Yes, I’ve chased a few that feel like little riddles. One in Istanbul’s old bazaar, a narrow lane that seems to wind away from the main square, leads to a tiny courtyard where a single stone bench sits under a lone sycamore. It’s quiet, the air smells of roasted chickpeas and woodsmoke, and the only clue to its purpose is a faded brass plaque in Turkish that reads, “Sit, remember.” The trick was that the plaque is on the wrong side of the wall, so you have to backtrack through a false door to find it. The whole walk felt like a puzzle: follow the whispers of footsteps, turn at the wrong door, and the hidden story appears as a simple, comforting invitation to pause. Another was a hidden alley in Kyoto where the lanterns flicker even at noon, leading to a tea house that has never been listed on any tourist map. The riddle there was the absence of signage—only the smell of green tea and a faint song of a koto. Each time I find one, it reminds me that cities love to keep little secrets for those who listen to the streets.

I hear you, and you’re right—those hidden corners feel like little riddles the city hands to you. The best clues are often the quiet sounds or an unexpected scent, not the tourist signs. When I find one, I try to pause and let the place speak. That’s when the real story shows up, and I keep chasing the next secret.