Not all colors in Osaka are pastel. The leaves and grass are a deep, rich green, and tonight the still almost full moon was a deep burnt orange as it hung low over the monorail station.

But the light feels muted and delicate. This morning when I walked to the station, soft smears of lacy white clouds built up in layers on the pale blue sky, and the whole city glowed in blurred pastels.

California is sharp, arid blues, bright whites, steely granites, and sunny yellows. Pictures I’ve seen of India have the brightest oranges, reds, emeralds, and ceruleans that must exist on the face of the planet.

But Osaka feels soft pink, baby blue, pale lime, creamy yellow. It is hot and humid and the sky is full of giant, velvety butterflies, green-black dragonflies, and soft brown bats, all dancing to the songs of the frogs and the giant cicadas.