The West Coast changed the way I travel.

I got behind the wheel on Highway 1 with no real idea where I'd stop, and that's where it all began. The cliffs of Big Sur dropped straight into the Pacific, and the wind was so strong that Yuuki dug his claws into my bag and refused to come out until I shut the car door. First tip nobody tells you: plan twice as much time as you think you'll need on this road.

In San Francisco, I got lost in the Mission District on a Tuesday morning. I was looking for coffee and found a neighborhood market instead, with flower stalls packed so tight you could barely squeeze through. A vendor handed me a white peach without me asking, just like that. The juice ran all the way down to my elbow, and I was embarrassed for exactly three seconds before I realized nobody was watching.

Yosemite hit me with something I didn't expect: silence. Not the absence of noise, but the feeling that this valley has been here for so long it doesn't need you to keep going. I hiked up to a viewpoint over Yosemite Falls, legs on fire, and at the top I thought about all the people who had done the exact same thing before me. Yuuki, meanwhile, slept in my backpack the whole way up and woke up perfectly rested.