Otaru, a fishing port city in Hokkaido, is just half an hour northwest of Sapporo. Nestled between Tenguyama Mountain and Ishikari Bay, it is home to ski resorts with powder as soft as flour. Though I wouldn't know, because the leaves were still golden. It was something I heard from a local ski-loving couple as I sat in their café shop...

 

As the leaves slowly turn brown, wither, and fall, Otaru's canal is flooded with tourists wandering Sakaimachi Street, waiting patiently for snowfall. Before the days grow short and the winds turn bleak, many are seen rushing into Otaru's unending confectionery shops and captivating glass stores, stocking up on souvenirs for friends and family back home.

 

The canal is enclosed by rockface bricks and overgrown grass verges. Factories and warehouses made from red artisan bricks queued along the canal. The scent of buttery fresh pastry from local confectionery shops filled the air, and the soft tinkle of glass chimes can be heard ringing in the background. The cool autumn breeze carried a numbing cold but also the warm comforting scent of freshly baked bread. Enchanted by the sweet aroma of dairy, I followed the scent to a decrepit industrial warehouse lined with rusted crimson stairwells and topped with a corrugated steel roof. With moss slowly devouring the seemingly abandoned structure, I couldn't believe that just a few streets down was a refined and distinguished bakery. The desolate exterior showed glimpses of an old heritage. Symbols and remnants of Otaru's glass factories. Fishnets marked with glass-ball floats were laid across the floor, stained murky green from years of use. Elegant ellipse-shaped oil lamps were still proudly hung on the rough rugged walls, covered in dust and webs. Intrigued by the battered dull concrete but yet upkept and vibrant building, I detoured into the red brick factory.

 

Keeping my guard up, I carefully pried open the factory door but was blinded by the sudden burst of light. Wrestling to keep my eyes open, I peered into the factory and felt the gentle caress of the sun. A soothing warmth quickly entered my body and pulled me in. I found myself surrounded by beautiful glassworks, all handcrafted to perfection. The sunlight was penetrating through the window, reflecting on the delicate glass art, scattering hues of the rainbow throughout the store. Melodic glass chimes hung from the ceiling that echoed with their own unique resonance. Decorative artworks and ornaments each had their own unique texture and shape. Cups made with vibrant stained glass and textured with frosted, ribbed, or hammered patterns were arranged on countertops. In the corner of my eye, secluded in a dreary corner, I notice the humble glass-balls glimmering under dimly lit lights. 

 

Otaru, what a wonderful city. A city of colour, music, and history. A vibrant city celebrating its heritage.

 

As the sun sets behind the mountains and the sky turns orchid pink, boutiques and cafés start closing up. The street slowly darkens until only the streetlamps are left. The wind blows stronger, but the chimes remain quiet. As the city's vibrant colours hide under the veil of the night, Otaru transforms. Hardly recognizable, Otaru becomes quiet. Not a soul in sight, I head back home. Without the protection of the sun, cold sneaked in. I zip up my jacket, bury my hands, and lower my chin, protecting myself from the harsh winds.

 

hmm... hmm~

 

Humming? I raised my head and looked around. Nobody.

 

hmm... hmm~

 

Humming again. It was dark. The streets were faintly lit. But the humming continued. Something about the tune felt homely, like a grandmother's humming in the kitchen. It brought me to a rustic store painted bright red, green, and white. No windows, no menu, just a sign "open" and the name "Gia Terra Piatta". A shop so poorly lit that one would walk by without even noticing it was there. And yet, the flickering dim light resiliently shining upon the sign compelled me to enter.

 

"Irasshaimase!"

 

I pushed open the door, the chime rang, and the chef greeted me. The restaurant must have only had three tables. Popcorn walls painted navy blue were adorned with maps, old cookbooks, and a solitary classical guitar. 

 

The chef hurried out of the kitchen, menu in hand, brimming with a smile. He sat me down on a deflated cushion in the corner of the shop, retreating back into the kitchen.

 

Antipasti, primi, secondi. It was my first encounter with an Italian menu. With categories I've never seen before, I was confused. Noticing my difficulty ordering, he emerged from his kitchen once more, hands clasped, with a kind demeanour. Crouching down beside me, he pointed to the English texts on the menu, explaining as best he can. From what I gathered, Italian menus are categorized by course types, but he reassured me that I can simply order one dish rather than an entire course meal.

 

"This store, carbonara best". He smiled cheerfully, as if he's been waiting ages to cook it. "Only pasta, black pepper, guanciale..."

 

"Guanciale? The cured cheek of pork?" It was a term I've heard somewhere while watching television with my father.

 

"You know guanciale?!" His eyes widen, excitement boiling out. Beaming, he gave me a nod of acknowledgement.

 

From this exchange, I could feel the passion of pasta making from him. I didn't bother looking at the menu any further and trusted in his recommendation, the carbonara. Soon gentle scraping of metal pans and the soft bubbling of water sang throughout this modest establishment. I couldn't help but steal peeks into the kitchen, catching glimpses of his art. I was taken on a journey, from the melody of the sizzling guanciale to the delightful aroma of fresh cracked black pepper. Finally, I arrived at my destination, a humble plate of carbonara.

 

I ate a forkful. And another. And another. While I haven't had an authentic carbonara from Italy, something told me that this was genuine. Sitting in his shop decorated with his travels around Italy, I don't doubt that this plate of carbonara is legitimately Italian.

 

But why was a Japanese man working alone as an Italian chef? Puzzled, I asked about his story after returning a clean plate. Resembling someone who lived in isolation, finally able to make conversation, he was ecstatic to share. After being a cook in Italy for a few years, he came back home to open his own restaurant. Without much capital, he opted to paint and decorate the restaurant by himself, choosing to live on the second floor alone. No wife, no family. 

 

Nothing in his restaurant resembled the port city, not the colors, not the music. There weren't any sweets or glass, none of it mattered. His restaurant transports you to a tiny Italy, the three primary colors brushed across the walls, the tune of his guitar, and the soft hymn of his kitchen. It didn't bother him that he was a variant in Otaru, an anomaly in this fishing port city. Nor that his restaurant barely seated a dozen, that he never started a family, that he didn't own a house and lived alone above the shop, that he worked late into the night while Otaru slept, or that there were no windows to tell the time of day.  It was just him and his pasta shop, Gia Terra Piatta.

 

I thanked him for the meal and continued on my way. As I left, entering the freezing abyss once more, his faint humming continued.

 

hmm... hmm~

 

Only the next day, as I sat in the same café shop, did I learn that he was taken in by an Italian nonna, after escaping to Italy at the age of eighteen, to change his life as a garbage man.