Friday, March 11-Part 2--Our world has been rocked
Soon 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.
Oh sh*t.
The earthquake was in Japan.
And it was a huge one--M8.9.
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.
Oh sh*t.
The earthquake was in Japan.
And it was a huge one--M8.9.
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.
Friday, March 11-Part 1--Don't puke on the poker chips
Hee 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.
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.
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…
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.
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…
Tuesday, February 15--Prepared for anything
Ahh, the sun did come out today! Good thing, since I saw neither hide nor hair of a snow plow. 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. I was not so amazed at this organized community response to Mother Nature. The biannual neighborhood leaf cleanup has demonstrated just how willing individuals are to work together for the common good. No, what truly surprised me was how many people own a shovel! Why in the world do my Japanese neighbors need shovels? Not one of them has a yard more than 24 inches wide. 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. Any planting they do is generally in a flower box and can be accomplished with a garden trowel, or probably an old tablespoon. They have no room to dig a grave for the beloved family pet, or any need to dig holes for fences or mailbox posts. 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. And despite the evidence on the street this morning, this area does not normally accumulating snowfalls. So why all the shovels?
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. 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.
Monday, February 14--Valentine surprise
Today’s forecast was for a 40% chance of rain. Temperatures were supposed to go no lower than 39ºF, although the wind chill would make it feel like 28ºF. So what exactly is going on here? It is 11:00 p.m., and it has been snowing to beat the band for the past four hours. 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. Does the town of Zushi even own a snow plow? I am certainly not equipped for this mess—I have an ice scraper and a dust pan in my snow removal arsenal. No shovel, no snow tires, no tire chains, no salt, no sand. Hope the sun is gonna come out tomorrow!
Wednesday, November 3--Tenderfoot
Do you think feet can suffer from PTSD? 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. 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. By the time I got on the train to come home, my feet were screaming. 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). This pain is totally out of proportion with the amount of walking I did. 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. 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. So now I’ve got a dilemma. 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’. 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. Maybe I can further insulate them from emotional distress with a pair of Dr. Scholls’ inserts.
Sunday, October 31, 2010--Pardon the interruption
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!
Monday, September 6--If you can't stand the heat...
As the hottest summer on record continues, our English-language newspaper, The Daily Yomiuri, reports that it’s not just humans who are suffering. Veterinarians have treated twice the usual number of canine heatstroke victims. 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. 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. Hmmm. That sounds like the assembly instructions for a convection oven to me. Roast beef anyone?
Saturday, October 24--Demise of the Fuji toe
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!
Sunday, October 18--Two left feet
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 10--Where's the fish?
Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 8--Melor fizzles
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.
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.
Saturday, October 3--Presents from the dairy fairy
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, September 19--Silver Week
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 kokumin no kyūjitsu or “citizens’ holiday.” (Just for the record, if a holiday falls on a weekend, then the next non-holiday weekday becomes a kokumin no kyūjitsu so that they don’t get gypped of a day off work.) 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 kokumin no kyūjitsu.
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, onsen, 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.
Saturday, September 19--Victorious
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?
Monday, September 14--Random thoughts
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?
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.
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.
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