I don't remember the exact moment I fell in love with coffee. It wasn't a single cup — it was a slow accumulation of mornings, of cities, of quiet conversations held over something warm.

It started young. Before I understood roast profiles or brew ratios, I understood the feeling — that first sip that made the world slow down for a second. That feeling became a compass. I started chasing it.

Every city I visited, every trip I planned — there was always a quiet second agenda: find the best cup here. Not the most famous. Not the most photographed. The most honest one.

Then came Japan. I wasn't prepared for what matcha would do to me. Not the powder-in-milk version the world had watered down — a real bowl. Stone-ground. Whisked by hand. Bright, grassy, almost electric.

Here's what nobody tells you about traveling for coffee and matcha: the research is exhausting. Every city is a rabbit hole. You spend hours before a trip just trying to answer one question — where do I actually go?

Every cafe in here I've either visited myself or personally vetted. I've ordered the thing. I've sat in the light. I've talked to the person behind the counter. This isn't a review app — it's a record.

My record. And now it's yours to use.