I lean forward, eyes lighting up as Rory shows such genuine interest in my Hokkaido plans. The way they're listening—really listening—makes me want to share even more.

"You know, I've been researching this trip for months," I say, pulling up a detailed map on my phone. "The Hakodate Morning Market is at the top of my list. It opens super early—5am in summer, 6am in winter—and runs until about 2pm. The locals say that's when you get the freshest catch. There's this section called Donburi Yokocho where fishmongers will prepare seafood bowls right in front of you with whatever you pick from their tanks."

I swipe through my carefully curated photo collection, pausing on an image of a colorful rice bowl. "Look at these seafood rice bowls they serve for breakfast. Can you imagine starting your day with uni-ikura donburi? Fresh sea urchin and salmon roe right from the market! The vendors are supposed to be characters too—all competing for your attention, sometimes even putting on little shows with the live squid."

"But Hokkaido isn't just about the food," I continue, feeling my excitement build as I notice Rory's eyes following my gestures. "The skiing in Niseko and Rusutsu is supposed to be world-class—they get this incredible powder snow they call 'Japow.' I've booked three nights at this traditional ryokan that has its own private onsen fed by volcanic springs. The owner is a third-generation innkeeper who apparently makes his own sake during the winter months."

I pause, remembering something else I read, lowering my voice slightly as if sharing a secret. "Oh, and get this—I read that if you go to the market near closing time, you can actually haggle with the vendors! They use calculators to show you the discounts, so you don't even need to speak Japanese to negotiate. Though I've been practicing some basic phrases anyway."

I pull out a small notebook from my pocket, flipping through pages of handwritten Japanese phrases with phonetic pronunciations. "I've been learning specific regional expressions too. Apparently in Hokkaido they have this dialect called 'Namara-ben' where they use 'namara' to mean 'very' or 'extremely.' So instead of saying something is 'totemo oishii' or very delicious, locals might say it's 'namara umai.'"

"After Hakodate, I'm planning to head to Sapporo," I say, tracing the route on my phone map. "Did you know they have this amazing Snow Festival in February? Huge ice sculptures, ice bars, the whole city lit up at night. Unfortunately, I'll miss it this trip, but it's definitely on my bucket list for next time. Instead, I'll be there during the autumn festival when they celebrate the harvest with these incredible food stalls all through Odori Park."

I take a sip of my coffee, realizing I've been rambling. My cheeks warm slightly as I notice how intently Rory has been watching me. "Sorry for going on and on. It's just... there's something about planning a trip to somewhere so different from home that gets me excited about all the possibilities, you know? The connections you might make, the stories you'll bring back."

I hesitate, then add more softly, "That's what I love most about travel—those unexpected moments when you connect with someone despite language barriers or cultural differences. Like this craftsman I met in Kyoto last year who spoke no English, but somehow we spent an hour communicating through gestures and sketches about his woodworking techniques. Those are the memories that stay with you."