Coffee and the Shape of the Day

I have a guilty confession to make. I was happy about not going back to the house to sleep on the air mattresses. Don’t get me wrong, I was looking forward to sleeping in my own house—on an island, in an island-nation, on a different continent, on the other side of the world—but I also wasn’t looking forward to sleeping on an air mattress, no matter how temporary. Part of this is because I’ve had sleep issues since childhood. I’m a notoriously light sleeper, and if conditions don’t line up almost perfectly, I’m probably not sleeping much or well. That’s not being dramatic; it’s just a fact of life for me. Since we had a furniture delivery scheduled for that day, I took comfort in the idea that we wouldn’t have to deal with the air mattresses—or so I thought.

At that moment, though, I was blissfully unaware that the furniture delivery would be delayed. All I was focused on was waking up, making coffee, and enjoying one more sunrise from our room, the final sunrise in the hotel overlooking the marina and Wing Bay. My body was starting to adjust to the time difference, so getting up felt different than before. Not easier. Not harder. Just different. If you’ve ever crossed the International Date Line, you know the feeling.

Coffee was brewing, and Joy was starting to stir. We wandered over to the window, mugs in hand, and enjoyed the slow approach of the golden hour—our final moments of borrowed luxury. We dragged our chairs to the picture window, opened the curtains, and watched the sun illuminate the sky as it made its westerly march over the marina, setting both the sky and the Sea of Japan on fire. For a while, it was enough to simply be.

We talked about the previous day and how grateful we were for the universe’s small detour. It was exactly what we needed. Something shifted for both of us, individually and together, and whatever came next would come with that change already in motion.

We drank our coffee in silence, savoring it. One of the gifts of a healthy relationship is the ability to sit quietly without feeling the need to fill the space. I watched the colors shift from sunrise reds to daytime blues while Joy journaled. After another cup, we packed up, ate breakfast, checked out, and headed back to the house—this time not as a stopover, but as home for the remainder of our stay.

Mindful Silence

Arriving at the house felt strange in an unexpected way. There was nothing we had to do. No deadlines, no urgency, no pressure to move on to the next thing. That kind of open space is rare. Even at its slowest, life in the States usually comes with some invisible clock ticking in the background.

Joy stepped outside to pull weeds and make friends with the local corvid community, while I stayed inside wiping down surfaces and doing some deeper cleaning. It felt like easing ourselves into the place rather than conquering it.

The quiet that settled over the neighborhood was comforting. It wasn’t empty or lonely; it was intentional, the kind of mindful silence that seems to respect your presence. From inside, I could hear Joy moving around the yard, humming softly while the corvids hopped around nearby, conversing with each other, curious about their new neighbor.

Only then did we realize how rushed everything had felt since arriving in Japan. Even during moments of rest, there had been an undercurrent of urgency, as if we were still being chaperoned by the invisible presence of itineraries and check-out times. Now that the hotel was behind us, we no longer had the option to keep moving. We were planted, and there was surprising relief in that.

At first, we’d experienced Japan entirely as tourists. That identity had slowly slipped away, but the habits lingered—moving quickly, trying to see everything, assuming we might never come back. That day, it finally sank in that it wasn’t our reality any longer. We live here now. The day could unfold without being optimized, and that felt good.

The Couch Arrives

At some point, I checked the time, and it suggested lunch was at hand. Looking around the house, I was struck again by how empty it was—no chairs, no furniture, just the air mattresses waiting for later. Clearly, acquiring something to sit on needed to move up our priority list. Just then, I saw a message pop up on my phone that the bedding and furniture I had bought at DCM would be delayed another day. I sighed. Looks like we’ll be sleeping on the air mattresses after all.

Almost on cue, Joy burst into the house, beaming.
“The couch is coming!” she announced, holding up her phone with the delivery confirmation on the screen.

Moments later, we heard the delivery truck backing up the street. He got out of the truck, smiled, bowed, and walked over to Joy and pointed at her name. She nodded. He climbed up in the back of the truck and emerged with the tiniest box I could ever imagine holding a couch. Nevertheless, we carried it in, unpacked the pieces, and assembled it.

It was… not what Joy had envisioned.

Technically Furniture

Since I hadn’t been involved in the decision, I enjoyed the rare luxury of feeling no responsibility for the outcome. I’ve always been a go-to-the-store-and-see-what-furniture-you’re-buying type, and this experience did nothing to challenge that belief.

