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About Sapporo

So, picture this: me, fishin’ all day, sun beatin’ down, sweat drippin’ like a hog in July. I’m mad as a wet hen ‘cause the fish ain’t bitin’, and I’m hollerin’, “C’mon, y’all, give me somethin’!” Then—bam!—this gal sashays by, skirt shorter than a minnow’s tail. I’m like, “Well, slap my britches, is she one o’ them workin’ girls?” Ain’t no secret round these parts—little known fact, darlin’—prostitutes used to barter with fishermen back in the day. Fish for a quick fling! Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wilder than my hair on a humid day!

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But then, outta nowhere, it started to rain. Like, seriously? I was drenched in seconds. I sprinted to the nearest café on Shirogane Street. I ducked inside, soaked but laughing. I ordered a hot matcha latte, and the barista was super chill. We chatted about the Matsuri, and I was like, “I might just go after all!”

One dead, three missing as heavy rain batters Tohoku