tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16047625384115974402024-03-08T18:21:59.432+09:00PCS Japan 2008-2011A Yankee's experiences in the Land of the Rising Sun.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-24604107790877018212011-03-12T09:17:00.001+09:002011-03-30T02:23:18.971+09:00Saturday, March 12--My heart is breaking<a href='http://www.picbadges.com/pray-for-japan-285/1351347/' class='pbwdgt'></a><script type="text/javascript">var _pbwid=1351347; var _pbwt=3</script><br />
<script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.picbadges.com/w/widget.js"></script>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-59448662634335839962011-03-11T23:52:00.003+09:002011-04-04T08:05:47.523+09:00Friday, March 11-Part 2--Our world has been rockedSoon after returning to our Hong Kong hotel room, I logged on to check my email and found three messages of increasing urgency from the Yokosuka City Disaster Prevention Information Email Service sent at 3:01, 3:37, and 4:15 p.m. JST. The last one, whose subject line was “Large-scale tidal wave warning,” ordered anyone near the coast to evacuate to higher ground immediately. This is not the first time I’ve received a tidal wave warning—one was issued in February of last year when Chile was rocked by a M8.8 earthquake. The resulting tsunami, by the time it finally reached Japan, was only 20 cm (7.87 in) high, and probably would not have been noticed by the average Joe had it not been so widely publicized. So my mind was weighing that fact against the urgent tone of the city’s last email when I turned on the TV to find out what Pacific country had experienced an earthquake today large enough to trigger a tsunami. <br />
<br />
Oh sh*t. <br />
<br />
The earthquake was in Japan. <br />
<br />
And it was a huge one--M8.9.<br />
<br />
Looks like the epicenter was well north of Yokosuka, yet the news is showing buildings on fire in Tokyo, which is only an hour away from our house. I am scared…Alina is home alone. Did anything fall on her? Is the house okay? Is the power on? Was there a tsunami in our area (our house is on a hill so should be safe, but the base could be very vulnerable)? What about Jim’s coworkers, my students, our friends…. I have sent an email to my friend Yumiko on her cell phone. If there is cell phone service, she will reply quickly and let us know what is really going on around home.Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-45483092190827820972011-03-11T23:48:00.001+09:002011-04-03T12:03:10.771+09:00Friday, March 11-Part 1--Don't puke on the poker chipsHee hee hee! Another stamp in my passport today, thanks to a one-hour ferry ride over to Macau. I thought, since they were stamping my passport, that Macau was its own country, but really it’s not. It is a “special administrative region” of the People’s Republic of China, just like Hong Kong (which I also thought was its own country until I looked it up online). Originally a Portuguese colony, Macau was handed over to China in 1999, and will enjoy being essentially autonomous until 2049. China is responsible for Macau’s defense and foreign affairs, but the territory is free of the socialist reign of the mainland, maintaining its own legal system, police force, monetary system, and immigration policy. According to our tour guide, although 94% of the population is ethnically Chinese, they do not want to be called Chinese—they prefer to be called Macanese. It sounded like less a matter of national pride than a desire to distance themselves from stigma, real or perceived.<br />
<br />
Macau is probably best known for being the Las Vegas of Asia—there are more than 30 casinos on the island. We weren’t necessarily there to donate money to the casinos, although Jim had been hoping to play some poker, so we opted instead to bow to the pressure of a tour operator who stopped us as we came through immigration at the ferry terminal. He was offering a van tour of the key cultural, historical, and touristy sites, as well as a final stop at the casino of our choice--a key selling point for Jim. Since Jim was suffering from some kind of terrible stomach illness and in no condition to strike out on a self-guided walking tour, we negotiated a price and jumped into the van. The driver/guide was of Portuguese descent, and very knowledgeable about the history of the island as well current happenings. Cruising by the casinos, he enlightened us about the feng shui (ancient Chinese practice of balancing the energy of a space to attract good fortune) of each, noting especially the bad karma of the MGM. Entering the casino, with its gigantic lion sculpture out front, is like passing through the mouth of the lion, making the gambler nothing more than dim sum (a popular Chinese snack). We stopped at the ultra-modern Macau tower, where Jim’s illness was a blessing in disguise, saving me from having to make a 233-meter tandem jump off the edge—he’d been gung-ho to take the plunge since seeing the all-stars do it on The Amazing Race in 2007. We drove through parts of town that looked like pictures I’ve seen of Spain—old European-style architecture, Mediterranean color palette, cobblestone streets. Then there’d be dozens of signs in complicated Chinese characters on the next block, advertising restaurants, laundries, and pharmacies. A very strange combination of cultures.<br />
<br />
