One afternoon in Tokyo, I put aside my map and followed a tree-lined path away from the noise. I didn’t expect to walk into a cemetery.

A young family picnicked among graves, their laughter echoing across the tombstones. At the end of the street, I found a cafe with red awnings. I sat outside and enjoyed the most velvety hot chocolate I’d ever had.

I love the road less travelled, but it isn’t always this sweet. In Incheon, I once chased ceramics for a photography assignment, only to find shuttered workshops and dusty shelves. I waited for a bus that I wasn’t sure would come, trying to make sense of an inscrutable map I couldn’t read.

So I also love the appeal of a well-trodden road. A favourite store, a comforting bowl of soup noodles, a book I’ve read dozens of times. These are familiar friends that don’t disappoint.

Sometimes we stray and sometimes we stay. One path invites surprise, the other, depth. But either can fail to open if we’re not paying attention. Ultimately, it’s not the movement that matters, but the place where attention meets moment. The map to wonder unlocks with presence.