Some lessons arrive when you least expect them. Mine came on a sweltering summer afternoon, courtesy of a stranger with a half-eaten takoyaki and an unsolicited opinion.
It was August in Tokyo—the kind of heat that leaves you feeling like a melting Michelangelo statue. I was standing under the shade of a subway station awning, fanning myself with an old museum brochure. The seconds ticked by as sweat glued my hair to the back of my neck. That’s when I noticed him.
The man, middle-aged, wearing a slightly rumpled suit and carrying a plastic bag containing exactly one can of Asahi soda, was sitting cross-legged on a stone bench. Between bites of takoyaki, he struck up a conversation like we were already friends.
“Hot day, huh?” he said, gesturing to the sun with his wooden skewer like Zeus pointing out thunderclouds. I nodded politely.
“You know what’s funny about days like this?” he continued, his voice airy but tinged with the philosophical weight of someone prone to overthinking. “Everyone’s rushing around, pushing through, and yet half of them are probably walking towards things they don’t even want.”
He said it so casually, so offhand, that I paused for a moment, unsure if this was profound wisdom or a particularly poetic case of heatstroke.
But over the course of 15 minutes, as random and fleeting as his musings were, this stranger dropped breadcrumbs that led me to one surprising realization: he wasn’t really talking about the heat. He was talking about connection.
Lesson 1: Stop Moving; Start Seeing
“People just don’t notice stuff,” he said through a mouthful of food. “They spend more time looking at their own reflections than at other people.”
Let’s pause for a moment here: isn’t that dating in a nutshell? Whether you’re navigating those jittery first conversations or years into a relationship, how often do you actually see people—faults, quirks, ketchup stains on their sleeves, and all?
Living in Tokyo teaches you how to function on autopilot. You scan your train pass. You avoid eye contact. You walk quickly but aimlessly, weaving through streets like water in a stream. But the thing about existing this way is that you might be missing the unmistakable magic of people-watching—not the creepy, nosy version, but a deeper type of noticing.
Take a walk without your headphones someday. Observe. Notice the way light filters through trees onto the sidewalk or how someone nervously fiddles with their phone. Picture them telling a funny story at a kitchen table or singing karaoke too loudly to a Bon Jovi song. It’s a different kind of intimacy—one that begins with simply being present.
I think the stranger saw me as one of those quick walkers, rushing towards things I might not even want. It dawned on me that maybe I had been dating that way, too: swiping through life, half-distracted, mistaking convenience for compatibility.
Lesson 2: Small Talk Isn’t Small
“Do you think takoyaki sauce is overrated?” he asked.
“Uh… what?” I replied, caught off guard mid-sip of my sweating bottle of tea.
“You know, takoyaki. The sauce they use is too sweet. People eat it because it feels polite, but half of us don’t like it.”
I laughed—a real, belly-shaking laugh that caught me by surprise. It wasn’t what he said; it was the fact that he said it. The courage to offer a little absurdity, to make a casual exchange more memorable than it needed to be, is an underrated skill.
In dating, we often dismiss small talk as unimportant, a placeholder until we arrive at the real conversations. We want fireworks, love-at-first-sight, and immediate depth, but ask yourself: when was the last time you bonded over an extraordinary thesis on the meaning of life?
Turns out, it’s the mundane—what you think about takoyaki sauce or whether socks should match your personality—that fosters connection. It’s the rhythm of give and take. How they laugh at your joke. Whether they challenge your opinion or let you ramble about your third-grade pet goldfish without interrupting.
Next time you’re tempted to skip past the surface, remember: small talk is the stuff of foundations. Build with care.
Lesson 3: Let People Surprise You
As the man wiped his fingers with a pocket handkerchief, I realized I had misjudged him. At first glance, he seemed ordinary, and the cynic in me had been tempted to wave him off before he became "that guy who chats to everyone at bus stops." But he turned out to be oddly profound, with layers that unraveled like an origami crane.
And isn't that the case with most people we meet?
In relationships, we’re quick to assume we already know someone—labeling them in neat mental folders: “too serious,” “too flaky,” “too [insert personal bias here].” But connection thrives in the unknown. Everyone carries stories, complexities, and moods tucked away like badges in a coat pocket. The joy of getting to know someone is allowing yourself to be surprised by what you find.
Next time you're tempted to assume the narrative of someone sitting across from you at a table—or at a bench in the middle of Tokyo—imagine that person as an unopened book. Who knows what plot twist hides in their margins?
A Farewell and a Lesson Between Flavors
Before he shuffled off to catch his train, the man gave me an unprompted farewell gift—not in words, but in the form of the lingering scent of takoyaki and an unexpected sense of clarity.
As he left, I reached for my phone, almost out of habit, to scroll through messages that could wait. But instead, I put it away. That day, I let myself just... be there.
Later, on my way home, I noticed a young woman adjusting her headphones on the subway. Her nails were painted a glowing chartreuse, the exact shade of umeboshi plums my mother used in summer onigiri lunches. I smiled, because for the first time in too long, I’d been paying attention.
The Takeaway
A random stranger and his string of casual comments gave me something most romantic advice columns wouldn’t: the reminder that connection begins in the smallest details. It’s in noticing someone’s mismatched socks, laughing together at a dumb joke, and accepting that even takoyaki sauce lovers have something to offer.
So, next time you encounter a stranger or sit across from someone you're trying to get to know, slow down. Put your metaphorical (or literal) phone away. Say something silly. See them fully. You never know which moment will lead to a story you'll carry with you forever.
In the end, isn’t that what dating—and life—is really about?