When we finished the sightseeing loop around 5 p.m., Jim's stomach had not improved, so we decided to skip the much-anticipated poker stop and grab the next available ferry so he could get back to the hotel and rest. As it was a bigger boat than the one we’d arrived on, I was expecting a smooth, nap-inducing trip back to Hong Kong. Turns out we had a crazy roller-coaster ride across swells that I couldn’t see in the dark, but felt as big as the Bering Sea waves I’ve seen on Deadliest Catch. Normally a lover of boat rides, I was longing for the seat belt I’d joked about on the morning ferry (strangely absent on this larger boat), and noting the location of both life vests and seasickness bags. Luckily neither were necessary, as things smoothed out and we docked safely in Hong Kong, anxious for a hot shower and the firmly grounded stability of our hotel bed. Who knew that the wild ferry ride was merely a hint of the rocking that was about to hit our world…Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-44576556254364940332011-02-15T21:44:00.000+09:002011-02-15T21:44:48.230+09:00Tuesday, February 15--Prepared for anything<div class="MsoNormal">Ahh, the sun did come out today!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good thing, since I saw neither hide nor hair of a snow plow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did see my neighbors, though, early this morning, dutifully shoveling snow and slush from the section of the roadway directly in front of their houses, and piling it at their curbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not so amazed at this organized community response to Mother Nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The biannual neighborhood leaf cleanup has demonstrated just how willing individuals are to work together for the common good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, what truly surprised me was how many people own a shovel!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why in the world do my Japanese neighbors need shovels?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one of them has a yard more than 24 inches wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They aren’t using shovels to relocate dumptruck loads of landscaping materials from the driveway out front to flowerbeds in the back forty, because there are neither flowerbeds nor a back forty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any planting they do is generally in a flower box and can be accomplished with a garden trowel, or probably an old tablespoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have no room to dig a grave for the beloved family pet, or any need to dig holes for fences or mailbox posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can’t be using them to whack vermin—if they tried to swing a shovel overhead, they’d put it through the neighbor’s window. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And despite the evidence on the street this morning, this area does not normally accumulating snowfalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So why all the shovels?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alas, all of our shovels are in storage somewhere in Virginia, so my section of street remained a slushy mess for the junior high students trekking to school and the housewives schlepping non-burnables and PET bottles to the gomi pile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily the sun quickly removed all indications of my inability to be a team player—by noon the only snow left on the whole block was what my industrious neighbors had piled up with their shovels this morning.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-4039087060662039402011-02-15T21:02:00.000+09:002011-02-15T21:02:42.736+09:00Monday, February 14--Valentine surprise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today’s forecast was for a 40% chance of rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Temperatures were supposed to go no lower than 39<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">º</span>F, although the wind chill would make it feel like 28<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">º</span>F.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what exactly is going on here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is 11:00 p.m., and it has been snowing to beat the band for the past four hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the second time in four days, in an area of Japan that is not supposed to get any measurable snow, the roads are covered in white stuff--about 2 1/2 inches at the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does the town of Zushi even own a snow plow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am certainly not equipped for this mess—I have an ice scraper and a dust pan in my snow removal arsenal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No shovel, no snow tires, no tire chains, no salt, no sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope the sun is gonna come out tomorrow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-79289174811379266572010-11-03T21:12:00.000+09:002010-11-04T21:13:47.318+09:00Wednesday, November 3--Tenderfoot<div class="MsoNormal">Do you think feet can suffer from PTSD?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I laced up my hiking shoes, the same ones I wore on my Mt. Fuji trek, for a casual four-hour tour around Kamakura.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a fair amount of street walking, some steep but easy hiking up and down wooded trails, and plenty of stair climbing, because everything in Kamakura is on a hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I got on the train to come home, my feet were screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m talking pain in every joint between my tarsals, metatarsals, and phalanges, pre-blisters between my toes and all along my soles, and bone-deep bruises on my Fuji toes (second toe on each foot).