The Friction of Comfort

There is a pair of shoes in my closet that I only wear in Japan. They are ugly, bulky, and incredibly comfortable. They are a testament to a lesson I learned the hard way: vanity has no place on a 20,000-step day.

We often pack for the version of ourselves we want to be, not the version that actually exists. We pack the dress shoes for the fancy dinner we might not book. We pack the "going out" shirt for the club night we'll likely be too tired to attend. This disconnect between expectation and reality creates physical and mental friction.

On my first trip to Kyoto, I wore boots that looked great in photos but lacked arch support. By day three, I was making decisions based on pain management rather than curiosity. "Is that temple worth the walk?" became the defining question of my itinerary. I missed out on seeing the hidden side streets simply because my feet refused to cooperate.

This concept of "friction" applies to more than just footwear. It applies to how we navigate a foreign culture. We often seek the path of least resistance—the English menu, the Western-style hotel, the familiar coffee chain. While these offer comfort, they also insulate us from the very experience we traveled to find.

True comfort in travel comes from preparation, yes, but also from adaptability. It is comfortable to know you can walk for miles without pain. It is comfortable to know you can navigate a subway system without panicking. This is a different kind of comfort than luxury; it is the comfort of competence.

Physical endurance is an underrated travel asset. We train for marathons, but we rarely train for vacations. Yet, a week in Tokyo is physically demanding in a way most office workers are not prepared for.

I now view my packing list as a toolset for removing friction. If an item doesn't serve a clear, functional purpose, it stays home. This minimalism reduces the cognitive load of deciding what to wear, and the physical load of dragging a heavy suitcase up a flight of stairs because the elevator is hard to find.

There is a beauty in the utility of travel gear. The scuffed shoes, the worn backpack, the jacket with the perfect number of pockets. They become extensions of your body, allowing you to move through the world with less resistance.

When you remove the physical distractions—the blisters, the heavy bag, the cold—you are left with pure attention. You can finally look up and see the world, rather than looking down at your feet.

So, wear the ugly shoes. Your memories will thank you.