Lorna's Travels
2 TRAVEL
My traveling with Grandma Cheriton at age 11 whetted my appetite for
travel with its escape from regular life and opportunity for adventure. Even going to summer camp was for me a
blissful escape from life at home.
Yet, when my parents planned a cross-Canada trip in 1964, I resented
my father’s requiring each of us, except the youngest, to research a given
province we would travel through rather than offering any choice. During that trip, I experienced adventures
such as discovering the aquatic worlds in Nova Scotia’s tide pools and the
ethereal beauty of Michelangelo’s Pieta on display at the New York World’s
fair. My buying a postcard of the Pieta
and finding the yellowish statue hugely disappointing was a lesson in savoring
the experience at the time, rather than trying to capture it for the future.
In my first year of university, I took nine courses, rather than the
usual five, wanting to explore both science and the arts and humanities. A stimulating history course that flew
through human history from earliest times may have inspired my taking a summer
school archeology course in Rome after working for half the summer. Overly intense in my hunger for adventure and
learning, I took my father’s suggestions for us students to make the most of
our one day at Montreal’s Expo ’67 before our flight to Rome. I explained these to the other students, but
none went with me to attempt to see as much as possible; instead they blithely
spent their time in bars, enjoying themselves.
The image of myself I saw in a mirror at the airport that evening
before our flight to Rome is seared in my memory – a stark, sunburned face with
intense, protruding eyes above an emaciated body. On the plane, after dinner, I fell asleep and
woke to the sunrise coloring the sky above Europe. I felt that I had died and was reborn.
The first evening in Rome, I walked out to explore the streets near
where we were staying, everything so different from western Canada, especially
the churches with their dimly-lit interior, statues, relics of saints and
votive candles. More than archeological
ruins, I wanted to explore Italy’s alternate life to what I had experienced in
my childhood’s narrow scope. I often
took trains and buses to the small towns outside of Rome, the Castelli
Romani. When a group of young Italians
invited us students to lunch – a three-hour hedonistic hiatus from our
archeological research under the burning noon-hour sun, the wine, laughter and
playing of guitars gave me a taste of life as pleasure rather than
self-punishing striving.
The following year, after my first course studying Canadian history,
I again spent half the summer working and the other half traveling, this time
across Canada. Traveling with my
father’s youngest sister and her husband in their fishing boat from Prince
Rupert to Vancouver showed me an alternate lifestyle outside my family’s
striving for traditional worldly achievement and success.
After finishing my undergrad studies and without attending the
graduation ceremony, I was lured to the Student Union Building by a poster
advertising a charter flight to Europe.
At the information meeting, I met Gail, Jerry and Rick… and signed up
for a one-way flight. We four naïve
young adults traveled platonically, taking a Metro train in Paris to the end of
the line and having to sleep on the platform until trains began running the
next morning. We stayed in a youth
hostel but, disgusted with very un-Parisian meals there which contained black
specks we assumed were flies, we discovered the delicious baguettes and French
cheeses that we could buy out on the streets.
In Germany, we rented a Volkswagen which I drove, lurching along the
Autobahn because of my inexperience using a manual shift. What I had absorbed in childhood, to suppress
fear and forge ahead, surely challenged my guardian angel …who got us safely
through Bavaria.
In Spain we encountered young students careful
not to express any criticism of their government, still ruled by
Franco. Attending a display of Picasso’s
drawings (because he was famous), we were startled by the pornographic content.
After Gail, Jerry and Rick flew back to Canada, I traveled alone on
the Trans-Siberian train from London to the hook of Holland to Berlin, Warsaw,
Moscow, Irkutsk and Nahodka on the eastern shore of the USSR. My family’s relative disregard of current
world events left me with only the minimum I had learned in high school. Again, I noted young students careful not to
express any criticism of their government, this time the Soviet regime, while
young westerners were openly critical of their nations’ governments.
After crossing the Sea of Japan by boat, I found myself welcomed as
an honored guest in a culture vastly different from my own. Japan felt like a place with a niche for me,
the place I had longed for and sought without knowing it. The Japanese treated me as I unconsciously
needed -- to be valued -- and filled the
unmet niche in my heart to belong -- from the neighborhood community inviting
me to carry the omikoshi palanquin during the Obon festival in August and the
family of my professor’s friend making me welcome for my first month in Japan,
to living with some five other young women, all Japanese, in a co-op house, to
fellow students patience with my learning their language, to everyone’s
encouragement and even praise of my attempts to speak Japanese.