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pain is totally out of proportion with the amount of walking I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve comfortably worn these hiking shoes on several occasions since climbing Mt. Fuji, so I can’t believe that my Merrells are suddenly devices of torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, it is the first time I’ve worn them for anything other than pavement pounding since sliding, stumbling, and limping down the mountain, and I’m really wondering if today’s rocky trails and numerous steps triggered podiatric flashbacks of giant blisters and dead toenails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now I’ve got a dilemma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m supposed to go on a walking tour around Tokyo on Friday, and I was planning to wear these same hiking shoes, because frankly most of the shoes I own weren’t made for walkin’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There shouldn’t be any off-roading, and I expect the terrain to be relatively flat, so theoretically, my feet won’t be exposed to any reminders of past trauma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I can further insulate them from emotional distress with a pair of Dr. Scholls’ inserts.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-2100833932325041592010-10-31T20:03:00.002+09:002010-11-04T20:04:26.359+09:00Sunday, October 31, 2010--Pardon the interruption<div class="MsoNormal">Okay, this is ridiculous. I am behind on my blog entries. I am way behind on my blog entries. I have been behind for about 18 months. It’s not because Japan suddenly became uninteresting. Just the opposite. I’ve been too involved in day-to-day life and Japanese adventures to sit down regularly to write. Once I got behind, I started putting off posting new entries until I’d filled in the old entries, because I wanted to keep everything in time order. But I have recently figured out how to post-date entries (technological genius that I am), in order to insert them in the correct place on the timeline, regardless of when I write them. So, I’m going to jump in with current entries, and will fill in the gaps from the past year as I get around to them (I have lots of notes and promise not to leave this project unfinished). For anyone who hasn’t completely given up on me, and cares enough to go back to old entries, make a note of October 24, 2009. Everything up to that point is complete, so new entries will periodically appear between that date and the present. Sorry to make life difficult, and thanks to anyone who is still reading!</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-22931305684615992812010-09-06T20:04:00.001+09:002010-11-04T20:09:19.190+09:00Monday, September 6--If you can't stand the heat...<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">As the hottest summer on record continues, our English-language newspaper, The Daily Yomiuri, reports that it’s not just humans who are suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Veterinarians have treated twice the usual number of canine heatstroke victims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Farm animals are keeling over at an alarming rate—so far nearly 1,200 cows have succumbed to heat-related illnesses, as have 657 pigs, 289,000 broiler chickens, and 136,000 egg-laying hens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The agricultural ministry has instructed local officials to ensure that farmers are taking appropriate action, such as putting heat shields on the walls and roofs of barns and installing fans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That sounds like the assembly instructions for a convection oven to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roast beef anyone?</span>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-52366435055905907242009-10-24T18:34:00.002+09:002010-09-05T18:38:26.257+09:00Saturday, October 24--Demise of the Fuji toe<div class="MsoNormal">At last! Tonight I was enjoying a hot soak in our deep tub, giving my feet a much-needed exfoliating scrub, and lo and behold the nail finally came off one of my Fuji toes (the other one is still firmly attached). Contrary to most people’s experiences, the climb down Fuji killed the nail on the second toe of both feet, rather than the big toes. For two months, I’ve been walking around with ugly blackish-purple nails sticking out of my sandals, yearning for the start of closed-toe shoe season to hide those freakish toes. Now that I have a naked, nail-less toe, I’m afraid to put on socks and shoes!</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-75249631669047695092009-10-18T15:59:00.000+09:002010-09-05T16:32:09.505+09:00Sunday, October 18--Two left feet<div class="MsoNormal">This evening’s outing was the culmination of a misunderstanding that began nearly two years ago. When I first started meeting Yumiko for English lessons, she told me one of her hobbies was b------ dancing. At the time, I wasn’t sure if she was a ballet, belly, or berry dancer (although I was 99% sure the last option wasn’t really a style of dance). It took a few months, and some pictures of a recent performance, for me to conclude that she was taking Bali dance lessons. I told her I’d love to attend one of her performances, and finally got that chance tonight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yumiko and her fellow dancers were performing at an Indonesian restaurant within walking distance of the base, so I had her make dinner reservations for Patrick, Rudy, and me (Jim is off on another trip). While we enjoyed delicious Indonesian food (the first time for me), we were treated to three different Balinese dances. The women wore beautiful, brightly colored costumes for each dance, crowned with elaborate golden headpieces. The graceful, fluid motions of their arms and hips, accented by complex eye movements, finger arrangements, and foot positions, told a story. Though it is one of the more subdued forms of dance I have seen—there is no rush from pose to pose—it looked all the more difficult for its subtlety. To my horror, Patrick and I got to personally find out just how difficult, as the dancers pulled up members of the audience for a mini-lesson after the final number. Not only did I feel like I had two left feet, it seemed I had two left everything. Now I understand why Balinese girls start learning this form of dance when they are elementary school age—it would take years of practice to become proficient enough to perform in public, which they do regularly at temple festivals in their villages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m so glad I finally got to see Yumiko perform, and grateful to have escaped with only a couple embarrassing photos of my attempts at Bali (not berry) style dancing.