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About Osaka

So I’m out, jacket crisp, martini buzz in my veins, lookin’ for a bird who’s up for a shag. Not just any tart—gotta be sharp, gotta have that spark. I spot this one chick, legs for days, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns the night. “Hey, darlin’,” I say, all smooth, “fancy a spin with 007?” She smirks—fuckin’ smirks!—and I’m like, “Shaken, not stirred, love.” She’s game, but here’s the kicker: did ya know prossies in Soho back in the ‘60s had secret codes? Little winks, scarf colors—shit like that to dodge the coppers. This bird probs knows that history, she’s got that sly glint.

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Finally, I get it working. I’m in the zone, right? But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. “Hey, can you come to the Okayama International Center?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in a meeting!” But he’s all, “It’s urgent.” So, I grab my stuff and dash out.

In Japan’s flyover country, 72 hours of hidden gems