I asked Sumie if it was obvious that I’m pregnant or if I just look fat in a yukata. “Daijoubu,” she said. It’s ok? …? Oh well. Lightning flashed overhead as we danced around the stage in early August’s Yamato Furusato Matsuri Festival. Every once in awhile we’d get a quick downpour, prompting people to run for cover. I did a double-take when I saw a big, green, fuzzy pickle walked around in a hapi coat posing for photos with kids. (???) We danced on the stage, off the stage, around the stage. I took a break and joined Chris for a sno cone. Then we had another one. Mmmm. We were rather warm on this mushiatsui (sultry, humid) evening after walking the mile uphill from our house to the train station to take the Odakyu Line one stop over to Yamato. On the way we passed another stage and more Bon Odori dancers at our local elementary school. Kids in yukata and their parents were flooding onto the grounds from all directions, but we had to keep walking. After all, we had a train to catch; a train full of very curious Japanese people who stared at the bulgy pregnant American in yukata more than she’s ever been stared at in Japan before. Little boys especially were likely to give my tummy, then my face, the buggy-eyed look of surprise. Right back atcha, kid!