July 2025

I landed at Tampa International Airport early Friday morning around 5:30 AM. My brother Blake graciously picked me up, which was much appreciated. I never told my parents I was coming home and was ready to surprise them. Blake drove me to my mom's house, and we arrived at 6:30 AM. She was just getting up for work. We knocked at the door and she was in shock—still tired, but it was a nice surprise. It felt cool and refreshing to be back home in Florida after so long. Afterward, I drove my mom to work and took her car to surprise my dad. Since I sold my car before my trip, I'm at the whims of using my parents' cars for transport. Pinellas County has so many roads and nowhere is walkable. I drove a total of two hours my first day back around town, which is totally not sustainable. I stopped at red lights every two minutes. This reinforced my desire to live in a walkable city with public transport. I was able to see my dad, and he was also shocked. It was a good time. I was riding on 36 hours of no sleep and was about to crash. Oh—before I saw my dad, I was able to see my good friend Melman for breakfast. We both didn't know how long it had been since we saw each other. I was so tired, but I powered through. After just an omelette, I realized my belly hurt. I ate omelettes overseas many times, but for some reason, this one got me. I think it's the oils they use to cook in the U.S. This also reinforced the healthy eating habits, choices, and boundaries I must defend while I'm home. Even though it will be difficult, I must. I'll continue to work hard to keep the habits I created during my travels—to stay energized and work out, to not get too comfortable. On Saturday, Blake, my mom, and I went on the boat. We saw manatees, dolphins, pelicans. It's cool being in a place with so much wildlife. The boat was nice and relaxing. Overall, it doesn't feel like a shock. It just feels smooth—and for that, I'm grateful. It's weird being away for 10 months in the craziest of places, and when you return home, it's easy. I don't want to get too comfortable though. A couple of weeks ago, I was surfing and swimming with whale sharks, or motorbiking through Vietnam, or hunting with a tribe. Now I'm back in the U.S., ready to prepare for my next adventure. Oh also I am going to continue to post and update this website do not worry!

I took a 10-hour flight from Tokyo to LAX with a middle seat—classic. Didn't sleep much, but I got to watch Star Wars and The Godfather, which helped pass the time. All in all, the flight was pretty straightforward, just a bit uncomfortable from the lack of sleep. I landed around noon and had an 8-hour layover ahead of me. Originally, I planned to just hang at the airport. But randomly, my buddy Griffin Laser—who I worked with at TI in Dallas—was in LA house-sitting his cousin's place. Not only that, he was off work and offered to pick me up. Total coincidence, perfect timing. Griffin was my closest friend at TI. We used to sit outside during lunch talking about ditching the corporate life, figuring out next moves, chasing freedom. A lot of those convos—usually over Thai food—inspired me to leave Dallas and actually go for it. So seeing him again, after nearly a year of traveling, felt natural. Like nothing had changed. We drove out to Manhattan Beach, and I was blown away. It was sunny, 68 degrees, crystal clear skies. Probably one of the nicest neighborhoods I've ever seen—beautiful homes tucked into hills with views of both the beach and the mountains. Unreal. We hopped on electric bikes and cruised down the boardwalk. Everything was calm, clean, and just had this laid-back energy. We caught part of a beach volleyball tournament, which made me want to get back into playing. Surf wasn't great, but you could tell the potential was there. It just felt good being in a clean, relaxed American city again. It also made me rethink the U.S. a bit. For a while, I didn't think I could ever live here again. But there are places like this—super nice pockets where the lifestyle is solid. Yeah, you've gotta be doing well financially to live in a spot like Manhattan Beach, but still—it's something to think about. We grabbed lunch and talked about a bunch of stuff: travel, his work, global politics, random ideas. Just classic back-and-forth like we used to have. Eventually, he dropped me back at LAX. That was the first moment I really felt like I was back in the U.S.—especially walking into a convenience store full of snacks I hadn't seen in a year. I bought a coconut water that costs $3 in Thailand for $7 here, plus a protein shake. Same old. I thought I might feel out of place being back, but I didn't. Honestly, after moving through Nepal, Indonesia, Africa, and Vietnam, I've gotten used to landing anywhere and feeling fine. So why not here? At the end of the day, I'm still American. Now I'm sitting at the gate, waiting for my last flight. I haven't really slept, so the day feels endless—woke up in Tokyo, spent the afternoon in LA, and now I'm flying home. I think once I see my family, that's when it'll really hit.

