Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Eleven
We'll get home... eventually.
About this Series
Wander, Wonder, Write is a collection of reflections from a father and daughter’s journey across Korea, Japan, and beyond. Written in real time, these essays capture the quiet moments, unexpected challenges, and deeper questions that emerge when we step away from the familiar and allow the road to change us. It isn’t a travel guide. It’s a record of what it feels like to move through the world with open hands—and an open heart.
We said goodbye to Seoul today.
Boarded the express train, speeding past the city’s familiar skyline one last time, making our way to the gleaming gem that is Incheon International Airport—a marvel of order and beauty. So pretty. So clean. So organized. So unmistakably Korean.
We found a quiet refuge in the airport lounge, where soft classical music played over the hum of travelers coming and going. The food was excellent. She tuned into her music; I opened my laptop and started writing, the comfortable silence between us thick with companionship.
I am not going to win father of the year for admitting this, but it wasn’t until we were settled in at the airport and I started checking flight schedules that I remembered: we didn’t actually have a place to stay tonight. I should probably be embarrassed by how easily I forgot that small detail… especially considering we were flying to an ENTIRELY NEW COUNTRY!
Somewhere between adventure mode and resignation, I guess I forgot about planning ahead. One thing at a time has been our mantra on this trip, and it has worked perfectly for the two of us. Still… someone has to plan something. And that someone—by default—is me.
As we prepared to board our flight to Japan, another realization struck me: I should probably have some idea of how exactly were going to get from Narita Airport to Yokota Air Base. I checked the distance—3.5 hours by train or subway. Ouch.
I remembered there was a base shuttle, so I checked the schedule as our plane was pulling away from the gate and taxiing on the runway. The last bus departs Narita airport in Tokyo at 7 p.m.
Our flight was scheduled to land at 7 p.m.
Hmm… Maybe I should find us a hotel after all. I navigated the base hotel’s website as we pulled onto the runway and engines began spooling. It was booked solid. No availability.
So I did the only thing I could do at that moment. I turned off my phone, turned to my co-pilot daughter, explained the situation and our various options, and then let it sit. She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her music, remarkably calm for hearing we were flying to a foreign city and didn’t have a place to stay or a clue about how to get there. I guess that is a sign of trust?
Or she was just too tired to care.
I’m going to go with trust.
Hello Tokyo
We arrived Tokyo in a few hours later. Walking through the expansive Narita airport, my daughter continued to call out words she understood in Korean from people’s conversations, which was even more impressive to me given she was now differentiating Korean from Japanese. I cannot tell the difference listening to the two. We made it through customs and retrieved our luggage, then found a little corner of the airport to sit down and figure things out. After a few minutes searching, I found a good deal on a hotel in downtown Tokyo that had a shuttle going to Yokota Air Base the next morning.
We hopped the Skyliner train across Tokyo, the vibrant cityscape blurring past in streaks of yellow, orange, and blue. A short subway ride after that, and we were walking the streets of downtown Tokyo like a couple of locals. Easy. We were pros by now. Even navigating the tangled web of Tokyo’s public transportation felt more exciting than stressful.
Navigating foreign airports and subway stations? No problem.
Ordering food from street vendors and tiny cafés? No problem.
Finding adventure wherever we go? That’s what we do.
We checked in to the hotel around midnight, pleasantly surprised by its clean, simple, quiet luxury. Pulling out the sofa bed, my daughter sighed.
Ah, another sofa bed. The life of a traveling child.
The train ticket here charged you as an adult, kiddo. I think you’ll be paying taxes soon.
As long as there are no more sofa beds…
We dropped our bags and went straight to sleep.
The next morning, we woke and slipped effortlessly into our now well-worn routine.
She began packing without being asked—methodical, confident, careful. I packed up chargers and passports while she rolled and compressed her clothes tight to save space. Without speaking, we knew what needed to be done.
It’s a beautiful thing to travel with someone long enough that movement becomes choreography—each knowing their steps without needing a word.
Traveling with this one is easy. A resonance frequency that matches patterns and energy and makes cooperation and communication feel nearly effortless.
After breakfast, with the few hours we had left in downtown Tokyo, we wandered through Shibuya—one of the busiest, liveliest neighborhoods in the city, known as the Times Square of Tokyo. Crossing the world-famous Shibuya Scramble felt like diving into a living, breathing organism: hundreds of people crisscrossing in every direction, a ballet of chaos and control. Floor upon floor of shops beckoned from towering buildings—manga, anime, K-pop, endless streams of color and noise and energy. Everywhere we turned, Tokyo’s vibrant, unfiltered culture pulsed with life. People wore what would easily be considered costumes back home—plush animal hats, sparkling platform boots, neon wigs. Here, though, it was just ordinary streetwear. A place where self-expression wasn’t just tolerated; it was celebrated.
With fresh souvenirs in hand and more delicious foods in our bellies, we boarded a bus shuttle bound for Yokota Air Base, about an hour and a half away. As we traveled, my daughter kept up a steady stream of questions, her curiosity as wide as the sky: Why do chefs wear such tall hats? Where did that tradition come from?