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-77917911455422465492009-10-10T13:51:00.000+09:002010-09-05T13:52:04.350+09:00Saturday, October 10--Where's the fish?<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Even though Jim is gone on a business trip, I decided to take part in the ITT tour to Tsukiji fish market today. I knew this was not the early morning tour, so I would not be able to see the 5:00 a.m. tuna auction, but I figured at a market where approximately 2000 metric tons of seafood are bought and sold each day, there would be enough other stuff going on to justify the $27 tour cost.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Once the tour departed from the base, the guide informed us that he had not been originally scheduled for this trip, and was a last-minute replacement. He rattled off the details of our itinerary, as well as some facts about each stop of the tour, like guides have done on previous trips we’d been on, so I was not really concerned about his commitment to this outing. It wasn’t until we actually arrived at Tsukiji that his level of enthusiasm for this trip became evident. We got off the bus and stood on a bustling street corner, where our guide handed us a very general map of the area. Our fearless leader then raised his arm, pointed vaguely to the southeast, told us the market was down there, and warned us the bus would be leaving for the next stop in exactly two hours. Uhh, okay, but I thought the point of this tour was to be TAKEN to the market. If I wanted the confusion of trying to find it on my own, I’d have come by train.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">To make a long story short, I spent most of my allotted two hours wandering around in a maze of stalls that ring the outside of the actual fish market, wading through throngs of people, trying not to lose my bearings among the endless look-alike rows of vegetable vendors and ramen hawkers. By the time I accidentally stumbled upon the entrance to the fish market (cleverly disguised as an active loading dock), I had less than 30 minutes left to explore. I carefully wove my way through buyers and delivery men maniacally trying to load and dispatch the morning’s purchases and finally ended up on the outskirts of an endless sea of wooden tables and water-filled tanks meant to display the unlucky creatures available for purchase. As I stepped from the alley into the shade of the auction area, it quickly became clear that the day was already over. In a few stalls, men were still packing up fish in Styrofoam coolers, but for the most part, workers clad in heavy rubber aprons and knee-high rubber boots were hosing down tables and scrubbing scales from the concrete floors. A few who had already finished the day’s chores were sitting around on crates slurping ramen noodles. Dejected and irritated, I made my way back to the bus and oohed over the digital pictures an acquaintance had taken of huge tuna being hacked into manageable pieces by a gleaming machete. Now that’s what I expected to see when I set off on this adventure. Guess I’ll have to try again another time.</span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-11167707251390865592009-10-08T17:58:00.002+09:002010-09-05T14:21:12.840+09:00Thursday, October 8--Melor fizzles<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Another typhoon today…Typhoon Melor. They’ve been talking this one up for days, going through the different TCCOR (Tropical Cyclone Condition of Readiness) levels on the base as the storm got closer and closer to Japan. Today the base was locked down—only essential personnel could get on or off, stores were closed, schools were closed, no one was allowed out of their quarters. Many train lines were shut down, whether to prevent trains from blowing off the tracks or in anticipation of power outages, I'm not sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">But again, just like all the other typhoons since we’ve been here, the storm proved to be nothing but a few heavy rain showers and some gusty winds. We’ve actually had stronger winds on sunny, non-typhoon days. But better safe than sorry, I guess. It got me almost a full day off—all but one of my lessons was canceled today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-22616613111608878002009-10-03T14:24:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:32:48.208+09:00Saturday, October 3--Presents from the dairy fairy<div class="MsoNormal">A few days ago, when Jim was home sick and napping on the couch, the doorbell rang. By the time he dragged himself to the front door, no one was waiting there, but he saw the “dairy fairy” flitting from house to house, dropping off product samples. I’m not sure if that’s actually the name of the Meiji dairy company’s home-delivery service (I thought I heard a solicitor say “dairy fairy” when she rang my doorbell last year, but it could have been a trick of my ears straining for something familiar in the rapid-fire Japanese she hurled at me), but it sounds cute and comes to mind every time I see their truck in the neighborhood.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kiFlA95hQUw/TFen0D6fGbI/AAAAAAAAGZw/qTYos4hq6YY/s1600/100_0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kiFlA95hQUw/TFen0D6fGbI/AAAAAAAAGZw/qTYos4hq6YY/s320/100_0603.