Wow, ten months down on this incredible trip. The past few weeks in Japan have been very slow, and very reflective. I was excited to come back to Japan, but after traveling through the rawness of SE Asia, it did not hit the same. I could even make an argument that now Japan is my least favorite Asian country! They have amazing food yes, but the society is so isolated and the culture is not welcoming. It has been rainy here most of my time, and hot. I chose to come to Hokkaido for unspoiled nature and laid back vibes. I guess I really got it, except the nature is not that good. I would only recommend coming here for skiing. Even then I think there are way better places. Anyway it is interesting how the places you enjoy change upon your age and experience. I hit the sauna and cold plunge almost everyday which was nice. But slow days, in the rain really draw you inward. I have recently had a passion to direct my intellectuality towards a single focus. The amazing thing about backpacking is you are so open to everything, not a care in the world, experiencing different places and cultures. You lack clear objectives sometimes and ways to direct your energy. This is good and bad! You find ways that get you energized, like working out, writing, meditating. But now, ten months in, I feel the fire to fully commit to one thing and create. It could be my own business, it could be a startup, or even just a side project. There is so much to learn it is crazy! This was the best decision of my life and I recommend anybody to do a longterm backpacking trip. People have been telling me I should write a book which I have been exploring. I like writing but a whole book is a lot. Good thing is there are AI tools you can guide the vision and they will write for you! Take control of your own life. I used to try and give some advice but all I can say is figure your shit out yourself and have the courage to take the leap. If you feel tied down do something about it. Now after quitting my job and travelling the world I proved to myself I can always be agile. If I want to fly to South America and find indigenous tribes there I can and will, if I want to start a business I can and will, if I want to join the IDF I can and will. Nothing can hold me back. I have gone through the gauntlet and emerged. Possibilities are endless, and the fire shall not fade.

The Art of Letting Go: Learning Detachment Through Experience One of the most important lessons I've learned—maybe the most important lesson for anyone trying to become their highest self—is the lesson of detachment. I don't mean detachment in the cold, indifferent sense. I mean spiritual detachment—the kind that allows you to be fully alive and deeply involved, yet untouched at your core. A way of being where you can love without clinging, build without being owned by outcomes, and walk through the world with your heart wide open, but your sense of self rooted somewhere deeper than the temporary. **Where It Began: Seeds of the Lesson** Even before this trip, I'd come across the concept of detachment in books like The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer, and in Buddhist writings. I'd read the words, nodded along, even meditated on them. But understanding something intellectually is not the same as living it. I thought I understood detachment—until life began stripping things away. And it was in the process of losing what I thought I needed, that I finally started to learn what I really am. **The Puppy and the Mirror** Here's a story that helped me see it clearly: Imagine you get a puppy as a child. You love this puppy so much that it becomes part of your identity. You talk about it constantly. Your friends know you as the person with the puppy. You and the dog are one. But like all things, the dog eventually dies. You're devastated. It feels like a part of you has died. And in a way, it has—because you had become attached. You weren't just loving the dog. You had entangled your identity with it. This is the root of suffering: clinging to things that were never yours to keep. **Detachment Is Not Disconnection** Let's clear something up. Detachment doesn't mean not caring. It doesn't mean becoming numb or emotionally withdrawn. Quite the opposite. Detachment means you're so present, so full of love and awareness, that you don't need anything to last in order to feel whole. It means being fully immersed in the moment—but not stuck to it. You become like water—fluid, open, reflective—but not rigid. You flow through life without becoming entangled by every current. Imagine you are glue. You can help things stick together, build relationships, create beauty. But you don't let anything get stuck to you. That's detachment. **The 3 Levels of Detachment** As I've walked this path, I've come to see detachment as a 3-level process: 1. **Detachment from External Objects** This is the surface layer. Cars, clothes, gadgets, money. This is where most people begin. If your drone breaks, your car gets scratched, your laptop dies—you might get frustrated. But if your self-worth is wrapped up in these things, you'll be shaken to your core. When you realize you were born with nothing and will die with nothing, this level becomes easier. Letting go of objects is about refusing to let the material world define who you are. 2. **Detachment from Relationships** This one is harder. We're social beings. We love deeply. And we should. But when your identity becomes enmeshed with another person—your friend, your partner, your mentor—you risk being devastated when they pull away, disappoint you, or leave. This doesn't mean you stop loving them. It means you love without clinging. You support without depending. You trust without possession. You give everything—but you don't become them. If they walk away, your love doesn't become bitterness. It becomes compassion. 