Thursday, September 10--Settling up, Part 2

Finally had time to return to the post office today.  Tomorrow is the seventh and final day of my grace period, and as the week has progressed I have been getting more and more anxious about my unpaid speeding ticket.   Even though I had every intention of paying before the deadline, just the thought of being hunted down and hauled off to jail made me break out into a cold sweat.  

Once again, I ashamedly produced the ticket and some yen at the information desk, and the clerk pointed me to the bank counter in the center of the post office.  The teller there handed me a form to fill in, then took it, the ticket, and the cash off for processing.  I was pointed to a chair to wait while the paperwork was completed.  When she came back, she presented me with an official receipt, and what I assume to be a paid stamp on the ticket.  All of this with no look of censure or finger-pointing.  I know I am not the first person in Japan, or even the first foreigner, to get a speeding ticket, but for some reason I feel like a big scarlet S has been branded in my forehead for all the world to see.  It’s not even my most grievous speeding ticket (78 in a 55 back home), so the shame and guilt are totally out of proportion to the crime.  What’s wrong with me?  Guess I wanted to be a counter-example to the common stereotype that Americans are fat, lazy, loud, outlaw-types. 

I took the ticket home and put it in the pile of other mementos I’ve collected for a scrapbook.  I’m hopeful that someday I’ll be able to look at this as just one more unique experience in Japan without feeling like an axe-murderer.

Saturday, September 5--Settling up, part 1

I couldn’t understand why I had to go to the post office to pay my speeding ticket.  Wouldn’t the police station, or courthouse, or even city hall make more sense?  Apparently, Japan’s post office includes a bank.  Not exactly sure how or why it has been set up like this, but at least the reason I’m going there makes a little more sense now.

Anyway, after asking around, I found the location and hours of the Yokosuka branch of the post office, and made Jim agree to lunch at a restaurant near there today so I wouldn’t have to go by myself to pay my ticket.  (In case you’re wondering, I confessed to the ticket last night as soon as he walked in the door.  Not that I would have tried to hide it anyway, but I certainly wanted him to hear it from me before his boss gets a copy and says something about it.)

Walked up to what appeared to be an information desk in the post office, and with a hang-dog look showed the clerk my ticket and some yen.  He informed me that you can’t pay a ticket on Saturday, only Monday through Friday when the bank portion of the post office is open.

Darn.  Now I’ll have to go back during the week without reinforcements.

Friday, September 4--Safety driving

It was bound to happen.

Frankly, I’m a little surprised it took this long, given the fact that I inherited my dad’s lead foot, and the fact that unless you’re on the highway, Japan is basically one huge school zone. The speed limit on most surface roads is 40 kilometers per hour—for those of you who are metrically challenged, that’s 25 mph.

It started as such a good day. The soreness from the Fuji climb is finally gone, so I went to the base to have lunch with Jim and run the errands I’d put off all week on account of my hobbling. I was in my own little world on the drive home, thinking thoughts of nothing, just enjoying the sunshine and a (finally) recognizable song on the Japanese radio station. There were cars a couple blocks up ahead of me, and thanks to getting caught at one of the many stoplights, I was the right-lane co-leader of a pack of several more cars. We were all traveling at about the same speed—I was not closing the gap on the cars ahead, nor was I pulling away from those following me. Nevertheless, as I was about to exit a tunnel, I heard the whoop of a siren and looked up to see a motorcycle cop behind me. Ever since we moved here, I’d been wondering about the police. They always seem to be driving around with their red lights flashing, so how would a person know if he was in trouble and should pull over? Now I know. Slowing down and easing off to the right, I was praying he just wanted to pass me. No such luck. He indicated that he wanted me to follow him to a suitable place to pull over. Damn.

