Before I get into this one, a quick note.

What started as a small newsletter meant to let people know what I was up to beyond the borders of the U.S. has quietly turned into something bigger. That’s been both surprising and deeply rewarding. If you’ve been reading along, you’ve probably noticed that the writing has shifted over time. Like any craft, it starts rough, then slowly improves if you keep showing up and doing the work. I still have a lot of work to do, but I think you can see how my writing has changed since the beginning. I’m proud of the results at this stage of the journey. As they say, you get out of something what you put into it, and writing is no different.

This chapter of the story is also beginning to wind down. There are a few more posts left in this arc before things move in a new direction, including a return to Japan in the heart of winter and all the highs and lows that came with it. However, there are still a few moments worth sharing.

If you’ve noticed, my posts have evolved to start in the morning—making coffee, offering a few observations, and maybe setting up the events of the day. Coffee feels like the natural starting point for my day, so why would I begin telling my story any other way? However, at this point in our journey, our mornings have become mundane and routine, and the things we’re doing during our days are much the same. It’s a part of the journey that I don’t know if I understood just how much I needed at this point in the trip.

Now, on with the post.

When Vacation Starts Letting Go

When we’re at home, we’re in our domicile, where we let our hair down, unbuckle our belts, kick off our shoes, and be our truest selves in ways not meant for the world to see. It’s where we recharge and enjoy the quiet parts of life that make it worth living.

When you’re traveling, you don’t really get those moments. At least not in any meaningful capacity. We call these travels “vacation,” and I suppose that’s as good a term as any to describe what we do when we plan trips or chase experiences. In that sense, my partner and I were on a vacation, albeit one that involved buying a house and discovering more about ourselves than we ever thought possible, but a vacation, nonetheless.

So, at what point does a vacation turn into daily life? Is it when you decide to stay in your pajamas all day and not leave the house? When routines begin to emerge? When tourist attractions stop being the focus of why you’re somewhere? Or is it when local systems stop being one-way and become reciprocal?

Up to this point, Joy and I had been drinking our coffee out of stainless‑steel mugs roughly the size of a standard U.S. diner mug, not the giant urns we sometimes use at home, but the kind you’d be served at a place offering breakfast twenty‑four hours a day with a bottomless cup of coffee.

The Potter Up the Road

They were fine, but if we’re being honest, they weren’t particularly tactile. We’d talked about finding new mugs to add to our collection here, but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. As we were figuring out the day ahead, Joy held up her phone and showed me a local potter who lived just on the other side of the main road heading up toward Mt. Tenguyama. He was within walking distance of our house and would open his shop by request.

I agreed that we should support our local potter and that we should visit him. Joy sent a message, and within five minutes, we received a response—he would open his shop for us in ten minutes. Shortly after that, we walked out the door and headed over.

After a few minutes of looking around, we found his studio and stepped inside. We took off our shoes and entered what felt less like a gallery and more like a working space. Shelves lined the walls; some were for display, others for storage, holding bowls, cups, and vessels stacked patiently where they had been set down after drying or firing. Everything had a purpose. And yet, each piece we picked up stopped us in our tracks.

The work was exquisite, not flashy or precious, but confident, deliberate, and deeply considered. These were objects made by a master craftsman who had spent a lifetime with clay, learning exactly when to interfere and when to leave it alone. Being there felt cathartic in a way I wasn’t expecting, like standing in a place where care, repetition, and quiet excellence had been practiced daily for years. The space, like the work itself, was beautiful and well‑loved.

Joy opened her translator and told him how grateful we were that he was there, that we loved his work, and thanked him for opening the shop for us. He humbly thanked us and bowed.

We both picked out new coffee mugs— a blue one for her, and a green one for me. They were slightly different in size, but they were perfect. They felt like how coffee cups should feel. In an odd sense, it felt as though the mugs wanted us to take them home. He told us the price, and we happily paid. He wrapped the mugs in newspaper and carefully placed them in a paper sack. We bowed again and told him we’d be back for more of his work later. He smiled and walked us to the door, happy to see us on our way home.

I’ve bought pottery before, but I can’t say I’ve ever had an esoteric experience doing so. I’ve always felt the craft itself was Zen and mindfulness in motion—I just never spent much time working with it. As with so many things in Japan, there’s a spiritual significance to everyday objects if you can still your mind long enough to hear them speak.

We walked home in silence, appreciating the delightful turn the morning had taken. The sun was just starting to make itself felt up on the mountain, but the air was cool, and dew clung to the grass. The sunlight caught it, creating fields of soft light. It felt like the moment itself was grateful we showed up and rewarded us for the effort. Even though we had already had enough coffee, we decided we’d make another cup just to enjoy the new mugs.

