My wife has taught high school in Tokyo for twenty years. Every year, a few of her students spend a year living with a family in America. When they come home, she asks each of them one question. "What do you miss?" She expects hamburgers. She almost never gets hamburgers. And these aren't old stories. Most of these kids came home in the last two years. "Every time I left the house, my host mom said, 'Text me when you get there.' In Japan, nobody needs to know where I am. In Ohio, somebody always did." (Mina, 17, Ohio) "If you walk toward a door, an American will hold it open. Even if you are very far away. So you have to run. I ran to so many doors." (Itsuki, 16, Georgia) "My host brother screamed on the floor of a grocery store. A stranger walked by and said to my host mom, 'You're doing great, Mama.' She almost cried. I didn't know strangers were allowed to say that." (Aoi, 17, Texas) "We went away for the weekend and left our trash can at the curb. When we got back, it was by the garage. Nobody said who. My host dad said if it had been there one more day, the neighbor would have knocked." (Haruto, 16, Minnesota) "A car got stuck in the snow in front of our house. Four men came out of four houses. Nobody called them. They pushed, the car drove away, and they went back inside without saying their names." (Ren, 17, Michigan) "Every American has jumper cables. Maybe half of them know which clip goes where. The other half help anyway." (Shin, 16, Montana) "In July, my host family put a cooler on the porch. Cold water, snacks, and a sign: 'For our delivery drivers. Thank you!' I asked if they knew the drivers. They said no." (Nanami, 16, Arizona) "Downtown, there are banners on the lampposts. Photos of soldiers from the town. Some old, some very young. My host grandpa walked me down the street and told me every name." (Yuna, 16, Iowa) "I got a C-plus on my first test. My host dad said, 'I'm proud of you,' and put it on the fridge. In Japan, nobody is proud of a C-plus." (Takeru, 17, Pennsylvania) Then the quietest girl in the class raised her hand. Sora. Seventeen. Missouri. "Nobody asks me 'home safe?' anymore," she said. She was wrong. In September, there was a typhoon warning for Tokyo. At 2 a.m., Sora's phone lit up. It was her host mom. In Missouri. Watching the weather in a country she had never been to. "Saw the storm. You home safe?" Sora told my wife she cried for a long time. Then she typed the answer she had typed a hundred times, from football games and friends' driveways. "Home safe." Her host mom wrote back one line. "Good. That's all I needed." My wife has asked that question for twenty years. Not one kid has ever said they missed how big America is. They miss how America says goodbye. And how it checks that you got home. So, America. You think you've lost something. You haven't. It's on a porch in Arizona. It's pushing a car in Michigan. It's awake at 2 a.m. in Missouri, watching our weather. You don't remember doing any of it. A kid in Tokyo will never forget.

An American named Caleb lives in apartment 304 of my building in Tokyo. He's 29. From a small town in Kansas. This spring, he stopped coming out. He lost his job in February. In March, his fiancée moved out. He told me later that he spent most of April lying on the floor, scrolling through pictures of his friends back home. Weddings. Babies. New houses. Everyone moving forward except him. He stopped opening the curtains. He ate cereal for dinner. His phone sat face-down on the counter. Forty-seven missed calls from his grandmother. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. Especially not his family. One morning, at six o'clock, I went down to take out the garbage, and there was an old American man sitting on the stairs outside 304. Flannel shirt. Seed cap. A carry-on bag between his boots. He'd been there all night. His name is Vern. He's 82. He's Caleb's grandfather. When Caleb was little, he called his grandpa every Sunday night to talk about the Kansas City Chiefs. For twenty years, every Sunday. Then the Sundays stopped. So Vern got on a plane in Wichita and flew across the Pacific Ocean. He didn't tell anyone in Japan he was coming. He didn't even know how the doorbell worked. Caleb wouldn't open the door. So Vern sat down on the floor outside it. And he talked. Wheat prices. The weather back home. The neighbor's dog that keeps getting into the chickens. The Chiefs. Mostly the Chiefs. For two whole days, through a closed door, an 82-year-old man talked about football to nobody. On the third day, the door opened a crack. "Grandpa," Caleb said. "The Chiefs lost. I checked." "I know," Vern said. "I've been lying to you." Caleb laughed. He said it was the first time he'd laughed in two months. It hurt. Vern moved in for two weeks. He slept on a couch that was a foot too short for him. Somebody told him the Japanese word for good morning is "ohayo." He heard "Ohio." So every morning, an 82-year-old man from Kansas stood in my building's lobby and said "OHIO!" to every single person who walked by. Everyone said "ohayo" back. He believes, to this day, that Japan is a nation of Ohio fans. Kansas is the Sunflower State. Vern had packed an entire bag of sunflower seeds in his suitcase, "for the neighbors." He handed them out to everyone in the building. The old lady on the second floor gave him rice crackers. They have been trading snacks ever since. Neither of them knows the other's name. On day five, he tried to make biscuits in Caleb's toaster oven and set off the smoke alarm for the entire floor. He went door to door, bowing and saying "OHIO" as an apology. Vern never lectured him. Never told him to cheer up. On the first night, he said just one thing. "I'm not here to fix you. I'm here to sit with you." And every morning, he stuck a note on the refrigerator. Same heading every time, in big block capitals. STILL TRUE: "The sun came up. You're my grandson. I'm here." "The coffee in this country is too small. You're still my grandson." "You got out of bed. That counts." "You ate something that wasn't cereal. That counts double." "You laughed at me this morning. Don't think I didn't hear it." On day nine, Caleb found Vern's pill organizer in the bathroom. A big plastic one, the kind with a box for every day. On the lid, in his grandmother's handwriting: "VERN. TAKE THESE. OR I WILL KNOW." He called his grandmother. She told him what Vern had made her swear not to say. His heart is bad. Two stents. His doctor told him, flat out, no more long flights. Not at his age. It wasn't safe. He came anyway. Caleb found him in the kitchen, trying to work the rice cooker. "You could have died on that plane," Caleb said. Vern thought about it. "Well," he said. "I didn't. And you didn't either. So I'd say we're both ahead." Caleb sat down on the kitchen floor and cried like he was six years old. Vern lowered himself down next to him, slowly, knees cracking, and put one big hand on the back of his neck. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. On the morning Vern flew home, there was one last note on the fridge. STILL TRUE: "You are not the worst thing that happened to you. Bad years end. I've had three. 1959, I lost my daddy. 1985, I lost the farm. 2003, I lost your Uncle Danny. I'm still here. I still laugh at stuff. You are loved by people who would cross an ocean for you. I'm the proof. Call your grandma." When Vern came down to the lobby with his bag, he stopped. The whole building was there. The old lady from the second floor. The salaryman from the fifth. Two kids in school uniforms. The building manager. They had planned it. All at once, very loudly, they shouted: "OHIO!" Vern stood there in the lobby and cried. Then he took off his seed cap, held it to his chest, and shouted it right back at them. "OHIO!" Caleb got a new job in August. He opens his curtains every morning now. Last week I heard him say "Ohio" to the lady on the second floor. She gave him a rice cracker. The note is still on his fridge. So if you're reading this on a hard night, here's what's still true. The sun is going to come up. You are not the worst thing that happened to you. Bad years end. Somebody out there would cross an ocean for you. Even if they haven't had to yet. And call your grandma.

In my wife's desk at the high school where she teaches in Tokyo, there is a notebook. Every exchange student reads it before they fly to America. Twenty years ago, a boy came home from a year in Kansas, handed my wife a cheap spiral notebook, and said, "For the next kid." On the first page, he had written one piece of advice. Every student since has added one line when they came home. Sixty-one kids. One notebook. Title on the cover in marker: "THINGS NOBODY TELLS YOU ABOUT AMERICAN FAMILIES" My wife let me copy some of it. "Your host mom will ask if you're hungry. 'No' is not an answer. 'No' means 'make me a smaller sandwich.'" — Kenta, Kansas, 2007 "There is a second refrigerator in the garage. It contains only drinks, and one casserole nobody will claim." — Rei, Michigan, 2011 "Every house has a junk drawer. Dead batteries. Forty rubber bands. A key to nothing. Soy sauce packets from 2015. Do not organize it. A girl tried in 2016. The family held a meeting." — Emiri, Wisconsin, 2016 "Ranch dressing goes on everything. Do not fight ranch. Ranch will win." — Kosuke, Iowa, 2012 "When they say 'We're leaving in five minutes,' sit down. Have a snack. You have forty minutes." — Misaki, Texas, 2018 "In Texas, 'y'all' is one person. 'All y'all' is everyone. 