One of my top hopes for this trip to Japan was to hike in Kamikochi, an alpine haven of turquoise rivers and lush fir. My mom connected me to her friend, Kazumi, whose family home sits a 2 hour drive from Kamikochi in the southern alps of Yamanashi Prefecture. Kazumi-san breezily bridged the inevitably awkward e-meet with warmth and invited me to watch an annual fireworks show near her home before joining me for a thru-hike in Kamikochi two days later. I was thrilled. Not only was I unsure of how to navigate the trail system in Japan (AllTrails only works in certain locations), I was excited to have someone to share the memory with.

In the lead-up, I anticipated that the visit to Yamanashi would be a fun preface for the main event, Kamikochi. It was a subconscious feeling that only became apparent after both events concluded and when, in reflecting for this post, I realized that my time in Yamanashi holds equal weight in my memory.

Kazumi-san arranged everything ahead of time so that from the moment I stepped off the direct bus from Shinjuku Station, everything felt seamless. Except for recognizing her at the bus stop.

The only picture I had seen of her was from a cross-country motorcycle caravan she participated in, her helmet obscuring her face, and I knew she was about 15 years younger than my mother. Which is why I looked right past the woman walking toward me who appeared to be 40 years old and spoke in a gentle voice. I don’t know what a Japanese Harley Davidson biker lady looks like in real life, but perhaps that was what I imagined. I would soon learn that Kazumi-san doesn’t fit into any particular stereotype: She’s a city woman (born and raised in Tokyo) who now part-time runs her rural family farm; she’s a statistician who works an office job, and also climbs mountains and rides in motorcycle caravans; she’s Japanese in her politeness and hospitality, and she speaks fluent English and conversational French. Conversation flowed with her naturally and easily, like we had known each other before and were just catching up.

The first night, she prepared an elaborate chicken dish with vegetables stewed from her own garden, and bread she had baked herself. Then she took me to the town hot spring bath, or onsen. Outside the building, the tennis courts were lit up, the sounds of feet scuttling back and forth echoing across the packed parking lot. Inside, families licked post-bath popsicles in the lobby and brushed each other’s hair with fraternal familiarity. The bath itself felt like a peek into daily countryside life; I could tell that these families frequented this place by the way mothers shampooed their toddlers’ hair and school-aged girls chatting in the bath seemed to know each other like cousins or classmates.

The second day was for the barbecue and fireworks.

Yamanashi literally translates to “mountain pear,” but is ironically known for its peaches. I luckily happened to visit during peak peach season. After unloading giant grapes, vegetables, and seafood purchased at the farmer’s market in her fridge, Kazumi-san chauffeured me to her town’s “michi-no-eki,” or a sort of marketplace of the area’s best offerings: handmade wooden trinkets, pickled vegetables, leather goods made of deerskin, and various local treats including homemade ice cream and, of course, peaches. In Japan, the largest and finest-picked fruits get packaged like thoughtfully wrapped Christmas presents; they sit nestled in a white net and packaged in thick sturdy plastic with a pretty label taped to the side. We bought two enormous pink peaches, and two of a yellow, special variety.

On the drive back to her place in the early afternoon, families were already setting up their lawn chairs by the riverside to cinch front-row seats for the fireworks. We took an hour nap, then woke up to hang the laundry on the clothesline in front of the house. She set up a grill and chairs in the gravel yard and I chopped vegetables. Her cousin, Wakako, arrived and nervously asked if I speak any Japanese followed by a disclaimer that she doesn’t speak English. I was excited to practice my Japanese, since Kazumi-san and I had been speaking mostly in English. I did practice, a little, while we chopped vegetables and sat by the grill, flipping thin slices of juicy beef and eggplant, but mostly I felt shy and instead focused on listening.

