A trip through Studio Ghibli

Taking the train from Osaka to Wakayama is like taking a trip through a Studio Ghibli filmography.

Buildings and highways are quickly replaced with rice fields and mist shrouded mountains.  You pass the old house and forested hill where you know Totoro is sleeping soundly.  You snake along the coast, your eyes locked on the surf, looking for Ponyo racing along with you.  Another turn reveals a stretch of beautiful coast hemmed in by dark green mountains.  Reluctantly turning away from the vast expanse of the ocean, you glance inland to see if you can spot the flags of Coquelicot Manor, Umi’s home.  Your gaze flows uphill toward the forested peaks behind.  You wonder if you got off the train at the next stop and wandered these beautiful mountains if you could find Chihiro’s gateway.  Maybe another day. The train pulls away from the coast, back toward the countryside, where scarecrows dot the gardens, and you wonder if any of them have a turnip for a head.

The train speeds on and soon you have reached your destination.  You must leave the world of Ghibli behind, but not too far.  Totoro’s mountains are just a few steps outside your door, after all.

Making a home

Because Wakayama City is much smaller than Osaka, finding housing is a bit more difficult.  I was unable to find another share house, so I was forced to move into an apartment.  While the process wasn’t the easiest, I was lucky and found a really helpful employee at one of the few gaijin housing agencies.  Her English was great and she did so much to help me find the perfect place.

Still, as I stood in the middle of my bare new apartment, it was a little overwhelming.  Living on my own was exciting, but the challenge of making this stark place into a home was daunting.

I started with unpacking the one suitcase I brought with me.  Mostly clothes.  Then, many trips back and forth to Osaka later, my possessions slowly started to find their place in my new space.  Buying dishes, household goods, and little bits and pieces of my new life helped a little, but the space was still not a home.  Otose’s place was full of warmth, laughter, and the rich smell of tatami.  This new place was bright (made even more so by the plain white walls), but it lacked the warmth of a home.  However, work started, the ball of life started rolling, and there was little time to worry about it.  I had a space to sleep, cook, and exist.  Toriaizu ii desu.

Days turned to a week, and I found myself getting more comfortable in my new apartment.  I managed to procure the essentials (and some not so essentials).  I was settling in.  But home was still Osaka.  It even said so on Google Maps.  Then one day, with the simplest thing, it changed.

Walking home from the grocery, I passed by one of the many large gardens near me.  This one has a small table at the entrance where they put out produce for a hundred yen.  This day they had onions, but also a blue plastic bucket of fresh cut bouquets. 

Smiling, I bought a bouquet with daisies, freesia, and an assortment of purple, orange, and white flowers.  I had no vase, so I put this vibrant treasure in a plastic Gintoki cup and placed it on my table.  Suddenly my apartment became my home.

Growing up, Otosan had always kept the yard beautiful.  It was his job, but also his passion.  There were always flowers in spring and summer.  Anytime there was a party or company came for a visit, or just because the flowers were exceptionally beautiful, he would make arrangements and put them all over the house – the kitchen table, the bathroom, my bedroom.  It was always something that made me happy.  One of the little things that made our house a home.

I sat down at my computer, next to the little bunch of flowers, and updated the home location on Google Maps.

Reflections on rain

One day it started raining, and it didn't quit for four months. We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it even rained at night...

                                                                                                                                            -Forest Gump

As I sit through yet another rainy afternoon, I reflect on the many types of rain, and their corresponding seasons that I have experienced in my brief time here.  Japan is not always rainy, but there is a reason umbrellas appear so frequently and play such a significant role in their history, literature, and entertainment.

I arrived in summer, the end of the rainy season.  Even before the heavens opened up, it felt like you were underwater.  Cicadas seemed to be the only things alive, their voices carried on the palpable air.  You could watch the storm build, white clouds piling higher and higher against clear blue skies.  Like the ice cream you were too hot to move for, but desperately wanted.  Then, in the afternoon a gust of wind would suddenly clear the hot stuffy air and you knew it was time.  If you were outside, you dashed for the nearest building.  If you were inside, you just settled in to watch and listen.  The rain was the only thing loud enough to drown out the cicadas.  Soon the roar would subside then die out all together.  For a brief moment the air would be cool and fresh before the heat started to rise again and the whole process repeated.

