I stand at the far end of an underground tunnel, waiting for a train that will take me from Oakland to San Francisco.

It’s just me and one other dude. He sits on the concrete bench by the wall, looking at his phone. I sit down too, room between us. My shoulders slump. I relax. Smile. I’m on a journey, and the anticipation of heading somewhere — anywhere — always brings me joy.

While living in Japan, I’d navigate the endless waves that flow through the subway stations of Osaka and Tokyo like schools of fish — orderly, sardined, reticent. Standing on the tracks, I’d gaze into the distance, watching the sprawling neon lights go blink. Blink. Blink. Pristine taxicabs lined the roads. People, ceaseless currents of people, peppered the sidewalks like ants upon a tree.

The platform in Oakland is vacant, save for the few traveling souls heading from the town to the city. Outside, the streets are calm. Still, despite the contrast, I’m reminded of my life in Japan.

In about an hour, I can bike to my local station and take the train to one of the most incredible cities in the world. This parallels my life in Tokyo, as I lived in the outskirts, Nakano, and would train into the city center.

I think about Osaka, where I spent my first year and a half as an English teacher. Ah, Osaka. The word itself sparks something in me. The way it’s spelled. Its cadence — an ocean of memories in those five lolling letters.

Oakland and Osaka share some qualities. Rough around the edges. Colorful, gritty, characterized by the people that call it home. That’s what I remember. What I loved. That’s what makes me happy here.

It’s the Fourth of July, and I’m meeting friends in North Beach, a vibrant and historic district of San Francisco known for its Italian-American roots. Despite the simplicity of the route, I still question whether I’m on the right track. I’m new here, still getting my bearings around the Bay Area.

The train arrives, and indeed, after getting on, I realize that I have gone in the wrong direction. So I alight at the next station, switch tracks, and begin my true and merry excursion to the city.

I’m unencumbered, save for the things I carry in my bag: keys, a small book, a wallet, headphones. This allows me to enjoy the journey without having to focus.

I don’t need to drive, sit in traffic, park, and worry about getting home. This is what I loved about Japan, what I’m grateful for here. I have my two feet to get me from A to B. As it is with the airport and flying in a plane, I can let my attention drift between curious and detached without feeling the need to accomplish anything at all.

Before dipping below the surface of the bay, I stare out the window of the train. I appreciate that this is now my life.

As we descend beneath the ocean’s crest like a fox burrowing into the earth, I thumb through a few pages of my book. Then, I close the book as well as my eyes. The outside world is enveloped in darkness. I listen to some tunes, scroll on my phone, and cruise.

When we arrive in the city, I climb out of the station and am greeted by a brilliant blue sky. A wind gusts through and brushes my face, sending my hair into a frenzy. I begin walking, marveling at the austere beauty of the architecture. The buildings play with the sun and cast crisp shadows along the roads.

That’s when it hits me.

I’m in a city again. A city is potential. That’s what I’ve always craved, the possibility of what’s out there, not knowing, but going, participating in the energy, contributing to the buzz.

I left one of the greatest cities in the world, Tokyo, but find myself in a place that fills my cup. My curiosity is stoked and my relationship with the unfamiliar feels genuine. But there’s also something familiar, nostalgic even; it feels good here. I came to this city as a kid and a teenager, and over the years as a college grad visiting friends.

The city’s been good to me. It feels like returning home in a way, building something new in this place I’ve always loved.

Red lanterns sway in the passing alleyways of Chinatown. After a fair share of traversing the hilly concrete terrain, I make it to my friend’s apartment overlooking the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge unfurling in the distance.

My friends and I hoist a few rounds of Guinness at a local bar, where an eclectic crew of long-time bandmates strum folksy tunes. The Fourth of July hot dog eating contest plays on the TV.

North Beach in the evening is bustling and bright. Big crispy pizzas occupy the outdoor tables of the classic haunts, each with a line snaking down the block.

After shooting pool at another bar, we grab some pizza from an unassuming spot off the main drag. No line and no frills. Just a couple thick slices of pepperoni jalapeño pie, New York style, accompanied by a cold can of Coca-Cola. Heaven.

I plan to make it back to Oakland at a reasonable hour, so after the pizza I amble on back to the Montgomery BART station. The sun dips behind the towering buildings of the financial district. It’s cold, as the apparently misattributed Mark Twain quote goes, The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.

The dusky streets glow red and blue. I jog to escape the chill, turning the fifteen-minute walk into a five-minute jaunt.

The train passes San Francisco’s Embarcadero station, dives beneath the waves, and sails through West Oakland. Fireworks fill both the nigh and distant sky, causing a smile to blossom from my soul.

This is pretty damn cool, I think. Oakland.

Fireworks burst everywhere I look. That’s the magic of this place. I’ve been in Oakland for a little over a month, and it feels untamed, like it’s got this underdog vibe, or, as my Uber driver recently said on my way home from the airport, misunderstood.

Oaklanders don’t care if they’re understood. I like that, as I too just want to do me, live my life, make some things I love. It’s not my job to make you understand it. That’s the way Oakland feels.

I think about when I was back in LA for a bit after coming home from Japan, right before moving here. I was in a public jacuzzi with friends. There was an older woman, and we got into a conversation.

We were strangers, yet when I told her I’m moving to Oakland, she acted like she knew my story. She commented on how dangerous Oakland is, and how San Francisco has, in her words, turned into a shithole, making insinuations about why I’m moving and about who I am, like I’m just a privileged kid.

I didn’t know how to respond. She kept making judgments, not based on reality, but based on her own experience. It was all negative, and it affected me. I was angry. It made me question myself.

I didn’t rebut, just nodded my head. In her mind, she was just making conversation. Still, it took time to shake off her negativity. An arbitrary exchange stayed with me for weeks.

She is hurt, I later realized. Her heart’s been closed by life.

This stranger was projecting her wounds — in Hindu philosophy, samskaras — disguised as wisdom. When the world hurts us, we store that pain inside as a samskara, an impression that blocks life’s natural flow of energy. We all have them.

According to Michael Singer, author of The Surrender Experiment, spirituality means devoting one’s life to clearing those blockages, so no matter what happens, life may flow through us unobstructed.

I wanted to defend myself, explain my situation and how she was wrong, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. My anger eventually (a few days) turned into compassion. I thank her for hitting my samskaras, as she helped me grow.

She also helped me realize that people always have opinions. It was the same before I moved to Japan. But as Dewayne Noel, aka the Dry Creek Wrangler, says, Opinions are like belly buttons. Everybody’s got one, yet most are just full of lint.

As I biked back from the station to my house, I passed a family on my street corner shooting rogue fireworks into the sky. I smiled and hollered as I passed. Maybe this place is misunderstood. That makes me love it all the more.

I trusted my instincts over strangers, and just as it was with moving to Japan, I’m so damn glad I did.