As the sun set, teenagers zipped by on their bikes toward the river and a neighbor and his wife set out their lawn chairs. The fireworks were going to be at least a mile or two away and there was a house on the horizon, so I was skeptical we would see much. I was wrong. For two hours, flares took off like rocket ships and burst into enormous blooms of color, and sometimes even novel shapes, like a frog or a heart. Anytime I disappeared to use the bathroom or retrieve something from the kitchen, my plate magically filled up with more beef, more stew, more fruit. It was like a Hogwarts banquet or Mary Poppins’s bottomless purse. I would look up at Wakako-san and she’d side glance at me with a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

When it was time to say goodbye, Wakako-san handed us a parting gift of tickets to an onsen in the mountains overlooking all of Yamanashi Prefecture.

The next morning Kazumi-san took me to Oshino Hakkai, a park famous for its crystal blue ponds with views of Mt. Fuji. But first, we had chores and I felt familiar with how things flowed now. Kazumi-san had to don her mosquito net hat, long pants and boots to water the vegetable garden. I rolled my futon out of the middle of the room and hung the laundry out to dry. I felt folded into the rhythms of the house.

There was so much food left over from the barbecue that the whole day became an exercise in repurposing it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks…it all had to go! Kazumi-san made bread again, which we wrapped around little frozen sausages. Pigs in a blanket, technically, but it felt fancier with the homemade dough. Additionally, we ate pickles she'd made herself, cucumbers and eggplant buried in a tub of rice bran she stirs by hand every day. Which means, she has to carry the tub back and forth to Tokyo on her motorcycle. It cannot be skipped, she explained, the way one might explain watering their plants.

We had forgotten to eat the peaches, so we sliced them up and piled them on a plate. The yellow ones were extra juicy, gold liquid dripping off my fingers and oozing out the corners of my mouth. We also finished off the enormous grapes, which I learned was a variety invented only a year ago and bred, as far as I can tell, to taste like candy. Then, we spent the afternoon preparing for our grand adventure in Kamikochi.

I visit Japan for a variety of reasons. Because I like fresh seafood and clean public spaces and how when people walk by me on the street they smell like soap. It feels like being in The Sims, where it’s emulating real life but it isn’t exactly real. Or like diving into a fantasy novel where there is a sense of escapism, but not without its own trials and tribulations (read: language barriers and cultural differences). It’s different than what I’m used to and yet, very familiar and comforting to me.

But maybe most of all, what I seek is to feel like I belong, a sort of validation that I really am Japanese. A lot of the time, visiting Japan has the opposite effect on me. Most shop clerks switch to English at the sight of me; I fluster anytime I try to speak Japanese and the words just won’t come out or someone says something that I vaguely understand but can’t catch the nuances of; and I get told by people I meet that I look white and they could never have possibly imagined I was half Japanese (hilarious, considering that in the US my Japanese-ness is my differentiating trait). At Kazumi-san’s house, it felt comfortable and natural. I was in the Japanese countryside, I was doing Japanese things, and I was speaking mostly English and eating American-sized portions. I was able to experience that thing I’m often seeking but rarely achieve: to feel like me.

On the eve of Kamikochi, we used Wakako-san’s tickets. Looking out over the prefecture, devoid of tall skyscrapers or obstructions, Kazumi-san described it as a lacquer tray: the mountains like raised edges over the flat valley basin. We bathed outside, looking down into the basin at the lights, glittering like a tray of stars.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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This past week was an aperitif for my upcoming Eat Pray Love journey. Harry and I visited the high and dry mountains of Reno, a trip sandwiched between two weddings in Seattle.

It was my first time in Seattle since my grandmother passed away in 2020. As a girl, summers with her smelled like stale cigarettes. She’d make me tuna casserole and boxed yellow cake with chocolate frosting in between her smoke breaks. Her home was decked out in shag carpet and lime green linoleum. Photos of my two late uncles watched me from the mantlepiece and bookshelves of her lonely home. It wasn’t until I visited her in college and met up with classmates interning in the city that I realized how cool and fun the city can be. Which isn’t to say, of course, that visiting my grandma wasn’t fun. But on this trip, Seattle felt bright and vibrant, like something out of a magazine.

Reno was also picturesque. The downtown and casinos are reminiscent of a Hollywood set and are enclosed by a ring of mountains. We climb-climb-climbed the switchbacks in our friends’ old Mitsubishi until we crested the mountain and caught flashes of turquoise Tahoe on the other side. Outdoors people of all kinds are drawn to the area and on one outing, our speedometer read 60mph as a bicyclist zoomed down the center of our lane.

