I landed in Fukuoka with a mission—no time to waste, no moments to squander. The clock was ticking, and this wasn’t some lazy weekend getaway. This was a full-throttle, caffeine-fueled, ramen-slurping, shutter-snapping blitz through one of my favorite cities in Japan.
I’ve been here many times before; off and on for nearly two decades. Most notably was with my late friend Dave Harvey—a man who taught me everything I know about photography. Back then, we walked these streets with cameras slung over our shoulders, hunting for light, for moments, for stories worth capturing. This trip was for him. Every frame, every step, every shot was a tribute.
Arrival: Hit the Ground Running
From Ulsan, it’s a breeze—an hour and a half by bus to Gimhae, a quick flight over the Korea Strait, and I’m in Fukuoka. The air is thick with that sharp, electric energy of Japan, and there’s no easing into it. I hit the ground running, quite literally.
Fukuoka has a rhythm—chill compared to Tokyo, different vibe than Busan, but still moving with that subtle urgency. Cutting through Gion Station, I kept reminding myself, “Stick to the left! Stick to the left!” I wasn’t about to clip someone with my tripod.
Travel Tip: Skip the taxi line at the airport. Grab the free shuttle to the domestic terminal, hop on the subway, and you’re downtown in minutes.
The Streets Never Sleep
First order of business? Walk and coffee. No taxis, no trains—just my own two feet hitting pavement, chasing the city’s pulse. Fukuoka isn’t a city to be observed; it’s meant to be felt under your feet. I clocked nearly 20 kilometers that first day, weaving from the neon chaos of Tenjin to the quiet alleyways of Hakata. Every street, every sign, every flickering lantern told a story, and I was there to document it.
I cut through the shopping meccas—Canal City, Yodobashi Camera, the labyrinthine halls of Don Quijote (a fever dream of consumerism open 24 hours). Not just for the shopping, but for the experience. The decisive moments. The clash of modernity and tradition.
Fueling the Machine: Coffee & Ramen
On this trip to Fukuoka, I ran on two things—caffeine and noodles. I was unstoppable.
First stop: Taiho Ramen. A temple to tonkotsu. The chashu ramen arrived like a work of art—rich, fatty broth, noodles with bite, a depth of flavor that hits you right in the soul. This is the kind of meal that demands respect. No distractions. Just me, the bowl, and the task at hand.
Refueled and recharged, I moved on. The city was shifting, light slipping into that magic hour, and my camera was hungry.
Chasing the Light
Evening. The angles change, the city breathes differently. My legs screamed, my joints ached but I wasn’t done. Nakasu Yatai Street—this is where Fukuoka really comes alive at night. A long row of food stalls, lanterns glowing, the air thick with grilled skewers, booze and the hum of conversation.
I wove through the crowds of curious tourists, remembering past trips. One, in particular, stood out—bringing my wife here early in our relationship. I made the rookie mistake of shifting from “romantic partner” to “obsessed photographer” mid-date. The red ramen shop signs still remind me of the red in her eyes that night.
I wandered Canal City waiting for blue hour to arrive. I’ve been coming here for since 2003, back when there was a Wendy’s inside. The only one close to Korea and it was the stuff of legends. I remember sitting there with Dave, thumbing through our print copies of Lonely Planet, planning our next move. Different time, same streets, same restless hunger for the perfect shot. The Wendy’s is gone but everything still feels the same. I stood watching the fountain show half expecting Dave to come around the corner and tell me to get my camera ready.
The Final Push into the Night
By 8 PM, my feet were shot. I made a pit stop at Family Mart, downed a Famichiki and an energy drink, then hit the streets again.
I dropped my heavy gear and grabbed just the essentials. Wandered through Yodobashi, running my hands over camera bodies I couldn’t justify buying. Yodobashi is Mecca for photographers—everything you could ever want, right there, begging to be touched. It’s intoxicating.
Then, Don Quijote. No trip to Japan is complete without buying something bizarre from this chaotic neon dungeon. Multiple floors of overstimulation—bright pink and yellow signs, a soundtrack of who-knows-what, and Korean tourists buying everything in sight.
Exhaustion Kicks In
Mission accomplished. I staggered back to my hotel, legs aching, mind buzzing. A quick stop at Lawson for a snack, and then I was out cold. Dreaming in neon.
Morning came fast. Rain swept in overnight, washing the city in that soft, reflective glow. I took the hint and let my legs recover.
The Final Push
I rolled out of bed feeling ancient, joints snapping like dry twigs. First order of business? Coffee. And a lucky frog statue.
I found both near Canal City. Then it was on to Tochoji Temple. Early morning, the city still waking up. I skipped the wooden Buddha—seen it before, stunning, but today was about the journey. Instead, I shot the shrine, the plum blossoms, gifts from the universe before the crowds took over.
Next coffee stop: MUEN COFFEE. I ordered a “red americano.” Not sure what made it red. Didn’t ask. Just sipped and appreciated the quiet.
Final destination: Shofukuji Zen Temple. As if scripted, a heron stood motionless in the pond by the main hall. I crept closer, got my shots, watched it take off.
I walked those temple grounds, slipping between eras. One moment, it was me and Dave, cameras in hand, mapping out our next move. The next, it was just me, older, missing my friend.
Headed Home with More Memories
The trip ended with a gyudon near Gion Station, my stomach full and my batteries drained. One last coffee, then it was time to go.
I left Fukuoka full, caffeinated, with dead legs, dead batteries, and a memory card packed to the brim. A 24-hour blitz that felt like a week. A love letter to a city that never lets me down. A tribute to an old friend who taught me how to see.
And just like that, I was back on the subway, back at the airport, back to Ulsan and back to my loving Wife. But Fukuoka stays with you. It lingers. In your bones, in your lens, in the spaces between the shots you took and the ones you missed.
I’ll be back. This city and I aren’t finished—not even close. Dave and I once stood at Kushida Shrine, staring at the massive Kazariyama float, promising we’d come back for the Yamakasa Festival. We never made it. Life got in the way. This year, I make good on that promise. One last frame, one last tribute—to Fukuoka, to the friend who will always be looking over my shoulder checking my shots.
To Dave. You were my mentor, my friend, my brother. A decade has passed since cancer took you from this world, but on these streets, I felt you walking beside me. By the way—I finally bought that photographer’s vest we used to laugh about in Yodobashi.