Text By Maithili Iyer
Tell us about some of your interesting travel adventures
I have had the good fortune of traveling to many places, but some are really worth mentioning for the life lessons you get and sometimes for the awe-inspiring sights.
Traveling through Japan felt like a collection of quiet wonders, each experience unfolding with its own rhythm and depth. Climbing Mount Fuji was both humbling and awe-inspiring—reaching the summit just in time to watch the sun rise above the clouds felt like brushing up against something eternal. The descent, however, quickly reminded me that gravity—and knees—have no respect for spiritual moments.
Days later, I found myself in Yufuin, a little town in Kyushu that felt like it was Brigadoon. The town had a gentle, dreamlike quality—mist drifting through the hills, the sound of running water around every corner. Even the train station looked like an art gallery, with curated exhibits, gentle lighting, and an almost meditative calm. The streets were lined with artsy little shops, each more charming than the last—selling handmade ceramics, vintage crafts, and delicate pastries that looked too beautiful to eat. Every food display was a tiny masterpiece, as if presentation itself was an unspoken part of hospitality. It was the kind of place that made you want to slow down, notice details, and breathe a little deeper. Then came Mount Aso—vast, ancient, quietly bubbling with volcanic energy. Standing at its edge, with plumes of smoke drifting into the sky, I felt a quiet awe that had nothing to do with scale and everything to do with presence.
Traveling through Japan reshaped the way I experience the world. It reminded me that beauty doesn’t always announce itself loudly—it often whispers through small things: the curve of a teacup, the mossy green of the temple lawn, the kindness of a stranger. It’s changed how I move through places, and maybe even how I move through life.
That’s the thing I love about travel—it pulls you out of your comfort zone and drops you into moments that are funny, frustrating, and occasionally a little profound. Like traveling across the Mongolian steppe with the locals and realizing the horizon truly doesn’t end. Or dodging the fermented Mare’s milk and Mongolian barbeque for simple boiled potatoes and a nice swig of the Genghis Khan Vodka. Or being surprised to see an Irish pub named after Genghis Khan. Or eating the best Paneer Butter Masala outside of Delhi in Ulan Bataar! Or wandering through Kazakhstan, where futuristic cities meet wild mountain landscapes, and you’re never quite sure if you’re in a sci-fi movie or a National Geographic documentary. Or walking through the cobbled streets of Cusco, being struck by the sheer strength and precision of Inca masonry—massive stones fitted so flawlessly that even centuries later, not a blade of grass can slip through the seams. There’s something grounding about touching those ancient walls and realizing they’ve stood firm through time, weather, and empire. And then there was Machu Picchu—stepping onto its terraces felt like entering a dream carved into the mountains. After climbing Huayna Picchu, breathless and wide-eyed, looking down at the ruins below—for a moment, it felt like I was standing between worlds, suspended between clouds and history.
Tell me more about the Mount Fuji trek
To be honest, nothing humbles you faster than celebrating the climb up Mount Fuji—only to have the descent absolutely annihilate your knees. Several years ago, I did the overnight hike to catch the sunrise from the summit (which was as breathtaking as every Instagram photo suggests). We started the climb at 10 in the night, fully kitted out in our hiking gear. The climb felt like a breeze and that made me think this is not going to be so bad as no one warned me that coming down would feel like a slow-motion wrestling match with gravity. The loose volcanic ash gives you little support, and you pretty much have to slide down and pivot for a good 2-3 hours. By the end, most of us looked like a group of aging penguins hobbling toward a hot spring. And yet, despite the pain, all we could talk about was how surreal it felt to stand above the clouds, watching the sun spill over the horizon. Have the hot noodle soup at 6 in the morning on the summit as fortification before the grueling descent. Pain? Worth it a 100%!
For me, these adventures aren’t just about seeing new places—they’re about collecting stories that make you laugh, think, and sometimes limp for a few days. And honestly, that’s the kind of experience I’m always signing up for.
Which are all the places where you’ve lived?
I’ve lived in India, Japan, and the United States—each offering its own rhythm, culture, and lessons.
Of the places you’ve lived, which is your favorite?
It’s impossible to pick just one. Each place has shaped me in different ways. India will always hold a deep emotional resonance—it’s where I grew up, and that kind of familiarity is irreplaceable. Japan, with its quiet beauty and deep sense of intentionality, has a way of humbling you and slowing you down in the best possible way. And the U.S. feels like home in a different sense—a place that has given me space to explore, evolve, and find my own voice. So, no single favorite—just different forms of belonging.
Which travel books would you recommend?
If you’re looking for practical travel tips—how to avoid crowds, book tickets, find the right accommodation, or locate the best local food—Lonely Planet is a solid go-to. Rick Steves also offers detailed guides, especially useful for cultural insights and logistics, particularly in Europe. That said, I find it most helpful to dip into a mix of publishers; no single source ever fully captures everything you might need or want from a place.
Personally though, I rarely follow guidebooks to the letter. I prefer getting lost a little, lingering longer, and letting the place unfold in unexpected ways. When it comes to travel writing—the kind that stirs your imagination and nudges you to reflect—Pico Iyer is my favorite. His prose doesn’t just describe a destination; it explores how places shape our inner world. Books like The Art of Stillness and The Global Soul blur the line between travel and philosophy, showing that movement across landscapes often mirrors movement within.
I also enjoy Bill Bryson, who brings humor and a sharp observational eye to his journeys. He makes even the most ordinary places come alive with wit and curiosity. Together, writers like Iyer and Bryson remind me that travel isn’t only about geography—it’s about perspective.
Pic by K.S. Loganathan. Two scenery pics by unsplash