Lake Tahoe, for those who’ve never been, is a playground: all manner of water sports, snow sports in the winter, hiking, camping, cycling, you name it. Lucky for us, our friends are hardcore outdoor enthusiasts and had a treasure trove of toys to play with. On Day 1 we biked 5.6 miles along the lake to Sand Harbor Beach. Harry towed a kayak and paddle board, which we inflated at the beach.

The sun was hot and greedy, and there was no shade to be found on the bike path. The tropical-looking water was so enticing, I peeled off my merino wool shirt for a dunk. But the lake is a giant vat of snowmelt, so I very quickly turned blue-lipped and goose-fleshed. The better move was to paddle board with my legs dangling into the water on either side.

Day 2 was for hiking. My friend and I completed a 9.3 mile loop, stopping at the top of a mountain for a lunch break.

The best part of visiting Reno/Tahoe was spending time with one of my best friends, Cindy, and her partner Henry in their new home. They built a raised garden bed in the side yard using her old box spring, outfitted their garage with bikes, skis, and camping supplies, and had a string of photos depicting special life moments lining their staircase. It was so perfectly them. We stayed up late catching up over homemade (decaf) affogato ice cream and watching HouseHunters International. Harry and I left Reno with sunburns, severely chapped lips, and a bank full of memorable moments ranging from the stunning outdoors to chill moments with our friends.

The driving theme of the week was love. The first wedding we attended was between dear friends, and it was the first time I’d been close with both the bride and groom. In other words, my heart just about exploded! They married in his childhood backyard, on the shore of Lake Washington, to the tune of wind chimes and music played by family members.

The second wedding was my cousin's. The last time I saw her was also the last time I saw my grandma. This time, our family was gathered to celebrate. My cousin raised her daughter as a single mom and put herself through nursing school, and she's found a partner who supported her through it. He’s a calm and steady counterpart to her vivaciousness. I gave my first-ever wedding speech, which I so enjoyed writing and delivering. Is there a job where one can write and give wedding speeches? Put me in, coach!

My cousin grew teary-eyed and I called her out in front of all the guests: “You can make eye contact with me, it’s okay!” I wanted to make sure the moment lasted, that we remembered it.

After 5 flights, 2 weddings, 9 days of traveling, a sleep debt I’m still paying off, and countless memories with some of my closest friends and relatives, I've finally made it to Japan, where my solo trip begins. I'll be here for 28 days, visiting relatives and solo hiking in the Japanese Alps.

I've messaged all of my talent agents that I'm on a two-month sabbatical for personal business. I can’t articulate what that business, is exactly, but it has something to do with regaining a sense of agency. The realization came to me when I started packing and felt overwhelmed at the notion of being by myself for two months. It’s been over a decade since I’ve last done anything like this. I’m looking forward to the discomfort as much as I am the exciting, fun part of traveling. Not so much a mid-life crisis, I’d like to think, than an Eat Pray Love journey.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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My Temporary Address is going international this summer! The main theme: hiking.

In preparation for a 100-mile trek along the Chemin du Puy (shuh-man-dew-pwee) in France this September, I’ll be training in various locations across the US and Japan. I’ve created a sub-section of my blog called “Ashioto | Footsteps,” where I’ll be writing about my hiking adventures, and which you’ll automatically receive if you’re already subscribed to My Temporary Address.

Why France

The inspiration to hike in France is my oldest brother Ken. He decided to take a sabbatical and hike 1,000 miles from Spain to France, prompting my mother and me to independently ask if we could tag along. We realized, funnily enough, that the three of us had never traveled together. Over the years, my parents, two brothers, and I have mixed and matched for various family trips, but this particular combo of three had never united. We agreed to meet up for a roughly 100-mile portion of the trail and started exchanging notes about gear and research.

I visited my hometown in Northern Virginia this past month, which was perfect timing so that the three of us could train together and test out gear.