'All y'all' can include the dog." — Takumi, Texas, 2010 "In Ohio, you will be assigned a football team before you unpack. Do not ask about Michigan. Do not even say the word." — Sho, Ohio, 2015 "Your host dad will teach you to drive in an empty church parking lot. You are not allowed to drive. He knows. He does it anyway, 'just so you know how.' He will hold the door handle and say 'You're doing great' in the voice of a man who is not doing great." — Yusuke, Nebraska, 2009 "Grandpa will call you 'kiddo' and secretly hand you twenty dollars 'for gas.' You do not have a car. Take the twenty dollars. It's not about gas." — Chihiro, Kentucky, 2014 "At Friday night football, the band moms will adopt you. You will not be consulted." — Asuka, Georgia, 2019 "Your host brother will fight with you like an enemy. If anyone at school is mean to you, he will fight them like a soldier. Both are love." — Jun, Michigan, 2017 "If the dog sleeps in your bed on the second night, you're in. It is more official than your visa." — Momo, Minnesota, 2021 "Your host mom will tell you she isn't going to cry at the airport. She is lying. Pack tissues for two." — Natsuki, Missouri, 2022 Two years ago, a girl named Mina borrowed the notebook to read on the plane to Ohio. She forgot to give it back. It spent a whole year in Ohio with her. Her host mom, Carla, found it on Mina's desk. She couldn't read Japanese. So she typed every single line into a translation app, one by one, at the kitchen table. All sixty-one. When Mina flew home, the notebook came back in the mail. With a note: "Sorry, I added something." On the last page, in neat American handwriting: "To the next kid, I read all of these. I laughed until I cried, and then I just cried. Here's what nobody wrote down, because none of you could know it. We were scared too. Before you came, we cleaned your room three times. We practiced your name in the car. Your host dad watched YouTube videos on how to make rice. He still can't. We worried you'd be lonely. We worried you wouldn't like us. We worried you'd like us, and then leave. You will leave. That's the deal. We know it the day we sign up, and we sign up anyway. So eat the second sandwich. Let the dog in. Text me when you get there. You're not a guest. You're just family we haven't met yet. — Carla. Mina's American mom. Ohio." My wife made a copy of that page and taped it inside the front cover. Now it's the first thing every kid reads. This spring, a sixteen-year-old boy flew to a farm in Iowa. He was so nervous he couldn't eat for a week. The night before he left, he read the notebook cover to cover. Then, under Carla's letter, in pencil, he wrote the sixty-second line. Before he'd even gone. "Okay. I'm a little less scared now." To every family who ever cleaned a room three times for a kid they had never met: Sixty-one of them wrote about you. They're still writing.

My favorite ramen shop has walls between the seats. Fourteen booths in a row. A wall on your left. A wall on your right. A bamboo curtain in front. A hand slides your bowl under the curtain and disappears. It's designed so you can concentrate on the flavor. It's also designed so you never have to see another human being. I've eaten there every Thursday night for nine years. I'm Booth 4. I have never seen the face of the man in Booth 5. Then, last spring, Booth 5 became Delbert. Delbert is 66, a retired pipeline welder from Oklahoma. His wife passed two years ago. His daughter married a Japanese man, so he moved to Tokyo to be close to his grandkids. His first Thursday, he leaned back, looked around the wall into Booth 6, and said: "How's yours?" Booth 6 stopped chewing. Fourteen men stopped chewing. You could hear the broth. "Mine's real good," Delbert said, to no one, and went back to eating. Next Thursday. "How's yours?" Silence. The Thursday after that. "How's yours?" Silence. Week five, Booth 6 answered. One word. "...Good." Delbert said, "That's my guy." By summer, the whole row was talking through the walls. We knew Booth 2's daughter had a wedding coming in October. We knew Booth 11 failed his driving test twice. We knew Booth 9 had come every single night since his wife died in 2019. We did not know what any of them looked like. The owner put up a sign in English: "PLEASE CONCENTRATE ON THE FLAVOR." Delbert said, "I am, partner. The flavor is the company." Then, in September, Booth 9 stopped coming. One Thursday. Two. Three. Delbert asked the owner. The owner had handed that man his ramen every night for seven years. He knew where he lived. Booth 9 had fallen at home. He was in the hospital. Eighty-one years old. Nobody had visited. So that Saturday, we went. Five of us, and Delbert. The five of us stood in the hospital lobby for ten minutes. Men who had sat side by side for years. Not one of us recognized anyone. Then Delbert walked in, late, looked around, and said, to the whole lobby: "How's yours?" And from behind a pillar, a voice we had all come to know that summer said, "...Good." Booth 6. That's how we found each other. By voice. When we walked into his room, the man from Booth 9 studied our faces one at a time. Six faces. Seven years. Then he said, in Japanese, "So this is what you all look like." He's back now. Every night. The walls are still up. It is still a concentration shop. Delbert says that in Oklahoma, a wall is just a fence you haven't leaned on yet. Every Thursday, fourteen men in fourteen booths concentrate very hard on each other.

