The trip wasn’t planned. On Christmas Eve, Lea and I were at home watching videos of Christmas markets in Europe, feeling a kind of restlessness. Taiwan doesn’t really participate in that version of the holiday, and it felt like we were missing something. We started looking at flights to nearby cities, mostly out of curiosity. Somewhere in the middle of that, Lea paused and suggested Vietnam.

We had been meaning to visit her brother (who lives there) for a while, but the timing had never worked. That night, it suddenly did. We texted Lea’s brother to check on his schedule. When he confirmed that he’ll be around for New Year, we booked our flight immediately. Leaving in 4 days.

The moment we landed in Hanoi, something felt familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it at first. Then I realized the city reminded me of Shanghai twenty years ago, when my family first moved there. The air was foggy from pollution, the airport chaotic, and people were finding ways to cut the line, stepping forward whenever they saw an opening. It should have been frustrating, but it wasn’t. I found it oddly enjoyable in a funny way, maybe because it brought back memories from my teenage years in Shanghai. There was a feeling that things were about to take off in this city.

We were greeted by a local driver Lea’s brother had arranged for us. Without a shared language, we stood by the street while he went to bring the car around. On the drive into the city, everything felt packed. Mopeds filled every possible gap between cars, vendors lined the streets selling everything from food to spare car parts, and the sound of honking never stopped. At first it felt aggressive, but it quickly became clear that it wasn’t meant that way. Honking here is like saying, “hey, I’m here, let me pass.”

When we arrived at Lea’s brother’s place, he asked if we wanted to rest for a bit before heading out. We responded almost in sync, “No!” We were already too curious, too awake.

Our first stop was the Old Quarter. Within minutes, Lea and I found ourselves completely stuck at the edge of a road, unable to cross. Traffic was rushing in all directions, and no one was slowing down for us. Her brother had already made it across and turned back to explain what we were doing wrong. Waiting, he told us, doesn’t work here. You have to commit to crossing, move at a steady pace and trust that everything will flow around you. The real danger is hesitation.

It felt counterintuitive, but once we stepped into the street and kept moving, the traffic magically adjusted just enough for us to get through. Like a boat passing through water.

The Old Quarter is difficult to describe because everything seems to be stacking on top of each other. Shops selling decorations sit next to coffee stands, then street food vendors, then bars pushing out into the street. There are tourists, locals, music, neon lights, and older buildings that carry traces of French influence in their facades and in the bakeries that still sell baguettes and croissants. Nothing feels separated or organized.

That first night, of course, turned into an endless sequence of food. We started with a couple of dishes so we could keep eating later, and even that would have been enough.

After that, we walked through the streets and kept moving without much of a plan. There was so much happening that it was hard to know where to look. Every few steps, something else pulled our attention away. A street performance, then a row of antique shops, then food again, then a Western café, then racks of fake clothing spreading onto the sidewalk. It never really paused.

At some point, Lea’s brother handed me a cup of egg coffee, something I had been curious about since we booked the trip. It was rich, sweet, and slightly strange, but it made sense once you knew it came from a time when milk was scarce. Not something I would drink every day, but something I was glad to try exactly once, there.

We passed through a narrow street packed with bars, people holding drinks, music carrying into the crowd. Lea’s brother and his friend ordered a flight of tequila shots that I immediately knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up with. They finished them with ease while Lea and I stayed with our drinks, watching everything around us. Another round of drinks later, we stood up and went looking for food again.

We eventually sat down on small plastic stools for bun cha, which I hadn’t heard of before this trip. It’s a dish of grilled pork served with a light broth, fresh herbs, and vermicelli noodles that you assemble bite by bite. The tables were low, the stools even lower, and everything felt somewhat improvised. It wasn’t exactly the cleanest setup, but you stop looking too closely. It’s clean as long as you don’t see it.

When the food arrived, the hesitation was gone. The flavors were bright and layered, simple but deeply satisfying. I had arrived in Hanoi thinking I would eat as much pho as possible, but at that point I had changed my mind. Bun cha was officially taking over.

As we took a Grab back to Lea’s brother’s place, I felt more than full, in a good way. Sitting in the car, it hit me that Hanoi felt like a completely different dimension.

The following day, we had a short list of things we wanted to do before leaving Hanoi. Proper pho, bun cha again, a Vietnamese hair wash, and a massage.

The pho came first. The place was so crowded we were squeezed into a shared table with strangers, the floor slightly sticky under our feet. I ordered the most basic bowl on the menu, but it was not basic at all. The broth was lighter and more fragrant than what I was used to. I saw everyone adding spoonfuls of raw garlic slices to the broth, so I did too, and they were right, it brought out the flavor even more. The pho tasted fresher and more effortless than any of the pho I’ve had.

The hair wash was less straightforward. It was a tiny shop five minutes away from the pho place. We were greeted by two ladies who were expecting us, Lea’s brother had already made a reservation. They guided us to our seats, and what happened next was completely out of my imagination. The seats looked like any regular salon chair, but they brought out large cushioned boards to bridge the chair and the front platform, then moved our legs onto them. After that, they reclined the chair until it became a bed.

They started by washing our feet, and then everything shifted into something I can only describe as a sequence of unfamiliar rituals. My eyes were covered, so I couldn’t see what was happening, only feel it. It ranged from wiping my face, to applying different creams, to quick finger flicks across my skin, followed by arm and leg massages, and eventually an extensive ear cleaning session with what felt like at least five different metal tools. I stopped trying to understand it and just let it happen.

Lea, on the other hand, sounded increasingly overwhelmed next to me. From what I could hear, she kept politely saying no. I think her masseuse gave up and just focused on giving her a long head massage. Somehow, despite everything, we both walked out feeling completely refreshed.

That evening, we went back to the Old Quarter again, this time moving more slowly. We wandered through shops, stopped at a rooftop café, and watched the city from above. From up there, the energy felt different. Still constant, but easier to take in. I finally had a moment to sit with everything from the past two days.

The city felt dense, layered, sometimes overwhelming, and not always comfortable, but it’s one of the most vibrant and alive places I’ve experienced.

By 9pm, we still weren’t ready to end the night, so we went for a full body massage. Two hours cost less than one back home, so we didn’t think twice.

We were heading to Sapa the next day, and I had a feeling the pace of everything was about to change.

St Joseph’s Cathedral, Hanoi

Two weeks ago I was focused almost entirely on Stone Soup. I was working on packaging, preparing the first teas, and trying to close the last loose ends. Tea had always been the heart of the project, but at that moment my attention was mostly on the mechanics of building the brand around it.

Then Chinese New Year arrived, and during the holiday I sent a message to my tea teacher, to wish her good fortune for the new year. It’s a traditional custom and I didn’t expect much beyond a polite reply. Instead she responded warmly and told me she had been thinking about me. Last year I had attended two short seasons of her weekend classes, maybe six classes in total. After that my schedule became crowded with Stone Soup and travel, and the classes gradually fell away. We stayed loosely in touch, but nothing serious. After exchanging messages we decided to meet at her house on Yangmingshan.

That afternoon Lea and I drove up the mountain. It was one of those rare winter days when the sun appears and everything feels unusually clear. We walked down the stone steps that lead to the garden behind the house, remembering the path from our first visit the year before. When we reached the bottom we saw my teacher sitting on the grass with her eyes closed, sunbathing, and next to her sat a younger woman doing the same. We didn’t want to interrupt, so we wandered around the garden until they finished. Eventually she opened her eyes, noticed us, and greeted us with a huge grin. The younger woman turned out to be one of her students visiting from Kyoto.

She suggested we brew tea outside, so we carried the tea tables and sets into the garden. Under the winter sun it felt like the perfect place to drink tea. We started talking about life. She told us about the many projects she had going on, which always seems to be the case. Lea shared about her work and about the space we recently opened where people can visit us by appointment. Then she turned to me and asked how I had been.

I had been anticipating that question.

For months I had debated whether I should tell her about Stone Soup. Earlier last year I wasn’t completely certain about my direction, or how committed I truly was to tea, so I had kept that part of my life mostly to myself. But that afternoon I decided to say it.

I told her that I had spent a long time thinking about what I wanted to do with my life and that I had decided to pursue tea seriously. I explained that I hoped to introduce Taiwanese wild tea to people in the United States.

She listened carefully, and then to my surprise she became excited. Instead of questioning the idea she began imagining what might be possible in the future. The conversation stretched through the afternoon, continued during the drive down the mountain, and even carried on when we stopped at a café in Taipei. Somewhere during that long conversation she mentioned that two trainees from Tokyo had come to Taiwan for intensive training. They would soon be working at her new tea house opening in Tokyo. Then she asked if I wanted to join their training.

I said yes immediately.

And that was how, quite suddenly, I found myself working inside a tea house.

The funny thing is that last summer, when Lea and I visited tea shops in New York and Paris as part of our research, I told her that I never wanted to run a tea shop. Everyone behind the counter looked bored, which made it seem like the dullest job imaginable.

But once I started working inside a tea house, my perspective changed. All my life I’ve only worked office jobs. I had never waited tables or worked in retail, and sometimes I felt like I had missed out on that experience when I was younger. Now suddenly I was welcoming guests, guiding them through teas, brewing for them, and talking with strangers. And to my surprise, I loved it.

There is something special about a tea house. People who walk through the door already share at least one interest: tea. It becomes a natural way to connect with someone you have never met before.

The learning process, however, has been humbling.

There have been several moments when I accidentally poured too much boiling water into the pot and burned my fingers but still had to continue pouring as if nothing had happened. Whenever that occurs I hear my teacher’s voice in my head saying “yào nài tàng!” You must endure the heat. I suspect that may become my motto for the year.

Other mishaps followed. Once the lid of the teapot slipped and fell directly into a guest’s cup during the pour. Another time I forgot to empty the tea pitcher before starting the next infusion. There was also the day I confidently brought the wrong tea to the table.

At the moment, I am quite terrible at all of this.

I trained alongside two trainees from Japan. We didn’t share a common language. They spoke very little English and I speak no Japanese, but somehow we still became close. Every morning training began at ten, and our teacher examined every movement with incredible attention: how many fingers should hold the lid, how to lift the pot, the angle of the pour. In the afternoons we would serve guests at the tea house until evening.

We ate lunch together every day and often dinner as well. We made mistakes together and laughed about them.