3. **Detachment from the Self** The deepest level. This is where it all leads. You start to realize: I am not my thoughts. I am not my emotions. I am not my past, my successes, my failures. I am not even this body. I am the one watching all of that. Most suffering arises from over-identification. "I am anxious." "I am a failure." "I am amazing." Even the positive labels keep you trapped. True detachment means realizing: I am none of this. I am the awareness underneath all of it. **The Ego Sneaks In the Back Door** Here's the tricky part. Just when you think you've become detached—your ego might start wearing a new mask. "Look at me, I'm enlightened now." "I'm different from all those materialistic people." "I've figured it out." That's still ego. It's just disguised as detachment. True detachment doesn't need to prove anything. It doesn't need to be announced. It's not a performance. It's quiet. Free. Invisible. This is why the spiritual path requires constant humility. You never "arrive." You just keep noticing how the ego sneaks back in and lovingly let it go again. **Trust and Surrender: The Other Side of Letting Go** Detachment is not just about letting go of what no longer serves you. It's about surrendering to something higher. You're not just stepping away from attachments. You're stepping into trust. Trust in the process. Trust in the unseen. Trust in the intelligence of life itself. You begin to realize: I don't need to control everything. I don't need to know what's next. I can follow intuition. I can follow love. I can listen for that quiet inner whisper. And that's when life starts to move through you. **How It Took Root for Me** For me, detachment didn't come all at once. I didn't wake up one day enlightened. I didn't meditate for six months and suddenly become immune to pain. I had to live it. I quit my job. I sold my car. I gave away my belongings. I left behind familiar comforts. I had to detach physically. Then I had to detach emotionally—from connections, expectations, people I cared about. I went on a trip around the world, not to run away—but to burn away everything that wasn't real. Even then, it didn't arrive all at once. Not in the first country. Not in the first few months. But over time—little by little—something shifted. Each micro-detachment opened space. And in that space, I found peace. **The Result: Living From the Inside Out** Now, I can be more involved in my work, my relationships, and my daily life than ever before—not because I've numbed out—but because I'm free. Free to love without fear. Free to create without ego. Free to speak and live from my heart—not from anxiety, insecurity, or the need to prove. I'm no longer acting from a place crowded with attachment, residue, or mental noise. What's left feels… true. **Final Reflection** You can't force detachment. You can only create the space for it to grow. When you let go of your grip, you realize life was never trying to take anything from you—it was trying to give you back yourself. Not the small self, filled with labels and roles. But the Self that remains when all else falls away. And from that place, you can walk through the world in total involvement and total freedom.

The past two days I've been in Niseko, a world-famous ski destination known for its abundance of powdery snow. In the summer, it's much slower and more relaxed. Typically, you can enjoy stunning views of Mt. Yotei, but during my stay, it's been rainy and cloudy. I biked an hour to a neighboring town to visit an onsen. The ride was tough—full of hills—and my quads were on fire. But the solitude gave me space to think and reflect. I'm deeply grateful for this incredible adventure. Even riding through pouring rain in the Japanese countryside—those are the moments you don't get every day. While I was reflecting, I thought about something kids used to say to me on the beaches of Southeast Asia when they asked for money. I'd tell them I didn't have any, and they'd laugh and say, "No money, no honey." It never fully clicked until recently. As I travel the world watching my net worth dwindle, it's clear that this lifestyle isn't sustainable forever. At some point, you need a source of income. The exceptions to this rule are few: maybe if you fully dedicate yourself to a spiritual path—living in an ashram in India or on a Tibetan Buddhist pilgrimage to Lhasa—or if you're comfortable living in a shack in a developing country. Those paths sometimes sound appealing, but I realize that's not what I'm meant to do—at least, not now. To support a wife, children, a family—even just yourself—you need money. And to get that cash flow usually requires focused, consistent work in a specific direction. A jack of all trades is a master of none—but a master of one moves markets. As I look to the future, I feel a growing desire to master a specific skill in a specific industry—something I can get excited about for years. I don't want to just find a job that pays well for a year, only to burn out and reset again. The same goes for starting a business: if you're only in it for the money, it's unlikely to last. You need real fire behind what you're building. When you narrow your criteria to only working on things you care about—and only if you can do them remotely—it becomes clear how few paths really fit. I've always been more drawn to hardware than software, but I could find my niche if needed. I'm passionate about wellness, the energy industry, drones and eVTOL, quantum mechanics, photonics and optics, and decentralized finance. Travel helps you cast your net wide—to test what excites you. But when it's time to return, you need to gather all the fish in your net and choose a favorite. I haven't chosen mine yet—but you get the idea. As I looked at myself in the mirror of the onsen shower, I felt proud. I can be hard on myself, always focused on where I can grow and improve. But I'm also proud of the man I've become and the growth I've experienced—especially over the past 10 months, and really, the past few years.