How a Mug Changes a Morning

I put the kettle back on, unwrapped our mugs, washed them, and dropped fresh blendy‑sticks into each. By the time I finished, the water was ready. As I poured it in, the sound the boiling water made as it filled the mugs was deeper and more resonant, something we hadn’t noticed was missing with the stainless‑steel cups. I picked up the mugs and handed Joy hers. We both took a sip and immediately felt the difference.

It’s strange how materials as mundane as ceramic versus stainless steel can completely change how you experience something. Somehow, the coffee tasted better and felt warmer. So, if toddlers can taste the difference between the red sippy cup and the blue one, adults can certainly tell the difference between stainless steel and ceramic.

An Unexpected Visitor

As Joy and I were talking about that, we heard someone outside yell into the house, “Helloooo! Anyone home?!”

We stopped short. For the first time since arriving in Japan, we heard English spoken in a perfect American accent.

“Hello!” I called back. “Yes—please come in!”

We both headed toward the sliding door that opened into the garden, and there stood a man about our age with a big, cheery smile on his face.

“I was just walking through the neighborhood when I heard English coming from this house,” he said, “and I thought, did someone buy this place already? I’m Bob, by the way.” He reached out and shook our hands.

“I’m Scott, and this is my partner, Joy,” I said, returning the handshake.

“How do you do?” said Joy, taking her turn.

It turned out that Bob owned the house directly behind ours and that we were more connected than we realized. He was born in the same county Joy and I live in back in the U.S., and Joy and Bob shared some of the same stomping grounds growing up in Southern California. The world really is a small place. We spoke for a bit, and before long, he invited us over for dinner that night. We happily accepted.

The Trash Schedule

With dinner plans set, we enjoyed the rest of our coffee. I leaned against the kitchen sink, and Joy curled up on the couch. My eyes drifted toward the trash that had started to pile up.

“We really do need to start handling this,” I said.

Joy nodded. “I started looking at the city’s website and found the trash pickup schedule.”

I looked at her. “And?”

“Well,” she said, handing me her phone, “it’s… complicated.”

I stared at the screen. By this point, if I had learned anything about the Japanese, it was that they are masters of subtlety and painstaking detail. The trash schedule read like something designed by someone armed with a spreadsheet and a personal vendetta against anyone who had ever casually thrown something away—and wanted us to suffer for it.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Food waste goes in yellow bags. Unsoiled plastics go into clear bags. Unburnable plastics go in blue bags—except soiled plastics, which go back in yellow. And… does it even say what day? There are two Mogamis on here. Which one is us?”

I looked at Joy.
She looked at me.

We stared at each other for a moment.

I handed her phone back, and she studied the schedule more closely. After a few minutes of silence, she said, “Well, it looks like cardboard gets picked up today… I think.”

I shrugged. “That’s as good a place to start as any. Let’s gather up the cardboard and take it down to the trash cage. And if we’re wrong, I suspect we’ll find out fairly quickly.”

We gathered up the boxes and broke them down. I loaded one batch of cardboard into a box while Joy filled another. I carried mine down to the trash cage, and sure enough, there were neatly stacked bundles already waiting there. The trash gods had smiled on us and handed us a small victory. I placed my slightly disheveled box inside the cage, smiled, and walked back up the street.

By the time I returned, Joy was heading out with her box of cardboard. I started sorting food waste and having philosophical debates with myself over the definition of the word soiled when Joy came back inside, cardboard in tow.

I gave her my confused look.

She dropped the box on the living‑room floor. It tipped over, spilling cardboard across the floor.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The next‑door neighbor’s daughter was outside,” Joy said. “She told me it was already too late to take the cardboard down.”

“What? I just did,” I said.

Joy gave me the look. “I know. What was I supposed to do—argue with her? Apparently, there’s a cut‑off, and I didn’t get in under it.”

I looked at the cardboard scattered on the floor and shrugged. “At least it’s not perishable. We won’t be here the next time cardboard gets picked up. Back out to the shed it goes, and I’ll deal with it when I come back in December.”

Joy dragged the couch back into her usual corner, and together we cleaned up and did our best to optimize our trash sorting, hoping we’d made the right calls.

Turning Points that Whisper

Later that night, we went over to Bob’s house for tea and dinner. He told us his story—how he came to Japan and what led him there. I sat on the couch while he and Joy connected over their California childhoods. Listening to them, I was struck by how, in our own ways, we had all arrived here as broken souls searching for home. Somehow, in talking, eating, and sharing space, we were beginning to build what we’d been looking for.

I don’t know whether running into our neighbor Bob was an accident or just timing, but his showing up when he did felt right. We drank tea, laughed, and talked well into the evening—the kind of conversation that stretches naturally without trying to be anything more than it is. If there’s a near‑universal truth about turning points, it’s that not all of them announce themselves.

Some of them knock on your door and invite you in for tea.

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