Last winter, my coworker Kiyota spent one week in South Dakota and came home believing Americans give away land with every meal. Nobody has corrected him. Before the trip, our boss briefed him: "South Dakota is cattle country. A lot of people there own ranches." Kiyota wrote it down. Ranch. Land. Cows. Very valuable. First day. Lunch. A pizza place with his American coworker, Troy. The waitress set down the pizza and asked: "You want ranch with that?" Kiyota froze. In Japan, when a stranger offers you something enormous, you politely refuse. "No, thank you. That is too much." "Hon, it's free." "...Free?" "Always." That night, he called me in Tokyo. He was whispering. "They are giving away land at lunch." Day two. Chicken wings. "Ranch or blue cheese?" Kiyota looked at Troy for help. Troy said, "Ranch. Always ranch. Blue cheese people can't be trusted." So in America, they make you choose between land and cheese. And it's a character test. He chose the ranch. A tiny plastic cup of white sauce arrived. Kiyota studied it for a long time. He is an engineer. He decided it was symbolic. A deed you could dip. He did not eat it. He put the lid back on and carried it to his hotel with both hands. By Friday, there were fourteen cups in his mini-fridge. He told me he owned fourteen ranches. On the last night, at dinner, he finally asked Troy about it. "I cannot believe they give it to everyone." "That's South Dakota, man. Everybody gets ranch." "Even children?" "Especially children. Kids here start on ranch before they can walk." Kiyota was moved. In Japan, a man works his whole life for a small apartment. "My father worked fifty years. He never had one." Troy put down his fork. "Your dad's never had ranch?" "Never." "Bro." Troy looked genuinely upset. "We gotta fix that." "I could bring one home to him?" "Take a whole gallon, man. They sell it by the gallon at the store." Kiyota wrote this down. In America, land is measured in gallons. He was not surprised. This is the country that measures temperature in Fahrenheit. "How many gallons does a family need?" "Family of four? A gallon a week, easy." "A week." "Yeah. It goes fast." "What do you grow on it?" Troy squinted at him. "Grow? Nothing. You put it on stuff. Carrots. Celery. Pizza. Everything." "You put the ranch... on top of the vegetables." "Every time." Kiyota sat back in his chair. In Japan, the vegetables go on the land. In South Dakota, the land goes on the vegetables. "Do neighbors ever fight over it?" "Oh, all the time. Store-bought versus homemade. My mom and my aunt haven't spoken since Easter." Kiyota nodded slowly. "In Japan, too. Families fight over land." "Man," Troy said. "We're not so different." They shook hands. Both of them were very moved. Neither of them was talking about the same thing. At the airport, Troy was waiting at the curb with a gift. A one-gallon jug of ranch. Red bow on top. "For your dad." Kiyota bowed so low his backpack slid over his head. He checked the jug like a newborn. Wrapped in three sweaters. Back in Japan, he drove straight to his parents' house. His father is 79. A rice farmer for fifty years. Kiyota knelt and held out the jug with both hands. "Father. I have brought you a ranch from South Dakota." His father bowed and received it with both hands. He opened it. He poured a little on a cucumber from his own field. He ate it. A long silence. "This," his father said, "is the best land I have ever eaten." Kiyota found out what ranch was in March. From a YouTube video. He sat in his car for twenty minutes. He has decided not to tell his father. His father puts it on everything now. Rice. Tofu. Grilled fish. He tells the neighbors a young man in South Dakota gave him a ranch. Troy says that's exactly what happened.

