct, and even though I knew every single word, my voice was a total mess: off-key, off-beat.
The screen didn't hold back: C, 75.4%.
"Only that!?" I burst out when I saw the score, laughing at myself as my face went red.
"You're definitely stronger on Osu!," Ivaxa said.
"Not bad for your first time," Nijiro told me, giving me a solid pat on the shoulder to cheer me up. "You'll get better with practice, you'll see."
We kept going with more songs, taking turns.
Between the laughs and the off notes, Mrekk finally set the mic down and said, "Guys, we've known each other a whole week and we barely know anything real about one another."
"True," I admitted, suddenly realizing I had only ever used their nicknames. "Except Nijiro, I don't even know your actual names!"
"I'll go first then," Mrekk said, standing up like he was on stage. "I'm Brandon Phung, twenty years old, birthday's July 13—coming up real soon. From Sydney, play for team Bungalow."
"You want early wishes or just a text?" BTMC cut in, the beer clearly loosening him up.
"Do whatever, I'm not superstitious like Nijiro," Mrekk shot back, laughing. "Just don't forget."
"Happy birthday!" we all yelled, clinking glasses.
"Didn't have to be right now, but thanks," Mrekk said, turning a little red. Then he spotted Ivaxa typing like mad on his phone. "What you doing?"
"Taking notes," Ivaxa answered, dead serious like he was mapping out a game plan. "Every detail could come in handy."
"Whatever, go for it," Mrekk said with a shrug. "I forget anything?"
"Girlfriend?" Ivaxa asked, already adding it to his table on Mrekk.
"Yeah, we've been together since April seventh of last year, her name's Hannah Lee. Do you need anything else?" he then added. "Now it's your turn."
Ivaxa stood up. "Ivan Wajda, seventeen, born November 23 in Lublin, Poland. Play for 1337, single my whole life." He sat right back down, no extras, and went straight back to his notes.
"I'm Christian Iori," I said, getting up, heart beating a little faster. "Born July 6 in Trento, up in northern Italy. Before Osu!, I was semi-pro Valorant with Frois, an amateur team I started with my friends. Obviously single."
I sat back down, feeling exposed but glad I had shared.
"Edward Ling," BTMC said, swaying after three beers, his American accent slurring into a drunken drawl. "Twenty-two years old, born June 26 in Houston, renting in New Orleans. The Roundtable's my team—I founded it. Single too." He rattled it off so fast it felt like a speedrun, and we all cracked up.
"I'm Nijiro Murakami," he finished, standing up calmly. "Twenty-four, born March 17. I live in Meguro, a neighborhood in Tokyo, in a small apartment with my girlfriend, Saori Araki. I play for the esports team UNLIMIT under the nickname Senju, and I'm the IGL on our Apex Legends squad."
"Anything more on Saori?" Ivaxa asked, phone at the ready.
"She's twenty-five; she used to be an idol in the band Tokyo Girls Bravo, now she models and does influencer stuff while working an office job at a design company," Nijiro answered.
"Wow," I said. "You guys are both seriously busy. Multiple gigs each."
"Yeah," Nijiro said, thinking about her. "Maybe that's exactly what I love about her—we're both all in on what we do."
"Now we're actually friends," Mrekk said, standing up with a grin. "Before this we were just a bunch of half-strangers hanging out."
"Though I think I'll keep calling you by your usual names," I said, smiling.
"Me too. Calling BTMC 'Edward'? Way too weird!" Mrekk added, laughing.
"Hey, don't act like Brandon's any better!" BTMC shot back, beer mug in hand.
The night rolled on with Mrekk easing up on the drinks, while Ivaxa, nursing his Coke, spent a chunk of time hunting for a hotel.
BTMC, on the other hand, was totally wasted, stumbling around and belting out songs at the top of his lungs, his Totoro looking like it was judging us.
We kept the karaoke going until our two hours were up, full of laughs and off-key notes.
"I found a hotel on Tripadvisor," Ivaxa said, after spending the whole time parked on the sofa searching. "It's in the east side, near Gion. Cheap, 4.5 stars in the reviews, but no meals included."
"As long as there's a place to crash," I said, tired but happy. "One spot's as good as another."
"Guys, someone help me haul the drunk?" Nijiro asked, propping up BTMC, who was humming a Post Malone tune.
I helped drag him to the Corolla, loading him into the back seat like oversized luggage, along with Totoro and the bags Ivaxa carried.
The fifteen-minute drive took us back to eastern Kyoto, close to Gion's alleys.
This time, looking out the window, I realized Nijiro was right: it wasn't just temples and machiya—there were apartments and single-family homes too, stuff I had missed that morning because we had stuck to the most traditional neighborhoods.
Luckily we didn't get pulled over: like we all knew, Mrekk was drunk, even if he kept denying it.
The hotel was a traditional little house, a ryokan with wooden walls, overlooking the cobblestone street we had walked to get there.
We hadn't booked ahead, but Ivaxa was confident. "It's not super popular—we'll get in," he said as we stepped inside.
An old lady was dozing in a chair behind the counter, her soft breathing blending into the quiet night.
"Ano... sumimasen," Nijiro said, trying to wake her gently.
No response.
"Guess that didn't work," I said, spotting a bell on the counter. I pressed it.
Ding!
She snapped her eyes open, apologizing in Japanese and bowing over and over.
Nijiro talked to her, then turned to us. "She's only got one room left—meant for two. We'll all have to squeeze in."
"Figures," Ivaxa sighed. "Ryokan here are tiny."
"And to think I could've been crashing in a luxury hotel in Tokyo," Mrekk muttered, half-regretful, half-amused.
"Look on the bright side: you're in Kyoto," Nijiro said with a shrug. "Plus, this is a one-of-a-kind experience."
The room was tiny, the tatami creaking underfoot, a scent of cedar wood wrapping around me.
Two futons were already laid out, but she brought us three more, still apologizing.
"Arigatou gozaimasu," we whispered, careful not to wake other guests—the rice-paper walls were so thin every creak carried.
Nijiro, the only futon pro, gave us a quick tutorial: "Lay the mattress like this, then the sheet, and fold the comforter here."
Ivaxa, with his math brain, figured out the perfect Tetris setup to fit us all, treating Totoro like the sixth roommate.
"Lights out, goodnight," Nijiro said, pulling a cord that plunged the room into darkness, broken only by the faint glow of a lantern outside.
"Goodnight," we murmured back, keeping our voices low.
Lying on the futon, the tatami cool beneath me, I thought about how far I was from home—from the humming PC and the usual arguments with my dad.
Sleeping in a ryokan was something I had never imagined doing.
Kyoto had completely won me over, and with a whole new day ahead, my heart was racing, ready to dive into whatever came next.