Packing is my kryptonite. Packing is not as much fun as cleaning a cat's litter box, not as much fun as standing in line at Customs for two-and-a-half hours, definitely not as much fun as giving blood-- especially since nobody gives you cookies when you're finished! Therefore, it shouldn't come as any surprise that my grand plan of using my final week in Japan (Days 1-3 Pack, Days 4-7 Enjoy)-- did not go as planned.

My dad has always said that I am a procrastinator. I wish he wouldn't say it, because people have an annoying habit of living up to expectations. However, I am happy to say that it is a habit that I have mostly overcome. Mostly. The thing is, people wouldn't perpetuate a bad habit unless they were receiving some sort of satisfaction from it. A smoker doesn't smoke because she wants to die from lung disease; she smokes because for a little while, it makes her feel good. Short term benefits outweigh long-term difficulties. So I had to ask myself-- why-- why, why, WHY do I procrastinate when it comes to packing? What about it feels good? The answer: Procrastination delays change. Change is scary. And for all of my stay/go lists, my dissertations and considerations, my final decision to go; leaving Tokushima was really, really hard.

Spring had sprung. The grass had riz. The cherry blossoms had burst forth in a riot of pink froth, the jungle birds were singing their early-morning water songs, and even the voices of the yelling garbage men sounded suddenly sweet.

Therefore, up until the day before my last day, I was still in and out of my apartment, sorting, chucking, hefting, cleaning, jamming, wiping, etcetera. Thank god for Bubu, who came to my apartment for two afternoons to stand amid my little chaos and boss me around and light a fire under my ass (a phrase which I taught him and he liked immediately). Thank god for Ryo, who took me and four big boxes to the post office in a taxi, and then helped me for three hours to unpack each box, weigh and itemize each individual book and sock (as per the Japanese Customs Agency's requests), and brush aside my infuriated protests and tears.

Ohhh, but the last days were beautiful, too. I had a goodbye party with my students; I have pictures of Melissa scoffing natto and of me and Yuko arm wrestling. I went to a beautiful park in Takamatsu with a dear friend to see the sakura (cherry blossoms- but only at 20-40% full bloom) and feed the carp. Bubu's family had a yaki niku party for me (sweet, sweet Japanese barbeque), and-- joy of joys-- I attended hanami (cherry blossom viewing).

I arrived at hanami on foot, as I had sold my bicycle a few days previously. I was sweaty and disconcerted; I had just canceled my cell phone contract and was feeling strangely disconnected from my known universe. I traversed the edge of the sakura park, carefully searching the throngs of flushed people for a familiar face. Ryo came rushing up, grinning like a boddhivista. I gratefully took his arm and was led to his big blue tarp, where friendly faces from Ryo's bar welcomed me and offered me a plastic cup full of Asahi beer. I took off my shoes, and settled down on my seat of sky blue, with the clouds of pink above me. I was rather melancholy, as my slow packing efforts had left me with only these last few poignant hours in Tokushima. There was to be no last karaoke song at Ingrid's, no last long bike ride out to Komatsu beach, no last night at the onsen with Miho and Kayo. I caught Ryo staring at me. I looked back, brimming with tears and regret, and he said very quietly, "There is no need."
I started to protest-- there was still so much to do, to see, to experience in Japan, and--- but he cut me off.
"Now, you need to look around you. See the many people, who are enjoying this day, and this happy energy. You need to feel this energy! Tomorrow, you can think about tomorrow, and maybe you can be sad then. But now, there is no need."
I decided to agree with him. To choose to be happy. To be a honey sponge, and soak up these last golden moments, and the communal celebration of the beauty of spring. My lesson, over and over. Choose to be happy. Decide to be happy. Make a habit of happiness.

The hanami party was my last 'to-do' in Tokushima; I left for the airport that very evening. It was perfect. The cherry blossoms were at 100% full bloom and the afternoon crowd was ebulient, listening to sakura songs and eating bento and potato chips and drinking sake. I wandered from Ryo's camp to where Ingrid's gaijin party was going on to say my goodbyes. Ingrid hugged me, refused to say goodbye, said only, "See you again." She got Joe to take a picture of us hugging on her cell phone camera, and promised to send it to me. I said thank you's and hello's, and long-time-no-see-but-I'm-leaving-now's and I got Norm's email address. I told Jon how lucky he was to be dating a hot chick like Chiaki-- and she agreed. I had my photograph taken with Satoshi, and saw pictures of Mike's new baby, Haruki. I felt the intensity of these exchanges with a new gratitude. Eventually I drifted away; there were so many unfamiliar faces. So many people come and go from the little English community of Tokushima in a year.

Back on Ryo's tarp, I accepted another cup of beer and laughed as a sakura petal drifted into one fellow's bottle of Zima. We declared it art and took pictures. The air was warm; we lounged, we laughed. Gently, it began to rain. The crowd began to unhurriedly pack up-- some die-hards put up umbrellas and continued to merry-make. The gaijin brigade didn't budge. I packed up with Ryo's group and left quietly with them, carrying a plastic sack of uneaten sweets and empty beer bottles. I didn't say go over to the gaijin tarp again. After all, Ingrid was right. There's no way it was goodbye. We part only to meet again.