There’s no place like home.

I think I had a wee tear in my eye as I spotted the Black Hills from the airplane on the last leg of my return trip from Japan. I have never been so happy to see those hills and the hundreds of miles of wide-open space between those hills and the Minneapolis airport as I made my journey from concrete to conifers.

Since my last trip to Japan two years ago, I must report that not much has changed. Still a lot of people, a lot of buildings, a lot a lot and too much of everything for this small-town boy.

Apparently “Country Folk” in Japan live in “rural” settings of around 100,000 people and when I explained that I come from a town of about 150 people the usual response was, “Do you know everyone in the town?” Everyone and their dog… and that’s the way I like it. Speaking of “a lot,” the dietary choices haven’t changed much either. You have to be a marine biologist to identify what you’re eating most of the time. The Japanese know their sea creatures, but then again when the sea creature on your plate isn’t much different than its swimming, living, breathing self, it simplifies things a little.

Here in the Midwest, we have to rely on taste and smell to identify our food, well you people who can taste and smell do, I rely on what I’m told. It would be easy to tell the difference between our various meats if a hoof, horn or antler were hanging out of the bun but thankfully we don’t care to have our food resemble its living, breathing self.

Speaking of various meats. Being a good guest I thought I would bring my Japanese associates a little piece of South Dakota and bought about $150 worth of buffalo, elk and deer salami and bacon cheddar cheese to bring with for gifts. I hope the workers in the quarantine station at the Tokyo airport enjoyed the gifts from America.

When we landed in Tokyo, I saw the signs at the airport banning the import of any meat and debated on trying to smuggle the salami past the salami sniffing dogs, but who knows what they do to salami smugglers in Japan, so I came clean. They looked over my stash and politely pointed to the sign, I handed over the salami, and the salami sniffing dogs all smiled.

When I’m in Japan, I have to wear a suit and tie much more than I would like. I don’t mind wearing one for the occasional bar mitzvah but not all day long while sitting in hot stuffy Japanese buildings, eating in hot stuffy Japanese restaurants, and traveling in hot stuffy Japanese trains. It’s hard to be pleasant while developing a heat rash but thankfully my grimace resembles a smile and no one was the wiser.

It takes a lot of self-control to drink hot green tea and eat a big bowl of piping hot miso soup while feeling sweat roll as far as it can roll while you’re sitting on a hot nonporous surface with nary a breeze to speak of. Visions of baby powder danced in my head as I longed for a stiff upstate North Dakota gale to somehow find me and whisk the sweat from my brow before it headed south to take care of more pressing issues.

When I returned to Rapid City, I dropped my suits off at the dry cleaners and I think I saw the people who work there out by the dumpster beating my suits with a dead carp to freshen them up a bit. I think I’ll wear culottes and a tube top if I have to go to Japan next year.

I’ve got the knees for it, but I might have to trim my shoulder hair to a respectable length.