In 1970, a 20-year-old soldier came home from Vietnam, walked into an airport bathroom, and changed out of his uniform. So nobody would know where he'd been. He never told anyone. Not for 55 years. This spring, a Japanese flight attendant watched him finally come home. Her name is Erika. She was one of my wife's students in Tokyo, a long time ago. Now she's 34, and she flies for an American airline out of Atlanta. A coworker asked her to volunteer for something called an Honor Flight. "You'll never forget it," she said. Erika didn't really know what it was. An Honor Flight takes old veterans to Washington, D.C., to see their memorials. One day. Free. They fly out in the morning and come home that night. The plane was full of men between 75 and 96. Wheelchairs. Canes. Oxygen. Hats covered in pins. And they were terrible. In the best way. The Army guys and the Navy guys argued for two hours about which branch was better. Nobody won. Nobody ever has. A 94-year-old Korean War veteran called all the Vietnam vets "the kids." A 96-year-old Marine asked Erika to marry him before the seatbelt sign went off. She politely declined. He said, "Your loss, sweetheart," and fell asleep. Except for the man in 22C. His name was Lonnie. 76. Army. He sat by the window and didn't say a word. Everyone else wore a veteran's cap. They gave Lonnie one too. He put it in his jacket pocket and kept wearing his old feed-store cap. His son had signed him up. Lonnie almost didn't come. In Washington, at the Vietnam memorial, there's a long black wall with 58,000 names on it. Erika watched Lonnie walk along it until he found one. Then he put his hand flat against the stone. He stood like that for an hour. He didn't move. He didn't speak. The other men left him alone. They knew. On the flight home, there's a tradition. It's called Mail Call. Without telling the veterans, their families collect letters for them. From children, grandchildren, old friends, strangers, schoolkids who've never met them. Then, somewhere over the country, the crew calls out their names, one by one, and hands each man a thick envelope. Grown men who had survived wars sat there opening letters from third graders, and fell apart. "Dear Soldier, thank you for your service. I hope you were not too scared. I would be scared. Love, Brayden, age 8." "Dear Veteran, thank you for keeping us free. My dog's name is Freedom too." Lonnie's envelope was the thickest on the plane. He read every letter. Slowly. Folded each one back exactly the way it came. Then he got to the last one. A small envelope. Handwriting he knew. He held it for a long time without opening it. His son, in the next seat, quietly told Erika: "That's from my sister. They haven't spoken in eleven years." Lonnie opened it. It was one line. "Daddy, I'll be at the airport." He put his hand over his mouth and turned toward the window. His whole body was shaking. His son put an arm around him. Neither of them said anything for the rest of the flight. They landed at ten o'clock at night. Erika assumed a few families would be waiting. When the doors opened at the end of the jet bridge, the noise hit the plane before the men did. Two thousand people. At ten o'clock on a weeknight. Lined up on both sides of the terminal, as far as she could see. Bagpipes. A high school marching band in full uniform. Boy Scouts. Little kids on their dads' shoulders. Grandmas holding handmade signs. Young soldiers in uniform, standing at attention. And every single one of them, as each old man came through, was reaching out a hand and saying the same two words. "Welcome home." "Welcome home, sir." "Welcome home." Over and over. For an hour. To strangers. Lonnie was the last one off the plane. Halfway up the jet bridge, he stopped. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the veteran's cap he had refused to wear all day. He looked at it. Then he took off his old feed-store cap, put the veteran's cap on, and straightened it with both hands. Then he walked out. Two thousand strangers cheered for him like he had just won a war. And at the very end of that long line, holding a sign she'd clearly made at a kitchen table, was a woman about forty-five years old. The sign said, "WELCOME HOME DADDY." Erika told my wife she cried so hard she had to go stand behind the gate desk. She said something else, too. I've been thinking about it ever since. "In Japan, when a country makes a mistake, it apologizes. Carefully. Formally. Once. In America, two thousand strangers came to an airport at ten o'clock at night to fix a mistake they didn't make. Fifty-five years late. And they did it like it was the most natural thing in the world." In 1970, a young man walked into an airport bathroom a soldier, and walked out pretending he wasn't. This spring, on a jet bridge in Atlanta, an old man put his cap back on. And walked out one.