Why is some dragon fruit white inside and some purple—does it have to do with natural sugars? If we exchange Korean won to Japanese yen, would it save us more money than exchanging US dollars?
Her mind leaps so quickly from one curiosity to the next, like a stone skipping across a still pond. I am amazed at her abundant energy as we approach the end of our second full week of nonstop international travel.
Once we arrived at the passenger terminal, we were able to get listed on the next available flight, heading first to Anchorage, Alaska, and then to Travis Air Force Base in California. From there it would be an easy (and cheap) commercial flight back from San Francisco to our home in Washington DC. It all seemed simple.
When boarding time came and went without so much as an announcement, I didn’t think too much of it. Space-A flights have a rhythm of their own, often detached from the clock. But after a while, the murmurings started. Then came the announcement.
Flight cancelled.
Suddenly everything about our timeline getting home was thrown into question. I immediately looked at our options. One more flight remained for the day—to Seattle. From there we could easily fly commercial back to DC for relatively little money. This was our new best option.
Only one catch: there were only five available seats.
When the roll call began, the first name called was a family of four. They took the first four seats, meaning there was only one remaining seat.
My name was called next. The official asked if we wanted to separate—one of us flying now, the other left behind to try again later.
She’s 13, I said, as if there was even a chance we would split up.
Feeling dejected but not beaten, I sat down to consider our plan C. The next flight out from Yokota Air Base wouldn’t be for two more days. So we needed a place to stay until then.
We could stay here on base, but being hours out in the country and not able to rent a car would mean we would be trapped on another military base for a few days. It would be better for us to go back into Tokyo and make the most of our time in Japan. We checked the bus schedule to get back into Tokyo. The next—and last—bus of the day was scheduled to leave at 3:00 p.m.
It was 2:56 p.m.
We grabbed our bags and sprinted—really sprinted—down the road, dragging our luggage behind us in the light rain, half a mile to the bus stop.
I could see the bus in the distance, idling at the curb.
It began to pull away towards us just as we came into view.
I waved frantically, one hand high over my head, the other dragging the rolling suitcase behind me, running full speed, soaked and breathless.
The driver looked straight ahead and didn’t stop. He just drove right by.
We were left standing on the street in the rain, watching the bus disappear around the corner.
I didn’t say much.
There wasn’t much to say.
We stood there for a while, both of us breathing hard, rain dripping from the ends of our hair and sleeves, the whole day suddenly turned upside down.
Now what?
Picking ourselves up again… and again
I don’t know why missing the bus felt like such a failure.
It wasn’t logical, but my spirit sagged under the weight of it all.
It was like everything was slipping out of my control—the flights, the schedules, the weather, the very earth beneath my feet.
And the part of me that enjoys improvising and loves adventure, finally hit a wall.
I felt low.
Really low.
Sad and disappointed, even though I knew none of it was truly my fault.
My daughter, ever the optimist, shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“Well,” she said, “the universe is just giving us another adventure.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t quite feel it yet.
We pulled our bags back to the base hotel and thankfully they had availability. I booked a room for the night.
I lay down fully clothed on the bed while she curled up with a book.
I needed to reset.
I needed to let the sadness run through me, and then let it go.
I closed my eyes and let sleep come.
When I woke up 20 minutes later, the world didn’t seem quite so heavy.
I reminded myself why we were here.
This trip wasn’t about control.
It was about acceptance.
It was about being present, even when the moment wasn’t what I wanted.
And right now, this was the moment I had.
By early evening, I sat at the little desk in the hotel room and started sorting through our options.
Option one: catch a flight to Kadena Air Base in Okinawa tomorrow morning. The next day’s schedule from Okinawa looked promising, with at least three flights that could get us back to the East Coast. One flight would land directly in Vermont, only a few hours’ drive from our home in DC. We could rent a car and be home in no time. Another flight would take us to Honolulu. Flights home from Honolulu were surprisingly inexpensive, and easily paid for with frequent flier miles. A third option would be to fly to Alaska. Not ideal, as getting out of Alaska on a military flight would be tricky, with few flights heading eastward. Commercially, flights from Alaska were more expensive than any other option. We would do it if we needed to, but thankfully we had two other options.
So, once I had cleared my head and allowed myself a moment, the choice was clear.
We would fly to Okinawa tomorrow morning. From there, we had at least three options to get back to the US.
Outside the hotel window, the rain continued to fall, soft and steady.
Inside, the little room felt warm and safe.
The kiddo was sprawled out on the bed, still reading, still content.
And slowly, so very slowly, I felt the tension in my chest begin to loosen.
This wasn’t the day I planned.
It wasn’t the story I intended to tell.
But tonight I am reminded of a simple truth:
I am not writing this story.
I am only here to tell it.
About the Author
ES Vorm, PhD is a writer, father, and lifelong traveler who believes the best stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we live. After two decades of service as an aviator, scientist, and researcher, he now devotes his time to homeschooling, writing, and exploring the world with his daughter. His work reflects a deep commitment to presence, resilience, and the quiet beauty of unexpected detours.