The Posh Paw Blog

Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.

Oh, darling, buckle up — because distance isn’t just measured in miles, it’s measured in moments.

For me, it was Tokyo. Half a world away, twelve time zones ahead, and every inch of it humming like a neon heartbeat.

The first night I arrived, I made the rookie mistake of thinking my internal clock could be conquered by sheer willpower and lipstick. I strutted out in heels (naturally), determined to blend in with the city’s sparkle. But by the time I found myself lost somewhere between Shinjuku’s skyscrapers and a side street lined with ramen shops, the jet lag hit like a grand piano. I was running on equal parts caffeine, adrenaline, and pure stubbornness.

And yet — that’s when the magic happened. I ducked into a tiny bar, the kind with only six seats and a bartender who looked at me like I’d stepped straight out of a foreign film. We didn’t share a language, but we shared music. He put on a jazz record — Coltrane, if I remember right — and just like that, I wasn’t a stranger anymore. I was part of the rhythm.

The thing about being far from home is that it strips you down. No routines, no shortcuts. You learn to laugh when you mime the wrong word, to taste something you can’t pronounce, to feel small in the best possible way.

That night in Tokyo, sitting in a place I never could have found on a map, I realized that “far” isn’t about distance. It’s about stepping so completely outside your comfort zone that you forget what it feels like to stand still.

So yes, Tokyo was the furthest I’ve ever been from home. But more than that, it was the closest I’ve ever been to myself — jet lag, lipstick, Coltrane, and all.

And you, darling? Where’s the place that stretched your soul as much as it stretched the miles on your passport?

Stay fabulous,
Luce 💋