I grew up in Taipei and later found myself in New York—places where speed is the measure of success. Productivity is currency, and exhaustion is worn like a badge of honor. 

I stumbled upon a flea market in Paris during my study abroad semester—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 the kind of wealth that makes your heart ache. 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.