Been here in Lake Toya for three nights. Hitting the onsen, working out, and contemplating life on lake side walks. I do not have too much to report. 10 months straight of introspection leaves you pretty still inside, in a good way. I talked with my friend Zach yesterday and as always we had thought provoking conversations. He asked me what I thought of the world, since I have travelled almost halfway around it. I did not know how to answer it. I think the world is so beautiful, but also so messed up. There is so much amazing nature, smiling faces, and culture to experience. But also the world is riddled with bad actors, corruption, war, environmental problems, and negligence. I love this world and I am optimistic about its future. Next as I mentioned before, a big part of this trip was to explore potential places where I want to live, raise a family, and raise children. I want a place I will be excited about raising a family and children. As I mentioned I love nature and small walkable cities. I think living by the beach or the mountains is a must. I would like a place where the cost of living is justified. There is clean air and a nice community. I can see myself living in the third world, but I also like modern luxuries too. That being said I still do not have a place in mind. I have some ideas but it is best to keep searching!

An onsen is a natural hot spring in Japan. By law—specifically the Hot Springs Act—an onsen is defined as hot water, mineral water, or water vapor that naturally springs from underground at a temperature of at least 25°C (77°F) and contains certain minerals. The water is geothermally heated, often due to volcanic activity, though it can also come from deep underground aquifers or fossilized seawater. Japan classifies onsen waters into ten types based on mineral content: simple onsen, carbon dioxide (CO₂), bicarbonate (HCO₃), chloride (Cl), iodine-containing (added in 2014), sulfate (SO₄), iron (Fe), sulfur (S), acidic (low pH), and radon (Rn). Soaking in an onsen is one of the most special experiences in Japan, and here in Noboribetsu—one of the country's top onsen towns—you can find five of the ten types in one place. Today I spent two blissful hours hopping between various hot and cold pools, steam rooms, saunas, and both indoor and outdoor baths. Each mineral has different healing properties, from lowering blood pressure to softening the skin to helping with chronic conditions. Personally, I love the sulfur springs—milky white in color, with a strange smell—and said to help with hardening of the arteries and chronic dermatitis. Mineral baths and sauna rituals have become some of my favorite health and wellness practices, and it all started here in Japan about a year and a half ago. Since then, I've explored incredible facilities in Korea, Iceland, Georgia, Laos, Cambodia, China, Hungary, and even a Russian-style banya in Dallas. I like to think I'm on the path to becoming an international sauna and bathhouse expert, though I still need to visit Finland—the birthplace of sauna culture—before I can truly be certified. In Japan, men and women bathe separately in onsens. As always, you remove your shoes before entering, store your belongings in a locker, and keep the key on your wrist. Then you strip naked. Usually, you are hit with a bunch of 60+ year old Japanese uncircumcised penises all around you. Everyone is totally comfortable. At first, it's a little weird, but after a few times, it becomes freeing. Before entering any bath, you need to wash yourself—there are small stools lined up in front of mirrors with hand-held showerheads, soap, shampoo, conditioner, and a bucket for rinsing. Once clean, you're free to soak and explore. I like to alternate between hot and cold pools, do a sauna session, then cold plunge and chill outside with some tea. Today's onsen had a sulfur waterfall that poured directly over your head, which felt both healing and mind-opening. There were ultrasonic jacuzzis, full-body reclining tubs, and beautiful minimalist design throughout—clean wooden interiors, soft lighting, and peaceful vibes. Inside the sauna, you'll find tiered benches for different heat levels. I always pay attention to the details: Is the heat electric or wood-fired? What kind of thermometer is used? Is the timer a clock or an hourglass? Can guests pour water on the coals or is it automated? These things matter. Someday, I'd love to bring a thoughtfully designed sauna and onsen-style experience to the U.S.—inspired by everything I've learned from these global traditions.