One cultural misunderstanding still makes me smile. During lunch I offered them more rice. When I asked if they wanted more they both said “Ok!” so I happily served large portions. Later my teacher explained that when Japanese people say “Ok!” in that situation, it often means no. That explained the slightly alarmed expressions as they politely forced themselves to finish the rice I had served.

Despite the language barrier, we looked after each other. When someone seemed like they hadn’t had enough water during a busy afternoon, another person would pour them a glass. We would compete to wash the dishes so the others wouldn’t have to. On the last day, one of them gave me a book about tea and flowers as a gift. It’s entirely in Japanese, so I can’t read it yet, but the gesture meant a lot.

Of course, there were difficult moments too.

The most difficult moment happened near the end of training when two of my teacher’s friends came into the tea house shortly before closing. I assumed they had come to visit her, but they sat down and said they were there for tea. We had met before, so I joked with them while bringing out the tea set and menu. They ordered a wild high mountain oolong and I told them I would brew the first infusion while they could brew the rest themselves. Before starting I mentioned that I welcomed feedback since I was still learning.

They took that invitation very seriously.

Every step I made came with commentary.

Don’t brew while standing. You’re pouring too fast. You took too long opening the lid. The water isn’t hot enough. Empty the bowl before pouring the next infusion.

They weren’t being unkind. They were simply observing and giving feedback. Still, by the end of the session I felt painfully incompetent. Ten days of training and I was still making basic mistakes. For a moment I wanted to blame the teapot, the water temperature, even the tea leaves, but the truth was obvious. The problem was me.

Then I reminded myself that ten days is nothing. If I truly want to do this, what I need isn’t ten days of practice but a thousand times more.

For now I’m simply grateful that the door opened, and I intend to keep walking through it.

When I first started this journey, I didn’t have a rigid business plan or a five-year strategy. I simply followed an intuition that felt both distant and incredibly magnetic. I just felt pulled toward it.

Recently, as I’ve gone deeper into the process, that question came back. Not as a crisis - just a little nudge. Am I chasing something unrealistic? Or is this actually where I’m meant to be?

I don’t always have neat answers. I tend to find my insights in meditation, when I settle enough to let thoughts rise to the surface - thoughts that seem to arrive from somewhere far beyond my own limited understanding.

This week, one thought in particular stayed with me.

For a while, I’ve been worried that my tea isn’t “loud” enough. In a world of high-impact flavors and engineered intensity, wild tea can feel understated. I used to worry that people might mistake its transparency for a lack of character, and I felt a need to defend its subtlety.

But I’ve started to look at it differently.

The reality is, wild tea doesn’t perform for you. It hasn’t been genetically modified to hit a specific “flavor profile” or mimic a floral perfume. It is a direct snapshot of a specific mountain, a specific rainfall, and a specific year. It is honest. To appreciate it, you don’t need to be an expert; you just need to tune your senses to a different frequency. Feeling the energy of that connection requires a willingness to drop the noise and actually listen.

I’m realizing I’m not building this for a specific demographic or an aesthetic trend. I’m looking for someone I’m calling “Human 2.0” in my head.

I don’t mean the sci-fi version of this term - I’m not talking about microchips or bio-hacking. To me, Human 2.0 is an internal evolution. It’s for the people who embrace the speed of the modern world but refuse to let their sensory hardware be dulled by the noise. They are upgrading their ability to perceive nuance. They recognize that in an era of over-stimulation, the most radical thing you can do is maintain a taste for the subtle.

Perhaps my role isn't just "selling tea." Perhaps this tea is a medium for this evolution. It is a tool for honing our discernment - for the land, for the shifts in our own bodies, and for the nuance we usually overlook when we’re moving too fast. It’s about meeting the world halfway

I’m becoming more at peace with the fact that this won’t resonate with everyone. That doesn’t mean the tea is lacking - it means the connection is specific. I’m building a space, currently in my corner of Taipei and eventually (hopefully) in NY, for people who are curious about that specific frequency.

I’m still figuring out what that really means, and I don’t have a deadline for the answer. But this is where my thoughts have been this week.

If any of this resonates, I’d love to hear your take on it.

I’m confident in my tea, but I needed packaging that actually does it justice. If I’m being honest, I was hitting a wall. I was tired of staring at abstract ideas on a screen and needed to actually hold something in my hand. I decided to make packaging my entire personality until I got it right.

A Drive to Banqiao

My search for the perfect packaging paper started with a UK craft paper company that ignored me for a month. Eventually, they punted my email to Hong Kong, who sent it to Taiwan, who finally pointed me toward a packaging shop in Banqiao.

I don’t love driving to Banqiao. The traffic is aggressive and street parking is impossible. After spiraling five levels into an underground parking garage and hiking back to the surface, I realized the address I had was wrong. By the time I found the actual shop, I was ready to call the whole thing off.

Then I met Mr. Lin and his daughter, Rou.

It’s a tiny family business. Most suppliers I’ve talked to give me the “come back when you’re ordering ten thousand units” look, but the Lins were different. Maybe it was the shared last name, but they spent three hours with me. They turned it into a Masterclass. We talked about folding angles, “spring-back” tension, and why some flaps stay tucked while others rebel. It’s a rare joy to find someone who treats your tiny project like it’s the most important thing on their work desk.

The Geometry of Tea

Back at home, I realized that if I didn’t master the technical side myself, I’d always be slightly lost. So, I opened Adobe Illustrator and began a very humbling journey into “Dielines for Beginners.”

With the help of YouTube tutorials, a red envelope I found as reference, and some coaching from Lea, I started drawing. I went through a dozen variations: Logo on the front vs. the back, 1x1cm or 1.5x1.5cm monogram, to flap or not to flap.

I took my first file to a tiny print shop tucked away in the mountains near our house. I’d lived here for almost a year and never even noticed it. The owner’s father tried to help me but the file defeated him; eventually, his daughter had to take over, looking at me with a “why are you here?” expression. But she managed to print it for me.

The first prototypes were horrible. The font was too big and ugly, the color didn’t feel right, and the vibe was “middle school art project” rather than “refined tea experience.”

Naturally, I blamed the paper.

The 50 Shades of Grey

The next day, I went hunting for the perfect grey paper at a specialty paper shop in Taipei. It turns out “grey” is a minefield. Some were too cold and clinical; others were so dark they swallowed the ink whole. I needed something sturdy enough for an embossed stamp but soft enough to have flexibility.

I ended up with a few contenders, including a beautiful sheet made from recycled tea leaves. It felt like a sign.

I rushed home, adjusted the layout, and printed again.

Round two looked much better. The texts finally had some room to breathe against a backdrop that didn’t look like a mistake. But then, I ran into the Pillow Problem.

The Pillow Problem

Tea has a mind of its own. It has weight and, more importantly, volume. When I tucked the tea pouch into the envelope, it puffed out like a pillowcase two sizes too small. The sleek, flat look I wanted was gone, replaced by a bloated paper bag.

I spent the next few days aggressively studying every envelope I could find. I finally discovered the secret: “Gussets.” I needed tiny 0.5 cm folds on the sides to give the paper room to breathe.

By then, it was almost Lunar New Year and the city was shutting down. I found a shop thirty minutes away that was still open at 8:45 pm on a Friday. The owner looked at me like I was causing him physical pain. He printed my sheet, charged me 10 NTD (about 30 cents), and ushered me out the door so he could go home. I’m starting to think a certain level of irritation is a job requirement for running a print shop.

Back at the house, while Lea was finally relaxing after a long week, I went to work with my exacto knife.

This version was definitely an improvement. The front stayed flat, the sides didn’t bulge, and the tea fit inside without ruining the structure. It finally looked closer to a finished envelope rather than a raw prototype.

I showed it to Lea, hoping for a shred of encouragement. She looked at it for a second and said, “It looks nice.”

I played it cool and told her I didn’t think it was that amazing, but I was absolutely high-fiving myself on the inside.

We aren’t at the finish line yet. I still have to figure out how to make these without spending two hours hand-cutting five envelopes, and many other things, but for tonight, I’ll take the win.

I’m just sitting here in the silence, trying to process if what I just saw was actually real.

Earlier today, the morning felt almost too perfect. We woke up at our beachside campsite in Kona, made breakfast, and walked straight into the water for a swim. Later, we had our first real poke bowl, bought cookies from a local shop, and drank Kona coffee in the afternoon heat. We spent a few hours snorkeling, watching schools of tiny, bright fish drift past us like confetti. It was one of those days that already feels complete by 4:00 PM.

We had no idea it was only the beginning.

By evening, we were driving toward our campsite in the southern part of the island. The landscape had shifted into a vast field of hardened lava, and I was driving painfully slowly. This was my first time behind the wheel of a camper van this size, and I was still figuring out how much space I actually took up on the road.

The night before, I had accidentally bumped into a beach park sign and had to explain myself to a ranger. He was serious. He took my ID and interrogated me for ten minutes. It sent a shock wave through our arrival; one minute we were chilling by the beach, and the next I was terrified I’d ruined the whole trip. Lea comforted me and told me it would be okay, but ever since, I had been driving extra careful.

On our way south, a long line of cars piled up behind me. The locals were getting really mad because I was causing a traffic line by driving way below the average speed. I pulled up to the side several times to let them pass. I felt bad, but I wasn’t about to risk our lives or another incident.

When we finally arrived at the campsite, our friends Ingmar and Tina were already there. As I started driving toward them, Ingmar suddenly ran toward our van, waving his arms.

“Don’t come down here,” he shouted. “I’m stuck!”

His front wheels were halfway inside the lava rocks and he was struggling to back out. We parked and went to help. Thankfully, our host’s neighbor was home and came over to help guide Ingmar out. His name was Yes. And yes, that was actually his name.

Just as we were finally pulling free, Yes got a phone call. He listened for a second and then looked at us.

“The volcano is erupting,” he said, sounding completely nonchalant. “Right now. At the national park.”

We all froze.

“Wait, what?” we exclaimed at the same time.

“About an hour and fifteen minutes away,” Yes added. “If you go now, you might catch it.”

We walked back to our campsite to regroup. It was 6:00 PM and the sky was getting dark. Lea leaned over and whispered to me for the fifth time, “Can we pleaseeee go?” When Ingmar walked over and asked, “So… what do you think?” we didn’t even hesitate.

“Let’s go!”

Lea was so exhilarated she sprinted back into the van. We decided we should take turns to shower quickly since there might not be facilities at the park. Without even pretending to be polite or asking if anyone else wanted to go first, Lea grabbed her face wash and took a five-minute shower at the shared bathroom. She returned to the van and started pacing back and forth in the tiny space between our cupboards.