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, today we finally got around to investigating the samples, one in a tiny plastic container, and the rest in miniature glass bottles. Since they were all labeled only in Japanese, we were forced to guess what they might contain. The small plastic cup was an easy guess—looked like a kid’s yogurt container—and sure enough, when we tasted it, that’s what it was. The bottles we lined up by color, from whitest to yellowest, thinking the first might be milk and the last could possibly be buttermilk. A taste test confirmed our theory that the whitest liquid was milk, but the yellowest was not buttermilk. It smelled kind of like yogurt, as did the other two mystery samples. They all also tasted like yogurt, from very mild to quite tangy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to do some research to figure out what was in those three bottles. The one with the blue label was Bulgarian-style yogurt (some marketing genius decided it was not very macho for men to eat yogurt from little plastic cups, so they’ve bottled it as a power drink instead). The green-labeled sample was a probiotic yogurt drink purported to improve gastric health. The yellowish liquid in the red-labeled bottle was a drink fortified with glucosamine, probably aimed at runners and other active types who are worried about maintaining joint health.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As convenient as it would be to have milk delivered right to the house, I don’t think my erratic schedule is very conducive to such an arrangement. For now, I’ll continue buying the six-week shelf-life, ultra-pasteurized, “real California milk” from the commissary.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-37560198780696662512009-09-19T13:41:00.004+09:002010-09-05T13:50:16.548+09:00Saturday, September 19--Silver Week<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Today marks the beginning of “Silver Week,” a rare but welcome occurrence in Japan. Monday is a holiday, Respect for the Aged Day. Wednesday is also a holiday, the Autumnal Equinox. By Japanese law, if there is only one non-holiday day between two national holidays, then that day becomes a holiday as well, called </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">kokumin no kyūjitsu</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">or “citizens’ holiday</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">.” (Just for the record, if a holiday falls on a weekend, then the next non-holiday weekday becomes a </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">kokumin no kyūjitsu</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">so that they don’t get gypped of a day off work.) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sweet—I like the way they think! So, counting this weekend, the Japanese have five consecutive days off from work, hence the “week” part of the Silver Week nomenclature. The “silver” part comes from the fact that this holiday period is slightly inferior to the Golden Week period of late April/early May (usually seven to ten days off, depending how the holidays fall within the week, and the company’s policies about shutting down on the two non-holidays within the period). Silver Week won’t occur again until 2015—next year Respect for the Aged Day falls on Monday, but the Autumnal Equinox isn’t until Thursday, so there will be no </span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">kokumin no kyūjitsu</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What does Silver Week mean for me? Just like Golden Week, it means don’t try to go anywhere by car. The highways will be jammed with people taking advantage of not only the time off, but also the reduced toll rates in effect on national holidays. Don’t try to visit any popular sightseeing spots, including, but not limited to, shopping malls, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">onsen</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, Tokyo DisneyLand, and the countryside. It is, however, a good time to visit downtown Tokyo, as all of the city folks have made a mass exodus and there won’t be a suffocating crush of humanity on the trains or subways. It also means a better than average chance of seeing Mt. Fuji, since the humid haze of summer and the normal workday smog of Tokyo should both be dissipating.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-39652078222771303702009-09-19T13:06:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:35:44.429+09:00Saturday, September 19--Victorious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kiFlA95hQUw/TFeVoPy_5tI/AAAAAAAAGZY/NfMfo1KXHcw/s1600/102_1037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kiFlA95hQUw/TFeVoPy_5tI/AAAAAAAAGZY/NfMfo1KXHcw/s320/102_1037.JPG" width="144" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s true that Jim has won cash and prizes as champion of several Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments, but let it be known that I am the one who has secured not one, but two, trophies for his office. Improving on last year’s third place finish, today I captured first place in the women’s division of the CFAY Captain’s Cup Poker Tournament. (Wild cheering and applause from the peanut gallery…) We won’t mention that there were only three women registered in the tournament to begin with, or that I didn’t have a single winning hand all tournament, or that Jim gallantly knocked both of the other women out so that I could claim victory… A trophy’s a trophy, right?</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-66058173456461550242009-09-14T01:08:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:36:09.326+09:00Monday, September 14--Random thoughts<div class="MsoNormal">Riding on the train to Tokyo today, I saw a man wearing penny loafers. Having nothing better to do than stare at his footwear, I thought back to my high school days, when those wine-colored shoes were fairly popular. That got me thinking about the kids who actually put pennies in the slots on the front of the shoes. Since there are no pennies in Japan, what do they call this style of shoe? Yen loafers? Do people put lucky five-yen coins in the slot?