I am not sure exactly when the rainy season ended, but summer turned to fall and the downpours subsided.  Now the rain came slower and colder.  It lingered for hours when it came, keeping you inside, forcing you to acknowledge the coming winter.  Rainy days were few, but they made you shockingly aware of how unprepared you were for being cooped up all winter.  Fall rain smelled of tatami and damp leaves.  Heavy and rich.  Sticking to your hair and clothes.  Filling your head with memories of summer.  But where the stifling heat of summer had driven you out into the rain, the cool breezes of fall encouraged you to stay indoors with a cup of tea and a good book, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the window.  This was a time for naps, day dreaming, and being alone.

Winter rain was the worst.  A cold that seeps into your very bones, even if you don’t get wet.  Clouds hung low, concealing the tops of mountains and skyscrapers.  It seemed the sun was gone for good as one rainy day bled into another.  Dampness clung to everything, even your soul, as the endless drizzle washed away the very colors around you.  Winter rain was a world of grays.  People shuffled with heads down under black umbrellas.  You dreaded being outside, but it seemed the rain could even follow you inside through single pane windows and thin walls.  The smell of wet wool swirled around you as the wind tugged at your umbrella.  You prayed for spring fearing it would never come.

But eventually the rain grew less cold.  The sun returned.  Spring was coming.  The days of endless rain somehow seemed more hopeful.  Maybe it was the fact they happened less frequently.  Maybe it was because in the brief moments between rains, you could feel the air getting warmer and warmer until the rain was no longer cold at all.  You lingered in the showers, rather than rush on to the next building.  You felt yourself growing, just like the buds on the trees and the bulbs still under the ground.  You soaked up the warm rain and your soul began to bloom with the spring.  The smell of fresh earth.  The first bird songs ringing through rain cleaned air.  Where winter rain bathed the world in grays, spring rain intensified the colors around you.  Greens were greener, reds redder, pinks pinker.  Raindrops clung to new flowers like jewels sparking in the sun.  Everything felt fresh and clean.  The staleness of winter melted away in the warm rain, soaking into the ground to give strength to new life.

The days grow longer and hotter.  The cicadas start to sing.  You watch the first summer storm building in the distance.

New beginnings in Wakayama

At the end of last school year, I was faced with a tough decision.  I would not be able to stay in Osaka, as there wasn’t a job for me.  However, I could move to an unknown destination in Wakayama Prefecture and stay in Japan for another year.  While I obviously decided to move, it was not an easy choice.  The information I could find on Wakayama didn’t paint it in the best light.  Largely rural (by Japanese standards), it was an area hard hit by Japan’s economic troubles and shifting populations.  While rich in natural beauty, it didn’t seem like a really great place to spend the next year.  Good thing I don’t believe everything I read on the internet.

I was placed in Wakayama City, the area I was hoping for when I reluctantly agreed to stay with my company.  Although there are signs of economic hardships, it is in no way the Detroit sized problem the internet made it sound.  And as far as the lack of bright lights and constant distractions, Wakayama more than makes up for it with abundant natural beauty, clean air with a hint of the sea, and a slower pace of life.  Here people spend Saturdays fishing as a family, working in huge (by Japanese standards) gardens, or enjoying barbeques on the beach.  It is a much simpler existence filled with early morning bird songs, dark nights full of stars, and people chatting the evening away on balconies and porches.

It is also a whole different kind of Japan.  The streets are narrow and they loop, zigzag, and dead end.  Cars have to wait, since many places aren’t wide enough for two to pass.  Ancient houses hide long family histories and immaculate Japanese style gardens behind high walls, glimpsed through always open gates.  Fresh produce and flowers are everywhere; sold in grocery stores and at little local stands where you just leave your money in a can.  In many ways, it is the polar opposite of Osaka.  This is a good thing.  It will make my transition back to South Dakota so much easier when I finally return.

Wakayama is a hidden gem, it seems.  Filled with all the things I never realized Osaka was missing, but still close enough to Osaka for a quick trip to eat at my favorite restaurants or to spend a day with my friends.  In my short time in Wakayama many people have asked me to compare my new home with my old one.  I tell them it is impossible.  Wakayama wa Wakayama.  Osaka wa Osaka.  It can’t be done.  But one visit and many of my Osaka friends fall in love with this quiet city.  The same way I did.  There are things here I never found in Osaka – darkness, thrift stores, amazing pizza, and the stunning natural beauty of the Japanese coast.  But I have also been able to find many of the things that made Osaka so comfortable – friendly people, welcoming hole in the wall restaurants, and an easy, laid back style of living.