My brother-in-law Shun is 36. An engineer. The quietest man in our family. For nine years, he has taken the same train in Tokyo for 70 minutes every morning. In nine years, not one stranger has spoken to him. Last month, his company sent him to a factory in a small town in Ohio. One week. His first time outside Japan. His boss gave him a notebook and one instruction: "Write down everything strange. So you don't make mistakes." On his second day, Shun filled eleven pages. He showed me the notebook. Here is one ordinary Tuesday in America, exactly as he wrote it. 6:51 a.m. Hotel breakfast. A man I have never seen said "Mornin'." Not "Good morning." Just "Mornin'." Like we have known each other for twenty years and he is a little tired of me. 7:04 a.m. I could not operate the waffle machine. An old man said "Here, buddy," and flipped it. He did not ask if I needed help. Then he told me about his knee surgery. His name is Gary. I now know more about Gary's knee than my father's. 7:48 a.m. Two cars reached a four-way stop at the same time. Both drivers waved. Nobody moved. Eleven seconds. Then both went. Then both stopped. Then both waved again. A small war of kindness. Nobody won. I believe this is the national sport. 8:10 a.m. On a country road, every pickup truck lifted one finger off the steering wheel at me. I did not know what it meant. I lifted one finger back. My heart was pounding. I have never felt so American. 9:15 a.m. A coworker walked past and said, "How are you?" I prepared a full answer. He was already gone. I told the hallway I was fine. 11:52 a.m. Drive-thru. The cashier said, "The car ahead of you got it." I tried to follow the car to say thank you. My coworker grabbed my arm. "Nah, man. You just get the next guy." So I paid for the car behind me. My hands were shaking. It is the most dangerous thing I have ever done. 12:40 p.m. Diner. In one meal, the waitress called me "hon," then "sweetie," then "baby." I have been married six years. My wife has never called me baby. Brenda did it in forty minutes. Brenda also refilled my coffee four times without asking. I think Brenda loves me. 1:30 p.m. Grocery store. A very tiny old woman pointed at the top shelf. "Can you grab that for me, sweetheart?" In Japan, we do not ask strangers. We wait for the shelf to come down. I grabbed it. She patted my arm and said, "You're a doll." I looked it up tonight. I am keeping it forever. 3:12 p.m. A school bus stopped. A little red sign came out. Every car stopped. Both directions. Even the big truck on the other side of the road. Nobody told them to. Nobody had to. 3:40 p.m. A girl, maybe seven, selling lemonade on the corner. Fifty cents. A man in a suit paid with a twenty and said, "Keep it, boss." She did not understand the math. She understood him. 5:55 p.m. A man mowing his lawn went about two feet into his neighbor's yard, then turned around. I asked if it was a mistake. My coworker said, "Nah. You go a little over. That's how you say hi." 7:20 p.m. Little league game. A man in the stands gave me half his sunflower seeds and explained baseball to me for two innings. I did not tell him I have watched baseball my entire life. I did not want him to stop. A boy struck out. The whole crowd clapped anyway. The man next to me stood up and yelled, "That's okay, buddy! Good swing!" Then he sat down and said, very quietly, "That's my boy." In Japan, we clap when you hit the ball. Here, they clap because you swung. 9:48 p.m. Back at the hotel. The woman at the front desk looked at me and said, "Long day?" I said yes. She said, "Well. You made it, hon." I do not know why I cried in the elevator. Wednesday morning, Shun asked his coworker Dale how his evening was. Dale shrugged. "Eh. Nothing happened." Shun wrote that down too. Last line on page eleven. Underlined twice. Next to it, in Japanese, he wrote: "That's a lie." Shun has been back in Tokyo for three weeks now. Every morning, on the same train, he says "Mornin'" to the man who sits across from him. The man has not answered yet. Shun says that's okay. "In America, you go a little over." America, every night you go to bed and say nothing happened. Something happened. Forty times. Before dinner. In one small town. You waved the finger. You paid for the stranger. You stopped for the bus. You clapped for the boy who missed. You don't remember a single one. A quiet man in Tokyo remembers all of them. You haven't lost a thing, America. You just stopped writing it down. So we did.

