Last week, it snowed in Portland. The temperature had dropped significantly, so fluffy powder snow fell. However, due to the strong winds that had been blowing since the previous day, it wasn’t so much picturesque as it was dramatic—a blizzard with sideways snowfall.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, when international travel became a rarity and I found myself restless, the one thing that brought relief was iFit, an online exercise program. Synced with a treadmill, it projects images of various locations around the world onto the screen attached to the machine. The incline and speed adjust automatically to match the actual terrain, creating an immersive experience that feels as though you’re running alongside a trainer in those places.

What I especially loved about iFit was its rawness—unlike travel shows on TV, the footage isn’t overly polished. While some aerial drone shots are included, the recordings are mostly unedited. You hear the trainer’s natural breathing, see laundry hanging in narrow alleys, and catch glimpses of children playing by the roadside. It feels like you’re running through the daily life of these locales.

The trainer who first captivated me—and whom I deeply respect to this day—is Tommy Rivers, a phenomenal athlete. Being someone who knows little about the sports world, I only later learned that he had battled and overcome a severe illness during the pandemic. His Iberian Running Series not only got me hooked but also helped me regain the stamina to run reasonable distances again.

It's January 2025 as I write this. I'm trying to reflect on an event that happened just a month ago, but technically, it was "last year." Saying that makes it feel like it happened ages ago. Late last November, just after finishing our Thanksgiving turkey, I found myself early the next morning standing in line at the check-in counter of Portland Airport on Black Friday.

The newly renovated PDX Airport features a stunning wooden canopy structure that resembles traditional Japanese joinery, and for the first time in a while, I felt genuinely proud to call myself a Portlander. Boarding the plane with this fresh sense of pride, I transferred in Denver, Colorado, and headed to Bologna, Italy. It was my first solo international trip in over ten years—or perhaps even longer.

In December 2024, as I write this, I was finally able to visit a place that had long intrigued me: Ravenna. This city was once the capital of the Western Roman Empire and later flourished under the Byzantine Empire as the seat of the Exarchate. My interest in this land was sparked when I learned that Gustav Klimt visited Ravenna in 1903 and was deeply struck by the mosaic-decorated churches. This experience is said to have inspired his famous “Golden Period,” during which he created luminous works like The Kiss and Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I. Every time I searched for Ravenna online, even through the screen, I was overwhelmed by the intricacy and beauty of the mosaics. As a self-proclaimed "color enthusiast," I felt that I absolutely needed to see them up close with my own eyes.

In the garden of the house next to ours, there is a large persimmon tree. A few years ago, it was heavily pruned, yet it remains resilient, bearing abundant fruit every year. As the Japanese saying goes, "Peaches and chestnuts take three years, persimmons take eight years," it must be quite an effort to grow persimmons. Reading the classic Japanese folktale "The Monkey and the Crab" with my son, I’d point out, “Look, this is the persimmon the crab worked so hard to grow!” From our kitchen window, we can see the branches heavy with fruit and the golden-colored leaves—a sight we are profoundly grateful for, especially when living outside of Japan. My husband and I often remark on how lucky we are to enjoy such a view.

As late autumn approaches, the familiar Portland scene unfolds once again: morning mist rises from the Willamette River, draping the amber-colored coniferous forest like a veil. Lately, I’ve taken to sipping hot apple cider spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves as part of my daily routine.

In March of this year, when I traveled to Paris, I had planned to visit a friend who lives in Fontainebleau. However, just when I was about to go that weekend, all direct trains were suspended due to subway construction. It was very disappointing, but given my limited time, I decided to skip the Fontainebleau visit this time. In the end, I was able to meet my friend on a different day in Paris, so all was well. But then, the question arose: what should I do with the now-open Sunday?

Over 15 years ago, when I first moved to Los Angeles, I spent some time as an auditing student at a university. I heard that UCLA offered a course called "History of Modern Art," and since I was interested, I decided to give it a try.

I once put music to Akiko Yosano’s poem “Hi-zakura” (“Scarlet Cherry Blossom”). I had always admired the sensuality and bold passion in her poetry, which could even be seen as reckless at times. Despite being a woman of the Meiji and Taisho eras, her frequent references to European cityscapes only fueled my longing to travel.

Milan, which I visited in April this year. During this year's spring break, my son and I decided to join my husband on his world tour. We spent five days in Paris, then traveled by tour bus from Paris to Madrid, Barcelona, Zurich, and were supposed to spend just a few days in Milan at the end.

This is a story about a color I encountered this summer. In July, my son and I boarded a plane bound for Oslo.

I’ve always loved the names of colors.