Last Vaca Splurge for Sushi

The last stretch of vacation always feels like standing in a doorway—half in the bright, roaming world and half in the quiet that waits back home. So we did what we always do when we’re trying to hold onto a moment: we splurged a little, and we ate slowly.

Two small white plates arrived like clean punctuation on the table. Each held a single piece of fish, lightly seared, the surface freckled and warm-looking, with a small green dab of wasabi and a dark pool of sauce that caught the light. Beside it, a sweating glass of water—simple, almost blank—like the kind of calm you don’t notice until you need it.

There’s something comforting about food this spare. Nothing to hide behind. You taste salt and smoke and the softness underneath, and for a minute the noise of travel fades out. It’s not just dinner; it’s a way of saying goodbye to the trip without making a speech about it.

I keep thinking about how vacations end the way seasons do: not abruptly, but with small changes you only recognize after. A final meal. A final walk back to the hotel. The last time you check the room for forgotten chargers.

If this was our last vacation splurge for sushi, it was a good one—clean, quiet, and memorable in the way simple things can be.