Namiki Michiko's wartime experience reflected the struggles many of her fans endured. Her mother was killed in the Bombing of Tokyo on March 10, 1945, and Michiko herself had to be pulled from the Sumida River in its aftermath. Following the Emperor's announcement of Japan's defeat on August 15, neither her father nor elder brother returned from duty. At just 23 years old, she was left to face the post-war world alone, having lost her entire family.

Within two months, Namiki, who had started acting before the war, found herself starring in Japan's first film of the new era, Soyokaze. She also performed its theme, Ringo no Uta (りんごの歌), meaning The Apple Song. Conceived as a cheerful track to reflect the newfound liberation from wartime burdens, its lyrics captured the carefree emotions of a young woman, symbolised by the simple image of a red apple enjoyed beneath a blue sky. 

During the recording sessions, accounts recall that the song's writer, Manjome Tadashi, frequently halted progress, urging Namiki to "sing more brightly" to uplift the public. It was a problematic demand for an artist in trauma and bereavement, but Manjome remained insistent. The resulting performance conveyed less the carefree joy of a girl savouring an apple but more the resilience of a woman confronting pain to uncover hope. Namiki's delivery resonated with audiences, capturing the nation's mood—the essence of bittersweetness had been cut into the grooves of a 10-inch record. Manjome's unrelenting approach proved a masterstroke.

In the aftermath of war, people found diverse ways to cope amid physical destruction and existential turmoil. Many turned to the spiritual grounding of Buddhism and Shinto, while others sought escape in entertainment and media. Yet, the nation's primary focus remained on reconstruction, driven by a prevailing ethos of akarui (明るい)—a "bright" and optimistic embrace of the future. Like Namiki's performance, this outward display of positivity concealed loss and sorrow. A complex tension between a longing for the past and a forward-looking spirit marked the era.

This state of mind became a cultural undercurrent, rippling through Japan’s post-war history from the recovery era and economic miracle to the bubble era and beyond. The effects of the subsequent "lost decade" and the Great East Japan Earthquake further complicated the national psyche. Poignant films, novels, evocative music, and anime, often imbued with an ephemeral happy-sad tone, contend with the lasting legacy of the war, whether directly or indirectly. Numerous academic studies, including those by widely recognised scholars like Takeo Doi and Shunya Yoshimi, have examined how these historical and cultural factors continue to shape Japan’s emotional and social identity. 

And so, when we arrive in Japan, we step, perhaps unwittingly, into such a cultural space-time continuum—a dimension where the layers of history, memory, and modernity coalesce. For foreign visitors who develop a profound and enduring affection for the country, the connection often feels deeply personal. Yet, this bond is not formed in isolation; it emerges from Japan's own introspective relationship with its past. As visitors, we are not at the centre of this experience but participants in a narrative that predates us and extends far beyond our presence. With that in mind, let us begin exploring today’s topic—why travellers to the country tend to miss Japan quite so much.