Los Angeles always feels different in October. The sun still shines like summer, but the air turns soft, and the city starts to glow orange at night. Downtown hums with energy, but tucked inside all that noise is one of my favorite corners — Little Tokyo. It’s small, cozy, and somehow always smells like matcha and grilled mochi.
This year, I decided to spend Halloween there. No big parties. No crowded bars. Just a quiet weekend wandering through streets filled with paper lanterns and the sound of taiko drums. Little Tokyo has this perfect mix of Japanese nostalgia and California warmth — like home and adventure all at once.
I checked into a tiny boutique hotel near First Street, the kind where the front desk is also a coffee bar. The owner had placed tiny pumpkins on every table and hung paper bats from the ceiling. It was more cute than spooky — exactly my vibe.
After dropping my bag, I slipped into my black yukata and red obi belt. People always stare a little when I wear it in LA, but in Little Tokyo it just fits. The shopkeepers smiled, a few tourists took photos, and someone even shouted, “Happy Halloween, witch-chan!” I waved back.
I wandered through Japanese Village Plaza, where jack-o-lanterns hung beside red torii-gate arches. Kids in anime costumes lined up for takoyaki, and the smell of fresh taiyaki filled the air. At a small stall, I bought a cup of hot yuzu tea and stood watching the lights reflect off the glass windows. For a moment, it almost felt like Kyoto — only with palm trees.
When the sun started to set, I walked to the rooftop onsen-style spa a friend had told me about. It’s not exactly Japan, but close enough — cedar tubs, bamboo screens, and soft music playing somewhere behind the steam. I slid into the hot water, feeling the warmth rise against the cool LA night. The city glowed below, a thousand lights twinkling like fireflies.
That’s when Halloween started to feel magical. I could hear faint laughter from the street below — maybe a costume parade, maybe a karaoke bar getting loud. Up here, it was quiet. Just me, the water, and the moon hanging over skyscrapers.
I thought about how people see Halloween differently here. In Tokyo, it’s playful cosplay chaos. In LA, it’s neon, noise, and late-night parties. But in Little Tokyo, it’s something in between — a soft, glowing celebration that mixes two worlds.
Later, I walked barefoot back to my room, hair still damp, wearing my yukata loosely over my shoulders. I stopped by a konbini for onigiri and a bottle of cold ramune. The cashier smiled and said, “Cute costume.” I laughed and said, “It’s not a costume — it’s comfort.”
I ate dinner by the window, watching people drift by in masks and light-up horns. A girl in a vampire kimono, a guy dressed as Totoro. Everyone was a little bit someone else tonight.
That’s the part I love — Halloween lets you transform without losing yourself. Maybe that’s why I feel at home in Little Tokyo. It’s a place where cultures mix, languages blend, and nobody asks too many questions. You can be a California girl in a yukata or a Japanese soul in the middle of LA traffic. It all makes sense somehow.
When I finally went to bed, I left the window open. The sound of the city drifted in — laughter, music, a distant car horn. It wasn’t quiet like the mountains, but it was warm and alive. I fell asleep thinking about steam, lanterns, and the glow of pumpkin lights against concrete.
Halloween doesn’t always need castles or ghosts. Sometimes it just needs a little imagination and a neighborhood that feels like another world.
Until next time,
– Kate Onsen