Traveling back to Canada after my studies finished, I had an evening
in Seoul with Korean students, listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of
Silence” and again felt the bond with young people of a vastly different
tradition.
During my work with the Canadian Department of External Affairs, my
only travel was to New York City during the fall session of the United
Nations. My naivete in going to the
hotel bar dressed in a sailor-like middy contrasted sharply with a fellow young
female officer’s admonition that I could have been kidnapped and used in the
sex trade.
My appetite for travel made me giddily accept Rob’s invitation to
join him in Hong Kong in 1979. I
explored that island, took ferries to the outlying islands including Lamma, and
took trains to walled villages in the New Territories where women in black
traditional dress and wide-brimmed black hats corralled their squealing pigs.
Rob, posted to Beijing, invited me to join him and, as he later said,
knew I could not resist a free ticket to China.
Again, it was my ticket out of my “ordinary” North American life and
into a fascinating culture to explore as well as into belonging, as part of a
couple and, for eight months, part of the diplomatic community there.
Leaving all that for an interview in London that could have re-opened
a diplomatic career for me, I knew on leaving the interview that it had not
gone well. Rather than go back to
Beijing and Rob, or home to Canada (not even considered because I could not
face admitting my failure to my family) I began a cold and lonely winter
traveling in Europe, taking such dangerous risks as hitchhiking from Istanbul
to Athens. My tendency to use travel to
escape had become flight even from myself.
Agreeing to meet Rob in India for a vacation extracted me from
extreme frugal and sometimes risky travel and placed me into a world of luxury
– first class hotels with traditionally garbed staff and musicians, Rob buying
me a sari, my dancing barefoot one balmy tropical evening in Kerala. Even in such luxury, I chose leave it
temporarily to take a trip into the nearby town to the village market where,
once again in ordinary Indian village life, I bought silver ankle
bracelets. Back at the resort, I ran
across the sand to show it to Rob but, swimming in the Indian Ocean, I found
they grated sand into my legs so I pulled them off.
Still unable to make the commitment to marry and settle down, I was
turmoiled in Delhi after Rob left and, meeting a Kashmiri man who offered me
work if I would travel to Srinagar, I bolted for the north by overnight
bus. No doubt Mohammed was startled that
I actually took him up on his offer. He
explained that the weather in April was still too cold, no tourists, no work,
but invited me to stay with his extended family on their houseboat on Dal Lake.
Spring on Dal Lake was gorgeous with almond trees ringing the waters
and snowy mountains rising above. My
desire to “grow a good spirit,” one that would stop me from hurting people like
I had hurt Rob, led to my being recruited into medical missionary work with a
self-taught medical missionary. When I
escaped his campaign to save my soul and make me “one in the Spirit, with
himself,” I fled to Ladahk for a completely different immersion in spartan
Ladahki lifestyle and Buddhist religion.
(A sign in the household which rented room to me and other travelers
read “Please short showers. We carry all
water on our backs.” Returning to Kashmir,
I ventured into an ashram’s culture of yoga and meditation which led to my
traveling in October, when Kashmir became cold, with the young Australian yoga
teacher, Graeme, south to the Indian plains.
Graeme’s resolve to attend a 10-day meditation retreat in Pune,
outside Mumbai, was a fearsome challenge to me, afraid I could not endure the
hours of sitting meditation, that I would lose my sanity as my mind’s
three-ring circus played the failures of my past and bound my brain in tight
band of extreme pressure. While the
sitting meditations were difficult for me, I felt a bond with the other
meditators when the guru announced, “You realize that you are the only one who
aches from sitting and whose mind wanders; everyone else in this room is close
to Enlightenment.” The room erupted in
laughter.
Later, in Madras, Graeme and I each took yoga lessons privately with
a teacher he found. Each morning, before the sun made the flat rooftop of the
Broadlands rooming house too hot, we would practice yoga so slowly and
meditatively that my teacher pronounced my hour and a half doing six poses too
extreme. My hurtling intensity had
become intensity of its opposite, extreme prolongation and restraint.
