On the way to Tokyo/Narita airport Thursday, I presented my interpreter and guide, Sumiyo, with a small stuffed bear wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words "New Hampshire." The bear, whose lips curved slightly, appeared to be smiling.

"I will keep him on my desk," Sumiyo said gravely. Then her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"There is one thing I have noticed about stuffed animals in your country," she said. "They often wear T-shirts. But they never have pants."

I agreed this was so.

"And I feel a little sorry for them," she continued. "They must be cold, and a little embarrassed."

I imagined all the stuffed animals in America wishing they had pants. And started to giggle. So did Sumiyo.

It is this sort of tiny and yet great cultural divide, bridged by laughter and understanding, that characterized my trip to Japan.

Whether it was kneeling to see the "breasts" projecting from the cave walls of a Shinto shrine on the towering cliffs of Nichinan, with the Pacific surf booming in the background, or placing my foot in the exact spot where Jutaro Komura and his fellow students had worn down the step at the entrance to their school in the Obi district, there was a hugely physical aspect to this journey.

The sharing of food and cabs, the discussions about World War II -- the war remains very much in the consciousness of the over-40 generations -- all led to a sense of connection between the body and spirit. And I mean this in a larger sense. The body and spirit of Japan and the body and spirit of America walked along together for a few days, and each learned from the other.

Ogenki de. (Be well.)