The things we get wrong until we travel

A love story.

I wasn’t sure how I’d take to Japanese sake culture considering I, you know, wasn’t a fan of sake.

For those who need a refresher, sake is one of the many ingenious ways the Japanese make use of their most abundant crop—rice. The rice is polished, steamed, and then fermented with water, yeast, and a special mold (koji) that converts starch into sugar. What you get at the end of this alchemy is something aficionados claim is rich and nuanced but I wrote off as a vaguely harsh wine-wanna-be.

But when you take a train through the Japanese Alps—past lakes the color of blown glass and mountains patchworked with snow—to arrive at a sake brewery that has been in operation for fifteen generations (four hundred years, just saying), you begin to view sake in a different light.

And then you taste sake in a different light.

And then you fall in love.

I love how sake’s flavor can shift from springtime floral to something deeper—nutty, savory, almost mushroomy. I love the care that goes into it. I love how it behaves with food, never overpowering, always in serenity. I love that it can be served cool and refreshing, or gently warmed, like a small hug in a cup.

Isn’t it wonderful when we are open enough in our travels to find new handholds on happiness?

What’s a discovery you’ve had in your travels that still brings you joy today?