Three years ago, we had watched Fire of Love, the documentary about volcanologists who devoted their lives to studying eruptions. Since then, seeing a live eruption had been one of her biggest dreams. It was the reason we came to the Big Island. And it was happening right now.

“I wish I could just fly there right now,” she kept saying. “I wish I could fly!”

We left in complete darkness. No streetlights, no landmarks, just a single road cutting through the middle of a lava grassland. It felt like we were driving across the surface of a prehistoric moon. The drive felt longer than it was, mostly because I was still driving too slowly.

As we approached the park, Lea spotted a huge, bright orange puff in the sky. She started screaming. To vent the energy, she cranked up the music. Somehow we were on an intense techno playlist, and it worked perfectly - a camper van vibrating with heavy bass, pushing through a pitch-black landscape, chasing a glow on the horizon.

By the time we reached the park, the air had turned cold. We grabbed our beach chairs, strapped them to our backs, and started “walk-running” toward the overlook. We didn’t even wait for Ingmar, Tina, and Haru (their dog they brought all the way from New York). I’m not going to lie - at this point, I was just as excited as Lea. Heat was building up inside me from the adrenaline and the actual warmth the volcano was emitting.

When we reached the rim, the world opened up. What we saw felt unreal.

Lava was erupting energetically out toward the sky and flowing down into a glowing river. In the center of the crater, the lava river looked like a city of fire from afar. The eruption was so bright it was impossible to capture with a camera due to the high contrast against the 9:00 PM sky.

We set up our chairs and just watched in awe. I felt this irresistibly strong energy speaking to me. It was like this grand, bright power drawing you in, telling you that nothing in the world matters other than this experience right now. The past, the future - it all vanished. There was only this.

I couldn’t turn my eyes away from the fire. But when I finally looked up, I saw the entire solar system right above us, so bright and vivid. It was exactly like that night in the Atacama Desert two years ago - an experience we thought would never be repeated. But here it was again, on top of a volcano.

We stayed for about 30 minutes. We joked around and took photos, and Ingmar mocked Lea for her horrible photography skills. We were feeling satisfied and started walking back, but then we noticed a small entrance to the left of the path. People were coming out with wide eyes and cameras in their hands.

“What’s in there?” I asked one guy.

“The volcano!” he said. I told him we’d just seen it, but he didn’t even think twice. He said imperatively, “You HAVE to go!”

We decided to check it out, even though Tina was already falling asleep on her feet and Haru was totally ready for bed. Not even two minutes later, the entire valley emerged in front of us. This angle was even better. You could see the whole volcano plus the entire valley beneath it.

You could hear it growling. It felt intensely alive. It’s an exhilarating mix of danger and excitement. You never knew if you were supposed to fully enjoy it or if you were being incredibly stupid for standing there. My heart was racing even though my hands were freezing.

Then the eruption began to slow. The lava grew fainter and fainter until it stopped flowing. The volcano made a loud, heavy sound. All the tourists and kids who had been chatting went silent.

I watched intently. Was it about to erupt again? Why was it making that huge, angry sound? Were we in danger? Could we actually die from this?

But eventually, it died down.

It was like the closing of a beautiful musical, and the main actress took a graceful bow. It was such a complete performance. We hadn’t just caught the eruption. We saw the ending too.

On the walk back to the van, I didn’t say a word for ten minutes. I couldn’t process what I’d just seen. We ended up staying at an unbooked campsite inside the park, found an empty spot for both vans, and finally called it a day.

I spent my morning worried about a dented sign and a speed limit. I spent the night watching the earth create itself.

It’s 2:26 AM now, and I should really sleep.

I don’t think I will ever forget that growl.

It was getting windy as I approached Qingtiangang. I never get tired of this drive. At one bend the clear green grass opens out over the Taipei mountains, a vastness that makes it hard to believe home is only fifteen minutes away.

Today was the day Stone Soup began to take a shape I could actually see.

I had a call with the designer I’ve been working with since summer. For months, this project has lived in a space of references, voice notes, and abstract ideas. Today, I saw the first visual direction. The designer asked how it felt, and I realized I didn’t have a language for it yet. I nodded, watching the lag in the video where my face arrived after my voice, as if there was a small distance between me and the project.

Up until now, it was a shape without edges. Seeing it for the first time felt strange. It was like finally meeting someone in person after only knowing them through messages. There was the name, Stone Soup, spelled out on paper in a font I hadn’t chosen, but that suddenly felt like it belonged to me.

For the first time, I could actually picture it existing outside of my head. On a shelf. In someone’s hands. Being passed around. Me showing up for it, day after day.

I expected to feel a rush of excitement. Instead, I felt something heavier than excitement. It’s a strange tension, being both energized and unsettled at the same time.

It’s the weight of realizing that this is no longer just a private thought. If I keep going, I’ll eventually have to stand behind it. People will see it. By extension, they’ll see me, and the gap between what I hope for and what I can actually build. I can’t hide behind potential anymore.

Lately, the work has been less about tea and more about structures. Making decisions before I feel ready. Explaining a vision to people who can’t see it yet, sometimes to people who care about me and secretly wonder if I can really pull this off.

I don’t blame them. I wonder too.

My arms are tired from typing and my eyes need a break from the screen. That’s why I drove up here. I don’t need Stone Soup to be a grand thing, but I want to make sure it’s something made with care.

I’m sharing some small fragments at @stonesouptea.

When will something start to feel like it’s working? When will the effort stop feeling like it’s disappearing into thin air? For a while, I attributed this anxiety to a lack of patience. I told myself I just needed to get better at “delayed gratification.”

But I’ve realized that delayed gratification isn’t the problem. I don’t mind the wait. What I struggle with is the uncertainty.

The real challenge isn’t waiting for a payoff; it’s continuing to do the work when you don’t know where it leads. It’s moving forward without the comfort of reassurance.

Uncertainty used to paralyze me. I needed clarity, direction, and a solid outcome to hold onto before I could justify the effort. I’m not perfect at managing it now, but I am getting better. I’ve started to see that doubt isn’t a personal flaw - it’s more like a weather pattern. You can’t stop it from raining, but you can stop expecting the rain to mean the world is ending. It’s a temporary state, not a permanent verdict.

What has changed is that doubt no longer stops me the way it used to. It’s still there, but it has lost a bit of its power.

Since I stepped away from my job, I’ve kept a safety net in the back of my mind: If this doesn’t work, I can always go back. I told myself this to stay calm. But recently, a different thought surfaced.

For the first time, the “plan B” wasn’t just about returning to what I knew out of defeat. It was the realization that if this specific project fails, I would rather try to build something else than simply retreat. Not out of panic, but out of possibility. If this fails, I don’t necessarily want to go back to the way things were - I want the chance to try again.

It surprised me how comforting that felt.

I’m not claiming a destination yet. I don’t know what this makes me. But I’ve noticed that I just like building things. I like starting from nothing and figuring it out as I go. I used to think that impulse was impractical, reserved for people with massive safety nets or a very specific kind of confidence. I never thought of it as something you could simply choose.

But you can. Some people self-fund. Some raise money. Some fail and start over. None of it is guaranteed, and it never was.

I don’t know if this specific path will work. But I know I’m willing to keep trying - and that feels new.

It was still dark. The outside of my sleeping bag was damp - condensation or something else, I couldn’t tell. I lay there for a while, listening. Later, Ratna told us it wasn’t thunder. It was an avalanche. He said in a few years, this camp will be buried. They’ll build a new one somewhere else. It’s always been that way here.

I got up at five and stepped outside. The sky was a wall of white. Snow falling, fog everywhere, visibility maybe ten feet. I stood there for a minute, then went back in.

At breakfast, everyone looked disappointed but was trying not to show it. We joked about the garlic soup and how it had turned us all into gas machines the night before.

Then someone noticed light coming through the window.

We rushed outside. The clouds had cracked open, and there it was - Annapurna, in full view. Snow peaks lit by early sun, closer and more massive than I’d imagined. For a few minutes, no one said anything. We just stood there, cameras out, knowing it wouldn’t last.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all we got. Then the clouds closed again, and Ratna called us over. It was time to go.

Ratna asked us to put on crampons for the descent. The snow had been heavy overnight, and the trail would be dangerous without traction.

But we didn’t have any. No one had given us crampons.

Ratna disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back, he was carrying gear - his own crampons, and Raj’s, and the two porters’. Four pairs total. There were nine of us.

So we split them - one crampon per person, one foot each. Eight of us got one. Ingmar volunteered to go without.

We strapped in and started down.

Binod led. He was always a machine on the trail, but today he was more locked in than I’d ever seen him - focused, relentless, no breaks, no check-ins. He moved fast down the icy rocks, and we scrambled to keep up. After a while, we stopped trying to match his pace. Let him fly. We’d find our own way down.

The snow reflected so much light everything blurred white. My legs moved on autopilot. I stopped thinking about anything except the next step.

We made it to MBC, then kept pushing toward Deurali. Somewhere along the way, we passed Himalaya Café - a tiny coffee stand we’d noticed on the way up. It had an actual espresso machine. A barista who could pour latte art. At this altitude, it felt absurd. We insisted on stopping.

Ratna wasn’t thrilled. We were already behind schedule. But we needed this.

The coffee was perfect. We stood there for a few minutes, pretending we were normal people in a normal place. Then we kept moving.

And then the rain came.

It started as drizzle. Within minutes, it was a downpour - heavy sheets of rain that soaked through everything. We stopped to pull on rain gear, but it barely helped. The trail turned into rivers of mud and slick rock.

No one was talking anymore. No jokes, no complaining, no music. All we could do was keep moving and try not to fall.

I’d felt a cold coming on since the morning, and now it was getting worse. My throat burned. My nose wouldn’t stop running. I was soaked from rain and sweat at the same time.

We reached Dovan for lunch, drenched and shivering. They’d pre-ordered egg noodle soup for everyone. We sat in the dining hall with the porters, too wet to go outside, spooning hot broth and saying nothing.

Joya lent me her rain pants so I could change into something dry. Eunice gave Victor her back-up raincoat. Small kindnesses passed around without discussion.

After lunch, Ratna told us what was next: a 45-minute climb, all stairs. Followed by 1.5 hrs of descent.

I knew I shouldn’t take off my long-sleeve layer, but I was sweating through my cold and did it anyway. My body was fighting itself.