Today was a super slow, meditative day—my first full day in rural Japan, far removed from the chaos and stimulation of the city. It's almost unsettling to step outside and hear nothing: no cars, no shouting, no buzz of city life—just pure stillness. And yet, that silence, which should feel normal to us as humans, feels completely foreign. We're so used to noise and stimulation that calmness almost feels like a void. I spent two hours in a peaceful onsen today and took the opportunity to reflect. I wanted to jot down a few tangible things I've learned from this journey. The first one is obvious but still important: quitting your job and traveling to faraway places makes you more comfortable with uncertainty and unfamiliar situations. I learned how to backflip (shoutout Lieffie), flew in a paramotor, trekked the Himalayas, hunted with tribes in Africa, bought, sold, and rode a motorbike halfway down Vietnam. Travel forces growth—it pushes you to do things you'd normally never consider. I tried foods I'd never even heard of before—like soursop—and challenged my comfort zone. A few years ago, when I came to Asia the first time, I often felt out of place, constantly aware of the stares or how different I looked. Now, I don't feel out of place anywhere. The world feels like one giant shared home; we're all just humans. And surprisingly, most people are incredibly kind and willing to help—well, except maybe the Japanese. Another lesson is the power of clean eating. I felt amazing waking up to fresh fruit smoothies with produce picked from the trees nearby. In the U.S., it's scary how processed and disconnected our food has become. Here, eating naturally and intentionally gave me a different kind of energy—clean and vibrant. Another takeaway: don't tell white lies. Be authentic. In the beginning, when people criticized America, I'd tiptoe around the topic. But over time, I became unapologetically myself. And finally, I've been reflecting on the modern-day feudal system—and how to live like a 21st-century aristocrat. Traveling exposes you to every type of person: the partygoers, the yogis, the digital nomads, the aimless drifters. If you want to be a high-performing, high-value individual in this noisy world, you have to draw clear lines around your life. You need standards. One of mine has effectively been no drinking. That choice has changed my health, mental clarity, and energy. It's a powerful social and personal signal of self-respect. This trip has helped crystallize so many of these ideas. As I sat today in silence, soaking in the natural hot water, I realized how far I've come—not just in distance, but in clarity.

At the crack of dawn in the savannahs of Tanzania, the Hadzabe hunter-gatherers begin their day. One by one, they step out of their hand-built wooden huts into the crisp morning air, their breath forming clouds in the early light. The fire still smolders from the night before, its embers glowing softly as men gather around it, whispering strategy and sharpening arrows. Children stretch in the dust, women begin sorting berries and roots. There's no rush—only rhythm. No calendars, no deadlines—only the single, pressing goal: find food. The air smells like dry earth and woodsmoke. You can hear the distant chatter of birds, the crunch of feet on dirt, the soft thwick of a bowstring being tested. In their eyes, there is no trace of anxiety. No thoughts about taxes or TikToks. Their minds are occupied by the land, by the animals they track, by the shared work ahead. They are present—fully, deeply present. Contrast this with life back home. In the West, our days begin not with fire and purpose but with the buzzing of our phones. We scroll through other people's lives before we've even had a sip of water. We answer work emails while brushing our teeth. Notifications, news, texts, calendars, group chats—we're pulled in a dozen directions before the sun even rises. People talk endlessly about "work-life balance," but what does that even mean anymore? Are we meant to split ourselves in two? To juggle health, hustle, happiness, fitness, finances, fun—all before lunch? We brag about being busy and trade productivity hacks like survival tools. The modern brain, hit with constant inputs, rarely rests. And while I won't dive too far into brain science, it's no secret our minds weren't designed for this level of stimulation and fragmentation. High in the Himalayas, I met a yak herder in rural Nepal. His entire world was his ranch, perched among snow-capped peaks and rolling green hills. He had never left his village, let alone his country. Yet he radiated something rare and grounding: peace. He spent his days tending to his animals, making yogurt and butter from their milk, stacking firewood, sitting quietly in the grass watching clouds drift. No ambition to "scale" anything. No need for external validation. Just a man, some animals, and the rhythm of the mountains. Witnessing these lives—whether in the savannah or the Himalayas—humbles me. It makes me question the whole machine we're caught in: chasing money, fame, big dreams, shiny milestones. I do want to make a big impact in this world. I believe in progress, in working hard toward something meaningful. But I've started to wonder whether we've confused working hard with spinning in circles. We don't need another app that promises to 10x our output. We need fewer tabs open—in our browsers and in our minds. Perhaps the real problem is that we've traded depth for speed, and focus for frenzy. Humans didn't evolve to switch tasks every five minutes. We were designed to move slowly, deliberately. To track a gazelle. To gather. To build. To tend. What if the discontent so many of us feel isn't because we're failing—but because we're trying to do too much, too fast, in too many directions? What if stillness is not laziness, but mastery? I think back to the yak herder again—his steady gaze, the way he stirred his tea. Or the hunter warming his hands at the fire before slipping off into the bush. Their lives aren't easy. But they are clear. Maybe we don't need more pleasure, more novelty, more distraction. Maybe we just need fewer decisions. A smaller radius. A craft to return to. A rhythm we can follow. Maybe the path forward isn't in doing more, but in doing less—better.