</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-84875280909971973312009-09-10T17:44:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:36:44.162+09:00Thursday, September 10--Settling up, Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-32671446274886538652009-09-05T14:57:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:37:16.012+09:00Saturday, September 5--Settling up, part 1I 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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Darn. Now I’ll have to go back during the week without reinforcements.</div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-38376545173844737212009-09-04T14:14:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:37:44.488+09:00Friday, September 4--Safety driving<div class="MsoNormal">It was bound to happen. </div><img alt="" border="0" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447983841833671634" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kiFlA95hQUw/S5sgcIKQW9I/AAAAAAAAGRM/FAFFkWy1dOg/s200/40kph.png" style="float: right; height: 200px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 200px;" width="200" /><br />
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. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-66051026725094861172009-08-31T16:58:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:38:27.967+09:00Monday, August 31--Salvation<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p>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.</o:p></span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-6584724967472316072009-08-30T16:53:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:38:51.837+09:00Sunday, August 30--Has anybody seen my walker?<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">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.</span></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-75792849040737739052009-08-29T14:12:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:39:24.539+09:00Saturday, August 29--Mt. Fuji, Part Two<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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<sup>th</sup> station. Arrggghhh!!</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">goraiko</b>, 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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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. </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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<sup>th</sup> 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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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<sup>th</sup> 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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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. </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-67471822237914642362009-08-28T21:44:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:39:50.736+09:00Friday, August 28--Mt. Fuji, Part One<div class="MsoNormal">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<sup>th</sup> 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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ip2OvZCGYXw"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>lovely tune</b></span></a> created by the van’s tires. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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<sup>th</sup> 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….</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>As we started out, I was puzzled by the downward slope of the first twenty minutes of hiking. I thought we were climbing <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">up</b> 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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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<sup>th</sup> 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<sup>th</sup> station), in order, that I was outraged when I found out one of the huts around the 7<sup>th</sup> 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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>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….</o:p></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-10610528130296035792009-08-27T18:59:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:40:29.608+09:00Thursday, August 27--Don't wanna be a fool<div class="MsoNormal">An old Japanese saying goes, “A wise man climbs Mt. Fuji once. Only a fool does it twice.” (The axiom does not mention women because they were forbidden to climb it until 1868.) Given a choice, I’d always prefer to be wise than a fool, so we have made plans to hike to the 12,388-foot summit on this, the last official weekend of the 2009 climbing season. Hoping to beat at least some of the crowd, Jim, Pat, Angela, Aaron, and Patrick all took a day off from work so we can climb most of the way tomorrow, spend the night on the mountain, then see the sunrise and descend on Saturday (when, we hope, the majority of the foot traffic will be headed up). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>A little background info on Mt. Fuji. This nearly symmetrical volcanic cone is the tallest peak in Japan at 3776 meters (12,388 ft), on a circular base 126 km (78.5 miles) in circumference. It is only open for climbing during July and August, because that is when the weather is the least forbidding (although we are still prepared for the possibility of gale-force winds, torrential downpours, icy fog, and freezing temperatures at the top). The mountain has always been considered sacred among the Japanese, especially to those who practice Shintoism, yet only about 1% of the population ever climbs to the summit. (Guess that means many of the 200,000 people who climb each year are crazy <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">gaijin</b> [foreigners] like us.) Fuji-san is a dormant volcano, which last erupted in 1707, spreading 4-6 inches of ash over Tokyo, some 60 miles away as the crow flies.