It has been nearly a year since I returned to Canada from Japan, and there are times that my longing for my home on the other side of the world feels like a fresh wound.

I received an email the other day from a good friend, from Ryo who managed the tiny coolness-laden bar (think dark rich wood, shining brass in the dim light, and tired, single, beautiful Japanese women coming in to smoke peach-flavoured cigarettes and flirt with Ryo). Ryo had a thing for me, though. Ryo was sweet and smooth and a little bit dorky to boot, so I never could quite take him as seriously as he expected to be taken. We once had an argument over the word ‘Retriever’—as in the dog—Ryo had grown up with an exceptionally intelligent ‘Golden Retliever’. He was SO sure that it was spelled with an ‘L’ that we made a bet. If he was correct, I would cook him a Canadian meal. If I won, he would take me for sushi. Thank god I knew what I was talking about (and it should be general knowledge that Canadians should be taken as your best bet for a correct answer when in contention with Japanese over the placement of “L’s” and “R’s”), because what the heck is a ‘Canadian meal’? Poutine? Pancakes and maple syrup? Maybe some salt cod with a side of Screech? Anyway, the dingy little sushi place he took me to was one that I’d biked past many times before without noticing. It ended up being one of those places with a tank full of terrified critters, all waiting to be scooped out and deftly murdered and splayed over rice for human consumption. It was awesome.

Have I told that story before?

Anyway, Ryo’s bar is closed now; he quit last Tuesday, and no-one was hired to replace him. I guess I kind of expected Tokushima to remain in suspended animation, awaiting my return—which is ridiculous, if I consider how seldom Tokushima stood still the entire time I was there. Since I’ve left, Miho has moved away, Kayo has obtained a boyfriend, Bubu and Haruko are now the proud grandparents of little Youtaro, almost 7 months old. Little earthquakes have come and gone, hundreds of restaurants and bars have opened and closed throughout the entertainment district (like so many anemones), and I’m sure that construction has continued at its normal alarming rate; tear down, build up, and do it all again.

I shouldn’t feel as though I’ll never return. And I shouldn’t force myself to choose a permanent home either; cities are not jealous lovers. I need to allow myself the freedom of considering myself a world citizen, no matter where I end up. Who is to say that I won’t develop a career that takes me bounding across the planet on a regular basis? A delicious prospect.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling really good lately, much better than the last time I wrote—I’m healthier, more empowered. Mostly that comes from the decision I have made very recently. To live my life to the fullest, no matter what. Because the only thing that ever stands in my way is me, and I’ve had enough. I deserve better, and there’s a good chance that I can have it all. If I put in the work, I can get the results. The tough thing, as it always is, is sticking to that decision. I think women in particular find it easy to let ideals slide, in the name of a variety of other causes—“oh, I’ll just stick this crappy-ass job out a little longer, they NEED me here…” or “I’ll just stay with him until he’s got his shit together, I can’t leave him NOW.” I can do myself (and those around me) a favour by being accountable to myself, thereby forcing others to step up to their own responsibilities. Remember this, remember this, remember this!