Winter in Yamagata has been quite an experience. Actually, I imagine winter anywhere is pretty much different than what I'm used to down in sunny Florida. At home, we refer to winter as "that week in January where we put on a light sweater."

Skiing in a blizzard high on Mt. Gassan was a treacherous thrill. Watching the winter sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon was certainly gloomy. Surrendering my bike for months on end taught me the joys of walking - hey, wait just a second. I've been living here in Yamagata for eight months now, I think it's finally time to put one issue to rest:

"Mt. Gassan" is not in fact the mountain's name. The towering giant looming northwest of town (whose official ski lifts don't even open until April each year due to the 7-10 meters of snow they're buried underneath) is actually called Mt. Ga or perhaps the amusing Mt. Gas as it appears on one of my area maps. The first half of its Japanese name is "Ga" (meaning moon, month, or perhaps both simultaneously); the second half is "San" (meaning mountain). So, Moon Mountain. That sure sounds cooler than Gassan to me. But then again, it also sounds like the name of a theme park ride. This of course coming from a guy who holds an annual park pass to Disney World.

So, what was my point? Oh, right: spring couldn't have come any sooner. I pumped my fists in the air and high-fived the neighbors (who promptly called the police, not knowing what a high-five was all about) when the last pile of snow finally vanished. And as if on cue, the cherry trees all over town burst into vibrant pink and white blossoms, signaling us all to come out of our houses and igloos, that it was okay to wander the streets, the big bad winter had fled town.

It is sakura season in Yamagata, and the city has never looked so beautiful to me. In Japan, springtime heralds a fresh start for everyone. New jobs, the new school year, new wardrobes, everything in the country makes a grand switch all at once, each April.

I'd seen the pretty sakura blossoms from afar, but I decided to take a much closer look at them, to see if I could identify what it is about these flowers that captivates the hearts and imaginations of every Japanese person.

I sat, and I stared. And stared. I squinted, turned my head sideways, and munched on some sweet, gooey dango snacks I'd purchased from a street cart nearby. Flowers. Petals falling. What did it all mean, I wondered?

I was scratching my head in puzzlement when the old Japanese lady sitting next to me on the park bench smiled and leaned over to me. "Hana yori dango ne?" she laughed softly. I knew its meaning: The food I was eating, traditionally eaten at sakura time each year, was more interesting and important than the flowers themselves. I nodded and smiled back, understanding full well at last.