It was Sapporo Japan. I was very surprised to see the dragon statue—no, stunned might be a better word. It stood at the center of the square like a guardian of ancient secrets, towering and majestic, its body coiled with strength and elegance. The entire sculpture was made of ice, yet it defied everything I thought I knew about ice. It wasn’t crude or melting or fragile. It was art—flawless and alive with detail. Every scale had been carved with meticulous precision, each one catching the fading light of the late afternoon and casting prismatic reflections across the snow-covered ground. The dragon’s eyes, though made of clear ice, shimmered with intensity, almost as if it were watching me. Its wings, outstretched and feathered with delicate grooves, seemed frozen mid-flight, as if it could take off at any moment with a mighty roar and a gust of winter wind. Now that it had been cut so perfectly, it didn’t even look like it was made of ice. It looked… real. Like a creature from myth and legend that had momentarily paused in this world, cloaked in the artistry of frost. I walked around it slowly, in awe, trying to spot a flaw, a sign that it was merely frozen water shaped by human hands—but there was none. Just perfection, glistening and silent.
A few locals stood nearby, whispering in reverence, as if standing in front of a sacred being. One elderly man murmured that it had appeared every winter for the past seventy years, sculpted in secret by a master who never revealed his name. Some said the artist had passed on long ago, and now the dragon simply appeared, unannounced, each year. A mystery with no explanation. I reached out to touch it—just lightly. The chill jolted through my fingers, grounding me in the moment. Yes, it was ice. But somehow, it was also something more.
This city of mine—though I’ve only just arrived—already feels like a place I’ve known in my heart for years. It’s a wonderful and captivating environment, especially for Japanese students. The air here hums with quiet ambition and peaceful energy, like the whole place was built to nurture dreams. From the moment I stepped onto the streets, I could sense it—this city wasn’t just somewhere to live; it was somewhere to grow.
The students here walk with purpose, books tucked under arms, laughter drifting through school courtyards and train platforms. Cafés are filled with quiet conversations and open laptops, where young minds sip green tea while writing essays or sketching inventions. Libraries are sanctuaries, and every corner of the city seems to whisper encouragement: Learn more. Become more. You belong here. I just came here, and yet something inside me stirred—a longing, almost bittersweet. I couldn’t help but wonder, Why wasn’t I born here? Why didn’t I grow up in a place where tradition and innovation coexist so beautifully, where even a walk to school feels like stepping through a carefully painted scroll of cherry blossoms, historic temples, and the soft buzz of a modern world? Everything feels designed to inspire. The quiet parks are perfect for reflection, the architecture dances between minimalism and meaning, and there’s a respectful silence in the way people treat their surroundings. It’s not just a city—it’s a mindset, a living classroom, a temple of discovery. And maybe I wasn’t born here, but now that I’ve arrived, I feel like I’ve found a part of myself I never knew was missing.