When Graeme’s money ran out and he needed to return to Australia, I
lent him $400 to buy his ticket, confident that I could trust him. After I returned to Canada, my father
declared that foolish but I trusted Graeme’s integrity and a check arrived in
the mail.
After being out of Canada from February 1981 to April 1984, I
received Rob’s warning/ultimatum that he was in danger of succumbing to the
wiles of a woman unless I would return.
The threat of losing him forever lured me back to North America. One morning Rob and I were woken by a phone
call alerting me that I had brought a dangerous parasite; was I working in any
food business?
When Rob was posted to New York City, it was another world for me to
explore, bicycling around to see art galleries and museums, studying
photography at the International Center of Photography and photographing street
life, and the many festivals and fairs including the spectacular Halloween
parade. How ironic that I got to live in
NYC for four years when years before, studying at Carleton University, I had
been devastated when I missed the chance to go on a four-day art history trip
to NYC.
I have felt that any place in the world that I stay in for any length
of time, I figuratively pitch my tent, start finding out about the place, and
make that home. It was true of Srinigar in
Kashmir, Madras in India, and New York City.
Often plagued by second thoughts about my decisions, I do not recall
severe regrets about leaving a place.
Nor did I feel regrets about foregoing moving with Rob to Brussels, even
when work at the Consulate was challenging and even when I occasionally
speculate about how different my life would have been had I accompanied him on
that posting.
When Hamilton offered the adventure of hiking the Appalachian Trail
with him and then likely a posting abroad with the Peace Corps, I could not
resist the lure of adventure and travel.
I was satisfied that I had not only survived but mastered my work at the
Consulate and earned positive evaluations.
I left NYC in May 1994, after nine years living first on the Upper East
Side, then in Astoria, Queens, then further out in Valley Stream on Long
Island. With hardly a whimper of
regretful goodbyes to that stimulating city and people I had engaged with, I
left with Hamilton on the Amtrack train headed south to Harper’s Ferry.
That first night out of NYC, Hamilton and I stayed at a comfortable
hotel in Harper’s Ferry, the half way point of the trail. The next day we started a day hike from the
shelter where Hamilton had left the Trail in 1991 because of a torn muscle in his
calf. What should have been an easy day
hike became agony for me when I became exhausted and everything in my body
ached. Hamilton began walking down the
path and holding out his arms to encourage me to struggle up to him for a
hug. As soon as we reached the hotel, I
took a warm bath and went to bed, skipping supper.
The next day we set out with full packs into rain. I quicky picked up a branch to use as a
walking stick and then a second one, helping my balance with the full
pack. Despite the burden and the rain, I
felt strong and enthusiastic about our journey, wondering if yesterday’s agony
was a physical form of grieving for the life in NYC that I had just given up.
By the time we reached the shelter where we would spend our first
night, Hamilton was almost hypothermic.
Chilled, he got into his sleeping bag while I made him hot tea and then
supper.
Very soon we met other hikers who hiked more miles a day than we
did. Rather than compete with them, I
made my specialty the composing of poems to write in logbooks and new words for
campfire songs and hymns…words that spoke of our hiking experiences and ones we
could sing as we hiked that long green tunnel.
We saw the same hikers repeatedly at shelters, learned their trail names
and thoughts about the Trail. I have the
vivid image of Hamilton and I coming to where Icebox and Folly, from England,
were putting their camp. They invited us
to camp with them but, feeling strong and with golden afternoon light on the
landscape, I voted to continue hiking, sure we ‘d see them soon enough. But both left the Trail with leg and foot
problems.
My full pack induced me to watch for large flat rocks that beckoned
me to lie on them, my pack still on my back but the weight supported by the
rock instead of by me. I came to feel
that at the end of the day, Hamilton would want to do a few more miles, while I
was so tired that those extra felt endless.
Once I was so tired that, going to the river to wash, I fell over and
cut myself on rocks. I could not imagine
being able to hike in the morning. But,
waking, I found the balm of sleep had revived me more than I could have
imagined, and we hiked on.
