Coworker returns from a weekend trip: "Good morning everyone! Here is a souvenir from Kyoto!" He places a tiny, individually wrapped matcha cookie on your desk. You: "Oh wow, thank you so much! You really shouldn't have!" Inner voice: "Damn you, Sato. You have just handcuffed my soul to a generational debt." Westerners see this Japanese tradition called "Omiyage" and think: "What a sweet culture of sharing travel memories with colleagues!" No. That is not a cookie. That is a high-interest psychological loan packaged in cellophane. The moment you tear open that plastic wrapper and eat that 40-calorie dry crumb, a clock starts ticking in your chest. You are now in default. The unspoken law of the Japanese office dictates: "The next time you travel anywhere outside your prefecture, you must return with a boxed set of 24 individually sealed dry baked goods, or your reputation as a decent human being is permanently revoked." If you go to Okinawa and return empty-handed? Sato will look at your empty desk. And in his eyes, you will see the truth: "You ate my matcha cookie, you freeloader. You consumed my gift and broke the blood pact." Japanese people do not spend their vacations relaxing on the beach. We spend our vacations frantically patrolling airport gift shops, calculating the exact mathematical ratio of cookies-to-coworkers. "There are 22 people in Marketing, plus 3 temp workers, plus the cleaning lady... if I buy the 28-pack, I have a buffer of 2 in case one crumbles." We do not buy souvenirs out of love. We buy them to purchase our pardon from the tribe.

coworker saw my vacation photos and said “traveling alone must be lonely” meanwhile i was in japan doing whatever i wanted, eating wherever i felt like, moving at my own pace. honestly, i’ve felt lonelier at his wedding, sitting at a table full of people I’d never see again.

My coworker Takeshi spent a year in an Indiana town of 2,700 people. Last week, he let me scroll through his phone's search history from that year. It's the best thing I've ever read about America. WEEK 1 "is indiana safe" "why did my neighbor bring me a pie" "what did I do to deserve pie" "how to return a pie plate politely" WEEK 3 "is it rude not to wave back at every truck" "why is everyone waving" "do I know these people" MONTH 2 "why does an entire town go to a high school basketball game" "what is a hoosier" "nobody in indiana knows what a hoosier is" MONTH 3 "man asked how I'm doing, then waited for the answer. what do I do" "how to explain my whole life to a cashier" MONTH 5 "how to say no to a grandmother offering a third plate" "you cannot say no to a grandmother offering a third plate" MONTH 6 "neighbor mowed my lawn while I was at work. I did not ask. how to repay" "how to repay a man who refuses all repayment" "japanese gifts for a man named Wendell" MONTH 8 "is it normal to cry at a high school basketball game" "is it normal to cry at a high school basketball game if you do not know any of the players" MONTH 11 "how to say goodbye to americans" "why do americans say goodbye four times" "can you mail a basketball hoop to japan" LAST NIGHT IN INDIANA "how to tell a man who only says 'yep' that you will miss him" He never found the answer. So at the airport, he just bowed to Wendell. Wendell said, "Yep." Then he pulled Takeshi into a hug so hard his glasses went crooked, and said, very quietly, "Door's open, son." Takeshi has been home for six months now. These days, I asked, what does he search for? He turned his phone around. "new neighbor from overseas. how to make him feel welcome" A family from Peru moved in next to him in Tokyo last month. He brought them a pie. He had no idea how to make one. He searched that too.

My coworker Katie is 31. She's from a small town in eastern Oregon. She's worked in our Tokyo office for three years. Every Monday at lunch, she plays the whole floor a voicemail from her dad. It started by accident. Now fourteen Japanese office workers wait for it all week. Her dad's name is Lonnie. He's 67. He fixed school buses for 38 years. He does not text. He does not do video. Every Sunday, he leaves a voicemail. And every single one starts the same way. "Hi Katie. This is Dad." Pause. "Your father." In case she has several. Then the news. In three years, Lonnie's news has never once included a feeling. It includes: The weather. In detail. Including yesterday's. The dog, Rufus, and what Rufus did. Her mother's knee. The high school football score. Katie graduated thirteen years ago. She gets the score every week. And always, at the end: "Your fern's fine. I talked to it." When Katie moved to Japan, she left a fern in her old bedroom. Lonnie has never kept a plant alive in his life. Her mother says he waters it every Saturday morning, and he sits with it for a while, and nobody is allowed to ask what they talk about. Then he hangs up the exact same way. Every time. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Here's the part Katie told us later. For her first two years in Tokyo, Lonnie called at 3 a.m. Tokyo time. Every Sunday. He had done the time difference backward. She never told him. She set an alarm. Every week, at 2:55 a.m., she woke up so she could pick up and hear him live. It didn't matter. Even when she answered, he talked like it was a voicemail. "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Click. Two years. She never got a word in. She says it was the best part of her week. This spring, he finally figured out the time. "I looked it up," he said. "Your Monday's my Sunday. That don't seem right. But okay." Now his calls land during her Monday meeting. So now we all get to hear them. When he says "Your father," our section chief mouths it along with him. He is 58. He has never been to America. He knows how Rufus is doing. In July, one voicemail was different. Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. Then silence. Eleven seconds. We counted afterward. "Katie. I, uh." Four more seconds. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Nobody on our floor moved. Katie stared at her phone. Then she laughed so hard she started crying, and then she was just crying. "Thirty-one years," she said. "That's the closest he's ever gotten." In September, for his birthday, the fourteen of us recorded a voicemail for Lonnie. One at a time. In our best English. "Hi Lonnie. This is Tokyo." Pause. "Your daughter's office." Then the weather in Tokyo. Including yesterday's. Our section chief gave an update on his own knee. A young guy from accounting reported the Japanese high school baseball scores. Then Katie's desk mate said: "Katie's fine. We watered her Saturday." And all fourteen of us, together: "Okay. Bye. This is Tokyo." Lonnie did not call for two weeks. Katie's mother explained why. He had been playing it. At the diner every morning. At the old bus barn. At the men's breakfast at church. Twice, because the first time Earl wasn't paying attention. Then the next Sunday: "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Tell Tokyo the weather's fine here." Pause. "Tell 'em thanks for looking after my girl." "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." He still has never said it. Katie says he's said it every Sunday for three years.