Stepping out of Haneda airport, I wrapped my purple hoodie tight around me like a corset. My mom gave me the "I told you so" look. She had repeatedly reminded me that Tokyo had a harsh winter, and the gelidness was incomparable with the vital air conditioners in Singapore. Despite her warning, I insisted on wearing my purple hoodie: it was thin and sparkly with a butterfly pattern. 

It was a morning in mid-December. My forehead rested on the taxi window as my breath fogged the glass. Tokyo was filled with Christmas decorations that glimmered and enervated business people that trudged. 

It was so weird. Every person passing by looked like me, yet I never felt so estranged. My passport was most definitely a Japanese one, yet this trip to Tokyo seemed nothing like a "go back home" trip. I was a Japanese person who had never lived in Japan. I was a Japanese person who could barely name 10 of the 47 prefectures in the country. I was a Japanese person who was brainless when it came to Japanese weather. I was a Japanese person who was "not good enough." Nine-year-old me was smart enough to recognize this; I was just a Japanese person who returned solely during school breaks.

"Okaerinasai!" 

My grandma Chachan greeted us with open arms, ironically, saying "welcome home." Her patchouli perfume welcomed me, along with a warm wind from the heater inside. 

Hearing my sister's footsteps from behind, I rushed my way into Chachan's home, longing for the best spot in the living room. By "best spot," I mean the area right in front of the heater. My sister and I would never go a winter without quarreling over who gets this spot. 

"How was the flight?"

"Okay."

"Did you get some sleep?"

"No, I watched movies."

"You seem tired. I'll get you some tea."

Chachan handed me a mug filled with hot earl grey.  The ambrosial flavor of her sweet tea filled every corner of my mouth.  The two tablespoons of sugar synergized with the hotness of the tea, causing even more sweetness.

I let out a sigh, but with a smile.

This tea was the actual "okaerinasai" I needed. 

Back in Singapore, my mom would make me "sweet" tea. I despised the bitterness of sugarless tea, so she would add a teaspoon of sugar. As a mom does, she would never allow me to consume large quantities of sugar at once. However, Chachan was different. She was a grandma, after all. And what do grandmas do? They spoil their grandkids. Whether Chachan's sweet tea was healthy for my body, I do not want to know. But I know for sure that it was a healing treatment for my soul.

Chachan's sweet tea was something I would fail to commemorate; it was never an element I would look forward to on a Japan trip. Nonetheless, I found myself content whenever the overly sweet tea and undissolved sugar crystals coated my tongue.

Every trip to Japan was a realization that I was "different" from the traditional Japanese person. 

Chachan's sweet tea allowed me to accept my differences. I was like Chachan's sweet tea. From the outside, I looked no more unique than the average Japanese, just like Chachan's sweet tea looked identical to other teas. But I had an epiphany: just like Chachan's sweet tea, I was "different,"  in a good way.

I am now seventeen. 

I live in Tokyo, with Chachan.

I can name all 47 prefectures (I think).

I guess a lot has changed.   

Well, except my sister and I still fight over the "best spot" by the heater. Everyday.