Picture the whole world as one street. Some houses are very old. Some are very quiet. Mine, Japan, is the small one with the perfect little garden, where everyone takes their shoes off and nobody makes a sound after 9 p.m. And then there's America. The big house on the corner. Flag on the pole. Truck in the driveway. Basketball hoop over the garage. A grill going even though it's 38 degrees out. He's loud. Everybody on the street knows it. You can hear him laughing from three houses away. He'll argue with his own family on the front lawn, all night, about everything. But if anyone else on the street lays a hand on his brother, the argument is over. He's the one who taught half the kids on the block to ride a bike, throw a ball, and shake hands like they mean it. When a storm knocks your fence down, his is the first truck in your driveway. He doesn't knock. He just shows up with his own chainsaw. When the ground shook under my house in 2011, he was on our porch before we'd finished counting the damage. He brought about 24,000 of his people. He called it "Tomodachi." That's our word. It means "friends." He's not perfect. He'd be the first to tell you. He has a garage he can't park in, a truck with a dent nobody talks about, and an opinion on everything. But I've noticed something. Every time the sky goes dark, everybody on this street knows exactly whose door to knock on. So, from the small quiet house with the garden, let me say what this street doesn't say nearly enough. Thank you for always opening the door. Every street needs one house like yours.