I have only been here a few weeks, but I have a feeling I am in the right place at the right time yet again.  I think living here will challenge, inspire, and strengthen me.  It will give me the time and peaceful environment I need to focus on my personal growth.  It will force me to remember how to do housework and otherwise be a responsible adult (Otose spoiled me with utilities included and cleaning of common areas).  The sights, smells, and sounds will ignite my imagination and rejuvenate my spirit.  There are things I will miss about Osaka, mostly the amazing people I gratefully call my friends, but I will make the most of this new home.  Ikimashou!

Sayonara Osaka

They say all good things must come to an end.  Sadly, with the new school year, I had to leave Osaka for a new position in Wakayama City.

When I got the call last June (or was it July) and found out I would be moving to Osaka, I had never heard of the place.  My understanding of Japanese geography was pretty non-existent.  But the more I read about Osaka, the more it seemed like the perfect place for me to find myself in Japan.

Osaka is the black sheep of Japan.  Compared to the rest of the country, Osaka is supposedly full of loud, crude, country bumpkins.  But this is not what I found at all.  In Osaka I found kind, friendly people who will stop you on a street corner and talk to you.  They go out of their way to make everyone feel comfortable.  They like to laugh and have a good time.  It is a city of delicious food, lots of bright lights, and friends you haven't met yet.  They embraced their differences with the rest of Japan and created their own vibrant culture.  They have a respect for the traditional ways to do things and the proper manners that Japan is so known for, but they don't stand on these.  They let people be themselves and take things at face value.  They are quite frank when compared to other Japanese people, but for a foreigner, that was a blessing.  They embraced me with open arms.  They made me feel at home.  They helped me see and understand this wonderful country in a way I don't think I could have done from any other city.  It really was the perfect place for this boisterous, fun-loving American.

I learned a lot about Japan and myself in my short time in Osaka.  Leaving was one of the hardest things I have had to do.  Not just because moving all of my stuff by train and car was a nightmare (how does one accumulate so much stuff in seven short months?), but because I was leaving a place that had really become home.  In seven months I had made many friends.  I had built a life for myself surrounded by people who supported me and gave me strength when Japan got a little too much for me.  But part of what they helped me realize, is that I am strong.  And this next adventure will be just another test of that strength.  I will have to start over, but I am smarter and better prepared now.  I also have people here I can count on for help.

To all of my friends in Osaka and Sakai, honto ni arigato gozaimus!  You have shown me how beautiful this country is.  You have helped me through so much.  You have made Japan feel like home.  I am grateful for every moment and every memory.  I can keep going because of all you have done for me.  I can start a new adventure in Wakayama with confidence and excitement.  Thank you.

But this isn't really goodbye.  Wakayama is only a couple hours south.  I will be back before you know it.  And then I will have more stories to share over a saucer of sake.

The first step of my next thousand mile journey...

Here's to days that don't turn out the way you plan

Fall in Japan is an amazing time. My favorite so far. Persimmons and chestnuts are in season. The weather finally cools down. But most of all, the leaves change color. Growing up in Texas, I am no stranger to reds, yellows, and oranges, but Japan takes fall to a whole new level of amazing. Avenues and boulevards are flaming strips stretching through the city. Parks and gardens are　transformed. And the mountains are spotted with garnet and yellow gems that blaze in the afternoon sun.

To really soak in the beauty, I decided to take a trip to Minoh no Mori Quasi National Park. This is an easy one kilometer hike in the town of Minoh, just north of Osaka. I had been this summer, but fall is really the best time to wander the maple lined paths.

The day started out according to plan. I made it to Minoh without any of the problems I had encountered last time. The ride was less crowded since it was mid-day on a Tuesday so I was able to enjoy sitting in the sun as the train left the concrete towers of downtown for the shorter, more open space of the suburbs. The hike to the waterfall starts off at the train station and snakes through town for a little ways. As I walked, I made a note of the small stores I wanted to stop at on my way back down. No sense dragging gifts all the way up the mountain just to go right back by the place I bought them at the end of the day. There were trinkets, potter, pastries, and of course the tempura maple leaves Minoh is famous for. There were also produces stalls full of the orange, brown, and red bounty of autumn.

