Woe is any town unfortunate enough to be home. It’s the first place to be maligned when asked, and often when not . The biggest complaint is that there is nothing to do. This may not be true if you live in New York City, Tokyo, or some other metropolis, the borders of which seem to house a small planet’s worth of spectacle.
I’ve never lived in such a place, though. Whether by chance or fate, mine is always the home with more fields and trees than people, more mountains to climb than reliable pubs to soothe what ails you. And so it’s always been that I’ve looked away from my home for my adventures.
It’s only when my bank account dwindles before my paycheck, my kitchen reduced to a monk’s stock of beans, rice, and tofu, that I bother to look up and see what a beautiful — albeit temporary — home I have. I live in a fishbowl built of mountains and maples, streams and rice paddies. Trails branch across my little blip on the map of Japan like capillaries. Deer, wild boars, bears, four-inch wasps, kaleidoscopic swallowtail butterflies course through them. And the sunsets? See for yourself.
When did you realize your home is secretly wonderful? Share those moments with me in the comments below.