Ok, I'm getting pissed off. I've talked about this before—getting the most value for your money—and right now, it's Friday here in Sapporo, and I still don't have a place to stay. The cheapest I can find is around $70 a night, which is honestly insane. Traveling has really made me reflect on the value of money, and here are the top three countries where your money stretches the furthest: Vietnam, where you can get healthy, delicious food for two dollars and stay in a room overlooking rice fields for ten; it's absolutely unmatched. Georgia also offers cheap food and accommodation, with the added bonus of a super affordable and efficient transportation system. Then there's Thailand—amazing pad Thai for three bucks, cheap stays right on the beach, nothing better. Honorable mentions go to Laos, which is incredibly cheap but lacks the same quality of food and lodging, and Indonesia, which has amazing and healthy food at great prices, but accommodation can be a bit more expensive. Anyway, I'm seriously frustrated with how pricey Japan is, but I remind myself that I'm here exploring—a total blessing. I'm debating whether to stay another night in Sapporo and catch a $20 standing-room baseball game or head to a small coastal town known as one of Japan's best onsen destinations. I'm leaning toward the adventure, but I need to figure out how to get more cash. A few hours later, after asking around at hostels, hotels, and cafés with no success, I started to feel like there's something cultural about people here being hesitant to help strangers—maybe the language barrier, maybe just different social norms. Feeling a bit discouraged, I realized I'd have better luck asking a Westerner, someone with better English who might be more willing to help. I spotted two guys around my age walking down the street and asked for help—they generously stopped and agreed. One was a British guy named Elliott, and the other was Swedish. I used Wise to instantly transfer USD to Elliott's account, and he withdrew yen for me at a 7-Eleven. It felt weird being so helpless and reliant on someone else's kindness, and yeah, I lost a bit of money in the double currency conversion—this is exactly why we need Bitcoin to take over the world—but Wise seriously saved me. With cash in hand, I jumped on a train to Shiraoi, a rural town I chose only because it had the cheapest hostel I could find in Hokkaido—$21 a night—and it happened to be near a famous onsen town I wanted to check out. As I stepped off the train into this tiny place, I asked myself, what the hell am I doing here? But honestly, I kind of love that feeling—being somewhere totally unfamiliar, with no plan and no idea what I'll do next. That's real freedom. I made it to the hostel, which was actually really nice, asked a few questions, and settled in without a clue of what tomorrow holds—and that's a good thing. It reminded me of high school, when you'd ask your friends, "What are we doing this weekend?" and the answer was always "nothing," so you'd come up with the craziest ideas to kill time and have fun. Traveling feels like that sometimes. People keep asking me, "What are you doing in northern Japan?" or "What are you going to do in Laos?"—and it almost tricks you into thinking you have to do something. Sure, there are lots of cool activities out there, but after 10 months on the road (and it really hits around month five), you realize that sometimes the only thing there is to do… is just travel.

I made it to the capital of Hokkaido: Sapporo. Today brought a mix of internal and external realizations. After nearly a year of not watching TV, I saw a screen playing volleyball in the sauna. I was reminded how much of TV, entertainment, and modern comfort is just noise. A distraction. I do like sports and competition though. There's free Wi-Fi in the streets here, warm showers with perfect water pressure, and toilets that warm your butt and spray water in your ass. It's all nice… but is it all worth it? It makes me wonder if we're losing something essential. Comfort—especially in the so-called developed world—can be numbing. It makes life too easy, too predictable. We evolved from hardship. There's value in the struggle, in the cold showers, in unreliable Wi-Fi, in things being out of your control. Because everything works here. Mostly. And while that's usually framed as a good thing, I can't help but feel there are some serious drawbacks. Take cost, for example. The biggest shock so far has been the price of hostel rooms—and even food. In Sapporo, hostel beds are around $40 a night or more. That's a stark contrast to Southeast Asia, where I've slept comfortably for $5. When I was still at my plush tech job a year and a half ago, nothing ever seemed expensive. But now, as a hippie backpacker wandering the world, the price disparities feel absurd. Sure, I understand the basic economics behind it—GDP, wages, purchasing power—but it doesn't feel logical. People in the "first world" are often paying more for a lower quality of life: unhealthy food that's overpriced, polluted and noisy cities, chronic homelessness, and a general lack of vitality or vigor. It's not a good deal. And that's what really gets me: I can more easily see myself teaching yoga on a beach in Southeast Asia than clocking in at a corporate office again. But here's the catch—I know I have more to give. More intellect to exhaust, more creativity to build with. I'm not meant to just drift around the world high on sunshine and smoothies forever. There's a deeper calling. That's why I'm excited to try my hand at entrepreneurship. I want to create something of value, something meaningful—something that gives me the freedom to curate an international lifestyle while contributing in a way that matters. For now, Sapporo is just the latest mirror reflecting the trade-offs we all live with. And I'm paying attention.

