In October, morning temperatures dropped into the single digits. Nearly three years have passed since I moved to this northern city, and I’m about to face my third winter here.
Soon, days when the temperature never rises above freezing won’t surprise me anymore. Even when relentless snow blankets everything, I won’t panic. This is how it’s always been here. You can’t fight nature, and I’m the one who chose to move here — I’ve started thinking this way without even realizing it. Wherever you live, if you accept the environment and adapt to it, there’s no reason to feel uncomfortable.
Two years ago, I decided to move here after a sudden realization: this place has nearly everything I’d been vaguely seeking in my travels. Nature and space, functional urban infrastructure, safety, clean air, drinkable tap water, abundant local ingredients and cuisine, and tolerant people. These sound like obvious things when you list them, but finding them all in one place is surprisingly rare.
When I first arrived, I must have been seeing everything through rose-colored glasses. Everything I encountered in daily life seemed ideal.
Walking down the wide, straight streets, my field of vision extends far into the distance, and I feel a sense of physical and mental liberation. The Sea of Japan climate shifts like mountain weather, changing its mood several times a day, but when the sun breaks through, it reveals the high, blue sky characteristic of these latitudes. At the supermarket, most of the vegetables on the shelves are locally grown. In the seafood section, fish and shellfish caught that morning lie on ice. Step outside the city limits and you’re in the forest. Drive for an hour and you can stand in primeval woods or wetlands where human presence feels almost nonexistent. The distance between urban and natural is remarkably close.
After a while, I began to see things more realistically, but the feeling that what I’d sought in years of travel was always within reach hasn’t changed. That feeling directly translates into daily contentment.
As for the tolerance of the people here, I can’t say for certain — I have almost no local friends or acquaintances. Still, I feel the residents allow me to “live here as a traveler.” Many seem to treat permanent residents, short-term visitors, and passersby with equal regard. Nearly everyone living here wasn’t here a few generations ago. And the Indigenous peoples are said to have had mobile lifestyles as well. Perhaps everyone carries the lineage of movers and travelers — though this, too, might be an idealized view.
I’ve also noticed that many people here organize their year around winter. The long, snowy cold is the default season, while warm spring, beautiful summer, and crystalline autumn are exceptions to that baseline. Once, I heard a local radio host call winter’s arrival “the season coming home.” Hearing that phrase, I felt I glimpsed the contours of how this city experiences time.
On the verge of my third winter, I may finally be starting to understand that sensibility. It makes me happy.
First snow typically arrives in late October. The city has already prepared. More cars have booked appointments for winter tire changes, hardware stores stock snow removal supplies, and some people have brought their balcony plants indoors. The entire city quietly awaits the season’s return. I’m finally becoming part of it.
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