4-A Table for Strangers, A Home for Me

My apartment, once quiet and ordinary, began to hum with energy.

The walls that once held my workday exhaustion now echoed with laughter in languages I could barely understand.

One night, a French filmmaker waved toward my living room lamp, explaining how light is the true actor in cinema. Another night, I wandered Shibuya with a Swedish photographer, seeing Tokyo through fresh, foreign eyes. 

Each guest brought a new rhythm of life. Though I couldn’t afford to travel, the world kept showing up at my door—suitcases in hand, stories ready.

Soon, our talks turned to food. Cravings for home or curiosity about Japan brought us to the kitchen. We cooked miso soup, grilled fish, rice—sometimes with gifts they brought: Italian olive oil, Turkish spices, Californian wine.

We crowded around my tiny table, laughing over chopstick mishaps and burnt miso. Beneath the jokes, there was something deeper: a quiet, shared longing to feel understood.

No money changed hands. What we shared was trust, curiosity, and time. In those human moments—knees nearly touching, rice bowls in hand—I felt something I’d never found in my corporate life: belonging.

I was building a bridge—from the life I had, to the life I wanted to live.

 

Gradually,I came up to an idea- I should do some cooking class….

But it took another 10 years until I finally realize that idea as a sushi chef.