In Japan, we greet with a bow. A clean bow. From a respectful distance. This is the way of the warrior. Then I came to America. Here, two people who have not met in a while will RUN at each other. In the street. Arms wide open. No weapons drawn. And then they crush each other. They call this a “hug.” A ritual of joy, I am told. I have led ten thousand men into battle. I have waited for death in the snow. I feared nothing. Then a stranger spread both arms and came toward me. My hand moved to my sword. Wait. This is not an attack. This is... affection? To refuse would be rude. So I did not move. I did not raise my arms. I simply stood. Like a log. I stood like a log. They squeezed. I was stiff as stone. Three retainers wept. One looked away in shame. But I let nothing show on my face. A man who would unify the realm does not panic at an embrace. I have only one question. In that moment... where, in the name of heaven, am I supposed to put my arms?