I remember arriving in Tokyo, terrified and starving: two small town prairie folk in the geographic centre of the biggest city in the world, surrounded by thousands of restaurants we didn't know how to work.  Sushi, ramen, okonomiyaki, sashimi, udon, yakitori, yakiniku, unagi, umeboshi, onigiri - we didn't even know the words, let alone the vegetarian option.  There was McDonald's, of course, but I refused to let us eat there, so we walked and starved until finally we managed to order some crappy noodles which had fish sauce on them in spite of Nancy's best effort otherwise.

That was a year ago.  Now we know all those words, what they are, and that Nancy can eat almost all of them if done right.  We've learned to play taiko drum, done tea ceremony and origami, been to matsuri, visited serene waterfalls and insanely, retarded cities.  We've made friends from all over the world, experienced a life that simply does not exist in Canada.  We've drank coffee in the mountains of Vietnam, lounged on the beaches of Indonesia, shopped in the department stores of Osaka. 

The past year has a dreamlike quality to it.  It's hard to believe that it was me and Nancy at the top of that volcano, in the middle of that shipwreck, motorbiking through those coffee plantations.  I feel really lucky right now, and even though I'm glad to be coming home, I'm glad its not for good.  Not yet anyway.  Not until it sinks in that this is real, that its because we got on that plane, went out there and got terrified.