The stairs were brutal. I could see Binod at the top, disappearing over the ridge. The rest of us were scattered across the hillside, each person in their own world, rain still coming down, legs burning. One step, then another. It didn’t matter who reached the top first. Just that we all made it.

Somewhere on the descent, Joya tore a muscle in her inner thigh. Raj had her arm over his shoulder, bearing most of her weight. Rey, still sick, pushed through without complaint. I felt like I was floating - like my legs were dragging my body forward and my mind had checked out. My cold had fully set in. I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the rain or from fever.

When we finally reached Lower Sinuwa, it was almost dark. 11 hours. 22 kilometers. 45,000 steps.

Even the guides collapsed when they arrived. Ratna said he’d never done this trail in weather this bad.

We dropped into plastic chairs. The tea house we’d thought was basic two days ago now looked like heaven. A few of us sprinted for the showers, trying to beat the auntie group to the hot water. When it was my turn, I stayed longer than I should have. The heat felt like medicine.

That night, I slept without waking once. Not even to pee. That never happens.

The last day was gentler.

We woke at six, packed slowly, ate breakfast like a routine we’d been doing for years. Everyone knew who ordered the French toast, who got the porridge, who was sharing the Shin Ramen. No one had to ask.

The final hike passed without drama. It rained a little on the way down, but nothing like yesterday.

Then came the last challenge: a suspension bridge stretched across the valley, long enough that I couldn't see the other side. Beyond it - a road, vehicles, the world we'd left behind a week ago. The bridge swayed with every step. Porters jogged past, making it bounce harder. I gripped the cables and kept my eyes forward. Ten minutes later, I was across.

At the road, civilization hit us all at once - honking, vendors, exhaust, noise. We climbed onto a bus. The porters requested music and started singing along, Nepali songs with intros that sounded like the soundtrack to an eagle soaring over mountains. Binod danced in his seat. We clapped along as the bus bounced down the mountain.

The hotel in Pokhara had clean sheets. A hot shower with pressure. Two rolls of toilet paper. A real toilet.

I stood in the bathroom for a while, just looking at it.

That night, we had dinner with the guides at a restaurant Ratna chose. It had neon lights and a stage where dancers performed to blasting music. We had to shout to hear each other. It felt overwhelming.

But we stayed. And when the moment came, we handed over our tips - wrapped in trail maps, decorated by Eunice. She’d written each of their names by hand.

Ratna smiled. Raj smiled. Binod smiled. Then they said goodbye and walked out.

Suddenly it was just us.

It felt like our parents had just dropped us off at school. For a week, we’d been taken care of. Now we were on our own again.

The boys were still hungry, so they went to KFC. I wasn’t feeling well, so I headed back to the hotel. Lyn, Joya, and Ingmar walked me there.

And just like that, the trek was over.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say about it. What it meant. What we learned.

The truth is, we all came out different.

Some of us learned to sprint downhill. Some of us learned to push through while sick. Some of us learned to squat-poop without losing our minds. Some of us learned to sleep in rooms with spiders. And Joya confirmed that, yep, she still hates hiking.

But all of us crossed the finish line together.

Annapurna is still there. We saw it for fifteen minutes, and then it disappeared behind clouds. But I don’t think it was ever really the point.

The point was the people beside me. The silence we shared when words ran out. The coffee brewed at 4,130 meters. The pineapple cake saved for the summit. The kindness that didn’t need to be announced.

I came to Nepal hoping the mountains would give me something. They gave me fifteen minutes. The people beside me gave me everything else.

Thank you for following along. This was the final episode of the ABC series.

We woke at 5:30 a.m. after a night in what we’d been calling the Greyhound Bus - a room so thick with old cigarette smoke you could taste it. Five of us slept shoulder to shoulder, and somehow, we’d slept well.

The moment we stepped outside, none of it mattered. Mountains in every direction, sharp and close, the sky a clean blue. It felt like the trail was inviting us to continue.

Breakfast was quick. We had one job today: reach Annapurna Base Camp.

The trail started rocky, winding past small streams and a few scattered trees clinging to the slope. It was a straight climb from 3,200 to 4,130 meters with no downhill to break it up. My body, weirdly, felt the best it had all week. Maybe it was the views - snow-dusted peaks pulling us forward, making us forget we were working.

At one point, Binod stopped and pointed across the valley at a hillside. The rock had formed into the shape of a seated Buddha, carved by nothing but weather and time. We stood there longer than necessary, staring. After five days of climbing, even the ordinary things look like signs.

Higher up, the landscape thinned out. The trees disappeared. Grass turned yellow-green, and nothing grew past our knees. Fog rolled in and out, and for a while it felt more like the Scottish Highlands than the Himalayas. The air was getting to us now. My chest worked harder with each step, every breath a little thinner than the last.

Rey was struggling. He’d been fighting a cold since the day before, and the thin air made everything worse. We stopped more than planned, checking in, adjusting our pace. No one said it out loud, but we were worried.

We’d planned to push straight to ABC, but Ratna called for a stop at Machhapuchhre Base Camp for lunch instead. It turned out to be the right decision.

The sun was generous. Someone at the tea house handed Ingmar a guitar. He strummed a few chords, and one of the staff joined in with a local folk song. Mandarin pop mixed with Nepali melody. None of us fully understood each other’s music, but we clapped along anyway, full of food and warmth and the feeling that we were close.

Then the weather turned.

One moment we were sitting in the sun. The next, the sky went gray and fog rolled through so thick we couldn’t see the tea house we’d just walked out of. It happened that fast. We went back inside and waited.

Ratna looked unbothered. “Mountains,” he said, like that explained everything.

When the fog lifted enough to see a few steps ahead, we pushed on. The air felt even thinner now. I put on a mask to warm my breath. The guides got extra cheerful - strategic, I think - singing and joking to keep our spirits up for the final stretch.

Two hours of climbing on slippery rocks in the fog later, someone spotted a sign in the distance.

As we got closer, the words came into focus: Welcome to Annapurna Base Camp (4130m).

Behind it, there was nothing. Just white. Fog so thick we couldn’t see a single peak.

No one spoke for a second. Then someone laughed, and then we all did. Five days of climbing, and Annapurna had decided not to show up.

We posed for photos anyway, fighting for space with a loud group of young hikers we’d been dodging since Deurali - the same ones who played some explosive card game every night at maximum volume. Joya shushed them at one point. They either didn’t hear or pretended not to.

But still. We were here.

This was the first base camp I’d ever reached. It didn’t feel real. More like watching myself from slightly outside my own body. We actually made it?

The lodge was a short walk from the sign. Compared to the Greyhound Bus, it felt like a palace. We dropped our bags and gathered in the dining hall, still not quite believing we’d made it.

That’s when 小龜 revealed what he’d been hiding.

He unzipped a pouch and pulled out packets of specialty coffee - hand-roasted, single-origin, carried all the way from Taiwan. He’d protected them in his pack for five days, waiting for this moment. He asked each of us to pick a packet. Then he set up his pour-over kit, boiled water, and brewed each cup by hand. He’d even brought his own cups.

No one said much. We just held the warmth between our palms and savored what he had carried all this way to share.

Ingmar had been saving something too. Since Day 1, he’d been carrying a pineapple cake - a gift from Lea, wrapped carefully in his pack. Every day he thought about eating it, and every day he told himself Not yet. Not until the summit.

Today, he unwrapped it.

He bit into it slowly and smiled. Watching him felt like witnessing a private ceremony, but he didn’t seem to mind.

After the coffee and cake, we wandered outside. The fog had turned the world into a snow globe - white ground, white sky, no horizon at all. Ingmar, Victor, and I climbed a small hill near the edge of camp. A husky appeared from nowhere, hunting for something in the rocks. We followed it around like we were shooting a nature documentary.

By the time we got back to the lodge, dinner was ready. Ratna made us each drink a bowl of garlic soup - for the cold and thin air, he said. It tasted like someone had crushed an entire bulb of garlic and dared us to finish. We drank it anyway.

Back in the room, Ingmar clicked on his little yellow lamp. The walls glowed warmer. We lay in our sleeping bags, not ready to sleep yet.

Someone made a joke about dreading the middle-of-the-night bathroom run, and that opened the floodgates. Bowel movements had become the unofficial theme of the trip. With squat toilets, freezing temperatures, and toilet paper that had to be rationed and protected, going to the bathroom was basically an Olympic sport. You had to keep your pant legs from touching the floor, hold your waistband from underneath, make sure your shirt didn’t dangle or touch anything, and secure your toilet paper somewhere it wouldn’t roll away mid-business. All while shivering and enduring the smell.

Everyone shared how they’d been coping. My trick was a mantra I’d say to myself every time I walked in: If I can poop here, I can poop anywhere. Then I’d get into position, close my eyes, and pretend I was in a real bathroom.

At some point the laughter died down and no one rushed to fill the silence.

We talked about the group. How lucky we’d been. No one had tried to lead. No one had anything to prove. When someone struggled, we slowed down. When someone needed space, we gave it. There was no drama, no ego, no one keeping score.

Someone said it out loud: this group worked. Not because we were the same, but because kindness was the default.

We got lucky. We were a good batch of eggs.

I don’t remember when the talking stopped. The wind pressed against the walls. Sleep came slowly.

Ratna had told us to pray for clear skies in the morning. We still hadn’t seen Annapurna. Somehow, that felt okay.

Next Up

Episode 7: The Descent

The sky clears for exactly fifteen minutes. Then everything falls apart - rain, mud, 22 kilometers, and the day that tests every part of us.

If you’ve been following along, thank you. We’re almost at the end.

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Binod turned around with a huge grin, gesturing ahead to what looked like a cluster of buildings in the distance. Everyone cheered. Some of us clapped. Rey and Gui did a little fist pump.

We kept walking. Five more minutes, another five, and another five.

It became very clear that “arriving” meant something different to Binod than it did to the rest of us. We thought we were stopping at Dovan for lunch, but the lunch spot was actually in Upper Dovan - another thirty-minute climb uphill. No one dared tell Joya. We just kept walking, watching her face as the realization slowly dawned. When it did, she threw a tantrum like a toddler promised ice cream and handed broccoli instead.

We didn’t blame her. Binod’s optimism did start to feel like psychological warfare.

Let me back up.

Today was supposed to be one of the two hardest days of the trek. Nine hours of hiking. 1,100 meters of climbing to reach Deurali. Ratna warned us at breakfast, but we knew warnings don’t mean much until your legs are screaming and your lungs are trying to escape through your throat.