1997
Australia, New Zealand, Fiji
2000
2001 England,
Thailand, India
Belize – snorkel, B
city neighborhood
2003 Denmark,
Scotland, England with Mom and Dad
2004 Canadian
Rockies with Birgit
2007
California anniversary Yosemite, Sequoia///// May Yellowstone – snow
In 2004 ,
on August 2 our Danish friend Birgit arrived from Europe and the next day she
headed west with Hamilton and me. First
stop was Lake Wabumn where we swam, ate strawberry rhubarb pie and lazed in the
sun, recovering from jetlag and birthday-celebration-lag. Birgit and I sat one behind the other in a
single kayak (one of those that my father had made with his grandsons) and
paddled around the reeds trying not to clack paddles.
Then,
west to the Canadian Rockies, through Jasper to Mount Robson in a day that
ended in violent winds and torrential rain.
The next morning was cloudy as we assembled with 6 other people at the
helicopter landing pad in a quarry.
Taking 3 of us at a time, the helicopter lifted off (you watched the
ground fall away from your feet) and flew us over the river's network in the
valley, skirting around the magnificent Mount Robson that emerged blue and
snowy white as the skies cleared. The
flight of some 10 minutes saved us two days of arduous backpacking and allowed
us to bring in food for four days of marvelous day hikes as well as the two
days of backpacking out. I had
called in a reservation the morning 3 months before when reservations to camp
were first being accepted for this.
We climbed above Berg
lake (aptly named for the huge chunks of ice that calf off Robson with the roar
of avalanches) and beside Toboggan Falls, a cascade over a straight incline of
rock that would make the ultimate otter slide or a spectacularly final toboggan
run. Another day we climbed the steep
moraine toward a glacier, walking the knife-edge top until swirling vertigo
drove us down into the valley. Our most
spectacular hike circled part of Robson, climbing upwards on rock until we
encountered the surprise of a high meadow of moss, flowers, grouse, marmots, and huge holes where
grizzly bears had dug out the marmots.
Climbing up a rocky path above the meadow, we reached Snowbird Pass
where we looked over into an entire new world of icefields ringed with
mountains we'd never seen before. Our
final day we hiked west from British Columbia into Alberta, a mostly flat
stroll through a valley ... with stops to swim in the startlingly cold glacier
water of aqua-green Adolphus Lake and to picnic in the sun as we lay on the
shore. The fifth day, hoisting our packs for the 22km hike out, we walked
beside Berg Lake, through forest and past the mighty Emperor Falls. Camping at Whitehorn halfway down, we looked
across the gray glacial water of the Robson River to where numerous falls
plunged from a distant height down the sheer face of golden cliffs. (We also met three young men who were carrying
their kayaks up the mountain to do a 14-day river trip on wild rapids!)
Descending from Robson into the heat of August and
swelter of tourist crowds, we were jolted and saddened to learn news of
Hamilton's family that necessitated his returning east - Joyce's passing and
his father's hospitalization. We three
drove back to Edmonton for Hamilton to catch his plane. Then Birgit and I drove to Lake O'Hara, a beautiful
high mountain area further south in the Rockies. My sister Mary came from Calgary and we rode
the school bus up the rough road, since there's no car access, to the
campground. We hiked around the
aquamarine Lake O'Hara and were the only people we saw cooling off after hiking
-- with plunges in the chilly water. Other hikes well above tree-line took us
to glacier-fed lakes and gave spectacular views of the panorama of peaks.
Birgit and I went
whitewater rafting on the Kicking Horse River, ate cherries and peaches from
southern British Columbia, toured an old steamboat of the Kootenay Lakes, and
visited the site of the disastrous Frank Slide of 1904 when a mountain slid
down on a coal mining village. We went
to see the cliffs over which Native Canadians used to stampede buffalo. Also, to the "Badlands" to see
desert hoodoos. Then we circled back to
Edmonton where we canoed on the North Saskatchewan as part of Edmonton's
Centennial Celebrations, seeing the city from a unique viewpoint.