We pulled off into a bus stop, with the motorcycle parked in front of me. That would never happen in the U.S.—some lunatic would just run the cop over and keep going. He got off his bike in his blue janitor uniform and shiny white helmet, took off his shades and gloves, and came back to my car to ask if I spoke Japanese. I told him not so much, so he was going to have to use his English. I was really hoping he’d decide it wasn’t worth the trouble to try to communicate with me and let me off with a warning (this hope was bolstered by the fact that he hadn’t automatically come to my car with his ticket book). He sternly told me what the speed limit on the road was, and pointed up to the radar display on his bike, which showed I had been going 58 kph. I kept apologizing as he kept repeating “safety driving,” then asked for my driver’s license. When he walked back to his bike with my license, with other cars whizzing by fast enough to rock his motorcycle, I was still hoping he’d run my info in his little computer, see I had no other violations and really was a fairly “safety driver,” and go after a more deserving target. Apparently, all he was getting from his little computer was a printout of my speed, which he brought back to my car taped to a ticket. I had to fill in my info, initial the speed printout as proof that he had not attached a bogus slip, and sign the ticket, a copy of which he said would be forwarded to my husband’s command (office) on base. With more admonishments of “safety driving,” he gave me an instruction sheet in English that informed me I had to go to the post office within seven days to pay my fine or be hauled off to jail.

Being pissed off that he actually gave me the ticket when everyone else was going just as fast as I was, and that he couldn’t cut a gaijin a little slack, and that the fine was ¥12,000 (over $120!), and that they were soon going to tattle on me to Jim’s office, I just barely repressed the urge to give him my business card for English lessons when he issued his final warning about “safety driving.” It’s “SAFE driving” you heartless jerk! Yet in the end, I was left feeling like the jerk when he bowed before walking past his bike and into the road to usher me safely back into the flow of traffic in that infinitely (and in this case, infuriatingly) polite way the Japanese have of doing everything. Something about that bow made me feel more shame than the entirety of his stern lecture. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite so small in my life.

Monday, August 31--Salvation

Early last week, even before the expected consequences of our climb became reality, I’d decided to skip my normal 6:00 a.m. swimming this morning. So I slept a couple hours later than usual and woke to dark, gloomy skies and rain slapping against the windows. Not a big fan of rainy days when I have places to go and things to do, I was even more depressed knowing that today’s schedule meant walking to the train station for this afternoon’s lesson in Tokyo. On a good day, it’s a 15-minute hike down a steep hill, but factoring in my post-Fuji pace and the wind-whipped rain, I was figuring today’s trek could potentially be a full, miserable hour.

Someone was taking pity on me. When I checked my email before hauling myself off to the shower, I found a note canceling my morning lesson due to the typhoon. Typhoon? Really? Not just a rainy day? Didn’t seem that bad out, but I certainly was not going to argue. I could only hope that the folks in Tokyo would also rather be safe than sorry. After a few anxious hours of endlessly refreshing my email inbox, hope vanishing as I watched the rain outside the window diminish to a drizzle, I finally got word that the afternoon’s lesson was canceled. Hallelujah!! Thank you Mother Nature! Since two groups had now used the typhoon as an excuse, I only felt slightly guilty when I emailed my final student of the day and told her I was canceling the evening's lesson due to the weather. Ahh, a full day's reprieve before I have to hobble out into the world.

Sunday, August 30--Has anybody seen my walker?

Just as I suspected, even my complete exhaustion could not guarantee a good night’s sleep. I woke myself up at least a dozen times last night whimpering in pain as I tried to roll over. Apparently, I have muscles that were not mentioned in my anatomy classes, and every single one of them is screaming, and I mean SCREAMING. If that weren’t bad enough, despite my many Band-aids, the sheets kept bumping against my “Fuji toes.” The bottoms of both big toes have fat, juicy, quarter-sized blisters, and the nails of the toes next door are both damaged. The one on the left is all purple and bruised, and the one on the right lifts up like a car hood. Friends had warned us that toenails would suffer on the descent, so I had followed their suggestion and trimmed mine as short as I dared. Guess I should have been more daring and trimmed them to the quick.

