closing remarks
When I first arrived in Nagoya, I sat in my dorm scrubbing through Google Maps looking for interesting spots near me. It turned out there was a nice-looking cafe a short walk away from me. So, about once every week, I would take a stroll along the river and step into the cafe.
I was soon trying all the seasonal coffee blends as they came out, the lunch plates, and the sweets. The owner of the cafe started bringing out milk and sugar without asking; he remembered my face and preferences. I brought friends over to enjoy coffee. I bought donuts to take home.
On my last week, I stepped into the cafe for my final visit. It had been open for little more than a year. I had been there for a third of its lifetime. I didn't know when I would be back, but I was sure that it would at least take a couple years. I felt that it would be rude to say nothing and disappear, so I broke the news to the owner.
"Oh," he replied. I saw his smile fade for just a second. But then it resurfaced, and we had a friendly exchange.
It’s been more than a month and a half since that time, and that moment is still on my mind. Obviously I’m not psychic when it comes to reading emotions, but to me that slight bit of hesitation was a sign that, however insignificant and fleeting my presence was, it had affected him in some way.
I’m concerned about what I leave behind in places I’ve been. I’ve had places that had only just begun to feel like home when it was time to pack up and leave. And I’m sure there’s many more of those places waiting for me in the next few years. The owner’s hesitation is no doubt part of what I’ve left behind in Nagoya–a memory of me drinking coffee. The smallest speck of proof that I was once here.
Perhaps that’s the point of my photography too.