The trail completely transformed today. No more stone steps we’d been cursing for days. Instead, the path turned wild - muddy tracks winding through dense forest, roots snaking across the ground, everything slick from recent rain. It felt like we’d walked into a different world. Strange, hairy-looking plants appeared from every angle, like props from Jurassic Park. The air smelled wet and green, thick with something alive.

Then we hit the avalanche debris.

The path narrowed to nothing, hugging the side of a steep hillside. Below us, massive chunks of blackened ice (old avalanche remnants) clung to the slope at impossible angles. The ice looked ancient, darkened by years of pollution and dirt, slippery as hell. One wrong step and you’d slide straight down into whatever was waiting at the bottom.

Raj moved ahead without hesitation, testing each section before waving us forward one by one. The rest of us followed carefully, boots searching for grip on wet rock and frozen patches. No one talked. Just focused breathing and the sound of boots scraping ice.

It was tense in a way the stairs never were. The stairs were just suffering. This felt dangerous.

But we felt safe with Raj leading us through.

The person I kept watching, though, was Binod.

He doesn’t care if the group is tired. He just marches forward, that relentless rhythm of his, never offering breaks. But every now and then he’ll burst into song - some random Nepali tune echoing through the valley - and you realize he’s trying to lift everyone’s spirits in his own way. He doesn’t talk much. Someone who wants to be seen but won’t ask for it.

His steps are always strong and steady - this calming stomp that pulls you into a trance if you follow him. He’s not fast, but his pace finds the path of least resistance. I started walking behind him early in the day and just stayed there. A lot of us did. There’s something hypnotic about following someone who just keeps going.

That said, he gives the worst ETAs I’ve ever encountered in my life.

Hence, the Upper Dovan incident.

By the time we actually reached lunch, we were starving. The restaurant was packed - probably the only place to eat for miles. The group’s energy was low. Rey looked pale and mentioned his throat hurt. Half of us ordered Shin Ramen with egg. The other half got dal bhat.

I went with dal bhat. I knew I’d need the calories for the afternoon climb - a nearly three-hour uphill stretch I’d mentally labeled the 大魔王 (final boss).

After lunch, we pushed on.

The strange thing was, I felt oddly okay. Better than the first two days, even. My breathing was steadier. My legs felt strong. Maybe my body had finally accepted suffering as baseline reality.

But around hour six, the group started to spread out. Conversations died. Everyone retreated into their own heads, just trying to survive the next switchback.

That’s when Lynn and Gui started singing.

It began with one song - a Taiwanese pop song I vaguely recognized. Lynn’s voice floated up first, and then Gui joined with harmony. The sound bounced off the valley walls and came back to us doubled, tripled. I didn’t know half the songs, but it didn’t matter. The melody cut through the fog in my head like nothing else could.

They told me later that you sing better when you’re exercising because it opens your throat. I have no idea if that’s true, but they sounded incredible.

The karaoke pulled everyone back together. People started humming along, clapping between verses. Joya requested something upbeat. Victor whistled. It was stupid and joyful and exactly what we needed to keep going.

I realized something then. The group wasn’t just nice to have. It was essential. Without Lynn and Gui singing, without Joya’s dramatic complaints, without Binod’s terrible ETAs to laugh about - this would’ve been unbearable.

Alone, I would’ve been miserable. Together, we were something else. Still suffering, but suffering in company.

The scenery grew more impressive as we climbed higher. Towering mountains came into view, and below them, alpine rivers rushed through the valleys - glacier-fed water, milky blue-green, carving paths through the rock.

We passed a small temple on the trail. One by one, we each reached up and rang the bell - no words, just the sound traveling out into the valley. For the first time, it felt like we were actually approaching Annapurna. Not just hiking in Nepal. We were actually getting somewhere real.

We reached Dream Lodge around 5:15 p.m.

The nine of us would be sharing two rooms. They tried to split us by gender at first, but eventually let us figure it out ourselves. That’s when the problem revealed itself: one room was clearly better than the other.

The four-person room was normal. Basic, but fine.

The five-person room smelled like the inside of a Greyhound bus driven by a chain smoker who’d been living in it for six months.

Everyone stood there awkwardly. No one wanted to assign anyone to the worse room. No one wanted to claim the better one either.

Finally, Joya made the call. Rey wasn’t feeling well, so he and Gui would take the nicer room with Eunice and Newton. The rest of us - Joya, Lynn, Ingmar, Victor, and me - would take the smoky one.

We named it 灰狗巴士 (Greyhound Bus) immediately.

We dropped our bags and spent ten minutes rearranging beds, pushing them away from mold-covered walls, trying to create some livable corner of space. Joya layered Lynn’s bed with three blankets since the guides had forgotten her sleeping bag that she rented. Then we headed to dinner.

There were no showers that night. Honestly, I was fine with it. Less to think about.

We hung out in the courtyard after dinner even though it was freezing. The cold bit through my fleece but no one wanted to go back to the rooms yet. We sat around swapping stories and letting the conversation drift wherever it wanted to go. Someone pointed out a star. Someone else said it was a satellite. We argued about it for ten minutes without reaching a conclusion.

Before 9 p.m., we gave up and went to bed. Back in the Greyhound Bus, I cocooned myself in my sleeping bag and tried not to think too hard about what I was breathing. We bantered for maybe five minutes before exhaustion took over.

Lying there, I could hear Ingmar’s breathing in the bed next to mine, Lynn shifting under her three blankets, Victor muttering something in his sleep.

Music drifted in from another room. Someone was still awake somewhere, living their own version of this same strange journey.

Tomorrow we’d push toward ABC.

I fell asleep before I could think about it too much.

Next Up: Episode 6 - We Made It to ABC

The snow finally arrives. Rey pushes through sickness. The fog lifts for exactly fifteen minutes. And we reach the place we came for.

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(📖 Read on the website - I tweaked the layout recently.)

I watched potatoes fall onto the floor, get picked up, and go straight back into the pan. One of them disappeared into the bathroom and returned to chopping vegetables. There was no soap.

Three days ago, I would have been appalled. Now I just thought: Good enough. Standards are a luxury up here.

The group gathered for breakfast with excellent news: Ratna had finally pooped.

He’d been constipated since day one. For three days, his digestion had been a collective concern. Eunice, who happens to be a doctor, had been giving medical advice. Others offered belly massage techniques. Nothing was too personal anymore.

The night before, I’d pulled out my secret stash: 暢快人生, a Taiwanese probiotic so potent it comes with warnings. With Eunice’s approval, I handed it over along with three regular probiotic packets and strict instructions: take this tonight, drink hot water in the morning, pray.

We all prayed.

It worked.

When Ratna announced success that morning, the room erupted. We cheered like he’d summited Everest. At altitude, your body stops being private property. Bowel movements become team victories. If the guide can’t shit, what hope do the rest of us have?

The day’s hike dissolved into a blur of uphill, downhill, repeat. I stopped trying to track time or distance. My legs moved. My lungs worked. I just followed.

We stopped for lunch at the International Guest House. Our guide had pre-ordered roasted chicken and mixed pizza. It tasted incredible, though I suspect our standards had dropped considerably by then.

Afterward, we sat in the sun, letting our bodies rest. No one was in a hurry.

Ratna warned us that tonight’s lodge would be basic. Not much choice at this elevation. I appreciated his honesty. With Ratna, when he said something would take an hour, it took an hour. Binod, our porter, tended toward wildly optimistic estimates, which probably served a strategic purpose in keeping morale afloat.

The afternoon passed in waves. Flat, uphill, downhill, repeat. At some point, a white dog started following us. He hesitated at a bridge, nervous, then gathered his courage and crossed. We were charmed. A new trail companion.

Then we reached a village, and he spotted a female dog. He abandoned us immediately, running toward her with singular focus.

That’s when we realized he’d never been following us at all. He had his own agenda. Still, he’d kept us entertained through the post-lunch slump.

We arrived at Lower Sinuwa around 3:30 p.m. to find long lines for the shared showers. A group of middle-aged aunties had staked their territory, arms crossed, bags planted on benches like territory markers. When a few of us tried to use what looked like an empty stall, the host shouted us down.

This was the only tea house available that night. Some of us gave up and took cold showers. Only one stall had hot water, and everyone seemed to know exactly whose turn it was.

Comfort wasn’t guaranteed anymore. You took what you could get and moved on.

Dinner was at 6 p.m. Meat was available, but local wisdom discouraged it this high up. We all ordered vegetarian. I got veggie noodles with a fried egg. Carbs felt like survival insurance for tomorrow’s climb.

Victor, Ingmar, and I shared a room that night. Back in the room, I lay on the thin mattress, feeling my body settle. Through the walls, I could hear others unpacking, rearranging, getting comfortable.

By day three, the pretense had worn off. In Kathmandu, I’d written about wanting the mountains to give me clarity, some sort of revelation. A reason for being here.

But the mountains weren’t interested in my wishes. They just made everything harder. Climbing. Breathing. Sleeping. Shitting.

At some point, I stopped asking the mountains for anything.

Tomorrow we’d climb toward 4,000 meters. The air would thin. The stakes would rise. But tonight, tucked into a room that smelled faintly of mildew and old wood, I felt strangely at peace.

I thought about Ratna’s poop victory and smiled.

Tonight, we’d earned our rest.

Next Up

Episode 5: Suffering in Company

Nine hours of climbing. Binod’s worst ETA yet. And the room we named Greyhound Bus.

We woke up at 4:00 a.m. because the mountains don’t care about our sanity. Goal was to hike up to Poon Hill before sunrise.

Headlamps flicked on, boots tied, everyone silently wondering why we had paid to suffer like this. I pulled on layers while wishing I could reschedule sunrise.

Outside, darkness swallowed everything except the ribbon of trekkers ahead. Headlamps bounced like a glowing caterpillar inching its way up the hill. The first ten minutes were flatter than expected. A lie, in hindsight, because then the staircase appeared. Endless stone steps, each one requiring a painful debate with gravity.

My lungs were still asleep, and my legs were seriously offended.

We stopped every ten minutes or so to catch our breath. Joya groaned dramatically about the stairs the entire way up, which helped us laugh between gasps. I wasn’t sure if it was altitude, exhaustion, or both, but I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Hiking uphill at 3000 meters before sunrise feels illegal.

Then, suddenly, we reached the top.

We found a ledge and sat, huddled together trying to stay warm. Cold air wrapped around us as the sky softened from charcoal to pale blue. Annapurna South and Dhaulagiri revealed themselves slowly. It felt surreal watching the peaks glowing white above a sleeping world.