This morning marked a surprisingly symbolic moment: for the first time in six months, I threw my toilet paper into the toilet instead of a trash can beside it. Why? Because I've just arrived in Japan. After a string of long layovers, I landed in Tokyo early this morning. I'm now waiting for my connecting flight to Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island, where I'll spend the next few weeks adventuring around. This is my second time in Japan — I first came here about a year and a half ago with my friend Zach, marking my first ever trip to Asia. **From Chaos to Cleanliness** Coming straight from half a year in the wild, raw, beautiful chaos of Southeast Asia, returning to Japan feels like stepping through a portal into an entirely different world. On my first escalator ride, I instinctively stood wherever I wanted — then quickly realized I needed to shift to the left-hand side, as custom dictates here. That tiny correction reminded me of something I liked the first time around: the order, the structure, the collective respect for shared space. But this time, after being immersed in the lawlessness and lively unpredictability of Southeast Asia, Japan's quiet obedience and pristine efficiency feel even more surreal. Everything here is clean. Quiet. Calm. Nobody's speaking loudly. Nobody's making a scene. And while I appreciate the discipline and precision, it's hard not to notice how socially isolated people are. Everyone keeps to themselves. The technology is designed to serve you efficiently, with as little human interaction as possible. **The Cultural Contrast** What stands out most, though, is the stark cultural contrast between where I've been and where I've landed. In Southeast Asia — whether in Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim-majority countries — religion is the backbone of everyday life. Thousands of years of tradition shape not just the rituals, but the values, the street life, even the architecture. In Japan, it's different. While Shinto shrines and ancient Buddhist temples dot the landscape, religion doesn't seem to inform daily life in any overt way. Instead, modern Japan feels like a culture shaped more by technology and systems than by spirituality. Walk around any city and you'll see Pokémon ads, cashless checkouts, futuristic vending machines, and automated everything. It's a sleek, sanitized, new kind of culture. **Two Worlds, One Journey** Being back in Japan — now with Southeast Asia in my rearview mirror — makes the contrast even more vivid. I find myself asking: What kind of world do I want to live in? One that's spiritual, raw, messy, and deeply human? Or one that's organized, safe, clean, and efficient? Maybe the best part is getting to bounce between both.

Well folks, I should be writing this from an airplane on the way to Tokyo via Hanoi — but I'm not. I'm in Kuta, Bali. Let me tell you why. It all really started back in December, over six months ago, when an ATM machine ate my debit card in Bangkok, Thailand. It sucked, because my Chase debit card refunds foreign transaction fees when withdrawing money — but it wasn't the end of the world. I was able to use my Chase credit card for cash advances over the past six months. It cost me $10 every time I withdrew money — not ideal, but I had to do it. I called Chase to replace my debit card back then, but it's incredibly hard to ship a card internationally while backpacking. I have no idea where I'll be on any given day, and no idea how long it takes to ship a credit card around the world. I tried to time the shipment correctly, but it never worked. Fast forward to Indonesia, a couple weeks ago — hundreds of dollars down from taking out cash via credit card, but still earning credit card points and still getting the hard cash. Then one day, I lost my wallet — including my credit card and driver's license. Now I'm cardless in the third world. However, it turned out to be okay because, surprisingly, most places in Indonesia accept tap (Apple Pay). I made it through the entire country this way — plus with the help of Rachel, who would take out cash for small expenses when needed. Until today… Now, a treatise on visas. Indonesia offers a 30-day visa for 500k rupiah, which you can easily obtain on arrival at the airport. It's straightforward. While planning, I realized I'd overstay the visa by a few days. I'd done the same thing in the Philippines before, paid a small fine via Apple Pay, and it was no big deal. Indonesia also allows a 30-day extension — or so you'd think. Two weeks before my visa expired, I tried to extend online, but the website was down. I was on a 4-day, 3-night cruise with no internet connection, so I had to wait. When I returned, I tried again. This time it worked — kind of. I was one day late filing the extension, so they charged me 1.5 million rupiah. Annoying, but manageable. I got an email saying I needed to visit the immigration office to confirm my extension and take a photo. That felt a little weird, considering how smooth the online process was. So this morning I go to the immigration office in Flores, expecting it to take five minutes. But they tell me that I selected the wrong immigration office in my application — Lombok, not Flores — and because of that, I'd have to go there to confirm it. I had no idea that was a thing. Nothing told me I'd need to physically go in; not until after payment do they notify you. So I ask, "Can't you just take the picture here? Isn't it all connected?" They said no — only the office you selected can process