If drive down road 208

As soon as you hit Route 208 from I‑78 West in New Jersey, the car glides smoothly across the road. Turn up the radio and enjoy the ride—before long, you reach a small hill planted with more than sixty varieties of herbs. A playful gardener, the owner, with a blue bow tie, plucked a herb leaf one by one for us, explaining each one's benefits. The scent of those herbs relaxed my body and mind.

But that was just the beginning. Waiting for us was a beautifully arranged table filled with dishes like pork and bean sprout steam, seafood noodle platter, herb‑flower rice, chilled tofu, seafood with chili‑oil sauce, tuna sashimi with ginger sauce, sprout tangpyeongchae, asparagus with vinaigrette, assorted boiled pork, ox trotter slices, and stuffed cucumber kimchi.

Then the hostess, wearing an elegant black dress with bare shoulders, began to play the piano. In that cozy atmosphere, it felt like 15 performers and the audience all shared the same stage. It was the annual “Wyckoff Home Concert” — a warm gathering where musicians and music lovers are invited into their home.

Our connection with this couple goes back over twenty years! I met the husband as my boss at work—and the wife through a book club. Only later, at a friend’s event, did I discover they were married.

Years ago, when my husband moved to Seoul to teach at a university, I relocated north to a good school district in northern New Jersey with our two young children in kindergarten and first grade. The couple hosting the home concert were my former boss and coworker — the same folks who hired me back then, despite my lack of experience and my age. They told me, "In America, age is just a number." They must have thought I was a little different but worth the chance.

A year later, when my husband, worn out by life in Korea, returned, we moved back to Brooklyn. I thought our connection had faded, but instead, it re-emerged and grew. Now, I've been invited to attend their home concert for several years.

On the drive home after that performance, one of the musicians said to my husband,
“Is it hard to live in New York as an artist?”
I replied bitterly,
“I survive by doing part-time work unrelated to music.”
We were all grateful to spend such a wonderful day thanks to two people who invite artists into their home, offering encouragement and comfort.

After the concert, they even sent us home with herb tea bags harvested that very year.

“That's how you live when you earn money—by spending it beautifully,” 

my husband remarked. It wasn’t just the expense—it was their care, sincerity, and selfless effort. The invisible love and attention they poured into everything left us deeply moved.

I admire the way they even repaved their driveway with smooth asphalt just for a warm, early-autumn evening party. When the elderly saxophonist made a playful joke, everyone laughed so wholeheartedly. I’d love nothing more than to ride down Route 208 again and go back to that place.