Last week, I spilled an entire cup of hot coffee in my American neighbor's car. Bryan. Yes, the chair one. Yes, the fist one. My lap. His seat. In Japan, this is the kind of moment a man is still apologizing for at seventy. Bryan did not even look over. His right hand went into the door pocket and came out with napkins. His left hand went into the glove box. More napkins. Then the cup holder. Then under the seat. Then the sun visor. A soft white snowfall landed in my lap. Forty-one napkins. From nine different restaurants. He was still driving. He never once took his eyes off the road. He knew where every napkin was. He had never counted them. He did not need to. "Where did these come from?" "Drive-thrus. They always give you too many." "So you keep them." "Everybody keeps them." Everybody. I opened the center console the way you open a box in a temple that has not been opened since the Edo period. Thirty-one packets of hot sauce. Fourteen ketchups. Soy sauce from a Chinese place that closed in 2019. One spork. And one wet wipe, still sealed. "That's for real emergencies," Bryan said. "What is a real emergency?" "You'll know." In Japan, every home keeps an earthquake kit. Water for three days. A flashlight. A whistle. Bryan's car has napkins for three years. And that is when I understood. This is not clutter. This is a nation's quiet reserve. Every drive-thru in America hands out too many napkins. And every American, without being told, without a meeting, saves the extra. Not for his own spills. He never spills. He saves them for the passenger he hasn't met yet. A man does not keep napkins for his own mess. He keeps them for yours. "You want me to clean all this out?" Bryan asked. "Bryan," I said. "Never touch the shrine." He looked at me for a long time. Then he turned the radio back up. In Tokyo, the convenience store clerk hands you exactly one napkin, folded, with both hands. It is beautiful. It is also one napkin. I now ask for two. The second one goes in my wallet. I do not have a car. I am preparing anyway. Yesterday, on the train, the man next to me spilled his coffee down his tie. I reached into my wallet without looking, the way Bryan does, and handed him a napkin folded into fourths. He stared at me like I had performed a miracle. "Where did you get this?" "America," I said. It was from 7-Eleven. But 7-Eleven was born in Texas. I am counting it. I have nine more. Your spill is covered.

People always ask me how I make coffee so I make it with Brazil coffee beans I grind coarse with a Fellow Ode 2 and then pour over with stainless steel Hario V60 and Hario filter paper and a stainless steel Fellow EKG PRO kettle and ceramic Le Creuset mugs I tried lots of ways to make coffee over the years like AeroPress (a pain to clean), Nespresso (utterly disgusting, I wouldn't call it coffe), etc. V60 is nice because you can throw away the filter paper quickly after using and it's clean You need one extra cup in the back for drip after u finish Also everyone likes custom amount of coffee strength, I want 20g, gf want 10g etc, so it's superior to do it per cup than one big pot of coffee One important part here is we avoid plastic in every step of the process, important because you're dealing with boiling water When I was in Brazil we found a water kettle at gf parents house that was fully white plastic inside and out, super common, imagine boiling hot water in plastic! Many V60 filters are also made of plastic. And I remember in Bali often getting hot coffee in plastic cups! Luckily you can get everything here in stainless steel and ceramic! Enjoy!

Finally some fall weather in the air in Colorado. A hot coffee, some chilly air, and a photo editing session from yesterday in Rocky Mountain National Park. Then a critique from Shortlist Studio to help me hone my art. Happy Sunday all. #photographylovers# #landscapephotography#

A few weeks ago, I shared things I've overheard American tourists say in Japan. This time: just the dads. At Shibuya Crossing: "Everybody stay together. EVERYBODY. ...Where's Tyler." At a vending machine: "Hot coffee. In a can. From a machine. On the street. I'm never going home." In a traditional inn: "I'm not wearing the robe." (Ten minutes later) "Take a picture of me in the robe. Do not post it." At a convenience store at midnight: "This fried chicken is better than... I'm not finishing that sentence. Your mother might hear." On a train: "I read the whole map. We're on the wrong train. Wait. We're on the right train. Don't ask me how." At a temple, whispering at full volume: "Is this the big Buddha or the other big Buddha?" And then the one I'll never forget. Fushimi Inari, 9 p.m. The mountain path with ten thousand red gates. Two hours to the top. A dad was carrying his daughter on his shoulders. Maybe seven. Fast asleep, her cheek resting on top of his head. His wife said, "Let me take her for a while." He said, "No. I got her." Then, quieter: "One of these years, she won't fit up here anymore." He climbed the rest of the mountain without putting her down. I've lived in Japan my whole life. I've never made it to the top. He did it carrying the most important thing he owns.