"Get under the table and cover your head," I told my 9 year old. She was shaking and had tears in her eyes. Our phones were buzzing like an Amber Alert on steroids. There were sirens wailing outside. Our first earthquake warning. Week 6 of the Family Gap Year™️. 12 hours later the government apologized for the mistaken warning. Turns out there wasn't a 9.9 heading our way. (And yes the earthquake advice came from ChatGPT... but now we know.) This week has been a good one with a nice dose of social interactions (including a small Yale reunion). A few other highlights: 1. Attended the Tokyo Derby Our first football game (off the heels of the World Cup). It was a beautiful brisk day at Ajinomoto Stadium where our (adopted) FC Tokyo won 4-nil. We followed it up with a nightcap at the Fairmont with views of the Tokyo Tower. 2. Two very Japanese encounters We were out to dinner with another couple and when the bill came, we split it. The staff went out of their way to inform us (3 times!) that the bill was an odd number, so one person would be paying one extra yen. (Half a penny.) We walked by protesters at the US embassy. I don't know the back story about what happened at one of the bases, but the chant was loud and angry. It also was polite, "USA, please go away." 3. We love the subway here Once you get over the fact there are 4 different subway systems, it's so clean and quiet. You can hear a pin drop, even during rush hour. It's seriously meditative, especially when you're outside the city center on the outdoor lines. 4. Wrapping up a hard work stretch I've had calls at 4:45 am all week (and a few calls ending at 11pm). It's probably the most physically tired I've ever been, but the work and clients are awesome. Once November hits, things quiet down for a few months. It's wearing on my family that I'm continuously sleep deprived. (I haven't drank coffee in a decade, but have transitioned to Coke Zero - can't believe I discovered this at 47) 5. What's the best thing we've eaten? We've been getting that question a lot, but tbh we haven't gone down the foodie route (especially with the kids and everyone still being on a slightly different schedule). Also, reservations here are surprisingly hard to come by. But the baseline of pretty much every meal (except Mexican) is just so high. And it's hard to spend > $50 (no alcohol) for a family of 4. We've got under a month left in Tokyo before Taiwan, Seoul and HK. Those will probably be shorter trips and starting to think about a longer stint in January (Vietnam?). Thanks for reading, friends 🇯🇵

My old high school friend Kazu is the most formal man in Japan. He's 56. He's worked at the same bank for thirty years. He has never danced. Not once. No man has ever hugged him. Not even his own father. Last year, his only son, Yuma, got engaged to a woman from a small town in Texas. Her name is Brooke. Kazu was terrified. He told me over drinks that he was losing his son to America. That Yuma would never come home. He didn't say it like that. He said, "It is a very big country." But that's what he meant. He and his wife Yoko packed their formal kimonos and flew to Texas for the wedding, ready to bow politely to strangers for four days. At the airport, there were sixty people waiting at arrivals. Sixty. With homemade signs. WELCOME KAZU & YOKO!!! Balloons. A cowboy hat for each of them. Brooke's nine-year-old niece had practiced writing "welcome" in Japanese for three weeks. She held it up with enormous pride. It was upside down. Kazu said it was the most beautiful sign he has ever seen. He still has it. Then Brooke's father walked up. Wayne. A cattle rancher with hands like two baseball gloves. Kazu bowed. Very deep. Very correct. Wayne picked him up off the ground in a bear hug. Kazu told me his feet were in the air for four full seconds. He had no idea what to do with his arms. He said it was like being hugged by a friendly refrigerator. Wayne, it turned out, had spent the whole week practicing his bow in the bathroom mirror. So at the rehearsal dinner, he wanted to show it off. They bowed to each other at the same time. They bonked foreheads. The whole barbecue went silent. Then a hundred Texans laughed so hard the dogs started barking. Kazu laughed too. Yoko says she had not heard him laugh like that since 1998. At the wedding, Wayne gave a toast. He looked right at Kazu and Yoko. "Kazu. Yoko. I know you're worried you're losing your boy to Texas. You're not losing a son. You're gaining a whole state." Everybody cheered. Then he got quiet. "Down here, we don't have in-laws. We just have family we haven't met yet." Then he walked over and pressed something into Kazu's hand. A key. "That's to your room at the ranch. It's yours. Y'all come home anytime." Two months later, Kazu and Yoko flew back to see it. On the door of their room, Wayne had built a Japanese sliding paper door. A shoji. By hand. From YouTube videos. Out of lumber from the barn. It's crooked. The paper has a thumbprint in it. It doesn't quite close. Kazu told me it is the most beautiful door in America. At the wedding, after the toast, Kazu did something none of us thought he would ever do. He cried. In public. In front of a hundred and fifty people. And then Wayne's mother, who is 85, took his hand, pulled him onto the dance floor, and taught him the two-step. He got every single step wrong. She didn't care. Neither did he. Kazu has two keys on his keychain now. One for his house in Tokyo. And one for a crooked door in Texas.