I finally reached the end of town and the start of the actual walk. I was still a little early for the best fall color, but in a way, it was so amazing to see the progression from green to red to yellow to brown. The fall colors were brilliant in the early afternoon sun. The path was not empty, but there were a lot fewer hikers this time. The overwhelming quiet of the mountains and trees soon brought tranquility. There was a fall chill in the air, enough to keep me from sweating, but not enough to keep my long sleeves pulled down. All in all, it was a glorious afternoon after a week of cold, gloomy weather.

As soon as I stepped on the path, I had my camera in hand, snapping away like the Japanese hikers around me. I have never seen so many shutter bugs in one country!  I fit right in. I continued slowly up the walk, soaking it all in. See the colors through both natural and artificial lenses. I was just starting to believe Anata was right when he said I was more of an introvert than I liked to admit, when my afternoon took a drastic change. Instead of a peaceful, relaxing hike, alone with my thoughts in a river of people, I was treated to an amazing cross-cultural adventure where I made new friends, tried local sake, and realized just how alike Japanese and Americans can be.

About a third of the way up to the waterfall, my destination, I was approached by another solitary hiker. She was a Japanese woman. In perfect English she asked me where I was from and what I did. This was not that strange. I have had many people approach me and speak to me with various levels of English proficiency. However, it doesn't usually happen on hikes. Even in America, hiking is a pretty reflective and silent activity. If you are with friends, that's one thing, but I can't remember another hiker ever speaking to me. So this should have been my first clue this was not going to be a normal day. For ten minutes we walked up the semi-crowded path conversing. I was shocked at being approached at first, but I soon found out she was a Japanese teacher interested in helping the local gaijin learn her language. Talking with someone in my own language was refreshing, but it made stopping and enjoying the foliage difficult. Soon, though, our paths diverged and I wished her luck with her teaching endeavors (unfortunately I am not local enough and attending would be too much of a strain on my time) and I moved off to take photographs of an interesting shrine on one of the spurs.

Soon I was back on the main path and nearing my destination. The walk through Minoh is a very easy one. Most of it is on an asphalt road that gently climbs up the mountain. I remembered several restaurants near the falls that were sandwiched between the black ribbon of asphalt and the sparkling, tumbling river. As I had not eaten lunch before leaving home, I decided to stop at one of these before finishing up my adventure. I chose a cozy looking place with plastic noodle bowls in the window. They also had a selection of oden (stewed eggs and root vegetables) and beer, sake, and soda. It looked really good. I pushed aside the noren and entered the single dining room.

Up to this point, my adventure had been pretty typical. I smiled, ignored the stares from children (and some adults), and went about my business as unobtrusively as possible. Aside from my brief conversation with the Japanese teacher, it was like any other solo adventure I have had in Japan. But as I entered this cozy restaurant on the mountain, things went from nice, good, peaceful, to and epic adventure.

As I stepped through the open doorway, applause erupted from the back corner of the room where an old man, ojiichan ichi and an older lady were sitting. A gasp of excitement followed by please come in, welcome, hello came from the table in the center where three ruddy faced ojiichans were sitting, ojiichan ni, ojiichan san, and ojiichan yon. My face was already burning as I shuffled around the chairs in tables to a seat along the far back wall near Ojiichan Ichi, who was still clapping and saying "Arigato" as I passed. I told him I hadn’t even done anything yet.

I sat down and was immediately bombarded with questions in broken English from the center table.

Where from?

Texas.

Texas!  Cowboys, Texas Rangers, Darvish.

Hai, hai.

There is an interesting tradition in Japan on sharing tables with strangers, so I was a little relieved when a twenty something Japanese girls asked to sit with me. Maybe she would take some of the attention away from me.

Japanese flew at me from all directions - from the table behind me, Ojiichan Ichi and Kanojo (it is what he kept calling her. It literally means her in Japanese), to the young girl sitting across from me, to ojiichans ni through yon sitting at the center to my left. Sometimes they were questions, sometimes statements, but either way I smiled, laughed, and nodded. Eventually we were able to communicate a little. They asked questions about my job. Where I was staying. What I liked about Japan. Halloween came up and I was forced to pull out my phone and show pictures to the girl, a huge Gintama fan.

