Last weekend I took a break from studying and stitching to find snow.

I found it and then I crunched it under my boots. I rolled around in it. The feeling of snow inside my gloves is like an instant time-machine: back to the yard of my youth, to snow forts and sofas and dishes made of ice, to knocking icicles off the gutter alongside the garage even though I was told they’d stab my eye out, and to the ice rink my dad made that left behind dead grass the following spring and summer. (It was worth it.)

Something about a crisp winter day rejuvenates me. I look good in rosy cheeks.

We spent the weekend in the Southern Alps in Nagano prefecture. I pretend to snowboard, but really I end the weekend with bruised knees and a few good runs under my belt and call it a success. A day of snow sports in Japan always ends visit to an onsen, but you don’t want to see those photos.