Gear Testing

The Chemin du Puy offers what might be described as the hiking equivalent of glamping. Because the trail winds through historic villages, we’ll have daily access to meals, water fountains, and beds. We can even arrange to have luggage forwarded ahead to our next stop each morning, enabling us to carry only a daypack with essentials. As such, my primary piece of gear is a 12-liter running vest to hold a rain jacket, lunch, and hat.

Even with the luggage-forwarding service, the local postal vans have strict weight limits. And since I want the flexibility to carry all my own gear on certain days, I’ll be packing light. Every piece of clothing should be easy to sink-wash and dry overnight, so I’ve elected a pair of synthetic running shorts and a merino-wool shirt as my trail uniform.

Merino wool has been the star of our gear-testing phase. It feels light on the skin and is designed to protect from the sun; it’s a great way to cut down on greasy, heavy sunscreen. The three of us were surprised how nice it felt, even in oppressive humidity. Merino wool also doesn’t cling to odors and dries quickly, making it an excellent material for thru-hiking.

The other star piece of gear is my water bladder, which allows for hands-free water consumption on the trail. It’s designed so that I just have to bite on the mouthpiece and water comes out. I used to have a big old water bottle in the side of my backpack and I was constantly contorting my arm to access it. No more!

The gear that’s been most challenging for me is underwear and sports bras. I hate when the former tends to ride up and when the latter has a constricting band around the rib cage. Sizing up in sports bras often means encountering gaping in the cup size. It’s so difficult to find just the right one. For now I am using the Patagonia Live Simply bra, which is paper thin and will be easy to hand wash and dry on the trail. It’s still a little tight for me, but I admit that my personal preference is looser than most.

I’m allowing myself one “luxury item” on the trail, and that is my point-and-shoot camera. The pockets of my running vest are just stretchy enough to fit it. I’ve loved using an actual camera lately; each photo feels more intentional when I have to twist all the knobs and adjust the settings, versus when I use my phone to mindlessly click several photos at once. I’m still learning how to manipulate the camera depending on environment and lighting, which has proven to be a fun side project.

Practice Miles

Ken and my mom found a hilly 6.8-mile wooded trail to start us out on. We were in the midst of a heatwave, so we started early at 6:30am and luckily the trail was fully shaded. My mom is very fit, so I wasn’t worried about her endurance even though she is 72 years old. I was more concerned, however, by sections that require balance, such as climbing up scree and crossing streams. Indeed, there were a few precarious sections, so she decided to prioritize a set of hiking poles for our next outing.

We met one week later for a second hike on the same trail, except this time we added about a mile and a half. My mom brought her hiking poles and she reported feeling much more stable with them on steep climbs and across passages that required balance. Even though it was only a little further than the first hike, this one felt much more tiring for me. The humidity made my skin slick with sweat and the tacked-on mile added several steep hills that exhausted my quads and calves.

A surprising fact the three of us learned, thanks to an informative REI staff member, was that our feet tend to swell as we hike. We purchased hiking shoes half a size bigger than usual, a bit skeptical that our feet would really swell the full half-size. But sure enough, they did. How silly of us to ever doubt REI! On the second hike, my right foot felt so big I thought I might need even another half size bigger. Turns out, my laces needed to be tighter around my ankle to lock the heel in more securely. Problem solved. This is why we test-run our gear!

Coming Up

I’m back in North Carolina for two weeks, which means I will have to develop my own training regimen. Ken and my mom, meanwhile, will continue training together in Virginia. We’re building up to about 12 miles a day and I want to improve my stamina.

There aren’t a lot of trails where I’m staying, so I’m focusing on at-home cardio and weight-lifting workouts. Plus I plan to do one long hike on the beach each week. It’s flatter than the French terrain we’ll be hiking, but I figure the sand will add an element of conditioning.

My next destinations are Seattle and Reno, where I plan to squeeze a few hikes in between two weddings. Japan is after that! I have some really fun hiking locations lined up between now and France, including a Lake Tahoe escapade and a trek to a 100-year-old mountain hut in the Japanese alps.

I’m so excited to go on this journey and take you all with me!

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

Subscribe now

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