When the sun finally cracked the horizon, the mountains caught fire. Orange light slid across the snow like someone had dragged a brush of paint across them. I’d never seen anything like it. Beauty that didn’t demand effort, just presence. The stairs were already becoming a joke.

After forty-five minutes and a million photos (some amazing, some blurry proof that we made it), we descended. Only then did I register how far we’d climbed, but the promise of breakfast motivated us to fly down with barely any breaks.

Back at the tea house, music played softly around a warm fire. The morning felt gentle and serene, a complete shift from the brutal wake-up. Breakfast was everything my body wanted - warm porridge, two eggs, and Tibetan bread that tasted like Taiwanese fried dough (雙胞胎), crispy, chewy and nostalgic. We ate and laughed, swapping stories about relationships and coping mechanisms, as if we’d known each other much longer than three days.

Then we packed up and left, again.

Today was one of the two hardest days, Ratna had warned. We started uphill, very uphill. But the views were even better than Poon Hill, at least to me. Here, the snow mountains felt closer, like they were walking alongside us.

Then came a long descent into a valley where water streamed over mossy rocks. The river was so clear you could see every stone. We passed the largest collection of prayer rocks I’d ever seen - hundreds stacked into towers. I added one for good luck. (Unclear if it worked, but no regrets.)

Lunch was at another tea house. Ratna suggested we all order chicken dal bhat to avoid waiting an hour for nine different dishes. Delicious as always, but I was beginning to suspect the green bean soup portion was turning my intestines into a musical instrument.

We sat outside in the sun and debated whether dry skin means you haven’t washed your legs thoroughly enough. No science and completely pointless, but that’s what trail conversations are for.

In the afternoon, the trail tricked us with a flat section. Then another uphill. Then a longer downhill. Little villages appeared and disappeared. The day stretched on and on.

But my mind wasn’t drifting anymore, it was focused. One step after another. This felt different from yesterday. Something had clicked.

We reached the tea house at around 4:00 p.m., triumphant and exhausted. A hot shower (though shared and sketchy) still felt like luxury. The dining hall wasn’t as cozy as the night before. It was less charming, and had a colder mood, but the heater worked, and that was enough.

Dinner was dal bhat again. At this point I was less “eat the hell out of dal bhat” and more “take it day by day.”

The room energy felt a little low after dinner. So we did what any group of overcooked trekkers would do - we created our own entertainment. Rey and I fell into the role of MC’s. Eunice (our Hong Kong teammate) went first. She chose her favorite Taiwanese band, 五月天, and sang with the confidence of a superstar. Then someone clapped a beat. Ratna and Raj were swaying along, trying their best to participate without risking being invited as the next act.

Sometimes the simplest form of entertainment goes the longest way, especially in remote mountains like these, where there’s no Wi-Fi, no distraction, and no way home except walking back the way you came.

We had a blast.

When Eunice finished, applause filled the room - louder than expected, fueled by endorphins and altitude.

At some point, Joya started assigning nicknames. Victor went from “Handsome Baby” to “Sour Baby,” and she confidently named herself “Complain Baby” after her dramatic uphill soundtrack earlier in the day.

To round off the evening, we played cards and eventually the classic teenage game Truth or Dare. There was teasing, terrible dares, and honesty that would only come out when everyone is too tired to perform.

Somewhere between the singing, the joking, and the ridiculous stakes of truth or dare, we started actually knowing each other, not just as hikers sharing a trail, but as humans with quirks, habits, and soft, odd corners. As adults, we don’t often get this - prolonged time together with no escape route, working toward a shared goal. It’s rare, and weird, and very beautiful.

Back in our room, I collapsed onto the flimsy bed with sore legs and a full heart. We climbed for hours today. We saw mountains turn gold. We turned strangers into teammates.

Today felt like the first day I was truly here.

Tomorrow, more stairs.

Next Up

Episode 4: Everything Gets More Basic From Here

The day we stop pretending this trek is glamorous.

Photo Journal

I’m back at the same kitchen table from summer 2024 (when Lea and I spent a month at the Saruya artist residency in Fujiyoshida), except nothing about it feels the same. Last time it was scorching heat, cicadas singing, and me downing iced water just to survive.

This time it’s freezing. The windows are fogged up, everyone’s layered like onions, and the mountain looks exactly like a postcard.

I’ll admit something. I kind of dreaded coming back. Not because I didn’t love being here, but because last summer felt complete. A “thank you for the challenge and growth, goodbye forever” kind of place. But I guess life forces rerun sometimes, especially when you don’t feel like it.

Back then I had just quit my job and needed something to hold onto, so I decided natural dyeing would be my new personality (inspired by Lea). It made sense at the time. I needed a central hobby or identity to replace the one I’d just thrown out the airplane window.

Leaving the job felt freeing and horrifying. Work was probably 70% of my identity, even though I didn’t want to admit it. I liked to see myself as spontaneous and adventurous, but I also never truly let go of the safety net that made me feel functional and responsible. Coming here last summer was the first step into the unknown. A dark hallway with no railings and no signs telling you “you’re doing the right thing”.

I’d wake up at five in the morning even though I had nowhere to be. If I slept in, guilt would scream at me like a judgmental ghost. I’d sit outside with my notebook and watch the street gradually brighten up, pretending I was a poet instead of someone panicking about her life choices.

My brain did what it always does. It came up with a project, a plan. A unnecessarily big one. I planned to dye with fifteen plants, six variations each, ninety total experiments. Five per day, eighteen days total, plus buffer time. A full production schedule… for absolutely no reason. No deadline, no boss, nobody waiting for results. Just my anxious need to feel purposeful.

Sometimes while stirring pots of plants and feeling productive, it would hit me. What am I even doing? I quit my job, left New York, and now I’m dyeing fabric in a rural Japanese town for nothing. Then the spiral would begin. What if everyone else moves forward and I return as the person who “went to find herself” but instead found nothing but regret?

But then there were also moments where everything dropped away. When I felt 200% present, meeting people, laughing, making dinner together, working with my hands. Those moments felt liberating, like breathing normally for the first time after holding my breath for years. I wasn’t performing or optimizing. I simply existed.

Maybe that’s why I resisted coming back here. This town holds a version of me that was both very alive and very unstable. (Fine, also very sweaty.)

Before booking flights this time, I told Lea I might skip the first week and meet her later. I had momentum with my tea work and didn’t want to pause was my excuse. But that was ridiculous. She had worked so hard on her exhibition and I wanted to be there for her. So I booked the same flight after all.

We landed at 4 a.m. in Tokyo. The rental car wasn’t ready until 8, so we found an airport onsen and tried not to fall asleep in hot water.

By the time we started driving toward Fujiyoshida, it was almost noon. The car was stuffed with five suitcases, including a microwave box carrying one of Lea’s sculptures. The people at the car rental was giving us weird looks. I think they genuinely believed we flew from Taiwan with a microwave as an emotional support appliance.

When Mount Fuji appeared, it didn’t feel like the mountain I saw last year - one that was bare and black. This was the one I grew up seeing in magazines and postcards - the snow cap version, the iconic one.

We arrived in town and immediately saw crowds gathering at the famous intersection to take the perfect Fuji photo. There were even traffic control staff yelling at tourists, which felt very unlike Japan, but also completely necessary.

The air felt crisp and fresh. So many new shops had opened. As we walked through the streets, we bumped into familiar faces who waved at us like we were returning locals. I wasn’t expecting that, and it felt good.

We spent the next two days setting up for the exhibition and meeting the other artists. Eventually the exhibition opened, and suddenly we were surrounded by weavers, artists, photographers, journalists, and people from all over the world who care deeply about textiles. I’m technically here as a plus-one, but somehow I ended up mingling and helping introduce artists like I’m part of the scene.

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The group staying at the Saruya artist residency instantly bonded because of our shared experience of living in the same house, biking to the same supermarket, listening to the same tune that the town broadcasts every morning, and relying on late night conversations and a tiny jazz bar as the only entertainment in town. Some are current residents and others, like us, are returning residents that are here for a few days for the exhibition (i.e. Fuji Textile Week).

I always love how artists can seem aloof at first, but give them a day and suddenly they’re laughing, sharing personal stories, and feeding you snacks.

And among this temporary little artist ecosystem, a few friendships escalated quickly. Sometimes you meet someone for just a day and it feels like you’ve known them for years. That’s how it was with Juliette, a French textile artist who’s also exhibiting at the show. We went from politely avoiding eye contact to becoming instant co-conspirators. By the end of the week, we were cheering each other on and doing things we probably wouldn’t have done alone, like going table to table at the official opening dinner and insisting on kanpei to very serious-looking Japanese businessmen.

There’s also a duo here from Sweden and Denmark (Oliviar and Lisen) who work with vocal and body improvisation. They led a two-hour workshop that started with exploring our vocal fry and ended with everyone making honest, strange sounds while responding to each other with movement. At one point I leaned so far into the animal energy that I might have accidentally scared someone. It sounds ridiculous when I describe it like this, but it was unbelievable. My brain usually leads everything and my body follows reluctantly, so this was new. It felt good to let instinct take over. At the end, we all wrote down words and phrases that surfaced during the session. I found myself smiling like something in me had softened.

Today we’re walking around town to see more exhibitions tucked inside abandoned houses and unexpected corners. I love that there are things here you only find if you wander. (artwork photos below)

And here’s the part I didn’t expect. I’m happy to be back. The dread I felt wasn’t a warning, but a misunderstanding. I didn’t return to repeat who I was last time. I came back to see who I am now.

I’m grateful that both Lea and the universe ignored my protests and dragged me here again.

Photo Journal - Fuji Textile Week

I woke up at 4:50 a.m. wanting one thing: coffee, and one last civilized moment in a bathroom before the mountains took control of my digestive schedule.

We were told to bring our luggage down by 6:00 and shovel in breakfast in 30 minutes. I wasn’t hungry, but still managed toast, a banana, and cereal. Anxiety burns calories apparently.

The van ride to the airport was quiet the way early mornings are. My biggest fear of this trek wasn’t altitude, or cold, or ticks, or leeches. It was the 25-minute flight from Kathmandu to Pokhara. Yeti Airlines: the airline you should never Google before flying because the algorithm will show you all the reasons not to.

On the tarmac, we took a group photo in front of the tiny plane, as if to prove we boarded it voluntarily. Inside, Ingmar and I jokingly held hands during takeoff, two adults pretending not to be scared while being very scared. The pollution was thick outside; we couldn’t see much. But the takeoff was fine. Our blood pressure finally dropped, and in that brief window of relief, the flight attendant managed to serve peanuts, candy, and apple soda - a surprisingly generous distraction.

