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It boiled down to a feeling. That overwhelming sense of having forgotten something. But instead of a physical object, it was a piece of himself. This was no stove left on, garage left open, wallet left in a cab. Instead it was a fragment of his soul, his personality, left behind and floating in wait. Years passed with the relentless rushing water of time turning jagged rock smooth. This feeling of forgottenness eroding at his consciousness, washing away layers of present reality. Until at last, a tender nerve was struck and a wound opened that could not be ignored. This piece of his being, his definition, was out there waiting to be taken back. It wasn’t hiding, it wasn’t stashed away, it was just waiting. It was in a train compartment rolling through a village he couldn’t pronounce. It was on a bench at an empty airport in the middle of the night. It was on a bus seat stuck in traffic. It was wide awake staring at the ceiling on a top bunk because his bunkmate had a 6am flight. It was at a restaurant pointing at a picture of a dish with a nod and a smile. It was constantly answering the time and tested international ice breaker “so where are you from?”. It was sifting through hostel and food reviews. It was remembering the touch of pen on paper. It was having to ask what day it was. It was haggling over pennies. It was discovering new sounds, new smells. It was trying to read the numbers and colours on constantly changing currency. It was finding its way in a place it had never been. It was staring out of a window, from a balcony, from a mountain top. It wasn’t hiding. It was waiting. And it was time to go take it back.

Thus the stage was set for adventure. To no surprise this journey had its own beginning. But this was not just any a begin. This was a start fit for a life list. Cities of the world of legend. London, Paris, New York. Need another letter be written to know what comes next? Although not of true purpose, one could not ask for a better “inconvenience”. The layover to destination need not be a negative. It becomes a beginning, instead of the means. It was three days. But do not diminish the power of 72 hours. These moments, this city, held the weight of weeks. It was a destination, a preview of a country with such depth, that was haunting the dreams of our anticipative traveller. He was ready to make the most of this short time and gain a glimpse into every reason to come back. He had arrived in Tokyo.

As anyone that has ever picked up a pen in front of a blank sheet of paper, or seen that mocking flashing line on a blank screen would know, finding inspiration to write, and write often, is really hard. Inspiration cannot be forced and writers block is real. But as with any hobby, any passion, there are moments that inspire the reason we do that thing in the first place. I discovered my passion for writing when I first began travelling the world on my own. Although I do not only write when I am travelling, without a doubt I am most inspired to write when I am. This blog was born from those moments of inspiration rattling around in my brain that needed to be released. My audience famously began with a Grandma (she’s a big deal) who unknowingly became the catalyst for my expression. It has been a long time since I have had a chain of experiences, of inspiration, that I deem worthy of this blog. Finally after years of living in geographic stagnancy, I have taken the opportunity to embark on an adventure to Southeast Asia. My first stop along the way was a brief layover in Tokyo, which will be chronicled in the next post since this bad boy has gotten a little out of hand.

So now that the stage is set there is only one thing left to say: Hey Grandma……..we back.