May 14, 2025, Hokkaido, Japan. Breakfast was lovely—thick, fluffy toast topped with lettuce and prosciutto, served alongside potato soup. It hit the spot. I decided to head to Oriyama for a cappuccino while Shawn stayed back to try the espresso at the hotel. I was sad to be leaving Japan. We’d be flying to Tokyo tomorrow morning, and then on to SFO. It was the end of our 5 1/2 week adventure.

After my coffee, I walked to the park, looking for a quiet place to eat the pastries I’d brought from La Not in Otaru. I felt self-conscious eating in front of others and finally settled on a spot near an intersection, sitting on the ground close to a bike parking area. As I ate, I regretted consuming so much, but the pastries were getting smashed in my bag. The Mont Blanc was fine, though I much preferred the strawberry tart. The chocolate chiffon cake was far too rich.

While sitting there, I suddenly heard a flute and singing. Looking up, I saw a parade winding its way down the street—a long procession of people carrying a portable shrine, with a man elevated on a dais. Police redirected traffic as the line of people filled an entire city block. This turned out to be a matsuri, a Japanese festival often rooted in Shinto or Buddhist traditions, seasonal changes, or historical commemorations. I followed the parade for a few blocks, laughing when children in red sunhats waved excitedly at a boy dressed in royal costume on one of the floats.

After about ten minutes, I continued walking along Odori Park toward the Sapporo Shiryokan, the former Sapporo Court of Appeal. The building often hosts local art shows, and to my surprise, also houses the Oba Hiroshi Memorial Museum. Inside, I explored a delightful collection of Hiroshi’s cartoons, more formal paintings from his European travels, and a display of his office and travel gear. His playful portrayals of people and places across Japan reminded me of my friend Mike, who has been sketching imaginary scenes and comical vignettes since we were kids in Brooklyn.

Upstairs, several art shows were on display in rather plain rooms. One featured mandala-like holograms created by a woman artist who had apparently won an international award for her work. The pieces were mesmerizing. In another room devoted to art by mothers, I met a Canadian woman who had relocated to Sapporo. She spoke warmly about the support systems in place for young mothers and how welcome she felt in the community. Her experience made me wonder if life as a foreigner might be easier in Hokkaido than on the main island. The thought of buying a small place in Japan had been circling in my mind.

Although I loved the exhibits at the old courthouse, I still wanted to visit the botanical garden and university museum before they closed. I arrived at the Botanic Garden of Hokkaidō University around 3:30 p.m., just in time before they stopped allowing entry at 4. With little time, I rushed through, worried I might be asked to leave too soon.

The garden, established in 1886 as part of the Old Sapporo Agricultural College, is now the second-oldest botanical garden in Japan. It forms part of the university’s School of Agriculture and preserves a section of the forest that once covered the Ishikari Plain. Over 4,000 plant species are cultivated here, including alpine plants and native species. The garden also houses the oldest lilac tree in Sapporo. A small creek runs through the grounds, and winding trails lead past wetland species and historic structures, including early Hokkaidō homes and a tropical greenhouse.

I also stopped at the Natural History Museum, built in 1884, which contains Ainu artifacts, archaeological and biological specimens, and the preserved body of Taro—one of the two sled dogs that survived Japan’s 1958 Antarctic expedition.

By 4:15, I left the garden and rushed to the Hokkaido University Museum, which was closing at 5. On the way, I made a quick stop at Seikatei (also known as Tsinghua Pavilion), a residence built in 1880 by the Hokkaidō Development Commission. The building had once served as a resting place for the Meiji Emperor during his 1881 visit. I had been fascinated by the grounds the day before, though they had been closed at the time. When I entered this time, a stern guard stood silently in the corner, clearly displeased. Although I remained quiet and respectful, the tension made me uncomfortable, and I left after only a few minutes.

Outside, I admired the architecture before hurrying toward the museum. The Hokkaido University Museum felt like a hybrid of a PR campaign and a science playground. The university has collected around four million items over the past 150 years, including 13,000 type specimens. Some of the exhibits reminded me of the Exploratorium in San Francisco, which I visited as a child. I glimpsed Shawn already exploring inside. The collection filled almost the entire building. In the final few minutes, I darted from room to room, snapping photos in hopes of capturing what I no longer had time to study.

Leaving the museum a bit dazed, I wandered toward the edge of campus and the remains of a Jomon-era village. From there, I visited Ono Pond, a peaceful green space where I sat and reflected for a while. A small stream ran from the pond past a building where students, dressed in black gi, were practicing archery—an intense, precise ritual that gave the impression of a martial art.

Eventually, I made my way back toward our hotel, passing again through Odori Park, where the Sapporo Lilac Festival was in full bloom. Lilacs in every hue, from soft blue to deep pink, lined the walkways. The festival, held only on May 14 and 15, featured a stage with musical and dance performances, food stalls, and handmade crafts. I ended up spending my entire ¥10,000 note on local artisan pieces—funny, considering I’d told Shawn earlier I wanted to convert the bill into dollars before our flight to Tokyo the next day. I felt a pang of guilt afterward, thinking it had been wasteful, but in hindsight, I’m glad I bought the beautiful items I did.

We were both hungry that evening. Shawn didn’t want to return to the noisy tengu-style izakaya from the night before, so he suggested another spot. Even before we walked in, he preemptively told me I probably wouldn’t like it. I’d asked him to look up options, and he accused me of being too picky, claiming it was impossible to satisfy me. All I had said was that I hoped there might be fish on the menu and that I was okay with cigarette smoke—despite being allergic. Was that really so demanding?

In the end, the place he picked was good. We enjoyed our meal. In true Japanese fashion, the chef-owner came outside afterward to bow and thank us. That kind of small gesture, so rare back home, never fails to move me.

Only later did I realize just how deeply my childhood had been infused with elements of Japanese culture. My father had spent time in Japan during his leave from the Korean War and developed a fondness for the country. I had a close Japanese-American friend in sixth grade who introduced me to dried squid snacks and cute pencil cases. Our house growing up was decorated with tatami mats, burlap-backed dried flowers, bamboo blinds, and shoji screens. I helped my father build a Japanese-style garden in our backyard—a waterfall feeding into a stream, ending in a small pond. He taught us to bow in respect, took us to Japanese films and tea ceremonies, and every spring we attended the Cherry Blossom Festival in San Francisco. When I was 17, he introduced me to the Zen Buddhist center at Green Gulch Farm in Marin County.

In many ways, he had been preparing me for this experience all along, without either of us knowing it.