Pokhara felt different the moment we landed - a place filled with backpacks, trekking poles, and the nervous energy of first-day hikers. Our guides and porters were waiting by the gate, smiling like they’d done this a thousand times. A couple from Hong Kong, Eunice and Newton, joined our group last minute after their original team dropped out. None of us knew yet how quickly strangers turn into teammates on a mountain.

Our blue duffle bags were loaded into three jeeps. Ratna, our head guide, directed us like a traffic controller. Raj, our second guide, took the front seat with the driver in our jeep. Binod, our porter, squeezed in the back. Ingmar, Victor, and I claimed the middle row, each popping a Dramamine before we drove off.

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The first hour felt manageable. This isn’t so bad, I thought. Then Raj turned around.

“We’re going off-road now.”

Within minutes, pavement turned to gravel and then to chaos – dust, rocks, potholes, and cliffs pretending to be roads. We bounced around like marbles in a tin can. At one point we crossed a river. At another, we passed a bus with literally centimeters to spare. I finally understood why “professional driver” is a real profession.

Two hours of being shaken like a cocktail later, we finally stopped at a roadside tea house for lunch. I ordered masala chai and dal bhat – my comfort duo. Others had momos and juice. Afterward, we continued on foot. The trek had officially begun.

Ratna called the day “a warm-up” – three and a half hours, “relatively easy”.

It started gently, just enough to trick us into optimism. Then came the stairs.

Stone stairs. Dirt stairs. Slippery stairs. Stairs you don’t see until you turn a corner and wish you hadn’t. Not steep enough to brag about, but just steep enough to remind you your lungs exist. Mist hung in the air. Waterfalls cut through rock faces. My body kept moving while my mind wandered. Everyone says trekking becomes meditative after a while, but somehow my brain was still in Kathmandu drinking chai.

By the time we reached our tea house around 4:30 p.m., we were damp, hungry, and relieved. It was a three-story building with a dining room on the first floor, walls covered in notes from past trekkers, and a fire heater glowing like a heartbeat in the center. Ingmar and I got Room 7 on the top floor. The view was unreal – hills folding into mountains, mountains dissolving into clouds. We even had our own bathroom and shower. In the Himalayas, that’s five-star luxury.

We cleaned up, ordered dinner, and drank endless hot tea. Dal bhat again for me. My new goal for this trip: eat the hell out of dal bhat, drink the hell out of masala chai. We’ll see if I still believe in that plan by tomorrow.

After dinner, I stayed by the heater downstairs while others showered. Ratna sat down beside me, and we started talking - slowly at first, like people testing the ground before stepping further. He told me about guiding different routes, where he’s from, his family. When I asked if he liked his job, he paused.

“It is… hard life,” he said, searching for the right words. “But I am healthy. I can work. I am grateful. Some people… not so lucky.”

His words landed heavier than the climb. Hours earlier, I’d been worried about turbulence, dust, roads, snacks. Meanwhile, he leads people like us through these mountains for a living - weather, injuries, altitude, unpredictability - and still shows up smiling every morning.

Before we went upstairs, he listed other treks we could do next time – Langtang Valley, Mardi Himal, EBC. I nodded, pretending I wasn’t already questioning this one.

Tomorrow we wake at 4:00 a.m. to climb Poon Hill for sunrise before breakfast. My body’s tired but my mind’s catching up. There’s a rhythm forming – eat, walk, tea, walk, arrive, fire, sleep, repeat.

The hike officially began today. And so did something internal - a shift from excitement to attention. A small understanding that mountains are not conquered. They’re visited, borrowed.

We better rest.

Next Up

Episode 3: We Paid to Suffer at 4 A.M.

A sky that burns gold. Legs that regret waking up this early. The day I finally understand what “relatively easy” does not mean.

Photo Journal

We signed up for the Annapurna Base Camp trek, thinking “base camp” meant the easy part.

I should’ve known better, but I liked the illusion. After months of juggling plans and places, I wanted something that would strip away all structure.

Kathmandu did that the moment I arrived. I landed at 9:30 p.m. and joined the slow, chaotic dance of the airport - visa line, processing fee, security, and a suitcase that took long enough to test faith. I waited for Victor, who landed an hour later - late nights in new cities feel less daunting with a familiar face.

Outside, the city hit like a wall of sound and smoke. Horns, dust, exhaust, and name placards waving in thick air. The pollution was the worst I’d ever seen, but people moved through it like they were born knowing how to breathe there. A man in a red jumpsuit held a sign with Victor’s name. We followed him through a parking lot where cars swarmed without lanes or logic yet somehow avoided disaster.

Our ride was tiny, the kind of car that shouldn’t fit three adults and two suitcases, but somehow did. The driver threaded through streets so narrow I was sure his mirrors would pop off, yet he glided through them with unshakable ease.

When we stopped, it was in front of a narrow alley. Inside was The Inn Patan - warm brick, carved wood, doorways made for people a head shorter than us, classic Newari architecture. It felt like a small oasis tucked away from chaos. Ingmar, who had arrived earlier, met us with a grin like he’d been waiting for the real fun to begin. He and I shared a first-floor room with twin beds and a ceiling he kept bumping into. Victor lucked into the penthouse with a patio and a view he promised not to brag about, then proceeded to brag a little.

We said goodnight five times and kept talking until it was 1:30 a.m.

Day 1 - Patan

I woke up at 6:30 AM to find Ingmar already on his phone. He said he slept well and had adjusted to the time zone. I could’ve slept more, but excitement got me out of bed. Morning began in the courtyard with coffee and still air that loosened the shoulders. The sound of nearby temples stirred memories from sixteen years ago, when I last visited. Journaling felt like a way to hold on to it better this time.

We wandered without urgency, three easygoing people politely avoiding decisions. The streets were alive with scooters, smoke, and shopkeepers calling to each other. A wave of turmeric and dust hung in the air. I nearly got hit by a car - a sharp reminder that traffic here ran on instinct, not rules. Live chickens, ducks, and rabbits lined the street. I silently wished them well and kept walking.

Lunch was our first Nepali dal bhat. It was delicious, but we didn’t yet realize how committed we were about to become to dal bhat. We kept walking through temples and courtyards, ducking through narrow tunnels that opened into older streets. Each shortcut felt like a gamble - you step into a dim doorway and reappear somewhere entirely new. Google Maps had already surrendered.

By then I’d had at least three masala chais - punchy, spicy, nothing like the syrupy chai lattes I’d known. A new personal mission formed: drink the hell out of every masala chai I could find. The caffeine buzzed in my fingers, and somewhere between temples and chai stops, the part of me that needed plans began to soften.

As the sun dropped, the sky turned a heavy orange over red brick. Beautiful, and also unmistakably polluted. After dinner we wandered toward a temple glowing under warm light. Locals were gathering for a ceremony. A flower seller told us worship happens every Thursday and Saturday - it was Thursday. We hesitated because we were in shorts, but no one stared or cared. They simply accepted our presence, as if we belonged there too. The temple stood open, kept intact by respect rather than barriers. Devotion here felt woven through the everyday.

Back at the hotel we ended up in Victor’s very superior room, lying across cushions and pillows like three useless pieces of human. Nothing big happened, but maybe that was the point. For the first time in a long while, I realized I hadn’t checked the time all day.

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Day 2 - Temples, Pigeons, and Packing Nerves

At six in the morning Ingmar and I returned to the main temple square expecting it to be calm and quiet, but we found a different scene entirely - people in traditional clothing singing on the temple steps, dogs wrestling, vendors arranging vegetables, and pigeons rising and landing in soft waves. For nearly an hour I watched pigeons - a species I normally ignore, but here they seemed to carry some kind of spiritual presence. I FaceTimed Lea so she could see the rhythm and color in real time, then gave up pretending to resist the obsession and had two cups of chai before breakfast.

By afternoon we’d moved to Thamel - louder, denser, full of trekking shops and signs promising “authentic pizza.” We ate Buddha bowls at OR2K while waiting for Lynn and Joya, who had flown out a day later. I’d met them five months earlier during a permaculture course in Taitung, and somehow we agreed within five seconds that we’d trek Annapurna Base Camp together. I’d wondered how the group dynamic would turn out, but sitting there in Thamel, it felt right. At the very least, it seemed unlikely we’d get into fights (fingers crossed).

Dinner was a bonding session and dal bhat again. A restless energy started to creep in now that we were almost the full group. Back at the hotel we met our last two teammates, Rey and Gui, and packed everything into the blue duffel bags our guide had provided. Tomorrow we’d be flying to Pokhara for the start of the trek. I was nervous about Yeti Airlines - partly rational, partly superstition - not a reassuring mix.

Before bed, a man came by to confirm our departure. He introduced himself as Ramesh - we nodded and trusted the plan. Later we’d learn he wasn’t the real Ramesh. Mountain logic tends to reveal itself slowly.

Kathmandu made me aware of my own breathing. The air was heavy, but everything else felt intensely alive. Horns, incense, engines, bells - the city pulsed in every direction. Life here didn’t tiptoe; it showed up fully. I kept noticing how much meaning lived in small gestures: a hand feeding pigeons, a flower placed with care, a cup of chai arriving before being asked for.

I felt the city had been loosening something in me, gently preparing me for the climb. For years I’d measured my days by emails, meetings, the speed of a subway. Here, time felt layered - not faster or slower, just more textured. I wanted to carry that into the mountains, hoping the trek would teach me how to notice things again.

Tomorrow we fly to Pokhara. If all goes well… we’ll go climb a mountain.

Next Up

Episode 2: Welcome to the Himalayas. Please Hold On Tight.

Yeti Airlines, the jeep, the first tea house, and the moment the trail turns from idea into reality.

Photo Journal

It was six flights up, in the middle of an extreme heatwave. Lea and I dragged multiple suitcases of clothes up those spiral stairs, sweating through everything before we’d even unpacked. We assembled the garment racks her cousin lent us and steamed clothes like a sauna. By the time we finished, we were convinced one of us might pass out, and terrified buyers would take one look at the stairs and cancel us before they caught their breath.

The place itself was perfect - a little bar area for tea, a couch for conversations, and just enough room to hang the pieces and pretend this was always meant to be a showroom.

The only flaw was that we hadn’t checked for an elevator, or air-conditioning…

So we improvised. Guests would arrive overheated and breathless, and we’d have something ready.