the confirmation. Makes no sense to me. You'd think government systems would be integrated. I genuinely believe they set it up like this to screw over foreigners. Now they give me two options: wait it out or pay the overstay fine — 1 million rupiah per day. So now I'm paying another 3 million on top of the 1.5 million I already paid to extend a visa that's now invalid. I'm frustrated, but I remind myself — it's only money. Part of the journey. Move on. I take a flight from Flores back to Bali, where I'm supposed to catch my connecting flight to Tokyo. I land with two minutes left before check-in closes. My domestic flight was delayed, and I stood on the hot concrete waiting 20 minutes for a shuttle bus from the plane to the terminal. Stressful, but I just made the check-in. I go to immigration to pay the overstay fee — 3 million, all in cash. Since I've been tapping everywhere, I assumed I could tap here too. Nope. I'm screwed. I have no debit or credit card to withdraw cash. My flight is already boarding. I start scrambling — asking people if they can help — but I have no way to send them money. Europeans use Revolut. I had no balance on mine. Americans use Zelle or Venmo, but that's a long shot here. Time's up. The flight boards without me. I accept my fate. Thankfully, the airport staff were kind enough to rebook me for tomorrow — for a cancellation fee. More money, but at least I didn't have to book a whole new flight. I'll also owe another 1 million for overstaying one more day. Now the only mission: Where can I withdraw money with tap? I knew it was possible — I'd done it before in Cambodia and the Philippines. I asked at least five currency exchange places — no luck. I started stressing out. "How will I get out of Indonesia?" I walked outside to get a taxi into town. At the airport, a driver tried to charge me 800k rupiah for a 15-minute ride. He said the only place I could withdraw with tap was in Kuta. I almost did it — I was desperate. But I took a breath, opened Grab, and ran away. The Grab was 8x cheaper. I arrived in the heart of Kuta, a tourist hub, hunting for the mythical golden tap. I asked 2–3 exchange places — again, no dice. Then, a random motorbike guy came up and asked what was wrong. I explained my situation. He said he knew a place. I was skeptical — last thing I wanted was to get robbed. He knew I was desperate and would be withdrawing a lot of cash. We drove to one place — no luck. Then further out of the city. I got nervous but surrendered to the moment. Finally, we found a spot that could do it — for a 7% fee. I was exhausted and hopeless. I had to do it. I withdrew what I needed to pay immigration tomorrow. And you know what? The motorbike guy turned out to be super helpful and kind. In general, Asian cultures go above and beyond to help foreigners in need. It's one of the most refreshing and beautiful things about traveling here. I want to be that kind of person — to help when someone needs it. So now, I'm in a hostel in Kuta, Bali. Hopefully flying to Sapporo, Japan tomorrow. Any lessons here? Not all travel is glamorous. Take visa rules seriously. Check the fine print. It's only money — you can always make more.

Today is my last day in Indonesia. I arrived in Flores from Lombok via a 4-day, 3-night cruise with the company Wanua. I had previously done a 3-day, 2-night cruise between islands in the Philippines and loved it, so I was excited for this one in Indo. This time, we slept on the boat every night instead of camping on small islands. There were about 40 people on the cruise—mostly British, some Dutch, some French, and a couple of Americans. Most nationalities stuck to themselves. The stops along the four days were incredible. The highlight for me was swimming with whale sharks. I've snorkeled a lot on this trip and wasn't overly optimistic about this experience, but snorkeling with whale sharks turned out to be one of my favorite moments of the entire journey. I was woken up around 6:30 AM and immediately jumped into the water with the huge, beautiful creatures. It was thrilling—sometimes they'd swim off into the deep ocean and disappear, and then suddenly you'd turn your head and see a whale shark coming straight toward you. They get so close you could almost touch them. It was magical watching them pop in and out of the water and getting to swim so close to them. Besides the whale sharks, I saw Komodo dragons, a pink beach, and beautiful sunsets. There was only one night when the waters were really choppy and I felt a bit sick. Overall, it was an awesome experience—disconnecting from everything, chilling on the water, and seeing beautiful animals and nature. My month in Indonesia has been diverse and deeply rewarding. Tomorrow, I'll journey to the Land of the Rising Sun—Japan—via four flights. It's a surreal feeling, because 1.5 years ago I traveled to Japan for the first time, marking my first trip to Asia. Now, I've visited nearly every Asian country I set out to see, and I'm returning to Japan to explore the northern island of Hokkaido. Through this travel, I've fallen in love with the lawlessness, rawness, authenticity, and simplicity of the third world in Southeast Asia. Going back to the first world with a fresh vibe and perspective will be an interesting contrast to my previous Japan trip. Still, I'm looking forward to it—because I love onsens and sushi. Be on the lookout for some deep introspection coming to the blog soon—I owe it to you, and to myself. Not much more to say today. Thanks for sticking with me on these adventures.