Lessons from the Road
While traveling through Japan, we had the pleasure of being invited to our friends’ home outside of Tokyo. It was my second time visiting Kazusa and Yasu’s house, but I was just as inspired by their way of living as I was the first time. Outside the megacity of Tokyo, in a small community, they found an architect’s house surrounded by a park and soba fields — a true place of peace and quiet. Nancy had the idea to bring them bird whistles as a gift, and the birds responded right away.
For the first time, I became aware of the difference between being a host and being a guest. I would describe both my parents as wonderful hosts who love welcoming people, whether it’s for a meal at home or a glass of wine in the garden when the weather allows. When friends visit for a few days, my parents always think about what might be interesting to do in the Black Forest, from hikes to museums. My mom spends hours in the kitchen, which she genuinely enjoys, and my dad is known for bringing out a special bottle of wine once the conversation turns deep around the table.
When we arrived at Kazusa and Yasu’s house, I could sense a certain restlessness — maybe even nervousness — in my dad. Not in terms of how to behave or whether to help with the dishes, but more in truly relaxing and enjoying being a guest. Over the course of the trip, he had become much better at letting go of having a fixed plan for the day, no strict schedule for meals, or detailed itineraries. It was a real exercise in “going with the flow.” Still, during breakfast, he asked me several times what we were going to do that day, and whether we should leave soon so as not to bother them. Each time I replied gently, “We’re not leaving, and I’m not sure what we’ll do today either.”
I encouraged him to stay open-minded and to appreciate — maybe even respect — the act of being hosted. I was certain that our dear friends, who know us well and genuinely care about us having a beautiful experience, had thought of things we could do together. And I was equally sure they would tell us if they had other plans or needed time to themselves.
In all fairness, I can’t remember my parents ever visiting friends overnight, them staying a day or two at someone else’s home. They simply don’t have much practice in this, and maybe that’s why the moment stood out to me. It made me realize that being a guest also requires a kind of trust, to let yourself be cared for, to slow down, and to receive. It’s a quiet act of connection, just as generous as hosting.
Eventually, we ended up having the most beautiful day together — enjoying a snack in the park, driving into Tokyo in the afternoon, buying some last gifts and treats, and finishing with a fantastic last dinner in Japan. Sometimes the hardest part of traveling isn’t finding new places, but allowing ourselves to be cared for in them.
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