When the first group survived the climb, they stopped to catch their breath, fanning themselves with lookbooks. We apologized for the stairs and immediately offered icy glasses of roasted oolong infused with summer melon.

One sip. Shoulders dropped. Faces softened, almost as if we had air-conditioning. Strangers became chatty, and the room felt a little less like a Paris heatwave.

Fast forward to now - I am back on the mountain in Taiwan, and the weather has flipped. Fingers are cold again; sweaters are thicker. The same tea asks for a warmer approach.

A gingery oolong felt just right, something to keep hands warm and bring the evening closer.

If you’d like to try these teas at home, I’ve included the recipes below.

Recipes

If you received a tasting kit, you can use Tea #2 for both of these recipes.

If you try either version, let me know what you taste - I’m always curious.

Paris Showroom Cold Brew

Bright, cooling, easy to batch

Ingredients
5 g charcoal roasted oolong
1 liter filtered water
8–10 medium cubes ripe cantaloupe
Optional green tea ice cubes

Method
Steep green tea and freeze into ice cubes.
Add tea leaves and melon cubes to a pitcher with 1 liter of filtered water.
Refrigerate 8–12 hours.
Strain.
Serve over the green tea ice cubes so the flavor stays bright as they melt.
Add 2–3 tiny melon cubes to each glass.

What to notice
Roast in the back
Fruit at the front
Calm finish

Toasty Ginger Oolong

Warming, grounded, a little spicy

Ingredients
3 g charcoal roasted oolong
300–500 ml water
4–5 slices fresh ginger
Optional: a little honey, maple syrup or brown sugar

Method
Bring the sliced ginger and water to a rolling boil, then simmer 8–10 minutes so the flavor fully develops.
Warm your teapot or mug.
Add the tea leaves, then pour in the hot ginger water and steep 3–4 minutes.
Sweeten only if you like, just enough to soften the spice.
Top up with more hot ginger water to re-steep so the warmth keeps going.

What to notice
Toasty aroma from the roast
Ginger heat that feels awake
Warmth that stays awhile

Huge typhoon and thoughts

It’s officially been six months since we moved into the ruin. I thought I should take a moment (while a typhoon hammers down outside) to sit and write about it.

I’m sitting under our metal roof now, the rain hitting nonstop. It used to keep us awake, but it’s become the soundtrack of our lives. When we first moved in, we had insomnia from every tiny noise, the rustle of tree branches, wild cats sprinting, even snakes slithering across the roof. We heard everything, magnified tenfold.

One night not too long ago, a guy next door decided to make ceramics till way past midnight. He must’ve assumed no one lived up here, because he blasted music like he was performing at a rock concert. At first it was fine, but he started looping the same song. Over. And over. And over. Lea and I nearly lost our minds.

If it had been me in the past, I probably would’ve called the police, or marched over with a broom. But now? I just let him play - there’s something about knowing our time here isn’t forever that makes even the annoyances feel precious.

The past three days have been miserable weather wise, walking through puddles, drenched in 100% humidity, surrounded by relentless wind and rain. But weirdly, I’ve been smiling through it. Even drenched and half miserable, we can’t help but laugh. This is exactly the kind of trouble we dreamed up for ourselves.

Moving back to Taiwan

It’s been quite a journey coming back. When I scroll through my phone, I can’t believe how far we’ve come. Not in the success sense (we’re definitely behind on that score!), but in how much has changed.

It started with our trip to Japan in the summer of 2024, staying in an old house next to the suicide forest. No A/C. Just us and our summer roommate, José the spider. Our daily joy was biking to the only supermarket in town because it had air conditioning. At some point the heat won. I spent most of the summer in the bare minimum. Concentrating on anything was impossible.

Then we came to Taiwan. It took us a month to find our dream place (a literal ruin) and six more months to fix it up, all while learning about farming, permaculture, and tea.

The ruin itself is something else. We stumbled upon it while looking for a ceramics studio in the mountains. The courtyard was beautiful, and when we peeked into the nearby empty houses, #6 instantly felt like ours. It was moldy, half outdoors, barely standing, but it spoke to us.

When we told our parents, they were horrified. What are you thinking?! But we pressed on. We were determined to prove this madness would work.

Building the ruin

It wasn’t easy, but we loved every minute of it. Lea and I are the kind of people who get excited by hardship - our friends can attest. Turning a broken house into a home felt like our badge of coolness.

We fought, of course, mostly over design choices. Lea has strong opinions about windows. She collected old ones from the street, a hostel in Taitung, and a dusty old wood shop in Taipei. When our woodworker didn’t want to install one of them, she pushed. And pushed. And won. I was mortified during the exchange, but it turned out beautiful, worth every second of her stubbornness.

The tea room (a.k.a. my reading room) was my first attempt at carpentry. I built a wooden bench with storage and somehow managed to level the floor. It involved five kinds of screws, gallons of wood glue, and an endless parade of mosquito bites.

We made almost everything ourselves, the chairs, the dining table, even a couch out of ceramic bricks. When I brought home a massive circular saw from B&Q, both Lea and my mom screamed until I returned it. (“It’s too dangerous! Return it or else!”) I did return it… and immediately bought a smaller, handheld one. It cuts only plywood, which is why our place now looks unintentionally like a very budget version of a Donald Judd showroom, built by amateurs with questionable measuring skills.

One of our proudest finds was a window from Taitung that opens like a vertical wooden blind. It’s adorable. We also scored two old stools and a ladder from a hardware store in Tainan. The owner literally said, “I don’t know why you love this junk. It’s old and wobbly!” But we loved it anyway. The ladder barely fit in our car; Lea had to sit with her head poking through one of its rungs the whole 5-hour ride home.

Settling in

One night, we decided to make our own movie theater. Two nails in the wall, a wooden pole, a white linen sheet, an old projector, popcorn, and boom - we had cinema. I don’t even remember what we watched, but it was the coziest night. That was when it hit me, we were home.

Of course, life here isn’t without surprises. The cockroaches come after the rain, and the rats come whenever they please. Lea’s terrified of roaches, she once found one hiding in a bag of passion fruit from her dad. Instead of tossing the bag, she tied it up three times and fled the house. When I got home, she told me from behind a closed bathroom door.

I eventually found the culprit under the last passion fruit, sprayed it, and declared victory. Lea emerged cheering, and then proceeded to wash and eat the fruit anyway. Wild. The New York version of Lea would’ve thrown the whole bag out without blinking. I like wild Lea better.

So much happens here every day in this little broken space, I can’t possibly fit it all into one entry. Maybe I’ll just write it down bit by bit as memories come back.

For now, I’ll keep enjoying this strange, chaotic, and beautiful home that most people would find utterly unlivable.

If you made it down here, I owe you a cup of tea one day. And if you ever feel like saying hi, I’d love that.

I’ve decided to start documenting these encounters, partly so I don’t forget them and partly because they deserve to be shared. (Also, I’m low-key annoyed I didn’t start this earlier. But better late than never!)

Last Friday, I brought Lea with me to Yuchi. The plan: cycle around Sun Moon Lake, then visit a tea farmer I’d met at a fair in Nantou the week before. We drove nearly four hours with our bikes strapped to the back - Taiwan really is cycling paradise - only for me to realize the “lake loop” wasn’t flat. There’s about 1,300 ft of climbing.

For Lea, this was her second ever ride. At one point, halfway up a hill, she got off her bike, glared at me, and declared she hated me. Fair. I offered to swap bikes (mine had lighter gears), but her rental frame was so tall I could barely reach the pedals. Eventually, after a few laughs, a lot of sweat, and minor suffering, we made it around the lake. It was 4 p.m., an hour later than planned, but we decided to keep going to the tea farm anyway as the sun began to dip.

Mr. Hong’s farm

The farm was a short drive away, tucked in a valley facing Yushan, one of Taiwan’s tallest peaks. After turning onto a steep, muddy road, we saw a hand-painted sign and a man waving. Mr. Hong. He’s in his forties, one of the younger farmers I’ve met, and clearly noticed I’d shown up in shorts. (A rookie mistake. The mosquitoes in Taiwan’s mountains are not to be trifled with.)

Mr. Hong’s land feels like a dream: rows of tea bushes surrounded by palms and forest. Through the palms, you can glimpse the mountains fading into mist. It’s half jungle, half alpine. He grows Camellia formosensis, an indigenous Taiwanese tea variety, and makes both black and white teas from it. The Sun Moon Lake region is famous for black teas, but usually from Ruby 18 or Assam hybrids, so I was curious to taste his.

Before we began tasting, Mr. Hong plucked two fresh tea leaves and handed one to each of us. “Try it,” he said. We obediently chewed. The leaf was intensely bitter and astringent, basically nature’s mouthwash. He looked at us expectantly, so we smiled and nodded as if it were delightful. He chuckled, clearly amused by our effort to be polite.

We then went and sat in his small tea room, all windows, surrounded by pine trees, like a cabin in upstate New York. He said we’d arrived at a good time: he’d just received a batch of black tea back from the roaster and wanted to test it.

The tasting

He asked me to set up three cups: one open, one covered, and one for his white tea. I wondered why the lid mattered.

He explained that if a tea isn’t roasted enough, brewing it with a lid traps the unfinished notes. It tastes muted. Brewed without a lid, air interacts with the leaves and pulls out the missing flavors that should have developed in roasting. When a tea is roasted perfectly, both methods taste almost identical.

These are the kinds of details you’d never learn from a book.

Just as he said, the open-cup black tea bloomed with flavor, while the covered one tasted muffled. He nodded, slightly disappointed, and said he’d send it back for another round of roasting.

We then tried his Camellia formosensis white tea - light, wild, a little foresty. Finally, he brewed a yellow tea he’d been experimenting with, gongfu-style. After a few sips, Lea and I were sweating. He laughed and said, “That’s the cha qi.”

At first he was quiet, but once we started tasting, something opened up. He talked about everything he’s learned from tea, his experiments, his philosophy. I listened, fascinated. Lea, meanwhile, was fighting sleep, her eyelids bobbing like little gates. Fair again. It had been a long day.

As dusk settled, we thanked Mr. Hong, promised to come earlier next time, and drove off. The road back to Taipei was four hours of car-karaoke and half-delirious laughter. We got home past midnight and fell straight into bed.

It’s days like this that remind me why I started this journey: to meet people like Mr. Hong, to see where tea really comes from, and to feel the energy that never makes it onto a label.