What was meant to be a quiet meal turned into a boisterous two hours. At one point, Ojiichan Ichi stopped on his way to the bathroom and held out his hand for a handshake. I gave mine and he held it for a good two minutes as he smiled and spoke in Japanese. I gathered he was talking about my rosy cheeks (it was quite warm in the restaurant and all the attention was getting to me) or he was talking about his own red cheeks. Ojiichan yon, from the center table remembered the word rattlesnake after about ten minutes and then kept repeating it. He was also the one welcoming every other patron after me with "Please come in." and "Please have a seat." I quickly realized that all the ojiichans had been drinking. And I made the mistake of asking, in horrible Japanese, if the sake they were drinking was local. I had been practicing possessives. Well this simple, grammatically incorrect sentence, resulted in my getting my own cup and saucer to drink the local sake from. My table companion was also given a cup. The sake was delicious, dry with just a hint of sweet. The food was delicious - I ordered soba with egg. My new companions were beyond friendly. But it was getting dark outside and I had still not made it to the waterfall.

After a second cup of sake I was finally about to get back outside. The air was refreshingly cool, but the shadows were fairly deep - even though it was only three thirty. I finished the rest of my hike quickly, before I lost more daylight. The falls were much less crowded this time and they really sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A kind Japanese man offered to take my picture. He even showed me how to pose for the touristy shot where you look like you are drinking from the waterfall. I thanked him profusely, since it was so much better than the selfies I took last time. And with that it was time to head home.

I hesitated in choosing my path back, though. I had hoped to stick to the main trial. It was faster and I still needed to get to the shops at the start of the trial. But the road also ran by the restaurant. I decided to take the side path. I walked quickly along the uneven, spongy path. I held my breath as I passed by the restaurant on the opposite side of the river. But there were no calls, no clapping. I breathed a sigh of relief. Part of me was sad not to have the chance to say goodbye to my new friends from the safety of the river's far bank, but I was also pretty excited to regain the quiet, introspective, peaceful aspects of my hike. That's why I had come.

I continued down the mountain valley, stopping frequently to take pictures of fall foliage ablaze in the afternoon sun. My cheeks were still burning from the two cups of sake, but the cool mountain air felt refreshing. I made it about half way down the mountain when I ran into my new friends again.

Now I don't know if they were waiting for me. Or if it was just chance, but as I came around the curve I noticed an older man talking to other walkers and weaving along the path. He was ahead of me so I did not recognize ojiichan ni at first. But he recognized me. He motioned me into another small restaurant/shop. Unsure how to refuse, I followed. I was given another drink, despite protest, sochu this time. I was encouraged to try this establishment's soba - a delightfully crisp, onion and what I can only describe as spring green flavor. But my companions had obviously imbibed too much since the last time I left them (and they had already had a bit to drink before I even met them). Now the conversation turned quite bawdy. At least, that is what I assume from the gestures and Kanojo's constant remonstrations. Ojiichan would say something, she would snap at him, and he would apologize. Then he would say something else and the process would repeat itself. When ojiichan yon, who was barely able to keep his head up and had stopped speaking spilled his drink, Kanojo, thankfully, decided it was time to go.

Taking me by the arm, we said our goodbyes and she led me out to the patio. Ojiichan Ichi, her companion, the man who had clapped and thanked me at restaurant at the top of the mountain, the man so impressed with someone's rosy cheeks, took my left hand while she held my right elbow. I can only imagine how ridiculous we looked as the three of us made our way down the mountain.  The walking arrangement forced me into a contortion act. I was still holding my camera in my right hand.  Ojiichan Ichi was holding my left hand. He was a little drunk so he kept leaning into me.  He was also walking slightly slower than Kanojo, who was still linked with my right elbow, so I ended up walking at a diagonal.  Needless to say, we got quite a few stares.

Eventually I found an excuse to break free. A beautiful tree with bright crimson leaves.  Ojiichan and I stopped to take pictures while Kanojo continued down the path.  It was the perfect opportunity to excuse myself, but somehow I could not do it. I waited for him to take his pictures then continued walking with him.  We walked down the mountain, me pausing and waiting patiently while he took pictures of everything and everyone with his cell phone.  Kanojo met up with us further down the path. She had bought some roasted chestnuts, which she peeled and handed to me and Ojiichan. In my mind, I was reminded of a family - I was the granddaughter and these two were my ojiichan and obachan.  Soon Ojiichan and I stopped to take pictures of the bridge that crosses the path to the shrine. It was glorious in the fading light. Kanojo continued on ahead.  As the old man and I moved to catch up, he took my hand again.

