I've always found it slightly funny that one of my favorite ways to unwind is reading detective novels.

Most people relax by shutting their brains off. I relax by trying to solve fictional murders.

I just finished Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto, a Japanese detective novel that was originally published in 1958. When I looked up the publication date afterwards, I honestly couldn't believe it. Apart from the absence of smartphones and email, it didn't feel dated at all.

The story starts with what appears to be a lovers' suicide, but two detectives become suspicious and start pulling on loose threads. Before long they're analyzing train schedules, station stops, travel times, and alibis in painstaking detail.

And somehow it's absolutely gripping.

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I've been listening to the audiobook of My Grandfather, the Master Detective by Masatera Konishi, and it has turned out to be one of those rare books that is both comforting and genuinely thought-provoking.

Part of the enjoyment comes from the narration by Hanako Footman, whom I've written about before. She has an incredible ability to bring characters to life, and her performance adds warmth and nuance to every chapter.

The story centers on Kaede and her grandfather, a former mystery enthusiast whose life is complicated by dementia. What struck me most is the care with which the condition is portrayed.

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This feels like one of those themes that becomes more interesting the more you pay attention to it. The older I get, the more I've reflected on how we all move through different versions of ourselves depending on where we are and who we're with.

I've been thinking lately about the many personas we all carry.

There is the person I am when I'm completely alone. There is the version of me that exists with my spouse, another that emerges with friends, and another that shows up at work. Each one is slightly different. Not better or worse. Just different.

For a long time, I thought authenticity meant being exactly the same in every situation. But the older I get, the more I realize that isn't how human beings work.

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Walking through residential streets in Tokyo, especially around Kiyosumi Shirakawa, I remember how the city would occasionally soften without warning. One moment it was concrete and utility poles, the next it was a quiet row of pots edging into the street, as if someone had gently expanded their home by a few inches.

In those neighborhoods, the sidewalk often carried these small, personal gardens. Plants arranged in front of houses in mismatched containers, some elevated, others directly on the ground. Nothing symmetrical, nothing styled in a deliberate way, and yet it always felt intentional. A bicycle leaning nearby, a hose tucked away, a doorway half visible behind the leaves. Everyday life continuing right alongside this thin band of green.

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Every summer in Japan, something quietly magical happens. Convenience stores fill with colorful paper, shopping streets sprout bamboo branches, and people start pausing, just for a moment, to write down their wishes.

This is Tanabata, or 七夕, the Star Festival.

It comes from the story of two stars, Orihime the weaver and Hikoboshi the cowherd, separated by the Milky Way and allowed to meet just once a year on July 7. If it rains, they cannot cross the sky to see each other, which adds a gentle sense of uncertainty to the tradition.Click below to read more.

There is a moment at summer festivals in Japan when everything becomes very simple. A shallow pool, a paper scoop that feels too fragile to be useful, and a handful of goldfish moving in slow, unpredictable patterns.

Kingyo sukui looks like something you can figure out. That was my first mistake.

I am not a patient person. I like understanding how things work, adjusting quickly, getting to a result. So the first time I tried it, I approached it like a small problem to solve. Watch carefully, pick the right moment, move decisively.

The paper broke immediately.

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There is something surprisingly refreshing about playing tourist in your own city. You think you know it. You think you have seen the highlights. And then someone who has lived its stories for decades takes you by the hand and shows you a completely different layer.

That is exactly what happened to me last week.

I had the joy of exploring San Francisco with a long time local with deep Japanese American roots, and while it did not completely change how I see the city, it added a richness and depth that I had not experienced before. What felt familiar became more meaningful, filled with connections I had not fully noticed.

One of the highlights was visiting the Legion of Honor for the first time.

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I grew up with hydrangeas as something fragile.

Back in Belgium, my mother worried about them constantly. Were they surviving the winter. Was the soil too acidic. Would they bloom pink or blue this year. Hydrangeas were not just flowers, they were a responsibility. Their color felt like feedback, a visible response to how well they were being cared for. Too much acidity and they shifted. Too little attention and they suffered. They required watching, adjusting, and a certain quiet vigilance.

To me, hydrangeas were delicate creatures that needed protection.

Then I lived in Japan and married into an entirely different relationship with the same plant.

There, my husband cursed them.

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