So, needless to say, today has not been such a productive day. I’m proud to say I did manage to get down the stairs for breakfast, and back up again for a hot shower. Jim, who is just a little sore, has found my condition to be quite hilarious, and if it wouldn’t take me five minutes to cross the room, I’d clobber him with a pillow. To be fair, when he’s not doubled over laughing or mimicking my groaning, robotic gait, he has been quite considerate about bringing me things so I don’t have to get up so often. In the hopes that movement would help to work out some of the soreness, I even gamely agreed when he asked if I wanted to meet Pat and Angela for dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant, even though it meant negotiating three flights of stairs between the parking lot and our booth, both going and coming. At this point, I really don’t see much improvement, and I hope I haven’t aggravated the problem…from experience the second day after strenuous exercise is usually even worse than the first, so getting to tomorrow’s lessons could be an exercise in sheer determination.

Saturday, August 29--Mt. Fuji, Part Two

The hut operators provide a 2:30 a.m. wakeup call each day so hikers can heave themselves up the rest of the mountain in time to see the sunrise. However, between the hard bunk, the banging of the bathroom door outside, the arrival of new guests, and the endless parade of overnight hikers stomping past the hut, sleep proved elusive for most of us. We finally gave up the charade a little after 1 a.m. and after waking Aaron from a sound sleep, we bundled up in layers, laced up our boots, strapped on our headlamps, and slipped out into the cold to merge with the masses headed up the trail. The climb was rockier and steeper than the day before, and the path was narrower, usually with just enough room for two people to walk side by side. The crowd actually worked to my advantage; it was like bumper to bumper rush hour traffic on I-95, so we were forced to stop every few meters. I could catch my breath without slowing anyone down. The trail got narrower still, forcing us to go single file in some sections. All of the switchbacks made it seem like we were in line for a ride at some particularly sadistic theme park. This was especially frustrating for Jim, who had energy to spare and desperately wanted to pass the large Japanese tour groups clogging up the path. I simply enjoyed the chance to breathe and look back down the hill at the endless undulating snake of headlamps bobbing in the dark. As time continued to tick away, the increasing strength of the frigid wind and the first hints of brightening skies in the east added an urgency to our efforts to reach the top.

Nearly two and a half hours after leaving the “hotel,” we finally passed through the torii gate marking the shrine perched on the summit of Mt. Fuji. Victory!! All around us were hordes of people milling about, stomping frozen feet, slurping Cup Noodles, and prepping their cameras to catch the perfect shot of the sun’s first peek above the horizon. All I cared about was finding the person who could brand an authentic sunrise stamp into my stick, thereby confirming that I had in fact completed this monumental undertaking. I stood in line behind scores of other people with Fuji sticks, not to get a brand, but a disappointing series of kanji characters made by whacking a henna-covered stamp into the side of my stick with a hammer (an admittedly much faster process than branding, which I can kind of understand given the ever-growing line of customers). It left a wet impression that I was warned not to touch (despite the fact that it was placed precisely where I’d been gripping the stick for the entire climb), and looked nothing like the sunrise brand I could have purchased down by the 7^th station. Arrggghhh!!

Being fairly drained by the bitter cold winds buffeting us on top of Mt. Fuji, we chose not to take the hour-long walk around the crater rim, therefore missing the actual highest point (directly opposite where we were standing), the weather station, souvenir shops, and Japan’s highest post office. In fact, after a short consultation in which Aaron with his fancy camera was the only dissenting vote, we decided that goraiko, the coming of the light, would be just as impressive from the descending trail as from the summit. So at 4:55 a.m., thirteen minutes shy of the official sunrise, Jim and I got our picture taken at the summit, then turned around and made for the exit.

