I prefer this season not as one of tinsel, lights and storefront carols, but rather as one of quiet — a season of soft-falling snow, a season of anticipation, a season of memories.
In this season I am haunted by the memory of a Christmas past, that of my very first Christmas in Japan in 1976. And like the Dickens messenger from the shadows of distant youth, the ghost that I welcome is not unfriendly at all.
It was a time when Japan was first modeling its hard-earned affluence, clumsy attire that yet did not fit so well. In my tatami apartment, in richie-rich Denenchofu no less, I slept on futon, slurped Cup Noodle for breakfast, cranked my space heater as high as it would go, and wondered if I myself would ever fit Japan. My home seemed far away.