I grew up in Taipei and later found myself in New York—places where speed is the measure of success, where people burn out in jobs they don’t love because stepping away feels impossible. Productivity is currency, and exhaustion is worn like a badge of honor. There, the idea of slowness—of working with your hands, of choosing quality over convenience—feels almost indulgent.

I stumbled upon a flea market—not the curated kind, but one where small family-run businesses filled the stalls. Watching this father and son work, I saw a different way of being. A world where time isn’t something to race against, but something to move with. Where what you create is meant to last, not just to be consumed and replaced. Where skill is inherited, not outsourced. This wasn’t about nostalgia or resisting modernity—it was about a different kind of wealth. One that isn’t measured by speed or output, but by the depth of connection to what you do. People carrying groceries in their arms instead of rushing past with takeout bags. Conversations stretching longer. The way bricks, aged and textured, seemed to matter more than the skyline.