There it was in all its glory: the tiniest couch we had ever seen. I could see the gears turning in Joy’s mind, processing exactly what it was that she had bought. It qualified as a couch in the academic sense of the word: it had a back, arms, legs, and could technically be sat on. However, it still carried the spirit of sitting on the floor while still insisting it was technically furniture.

The truth is neither of us is especially good at admitting defeat, and she wasn’t about to start now. I vaguely remembered a conversation from before we left the States—me suggesting we find a furniture store and see if they deliver, and Joy dismissing the idea while paying just enough homage to it to keep it in play.

She sat down on the couch, smiled, and said, “Look! Isn’t it cute? I could tuck this into the corner and set up my own little nook to enjoy my coffee and journaling in the morning.” She outlined how it could live in the corner and pointed out how perfect it would be for her sister, Amy.

I stayed quiet, letting her have the moment, and smiled along with her. When her phone buzzed and redirected her attention, it felt like a natural ending. I watched her perch on the tiny couch, pleased with the outcome but slightly uncomfortable. That was reward enough.

Errands, Internationally

After breaking down the cardboard and moving the packaging to the shed, we decided it was time for lunch. Instead of heading to Seicomart, we called a taxi. Our neighbor, Kyousuke-San, was outside tending his garden. We waved; he smiled and said something light-hearted as we passed. For someone who had initially seemed like he was not going to tolerate any nonsense out of his American neighbors, he was clearly warming to us. It made our corner of Mogami feel more familiar, if not like home.

The view certainly helped. The Sea of Japan and the sky blended into matching hues of blue, with the mountains across the bay clearly visible. We paused for a moment, breathing in the crisp air.

“We live here now. It’s hard to believe,” Joy said quietly.
I smiled. “It really is. This is home,” I replied.

The taxi arrived, taking us to Otaru Station. We surveyed the train station and bus terminal and agreed we’d need to figure out buses sooner rather than later. After all, access to good public transportation was important for the rich life we dreamed up at the start of this adventure. For now, though, hunger was the priority, and Joy knew where to go.

A small, covered strip mall housed what may have been the best noodle shop of my life. It had everything I hoped for: simple tables, a whiteboard menu, a cash-only sign, and a cook who spoke directly to her customers. We ate mostly in silence, fully content.

After lunch, we went back into the train station to figure out the buses—don’t ask why we didn’t go to the bus terminal; we honestly don’t know either. As we stood staring at the ticket kiosks, a helpful English-speaking attendant approached and asked if we needed help. We explained what we were trying to do, and they pointed us to the kiosk beside us and recommended we buy a Kitaca card, which could be used on both trains and buses.

Bingo. That was exactly what we needed.

We fed the machine our yen, and it spat out two fully charged cards. We grabbed them like kids who had just won something from a claw machine, triumphantly walked to the bus terminal, only to realize we didn’t know which bus we needed. Once again, Joy came to the rescue. She already had it figured out before I could even pull my phone from my back pocket. We needed the Number 9 bus to Tenguyama Ropeway and it would arrive in three minutes.

We boarded the bus and rode it through town and back up to our neighborhood. Delightful. Everything felt like it was falling into place, and we couldn’t have been happier.

Dinner and Settling In for the Night

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. I napped on the air mattress while Joy scrolled on her phone. Time softened. Eventually, hunger pointed us toward dinner.

We walked to a nearby Italian restaurant—something that still felt surreal to say out loud. The walk was easy and familiar, twilight settling in around us. Dinner was excellent in that distinctly Japanese way—thoughtful, precise, and dishes deeply considered. The waitress applauded when Joy ordered water in Japanese, and when we mentioned we had bought a house nearby, she smiled warmly and told us she was glad we had found the place. It felt like another small step in settling into the shape of our new life.

The walk home was quiet. We stopped by the Seicomart for a few nighttime snacks before turning in. We weren’t out exploring—we were simply heading home.

Climbing onto the air mattress felt neither luxurious nor disappointing. It was simply there. The floor beneath it was firm, a reminder that we weren’t in a hotel anymore, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. The house had its own nighttime sounds—gentle creaks that felt familiar and reassuring, as if it were happy to have people living in it again, fulfilling its purpose. Sleep came more easily than I expected. It wasn’t perfect—nor was it fully in line with my admittedly princess-level needs—but it was honest. Despite how unfinished everything still was, it felt good to finally be here. For the first time since landing in Japan, we weren’t staying somewhere.

We were home.