I have a recurring nightmare and it goes like this: I am in a foreign country with my family — we are lost, we are tired, and we are not agreeing on anything. The taxi we called for is 20-something minutes late, passive-aggressive comments are being hurled back and forth at each other, locals start to stare at the annoying gaggle of Americans invading their space, and we become folklore immortalized in yet another rant about the stereotypically rude, unaware, Western foreigners.

Every few years or so, this nightmare becomes my reality in the form of a family vacation — an event that forces household ecosystems to face the trials and tribulations of functioning as a unit out in the wild. More than that, it is a portrait of our best and worst selves.

In my most recent trip, a 10-day excursion to Tokyo with my mom and my 20-year-old brother over winter break, the first few days began tamely. We explored the city like kids in a candy shop: jaws dropped at how cheap products at the tax-free store were, eyes widened at the luxury of Japanese 7-Elevens, delicious foods filled every hour of the day — it was heaven.

Then, we faced the first test of our resilience: the Tokyo subway station — an unforgiving labyrinth of souvenir shops, broken escalators, and automated gates. Locals strided by at breakneck speed, whizzing through turnstiles like there was no tomorrow. We were prey in a jungle, wandering without conviction. Google Maps turned its back on us, malfunctioning and failing. Frustration set in. My mom left to use the restroom and soon enough, a soldier was lost to the sea of people and blame was thrown around our group carelessly.

At the seven-day mark, things went south quicker than usual. At this point, we were simply tired — tired of walking, tired of planning, tired of each other. I was becoming my most irritable and insufferable self with every micromanaging command or passive-aggressive tone of voice.

The thing about family is that no one knows how to offend you, bother you, push your buttons, and irritate you on a deep-seated level more than your own blood. On trips, disagreements become far more personal than they should ever be, and suddenly, unresolved tension from years ago is thrust into the present.

On the last day of our trip, as we sat down at a crowded restaurant, we ate in peaceful silence, swallowing our pride along with our food. That night my mom joked, “We should never travel together again.”

The progression of a family vacation might be one of the greatest tests of familial relationships I have been forced to experience. But even through the worst parts, over the years I’ve learned to treasure the unforgettable memories until they become funny stories of the past.

I’ll remember how much I laughed with my brother after we mistakenly drank the temple water we were meant to rinse our mouths with. I’ll remember the late mornings of sitting in front of the mirror, my mom and I doing our makeup. I’ll remember every argument along with every joke thrown in after to break the tension.

Even in the hours we spent wandering neighborhood streets, looking for a restaurant or another trendy thrift shop my mom took no interest in, not a single minute felt like a waste of time.

After coming back home, I found myself hanging out with my brother and mom more — not just on trips to go shopping or to get food. Rather, I often found myself sitting on the floor of their rooms, organizing my souvenirs, going through my photos — simple, mundane things I can easily do alone. Just when I had finally escaped their presence after being forced into it for so long, I couldn’t help but seek them out again. In a life-contemplating, and rather sappy way, I see now that growing up is like that too. When life gets complicated, difficult and daunting, I find myself seeking out a safe space — my family.

I recall now, when we arrived back at the Los Angeles airport with two more suitcases in hand than we left with, my mom said one thing.

“Next time, we should visit Osaka.”