In between writing my Master Thesis and trying not to disappoint my Internship supervisor, I took the liberty (and three days) to show Indi a bit of Belgium. Not exactly for her benefit mind you. But because an old friend asked me what being Belgian means to me.

When my sister and I were kids, our parents often brought us to the flea markets of Brussels. As they searched for plates and vases, we scanned the cobblestone pavement for hidden treasures. I think all that staring at the ground left me nearsighted.

Home isn’t a place. Even after a year in a tiny box in the busiest part of Tokyo, home isn’t that box. Instead it’s a feeling. The hugs and stories, tea and coffee you share with those you love.

I’m going to leave my home. Today is the day. Most likely never to return.  I will miss playing cards at the kitchen table. Indi taught us one of her…

And now the news, both good, and less so. In one week, I’m set to leave home for about a year, transplanted from Europe to Asia. However, in that time,…

Lest I forget the nights spent awake late, far too late, gathered around a crackling fire far out in the garden where the wifi connection breaks and hampers the flow…

After twenty years of collecting miscellaneous memories in disparate spots and stringing them together into a vibrant tapestry of youth, the parental house will be sold, cardboard boxes abound around…