Tale of Two Port Cities: Contrasting Urban Exploration in Massawa and Osaka

Massawa feels like a city caught between centuries. Walking through the narrow streets of the old town, Ottoman and Egyptian architectural influences create an atmosphere that's both haunting and mesmerizing. Buildings with ornate wooden balconies stand alongside Italian colonial structures, many still bearing the scars of Eritrea's long struggle for independence.

Unlike the carefully preserved historic districts you might find in Europe, Massawa's old quarter feels authentically worn. Families live in centuries-old buildings, laundry fluttering from windows that once might have framed the faces of Ottoman merchants.

One morning, I joined a local fisherman named Haile who offered to show me how they make traditional injera bread using a portable clay stove. We sat in the shadow of a crumbling Portuguese-era building as he expertly poured the fermented batter onto the hot surface. 'My family has fished these waters for seven generations,' he told me, 'but we've always been bakers too.'

That evening, I ventured into the local market armed with my pocket translator which proved invaluable for deciphering the names of unfamiliar spices. The device quickly became a conversation starter, with curious vendors asking to try it themselves.

If you're like me and believe food is the most direct route to understanding a culture, Massawa won't disappoint. The city's cuisine reflects its position at the crossroads of African, Middle Eastern, and Mediterranean influences.

I'd arranged to meet with a local family who agreed to teach me how to prepare zigni, a rich Eritrean stew. Stepping into their modest kitchen with my spice grinder as a gift (always bring something useful when invited into homes), I was immediately enveloped in the warm aroma of berbere spice being toasted.

Mama Senait, the family matriarch, laughed at my clumsy attempts to tear pieces of injera with one hand as is customary. 'You eat like a Canadian,' she teased, 'but you'll leave cooking like an Eritrean.'

What struck me was how similar the communal eating style was to Brazilian feijoada gatherings—food as the centerpiece of family connection. By the end of our cooking session, I'd not only learned to make a respectable zigni, but I'd also been invited to a wedding the following day (which turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of my trip).

Arriving in Osaka after Massawa creates the sort of culture shock that makes travel so addictive. The sensory contrast couldn't be more dramatic—from Massawa's quiet, sun-baked streets to Osaka's neon-drenched, 24-hour urban energy.

While Massawa whispers its history, Osaka broadcasts its present at maximum volume. Yet both are fundamentally shaped by their relationship with the sea. Osaka Bay's massive port facilities have been the city's economic engine for centuries, though most visitors never venture to see them.

I spent my first evening in Dotonbori, where the famous Glico Running Man sign has been welcoming visitors since 1935. Armed with my travel umbrella (spring showers are common), I joined the crowds sampling street food beneath the kaleidoscopic advertisements.

Unlike Massawa's preservation-by-neglect approach, Osaka deliberately maintains pockets of its past while enthusiastically embracing the future. In Shinsekai district, I found myself eating kushikatsu (fried skewers) in a shop unchanged since the 1950s, while just outside, robot-themed cafés and virtual reality arcades competed for attention.

While Osaka dazzles with modernity, its maritime soul remains if you know where to look. I spent a fascinating morning at the Osaka Maritime Museum, housed in a striking dome structure in the bay. The exhibits tracing Japan's evolution as a sea power provided context that made the rest of my explorations more meaningful.

Later, I joined a small boat tour of the working port—something few tourists do—which offered incredible perspectives on the scale of international shipping. Our guide pointed out how the artificial islands of Osaka Bay have transformed the coastline over centuries.

One evening, I attended a cooking class focused on Osaka's traditional kappo cuisine. The chef demonstrated how proximity to fresh seafood has shaped local cooking techniques. I was grateful I'd packed my chef's knife (always in checked luggage!) as we practiced knife skills essential to Japanese cuisine.

'In Osaka,' the chef explained while showing us how to properly fillet a mackerel, 'we say kuidaore—eat until you drop. Food is not just sustenance but our cultural identity.' I couldn't help but think how similar this sentiment was to Brazilian attitudes toward food, despite the vast differences in preparation and presentation.

The true joy of comparing these two port cities came in discovering unexpected parallels. Both Massawa and Osaka have been shaped by foreign influences while maintaining distinct identities. Both have faced destruction—Massawa through war, Osaka through WWII bombing—and rebuilt with different philosophies.

In both cities, I found myself relying on my water filter bottle which proved essential in Massawa's limited infrastructure and convenient during long days exploring Osaka's endless streets.

One evening in Osaka, I found myself in a tiny bar where the owner had traveled extensively in Africa. When I mentioned my recent time in Massawa, he pulled out a photo album showing his visit there decades earlier. We spent hours comparing notes on how both places had changed, the conversation flowing easily despite language barriers.

This kind of serendipitous connection is what urban exploration is truly about—finding the human threads that connect seemingly disparate places. Whether it's fishermen in Massawa or sushi chefs in Osaka, those who make their living from the sea share a certain understanding that transcends culture.