Ray and I expected to check into our fifth hotel in five days (last minute booking a trip to Japan mean a reasonably spurious, discrete set of dates available) like the previous four hotels: get in a little late, dump our things, speak to no one really, and head out, coming back late. This fifth hotel, however, was no typical hotel. The most accurate, albeit reductive description would just be that this was a middle-aged Japanese woman's home. And so, naturally, upon hearing how young we were, she began parenting (in a good way). She mentioned how she was sad we had come so late, because she wanted to have dinner with us. And had we eaten? What did we eat? Would we avoid the inevitable mass confusion of our convoluted bedding system?[^1] Where were we going tonight? What time would we come back? Our answers to the first few questions — we had eaten; we ate many Japanese dishes that I can't remember but seemed to please her; yes we would figure sleeping on the floor out — very much pleased our host/mother/landlord, judging from the nodding and frequent signals of active listening. Unfortunately, the empire we had built came crashing down with our answer to the final question: we were meeting an old friend, so we may come back a bit later, we said. "Around 9pm? Can't be later than 10pm" host/mother/landlord replied, wide-eyed at our daring to even go out at this hour (it was 7:45pm). Upon informing her we were thinking, well, something around midnight, the bountiful flood of active listening signals dried up. "Fine, no problem. We will wait for you" she said. And so, that is how Raymond and I sprinted home at midnight in Kyoto, not wanting to disappoint our host/mother/landlord/curfew keeper. We even apologised profusely for being a few minutes late, like good sons. Our adoptive, temporary parents for a night nodded their acceptance of our apology. In the morning, host/mother/landlord/curfew keeper/culinary director whipped up "a few Japanese dishes, very typical morning meal" which translated to a sixteen course breakfast, including four-five different proteins and no overlap whatsoever between the ingredients. We talked at length — as much as the language barrier would allow — about Route 66. Then, she gave us some packed, homemade snacks, and sent us on our way to see the cultural sights of Kyoto. Instead, Raymond and I played truancy by getting on a random bus and joining a local conference[^2] at Kyoto University. Sorry, mom. [^1]: We slept on tatami mats; they were very comfortable, not nearly as complex as marketed. [^2]: Again, due to language barrier, we weren't sure if this conference was promoting (a) student internships (b) the efficacy of different kitchen appliances (c) climate change advocacy.