"Okasan wa asoko desu," he said as we passed a graveyard I hadn't noticed on my way up.  My wife is there.

Suddenly I didn't mind holding his hand. Suddenly I didn't mind the stares as we ambled down the mountain in an awkward line. I didn't mind the lewd comments and gestures, or being plied with drinks I did not want. Suddenly I didn't mind any of it. Because suddenly I realized how fleeting life really is.

And if this were the story would end if this were a movie or novel.  But life keeps going, and so did we.  We continued our hike, meeting back up with Kanojo a little way down the path. We were nearing the bottom of the mountain when we heard English.  A pair from San Francisco were quickly absorbed into our group, much to their surprise.  My Japanese friends bought tempura maple leaves and beautiful handkerchief with red and gold maple leaves for all three of the Americans they had just met.  Finally, my adventure ended in a local bar, drinking local sake from a one to barrel, surrounded by local Japanese people.

I made it home around eight that night, much later and after drinking much more alcohol than I had intended. But as I lay down to sleep, I could not help thinking about the ruddy cheeked old man who held my hand down the mountain.  I thought about how I tried to brush him off.  How embarrassed I had been walking down the mountains with him.  And how with one simple statement he had completely floored me. 

You never know who you will meet on the path. You never know what your presence might mean to them. It might have been uncomfortable at times, but spending the afternoon with this old man and his friends was really a special experience. I hope it was half as memorable for him as it was for me.

Puppies!

It seems crazy, but when I think about the things and people I miss most, it is my dogs that are highest on the list.  Even before Anata.  That sounds really harsh and cold.  It is.  But in this magical age of technology, I can see and talk to him whenever I want. Except at 3AM.  He is not happy when I call at that time. He understands my absence, even if it hurts him to be apart from me.  But how do you explain moving to another continent to a dog?  I can't imagine the turmoil of emotion they go through every time they hear the car door, but mama still doesn't come home.  Anata says they have started sleeping through the night and seem to have stopped obviously pining for me, but I imagine they are still confused and upset over my continued absence.  Videos and Skype chats with them are guaranteed to unleash the waterworks and make me homesick for days.  I miss their unbridled happiness every time I cam home (even if I was only gone for five minutes).  I miss their innocence.  I miss their antics.  And I miss their snuggles.

This longing for warm, fuzzy fur babies is only made worse by the massive amount of dogs in Japan (many of them the same breed as my oldest pup). 

I am not sure why I expected there to be no dogs in Japan. Maybe space. Maybe unenlightened and prejudiced ideas about Asian countries. Who knows. But I was honestly astounded at the number of dogs I see every day. There are many breeds. Most are small with toy poodles and long haired dotson seeming to be the favorite. For larger breeds I see a lot of shiba inu (an actual Japanese dog with ties to their mythology) and, for some reason, corgis. I don’t see many very large breeds, for obvious reasons, but I have seen several standard poodles, perfectly groomed and strutting their stuff. My Stupid Muppet would never fit in here. In fact, all the dogs I have seen are show ready. It is almost like I am waiting for their owners to start that funny little jog as they lead the next best in show down the streets of Osaka.

In the winter, many of these dogs are better dressed than I am!  They all have fashionable jackets, bows, and booties.  Some even have pants.  It was quite a sight to see a French Bulldog trotting down the street in a replica kimono or animal onesie.

Whether they are dressed to the nines or au natural, I can't help but smile as I watch these pups prance around. My excitement usually leads to an approving smile from their owners. I am hesitant to ask to pet many of the dogs, even though I want to so badly. I am not sure how to ask in Japanese. But every once in a while I find an amiable looking dog owner, and excited pooch, and I give it a shot.  It usually ends with a super excited dog trying desperately to crawl into my lap.  They love the attention and so do their owners - especially when I coo at their beloved fur baby in English.  Westerners must have a different smell, because we seem to be irresistible to Japanese dogs.

My babies would never fit in with these pampered pooches, but constantly being surrounded by adored and adorable four legged friends makes every walk a bit of an emotional roller coaster.  Most days I am able to smile and enjoy the special relationship between Japanese people and their dogs.  I have to keep from laughing out loud when I think about my own babies in some of the costumes I see paraded on the street.  Other days I end up choking back tears.  Almost two years apart is a very long time in dog years.  Will they even remember me?

I really miss my puppies.