Gabriel Cancino
When I first moved to Japan from Chile, I wasn’t expecting to be so taken by the winters here. Back home, I’d seen plenty of snow in the Andes, but Nikko’s snowy winters are something else entirely. One Christmas, while hosting a couple in Nikko, I had one of those moments that reminded me why I fell in love with this place.
The couple was visiting from Spain, and they couldn’t stop marveling at the snow. It was falling steadily, blanketing the rooftops, the streets, and the trees. They were grinning like kids, trying to catch snowflakes on their gloves. It made me pause for a second. Snow was just snow to me—or so I thought. Watching their excitement, I started to see it differently. There was something magical about the quiet way Nikko transformed under that white blanket, almost like the whole town had slowed down to breathe.
Gabriel Cancino
We made our way to Toshogu Shrine, a place I’d been to countless times. But that day, it felt different. The snow softened everything, and the bright red gates and intricate gold carvings seemed to glow against the white. My guests were busy taking pictures, but I just stood there for a minute. It reminded me of the first time I saw the shrine, years ago. Back then, I was still figuring out if I belonged here. As someone from Chile, a place so different from Japan, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel at home here. But seeing the shrine that day, in the stillness of the snow, I felt a strange mix of comfort and awe—like I was seeing it again for the first time.
Gabriel Cancino
Later, we stopped at a tiny family-run restaurant to warm up. The owner greeted us like old friends, even though we’d never met before. She brought out bowls of yuba soba—Nikko’s specialty—and extra tea, smiling when my guests tried to thank her in their best Japanese.
Gabriel Cancino
Sitting there, sharing stories about Spain, laughing with this kind stranger, I realized how much this place had become home to me.
Nikko isn’t just beautiful—it’s welcoming. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you belong, even if you’re a stranger.
By the time we left the restaurant, the snowstorm had picked up. We laughed as we ran down the street, our boots crunching through the snow, trying to find our way back to the station. My jacket was soaked, my fingers were frozen, but I couldn’t stop smiling. I don’t know what it was about that day—the quiet of the shrine, the warmth of the meal, or the chaos of the snowstorm—but it stuck with me.
Nikko has a way of showing you something new every time you visit, even if you think you’ve seen it all. For me, that day wasn’t just about guiding guests. It was about sharing something I love and realizing how much this place has given me in return. That’s what being a host is all about—those unexpected, beautiful moments that remind you why a place feels like home.
