It was a bit hard to come back. After a three-week visit home to California, where I surrounded myself with the people I love, basked in the comfortable warm weather, and joyfully accepted my boyfriend's marriage proposal, it was just a little tough to get on that plane and return to the land of relentless cold, where I knew I would find myself feeling pretty lonely at times. No matter how much I may enjoy my job and my surroundings, it's just not the same as home..

Somehow, I survived the flight, and landed in Tokyo, feeling physically drained and close to tears at finding myself alone again. I just kept telling myself to wait till I got to the hotel… wait till I got to the hotel… then I could cry all I wanted. Because I had arrived too late in the day to catch a connecting flight to Ube, I had to stay in a nearby airport hotel. Once I reached it, I finally had my cry. Finding that tears did me no good, I fell asleep by eight that evening. I awoke at four o'clock the next morning, feeling dejected and disoriented. As I sat at the window, watching the dim blue landscape gradually turn to grey, I wondered for the millionth time what I was doing here. The view of the tree-lined hills blanketed in mist was unquestionably more beautiful than any southern California scene, and ordinarily would have filled me with awe- but what did this beauty mean if I had nobody to share it with?

I decided I couldn't let myself fall into that line of thinking, and forced myself to get on with my day. It was raining heavily during the seventy-five minute bus ride from Narita, the international airport, to Haneda, which handled all domestic flights, but the weather cleared up well before my plane was schedule to leave.

This change in weather allowed me the first moment of true, unchecked joy since landing in Japan the previous day. As my plane took off, I happened to look out the window over my shoulder, and caught a glimpse of Mount Fuji rising up over Tokyo's crowded skyline. The sight of the asymmetrical, snow-covered peak that has been represented in Japanese art for hundreds of years came to me completely unexpectedly. As this revered national symbol is often elusive, hidden behind layers of clouds, I could hardly believe I was fortunate enough to be allowed even a brief view of it.

Moments later, we actually flew right over the mountain. The pilot kindly tilted the plane to allow a better view of the snowy crater at the peak. We were close enough to see the steam rising up and floating above the enormous mountain, which dwarfed the surrounding landscape. The other passengers on the plane, all Japanese, did not seem impressed by this close-up view of their national symbol, but I was thrilled. I was truly glad to be back in Japan.

I believe in signs. I believe that everything happens for a reason. After all, the weather could have continued to rain. But it didn't. I could have been sitting on the wrong side of the plane… I could have been perusing a magazine while Fuji-san flashed by outside my window. But I wasn't. My circumstances were exactly right to allow me to have a small but memorable experience which made me feel right about being in Japan again. I still may not be able to answer the question "What am I doing here?" and perhaps I never will. But it truly feels right to be here. Even if I find myself alone again, I won't mind so much. I am glad to be here, and I take my brief view of Mount Fuji as a sign that Japan is glad I'm here too. The mountain welcomed me back.

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