Приклади речень англійська зі словом "Okinawa"

We saw the bird when we visited Okinawa.
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How many hours does it take to go to Okinawa by plane?
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Are you aware that Okinawa is closer to China than to Honshu?
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Okinawa has a fine climate all year round.
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How long does it take to reach Okinawa?
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The President of France visited Okinawa.
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The singer, who is from Okinawa, is very popular among young people.
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Did you ever go to Okinawa?
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You have never been to Okinawa, have you?
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It happened that in August, 1984 my work obliged me to go to Okinawa.
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Our plane leaves at noon, arriving in Okinawa at 1:30.
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I like the warm sea around Okinawa.
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The leaders of seven industrial democracies will meet in Okinawa in 2000.
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A typhoon prevented us from going on our trip to Okinawa.
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According to the weather forecast, the typhoon is approaching Okinawa.
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He put off his trip to Okinawa.
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He has never been to Okinawa before.
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How long does it take to go to Okinawa by plane?
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The government asked the SDF for a disaster relief deployment to Okinawa.
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Okinawa is the southernmost island in Japan.
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It rains a lot in Okinawa.
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The minimum wage in Okinawa is 642 yen per hour.
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Have you ever been to Okinawa?
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Are you still studying the Okinawa dialect?
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The cabinet asked the army to send a disaster relief mission to Okinawa.
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The government asked the army to send a disaster relief mission to Okinawa.
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Have you ever been in Okinawa?
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Okinawa is different from Japan culturally.
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He has never been to Okinawa.
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Okinawa shows cultural differences from the rest of Japan.
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Okinawa Prefecture's capital is Naha City.
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In a way, in the Philippines, people already speak Spanish and English, as these languages, or really their words, are integrated or imbedded in native languages, not just Tagalog. Spanish is chocolate or coffee, whilst English is a fizzy pink lemonade soda. The Philippine society is mostly an amalgam of Malay, Chinese, and Spanish elements, with unmentioned various more minor ones. There is Philippine Creole Spanish, Chabacano or Chavacano, spoken scatteringly in the magical archipelago. The feature of the Philippines is more like the Caribbean, the crossroads of different peoples. I can categorize the people of the Philippines in several desserts: Many are like "ube halaya" or the dark mash of sweet purple yam. Some are more like "halo-halo" or ice dessert with leche flan, ube yam, kaong, nata de coco, young coconut strips, agar-agar jelly, sago, beans, fruits like jackfruit, et cetera. Some are more like "maíz con hielo" or ice dessert with corn kernels, sugar, and milk. A striking difference of Filipinos from Mainland Asia is their love of the creative purple colour, maybe because of the ube yam delicacy. In Okinawa in Japan, people call it "beniimo." They use it also in Okinawan desserts and other cooking.

It's a sunny 26th of July of 2025, here on Lulu Island. As usual, I walk to, drink at, and snack at Tim Hortons café. In the morning there, I was talking to Gary the Cantonese. He knows that I lived in Japan before. He wants to visit. I recommended to him "one week in Tokyo and one week in Okinawa." We both agreed that what makes a place special is really the food. We both agreed that Japan is much like Thailand. We talked about World War II: In the Philippines, my mother was a little girl, to whom a Japanese soldier gave little toys like a toy chick and promised that he would marry her when she grew up upon his return. Gary talked about family members who had to swim across the river to get to another place in "Occupied Hong Kong." I didn't mention to him about my fantasies about the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere or "Dai Tōa Kyōeiken" in an alternative reality. Yesterday, I went to South Arm Park to view the forest. There was a colourful ice cream truck roving around, blaring the tune of "Music Box Dancer" by Frank Mills.

It's Lulu Island, the 26th of July of 2025. It begins as always—with sunlight glinting off sidewalks and the easy rhythm of habit. I walk to Tim Hortons, a modern pilgrimage. The oat-milk coffee, a small rite. Gary is there again—Gary the Cantonese, as I've come to call him in my inner haiku. We talk over steaming cups and breakfast sandwiches, meandering from Japan to Thailand to the war. I tell him: "One week Tokyo, one week Okinawa." He nods. We agree: the taste of a place is its soul. We smile at the thought of izakaya clamor and the smell of fish sauce. Then history unfolds like an old film reel. In the Philippines, my mother—a child—was given a toy chick by a Japanese soldier, who spoke of returning, of marriage. Gary speaks of rivers crossed under fear, in "Occupied Hong Kong" in the shadow of Empire. We don't mention everything. I don't mention my alternate histories—the Dai Tōa Kyōeiken, shimmering in some parallel world. The unspoken sometimes speaks loudest. Yesterday, the forest of South Arm Park. I wandered there in contemplative silence. A lone ice cream truck rolled by, blaring "Music Box Dancer"—a tune too cheerful for the tangle of emotion in my chest. / ice cream melody— / childhood ghosts stirring / in the shade of firs