From Ernst & Young Accountant to Couchsurfing Host: How Strangers Led Me to Tsukiji
Chapter 1: The Weight of a “Perfect” Career
Another Morning, Another Sigh
Another morning, another sigh. I dragged myself out of bed and opened the curtains, only to find the same dull light seeping in. The thought of squeezing into the rush-hour train already made my stomach ache.
Prestige on Paper
At the time, I was working at the Tokyo office of Ernst & Young, a global accounting firm. On paper, it was a great job—prestigious, international, full of promise. I used English every day with clients from the UK, Singapore, Canada, and Germany. It should have felt exciting. But deep down, I was completely miserable.
My job involved checking numbers, correcting minor mistakes, and being reprimanded for even a one-yen discrepancy. The office echoed with the sound of calculators and keyboards, interrupted only by my manager’s harsh voice calling out my errors. I became invisible—no one looked me in the eye. And to be honest, I didn’t want to see myself either. I was ashamed. I was exhausted. And most of all, I felt stuck.
“Is This Really What I Want for My Life?”
I had followed all the “right” steps. I got into a top university. I joined a respected firm. I worked hard. But none of it brought me joy. Instead, I woke up each morning with a single question echoing in my mind: “Is this really what I want for my life?”
The prestigious title on my business card meant nothing anymore. The career I once thought would bring me success had become a daily struggle, heavy and unclear. Little did I know that this quiet dissatisfaction, this discomfort, would eventually push me to discover a new path—one far more authentic and fulfilling.
But back then, all I could do was endure. Until one day, I opened my home to a complete stranger from overseas…
Chapter 2: Opening My Door to the World
A “Crazy” Decision
Most people would think it’s completely crazy—inviting total strangers from the internet to sleep in your home. But for me, it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt necessary.
At the time, I was stuck in a corporate job where every day drained me. I had no passion for what I was doing. The only thing I still cared about—desperately, even—was improving my English. I believed that if I couldn’t communicate with the world, I would never find a way out of the life I was living.
So I made a decision: to welcome the world into my tiny Tokyo apartment. That’s how I began hosting through Couchsurfing. And soon enough, the world came to me.
A Home Full of Creative Souls
But not just anyone. I had a soft spot for creative types—people who saw the world differently. I’ve always enjoyed visiting galleries in Tokyo, especially hidden ones tucked away in back alleys. So naturally, I found myself gravitating toward guests who lived and breathed art.
Filmmakers, designers, photographers, fashion models, editors, actresses… Many of them came from Europe or California, places where creativity is a way of life. Some were traveling for inspiration. Some were escaping. Some just needed a cheap place to stay. But they all brought their worlds with them.
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 gestured 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.
Around a Tiny Table
Soon, our conversations turned to food. Cravings for home or curiosity about Japan brought us to the kitchen. We cooked miso soup, grilled fish, and rice—sometimes with gifts they had 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 had 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, an idea began to take shape: maybe I should teach a cooking class. But it would take another ten years before I finally brought that idea to life—through sushi.
Chapter 3: Paolo and Tsukiji
Risotto in a Tokyo Kitchen
One day, I hosted a guy from Los Angeles named Paolo. He was a 3D engineer at a big-name animation studio in Hollywood. He cooked risotto in my tiny Tokyo kitchen with such skill and ease that I just stood there watching, mesmerized.
The next morning, as sunlight streamed through the curtains, he looked at me and asked with a casual smile, “Have you ever been to Tsukiji?”
I shrugged vaguely. Back then, the idea of going to Tsukiji felt… outdated. Fish markets seemed chaotic, messy, even smelly. Living in Tokyo, I felt I should be spending my time in more sophisticated, cosmopolitan places—somewhere with cleaner lines and better lighting. But Paolo insisted.
My First—and Last—Walk Through Tsukiji
So, for the first time in my life, I walked into Tsukiji Market. It turned out to be the last time, too. Within a few years, the historic inner market would be completely dismantled. Today, the very spot we walked through together is nothing but an empty lot—a space destined to become a massive arena sometime in the 2030s.
Every time I visit the area now, I glance at that vacant land and remember Paolo. That morning. That conversation. That spark. It was a brief encounter, but one that left a lasting imprint on my life.
Chapter 4: The Question I Couldn’t Answer
A Little Portal to Everywhere
After Paolo, more guests followed—from Mexico, the U.S., Canada, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tunisia, the UK, France, Romania, and Russia. Each person carried a piece of the world with them. And with every visit, my home became more than just a room. It became a little portal to everywhere.
“What Kind of Fish Is This?”
One night, a guest asked me, “What kind of fish do Japanese people use for sushi?” I froze. I didn’t know.
Even at sushi restaurants, I had to ask the chef in front of me what each fish was—one by one—and then translate the answers into English. It felt awkward. Embarrassing, even.
At the time, the only sushi I could confidently recognize was the red and orange kind—tuna and salmon. That was the extent of my “expertise.” Everything else—white fish, silver-skinned cuts, shellfish—was a mystery to me. I felt like a fraud. And worse, I felt boring.
A Fire Is Lit
How could I truly guide someone through Japan’s food culture if I couldn’t even name what we were eating? That moment haunted me. And it lit a fire.
I didn’t want to just cook anymore. I wanted to understand. I wanted to know sushi from the inside out—not just as food, but as craft, culture, and conversation.
Chapter 5: From Hospitality to a New Path
Guiding Guests Through Tokyo’s Izakayas
During those days, I also began taking my guests to izakayas in Ebisu and Shibuya. I would help them order in English, explain unfamiliar dishes, and make cultural faux pas a little less awkward. And each time, they would smile and say, “We’re so glad you came with us.”
That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just hospitality. It was value. It was an experience. And maybe, just maybe, it was something people would be happy to pay for.
The Start of Something Real
So I signed up with a UK-based tour company that specialized in food experiences and began hosting weekend food tours as a side hustle. Back then, “side hustle” wasn’t even a buzzword yet. But for me, it was the start of something real.
I was beginning to see a new path—one where culture, cuisine, and connection could become a career.