It’s not easy to admit, but I was a pretty spoiled child. Not with clothes or toys, but with time. My mother gave us few chores because she was worried that a heavy roster would distract from our education. She tirelessly carted us to and from school plus extra-curriculars and showed up for parent-teacher meetings. She did our laundry and cleaned our rooms. And she cooked. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. We had warm meals on the table every single day, meals that we still recall fondly (and shamelessly request on home visits).
I follow quite a few New York bloggers and Instagrammers, but I also love to read blog posts from people who are traveling to the city for the first time. While it’s partly because I’m curious about what they choose to do on their visit, it’s also because there’s a genuine feeling of wonder and excitement that’s infectious. I find their observations charming, whether good (“there’s so much to see!”) or bad (“it smells horrible!”). Traveling has always given me that high — going into sensory overload as you take in things you’ve never seen, smelled or heard before. And while many cities have charmed me, few have done so like Tokyo.
Visiting Japan was always high on my list because I love the food. If someone said I could only eat Japanese food for the rest of my life, I would equate it to having to serve out a prison sentence in Barneys.
It’s gonna be rough, but I think I can handle it.