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>We’ve talked to many people who have made it to the top of Mt. Fuji and lived to tell the tale (in fact, Jim is one of them, although I didn’t want to broadcast that too widely since this weekend’s trip will officially land him in the “fool” category). I’ve been critically comparing their physical fitness levels to my own so-so status, factoring in my always unpredictable rheumatoid arthritis, weighing the stability of my surgically-repaired knee, and praying my determination to say, “I did it” will outweigh any physical shortcomings I may have. I’m excited and nervous at the same time, and almost have that giddy night-before-Christmas feeling of anticipation.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>The whole gang is coming over for a carb-loading spaghetti dinner this evening, and we’ll discuss final preparations for our adventure—what clothes we’re taking, how much water to bring, what snacks will travel well. After dinner, Jim and I will charge the camera, raid the pantry for granola bars, beef jerky, peanuts, and M&Ms, lay out our clothes, load up the essential gear in our backpacks, then try to catch a couple hours sleep before our early morning departure.</o:p></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604762538411597440.post-15584632053709376352009-08-26T18:48:00.000+09:002010-09-05T12:41:18.196+09:00Wednesday, August 26--Seriously, you want me to eat that?<div class="MsoNormal">Two of Jim’s most outgoing and sociable office mates are leaving Japan this week, so they arranged a farewell dinner for themselves at the Officers’ Club. Somehow they convinced the management and chefs to offer an Escoffier Dinner smack dab in the middle of the week, on the condition that enough of their coworkers made reservations to make the endeavor worthwhile for the chefs. These sorts of things are normally reserved for the weekend, since each course is paired with a suitable wine, which could make getting up for work the next day difficult for some people. (Normally, I would fall into this category, but since I am the designated driver this evening, the point is moot.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of you not familiar with this type of meal, “Escoffier” is French for “gross things people wouldn’t normally eat if we called them by their English names.” The chefs prepare elaborate dishes of amazingly tiny proportions, combining ingredients that are aisles apart in the grocery store for a very good reason. In the past, Escoffier dinners at the O Club have been chock full of seafood, making them an automatic pass for Jim. Tonight’s menu was light on seafood, but ingredients in four of the seven courses still worried me. Amazingly, Mikey’s words of advice from the Life cereal commercials were very appropriate this evening—“Try it, you’ll like it!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> I like salmon, but am not a big fan of smoked salmon, so I had my doubts about the appetizer, a “satiny-smooth mixture” of smoked salmon and gelled consommé. The taste was not bad; the texture was a bit weird, and probably not something I’d order again on my own. You can’t go wrong with the second course, a salad, unless of course you add foie gras to it. In my book, there is nothing you can do to liver—blend it up and mold it in a pretty shape, add exotic spices, give it a fancy French name—that will make it palatable. I wasn’t holding out much hope for the soup course, either, a chilled watermelon soup garnished with goat cheese and basil. Never in a million years would I have thought to mix those three items together, but the combination was surprisingly delicious, and something I probably would order again.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>The first entrée, and the fourth worrisome dish, was quail with soba noodles and asparagus. I've only seen quail on the hoof in my grandparents' yard, never on a dinner plate, and I was taken aback by just how small a bird it is under those feathers. It should have been served with a scalpel and forceps, because trying to get the meat off tiny fragile little quail bones with a traditional knife and fork caused unspeakable carnage. Maybe it was meant to be eaten with your fingers, but that just seemed wrong for what could have been a meal served in a five-star restaurant. Guess I’ll have to see what Google says about quail-eating-etiquette.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>A palate cleanser of mikan (Japanese tangerine) sorbet was served next, and I gladly would have eaten a bucket of it. Not only because it was so refreshing and delicious, but because every course so far had been so small. I realize that you can’t have full American-size servings of every dish when you are eating a seven-course meal, but with only two courses to go, I was planning a McDonald’s drive-thru run.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Just from the description on the menu, the second entrée initially held the most promise for me as most likely to be liked. The seared beef tenderloin with shiitake lived up to my expectations, and I even got to snitch the uneaten mushrooms from Jim’s plate. However, with about three bites to go, everything we had eaten so far finally caught up with me, and I began scaling down my McDonald’s order. And by the time I finished my dessert of grilled pound cake covered with vanilla yogurt and fresh peaches, I hadn’t room for even a single Chicken McNugget.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>As a culinary adventure, this was certainly a memorable night. As a farewell dinner, it left a little to be desired since there was no time between courses to mingle with the guests of honor. Nevertheless, thank you Adam and Brenda for the opportunity to expand my gastronomic repertoire. Your willingness to try new things, and your encouragement for others to join you in such adventures will be missed!</o:p></div>Michellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16282103117149114905noreply@blogger.com0