Pub Dylan
By: Megan Minutillo
Tags: Japan, Love, Life Lessons, Self-awareness, Travel

Pub Dylan

Photo by Kei Nakada on Unsplash

It was our last night in Kanazawa, Japan.

Every time I write the word Kanazawa, I smile.

I smile whenever I think of our time there, too.

Kanazawa is a small city on the North shore of Japan. It’s home to beautiful gardens and the most delicious sushi you’ve ever had in your life. It’s a city that you can walk around — drinking in the beauty of the buildings and nature and the palpable joy of the people who live there.

It’s a tiny piece of heaven.

It was our last night in Kanazawa. We decided to venture into the Katamachi District — an area of the city packed with tiny bars and fancy restaurants and narrow alleyways connecting them all.

The bars were tiny, many of them having only a counter and enough stools to hold eight people at a time — and so, on a Friday night, they were packed.

We wandered around the alleyways, marveling at the number of places tucked into this small area of the city, delighting in the themes and names of the establishments we stumbled across. There were so many places to go, and it was hard to choose just one.

Finally, we settled on a spot called Pub Dylan.

Inside, the music was playing, and posters of famous musicians, music festivals, and mementos of concerts plastered the walls.

We nestled into the only empty stools and ordered the house sake from the gentleman with smiling eyes who stood behind the bar.

To our right, other customers were feasting away on tiny plates of food — chicken wings, strips of marinated beef, vegetables in every shade of green you could fathom. The man behind the counter, eyes smiling, brings us our sake. A woman emerged from behind the beaded curtain and joined him behind the bar.

They ask us where we’re from, and we tell them, New York.

They delight at this response, and it turns out that the two men already in the bar are from Brooklyn.

And so, the conversation begins.

Gentle patter back and forth about life in Kanazawa and life in the Big Apple. They tell us that they are the owners and that the bar is named Pub Dylan because Ikuo loves Bob Dylan. They ask us what music we love to listen to, and then give my husband control of the music — and he introduces them to Radiohead and The National. We even play a little Phil Collins.

The couple from Brooklyn leave before we do — and we wish them well on their travels.

The owners, Reiko and Ikuo, chat with us some more. Then they ask us how to spell our names, and write it down on a tiny business card, along with the Japanese translation — we tuck it into our wallet safekeeping, as it feels like a token of friendship that we will carry with us across the oceans as we head back home.

At one point, we look at the clock, and it is quite late.

We’re leaving tomorrow, but we don’t want to leave our new friends — and yet, we must. So we thank them for making our last night in Kanazawa one we’ll never forget; we take one last picture for their growing collection of international friends and head back to our hotel.

That was two years ago, and yet, it is a moment that will be burned in my memory for all time.

Too often, we stick within our bubble — with what is comfortable and with what we know. It’s easy to do that, especially when we travel.

It’s easy to look at the people you come across from afar, to people watch from your bistro table or your barstool, and imagine the stories of others instead of starting a conversation and actually finding out what they’re about.

It’s easier to observe rather than engage, but there is so much joy in the unexpected.

There are people to meet, places to visit, and new things to try.

There are ideas that you will never have heard of, and cultures you will not understand, and customs that will seem like a different language.

There are stories of humans that will stick to your heart in such a way that you’ll carry them with you long after you leave their presence.

I hope you lean in.