We are physically in Kyoto, but mentally, we are still in the group chat.
There is a photo I took in Arashiyama. It is beautiful. The bamboo grove is empty, the light is filtering through the stalks, and the composition is perfect. What the photo doesn't show is that I spent the next ten minutes editing it, thinking of a caption, and waiting for the upload bar to complete. I was standing in one of the most serene places on earth, but my mind was in a server farm in California.
This is the digital tether. It is the invisible cord that connects us to our home, our work, and our social circles, no matter how far we travel.
In the past, travel was a clean break. You sent a postcard that arrived three weeks after you returned. You were unreachable. Now, we are never truly away. We carry our entire lives in our pockets. The office can Slack us at 3 AM. Our friends can FaceTime us while we are eating sushi. The boundary between "here" and "there" has dissolved.
This tether has benefits, of course. It provides safety. It allows us to share our experiences with people we love. But it also dilutes the experience. It prevents us from fully immersing ourselves in the present moment because a part of our brain is always processing how this moment will be consumed by others.
I have noticed that my memories of trips where I had poor reception are sharper, more vivid. I remember the smell of the rain, the texture of the tatami mats, the sound of the temple bells. On trips where I was constantly connected, my memories feel like a scroll through an Instagram feed—curated, flat, and slightly detached.
The tether also changes how we navigate. We follow the blue line on the map so rigidly that we forget to look at the landmarks. We trust the algorithm more than our own eyes. We become efficient, but we lose the joy of discovery. We optimize our route to the point where there is no room for the happy accident.
I am trying to loosen the tether. I leave my phone in the hotel room for short walks. I turn off notifications. I try to look at a sunset without immediately reaching for my camera. It is hard. The impulse to capture and share is deeply wired. But every time I resist it, I feel a small victory. I feel, for a fleeting second, that I am actually here.
Japan is a country of deep presence. The tea ceremony, the martial arts, the craft—everything is about being fully in the moment. It seems disrespectful to visit such a place while being half-absent.
So, the next time you are in a temple, or a garden, or a quiet street, try to cut the cord. Just for a few minutes. Let the notifications pile up. Let the emails wait. Be selfish with your attention. It is the most valuable currency you have.