Initially, I was grateful that the descending trail was not the same as the ascending trail—I was not looking forward to scrambling down all those viciously sharp rocks I had just climbed up. The trail started out as a wide, gently sloping path blanketed in thick volcanic dust. Messy but soft, and the easiest way to proceed was just to jog down. I stopped to get pictures of the sunrise along the way, keeping Jim in my sights ahead of me and Aaron behind me. Before long, the dusty trail became littered with lava rocks, much like you’d find in the bottom of a barbecue grill or lining flower beds (shocking to find lava rocks on a volcano, I know) and jogging became less of a viable option. A few rocks scattered half-buried in the dust turned quickly into endless mounds of unstable, shifting, rolling, sliding deathtraps, just waiting for an unsuspecting hiker to make a misstep. Well, before long I did, and down I went, landing flat on my back, my surgically repaired knee bent so my foot touched my butt for the first time in two years, and my camera catching most of my weight on the right side. After verifying that no limbs were broken, I tucked the now useless camera in my backpack, slurped a calming drink of water from the rapidly dwindling supply in my Camelback, and cautiously made my way down around the next bend where I found Jim waiting. After learning of my fall, he stayed closer to me on the increasingly steep zigzagging descent. Physically, I had to stop way more often than he would have liked, because my legs just weren’t going to hold me up another step. I ate peanuts, beef jerky, and M&Ms, hoping to get enough of a protein/sugar rush to calm the uncontrollable shaking in my legs. An hour or so into the descent, with nothing in front of us but an infinite number of switchbacks covered in treacherous rocks, and an increasingly warm sun blazing overhead, I had drunk all of my water (no one told us there would be nowhere to buy water on the downhill side, or I would have gladly paid $6 a bottle to restock before leaving Fujisan Hotel). Two more falls marked the end of my emotional stamina, and I had to take yet another break on the side of the trail, crying miserably.

Getting no sympathy from Jim, and noticing that he was becoming increasingly upset with my frequent stops, I urged him to just go on down the hill and meet me at the bottom. He refused, and since Fuji showed no signs of an imminent eruption to put a fiery end to my misery, I was left with no alternative but to suck it up and try to manage a steadier pace. I can’t say the speed improved much over the next hour, but despite some graceless, lunging slips, there were no more falls, which slightly improved my emotional state. After a call from Patrick (yes, DOCOMO cell phones work on Fuji), who had already reached the bottom and was waiting with Pat and Angela at the 5^th station, we determined that we were about an hour from being done with this whole mess. Increasingly thirsty and trembly, each downward step was sheer agony, and the Fuji stick was finally put to good use. With Jim supporting me on one side, and the Fuji stick on the other, we made it to the point where the ascending and descending trails merge, and scenery began to look familiar—almost there. We passed the horses we’d seen on the way up (I refused to pay $120 to ride one the rest of the way down), where we received another call from Patrick wondering where we were. Apparently still about 30 minutes away, so I begged him to please buy us bottled water and Aquarius to have the second we walked off the trail. He also mentioned that Aaron had made it to the bottom. Really? He didn’t pass us. Hmm. Unfortunately, he had taken the wrong fork in the descending trail, and ended up on the other side of the mountain. Not wanting to embark on a three hour drive to pick him up, Pat told him to find the train station, and we’d see him at home.

Remember I mentioned when we started our climb yesterday that we were initially going downhill? I thought going back up that section would really suck on the return trip, hikers being tired and all. Never in my life have I been so glad to walk uphill. The gradual incline took the pressure off the screaming muscles in my thighs and calves, my toes were no longer jammed up against the inside of my boots, and as I saw the corner of the 5^th station buildings peeking over the treetops ahead of us, I was able to hobble faster to the end of this miserable journey. We passed dozens of people who were just starting out, looking fresh and clean, and as excited as we had been yesterday—I figured seeing my bedraggled condition would discourage some of them, but they continued happily on their way. Finally catching sight of Patrick walking toward us with dewy bottles of water in his hands brought a fresh round of tears, this time a combination of exhaustion, gratitude, relief, pain, and even a bit of elation at having conquered Mt. Fuji. After a short rest and guzzling two bottles of much-needed liquid, the five remaining members of our party struck out for the parking lot and the waiting van which would carry us off that blasted mountain. Save for a revitalizing stop at McDonalds, the ride home was decidedly more quiet than yesterday’s journey.

