Growing up in Florida, usually around Halloween a slight breeze would come in and one would get the notion of what fall might be like in places where they had fall. November in Florida is like an uncomfortable impression of Autumn by someone who has only heard about what it is like. Winter gets dilly-dallied with like a retiree taking up painting; it might happen, it might not.
Japan gets cold like teenagers get pregnant. It seems like an accident. A joke. You are walking around in a t-shirt one day, deciding whether you should wear flip-flops or if you can summon the effort to put on socks, then that evening you are searching franticly for your gloves and jamming your fingers far down into the pockets of a jacket that smells like dust and mold. And then it stays cold until sometime after the last hanami. A deep, wet cold that hangs in every floorboard. That torments every morning shower.