Back at home, we rolled out of the van and went inside to face the menacing staircase separating us from the hot shower that we hoped would soothe aching muscles and wash off the gritty film of volcanic dust. Afterwards, a nap and cocktail of Advil and Tylenol didn’t do much to ease the soreness, so I endured an agonizing climb back down the stairs to soak in the tub. Still not finding much relief, I resigned myself to another night with little rest.

Before succumbing to sleep, Jim and I rehashed our Fuji adventure once again--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Despite the agony, I am happy (or will be) that I did not miss the opportunity to climb Mt. Fuji while we were in Japan. I don't think I'll be tackling Everest, and I have certainly abandoned our hare-brained, pre-climb scheme to go back to Fuji next year and start from the very bottom. If they ever offer cable car or helicopter rides down from the summit, I might be convinced to climb Mt. Fuji again (after all, I never did get my coveted sunrise stamp), but the devil will be wearing a fur-lined parka before I ever agree to walk/slide/fall back down that hellacious pile of rock.

Friday, August 28--Mt. Fuji, Part One

Having been told to expect a three- to four-hour, traffic-snarled drive, we left home in a rented van at 4 a.m. this morning. Only having had about three hours of sleep, all six of us should have been groggy and grumpy, yet there was lots of joking and excited chatter as we drove through the brightening dawn towards Mt. Fuji. Even with stops to capture photos of our destination looming in the distance, we made the trip in under two hours. The drive from the base of the mountain to the 5^th station, the traditional starting point for climbers, which we were warned would be bumper to bumper, was actually deserted. This meant when we encountered a giant eighth note painted in the middle of the asphalt, we were free to drive the recommended 50 km per hour over the grooved pavement to hear a lovely tune created by the van’s tires.

At last we were directed to park in a fairly empty lot where everyone piled out of the van, slathered on sunscreen, and slung on backpacks. A 10-minute, slightly uphill walk brought us to the famed 5^th station of the Kawaguchiko Route, where we took advantage of the foul-smelling, but possibly only, Western-style toilet on the mountain before heading into the gift shop to purchase the requisite Fuji stick. This stick is an octagonal wooden staff, probably worth about $2, but sold for $15. I chose one capped by a flag printed with a map of the trail we were about to climb, but opted not to grab one with bells attached (said to scare away evil spirits along the trail, but more likely to drive the hiker carrying the stick completely insane). The purpose of this stick is not so much to assist climbers over volcanic rocks as it is to offer proof of the journey. At various huts (rest stops) along the trail, the stick can be marked with a red-hot brand for about $3 a pop, with the goal (or at least my goal) being the coveted sunrise stamp at the summit. I know all this because Jim has a branded stick (with bells!?) from his first ascent of Fuji-san. Since that stick is currently in storage, he decided to purchase a regular aluminum hiking pole from a sporting goods store for this second climb. After safely tucking my Fuji-map flag in my backpack so it wouldn’t be ruined by sweaty hands and blowing volcanic dust, I gathered with the rest of the group for a pre-climb photo taken by an obliging Japanese climber. Looking at the photo in the display window of my camera, we are all smiling, the sky is blue, life couldn’t be better….

As we started out, I was puzzled by the downward slope of the first twenty minutes of hiking. I thought we were climbing up Mt. Fuji? When the path finally became a noticeable, but not unpleasant, incline we passed by some tired but sturdy looking horses and guides offering $120 rides up the trail. I was lulled into thinking if a horse could go up this trail with a rider on its back, then it should be no problem for me. Fast forward about four hours…The moderate incline has become increasingly steep and I have been climbing as fast as my aching legs will carry me, yet strangely I find myself alone. The rest of the group has deserted me. The gazelles, Patrick, Pat, and Angela, left me in the dust within the first hour. Jim stayed by my side for a (little) while longer, then started hiking ahead and waiting for me to catch up at the next hut. Eventually, between the frequent pauses to catch my breath (not really winded from the altitude, just the hard work) and stops to purchase brands for my stick, he gave up and just went on ahead. Aaron was nearby for a longer time, as he was stopping often to take pictures. At some point, I also fell significantly behind him. I was left leap-frogging up the mountain with a Japanese family hiking with their young son, all of us being passed at regular intervals by boisterous twenty-somethings and determined senior citizens.

The Kawaguchiko Route up Mt. Fuji started at an elevation of 2305 m. The path was an interminable series of switchbacks, zigzagging up the mountain. Some sections were wide and covered in soft dust, while other areas were steep, treacherous piles of volcanic boulders that required the help of both hands (notice I did not say Fuji stick) to scale. In some places where the lava from the last eruption cooled too steep and smooth to find a foothold, steps had been carved in the rock. What I didn’t understand was why the rise on each step was between 18 and 24 inches high—that’s a quad-challenging stretch for American-size legs, and must be exceptionally frustrating for the more vertically challenged Japanese. At various points along the trail were randomly spaced “huts” where hikers could rest, purchase drinks and snacks (the price increased with the altitude, but my $2 banana was absolutely delicious), use the toilet for a dollar, and get stamps on their sticks. Our goal for the day was the Fujisan Hotel at the 8^th station and 3360 m—and though that was only three stations past our start point, it did not mean my hike was over when I reached the third hut. There were random collections of two to eight huts between each station, and it quickly became depressing trying to figure out how many more huts I needed to pass to reach my goal. No matter how much I climbed, anytime I looked up I only saw more mountain. I finally took some Tylenol to ease the burning in my legs, then just put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and plodded towards the next hut and its unique stamp—I’m not sure what I would have done without the incentive of filling up my hiking stick with those stamps. I was so determined to have a complete set of stamps (well, minus the one from the unmanned 6^th station), in order, that I was outraged when I found out one of the huts around the 7^th station was selling the sunrise stamp, and refused to get it because it wouldn’t be authentic unless it was burned into my stick on the summit.

Finally, after about seven and a half hours, I saw a tiny figure waving to me from high above, at what I could only hope was the Fujisan Hotel. It still took another twenty minutes of dragging myself uphill to recognize the figure as Jim. As I stopped once again to catch my breath, he made his way down the path to escort me the last few meters (consisting of about twenty of those monstrous, quad-punishing lava steps). To my bewilderment, I found myself choking back tears, I guess a result of the tremendous physical and emotional relief of knowing I was finally there.

The Fujisan Hotel was actually nothing more than a large uninsulated wooden shed, with a U-shaped two-tiered bunk layout able to accommodate at least two hundred people stacked like cordwood, but it looked like the Ritz to me. I gladly climbed to my assigned sleeping bag on the top tier bunk, stowed my backpack on a hook, swallowed two more tablets of what would become a long, alternating regimen of Advil and Tylenol, and eased back for a well-deserved rest. Soon dinner was served on a low Japanese table, and I climbed down to my cushion on the floor where I attacked the curry, rice, and hamburger patty with abandon. I was ready to plow through the miniature hot dogs as well, but the first fish-flavored bite brought me sputtering to a halt. After enjoying a $4 hot chocolate served in a 4-ounce Dixie cup, we played some Uno and eavesdropped on the tales of the other hikers who had straggled in. When our tired legs couldn’t stand sitting on the hard floor any longer, we climbed back up to the bunk, stowed the bento breakfasts that were included in our lodging fees, and settled in to get some rest. As I struggled to find a comfortable position for my aching body on the hard bunk, I consoled myself with the fact that I had climbed 1471 vertical meters, and only had 416 to go….