In April 2006 I went to Arizona
with my schoolteacher friend Lynn (who was at our wedding with her boyfriend,
Gerry). Gerry, also a teacher, had been captivated with snowboarding ever since
discovering it so was going to slopes in Utah during their spring break. Lynn
was considering eventually buying a condo for her retirement and invited both Hamilton
and me to join her for a vacation and condo-scouting trip. Through exchange of her time-share, she had
the use of a condo for a week. Hamilton
said he would love to accept Lynn's invitation to go and explore the Phoenix
and Sedona area but, with his father in hospice and expected to live only
another 2-6 months, Ham felt he should stay close to home.
The red rock, blue sky and
green evergreens made a vivid and beautiful landscape for our hiking the dry
terrain of Sedona, a world away from the late winter snow and beginning of mud
season in Vermont.
I had serious reservations
about Lynn’s plan to obtain access to a health club by attending a time-share
presentation, but she returned unscathed and with passes that let us swim and
attend Pilates classes.
After she suggested we stop
and get ice cream cones, she expressed surprise that I paid for mine. “First
time in years I haven’t had to buy two.”
I cringed internally recalling boyfriends who had usually bought for me
as well as for themselves.
After the family gathering in 2007
in California for my parents’ 60th
wedding anniversary, Hamilton and I drove from St Helena to Yosemite. We climbed up into that
mountainous park and stopped at a viewpoint just as muted sunset colors were
lighting up El Capitaine and other famous and spectacular rock faces. Of
course, we then had twisty mountain roads to drive in the dark to get to the
campground where we had reserved a site.
We had 3 days of hiking and camping in Yosemite, including seeing Half
Dome at sunset and, in the next day's 93-degree heat, then cooling off with a
welcome soak in the chilly Merced river with the sheer face of El Capitan above
us. Driving south to Sequoia and Kings
Canyon National Parks, we came to appreciate their 2000-year-old monarchs of the forest.
Even after Labor Day,
Yosemite Valley was hot and still had a lot of visitors, especially from
foreign countries. Hamilton commented on occasionally hearing some
English! After 3 nights there, we drove
south to Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks, where (ironically for being
further south) it got down almost to freezing at night. We wore most of our
clothes in our sleeping bags. The giant sequoia were amazing - it's hard to
believe anything that big and old (over 2000 years) can be alive.
********************************************************************
My traveling with Grandma Cheriton when I was
eleven was such a powerful experience in my early life that I wanted to share
that experience with my step-granddaughters.
One Christmas Eve family dinner in a Bennington restaurant, an awkward
situation propelled me into taking action: Philippe had insisted that Cori hand
him her phone. Cori declined and grew
increasingly upset as he insisted.
Philippe was justified in his demand since he and Adrienne had made a
condition of their children having cell phones that parents could view their
activity at any time. But I identified
with Cori’s reluctance, guessing that her father would see something he could
make fun of, perhaps a comment about a boy she liked. Philippe turned to Sophie and asked for her
phone to show he was not picking on Cori personally and Sophie turned hers over
immediately with no protest.
When we returned home,
Cori fled upstairs in tears. I went up
to our bedroom where she had thrown herself on the bed. I told her about a time when Dad had insisted
that I tell him where I had been after school and I was reluctant to tell him
that I had been working in a printing shop. I was afraid of his scorn at my
doing manual work.
In an effort to cheer
Cori, I suggested she and I take a trip together to California when we could
find the time and opportunity. However,
arranging it without Cori traveling alone led to delays of several years and
eventually to Cori, with her mother, flying to California and meeting both
Hamilton and me there. What I hoped
would be a stronger bond with Cori was further diluted when she chose to stay
with Adrienne and Hamilton at Stacia’s home in San Jose rather than stay at
David’s home in Palo Alto with me, which I thought Cori, with her love of
babies and young children, would enjoy because of David’s four toddlers. Cori did spend the day at David’s. I made a few portraits of her with David’s
beautiful and fragrant roses, Cori herself a beautiful, blossoming young woman.
When Stacia and Adrienne came to pick Cori up, Stacia expressed admiration of
the tiles on the bottom of David’s pool – dolphins in an underwater Eden.
When Adrienne, Cori,
Hamilton and I spent a day in San Francisco, my strongest memory is of Cori’s
urgently wanting French fries as we explored Chinatown. She had entered the beginning of adolescence
and also craved being with her mother, a world away from me at age 11 reveling
in being the sole child with Grandma.
Stacia was working as
an interior designer, her flair manifest in both her home and her store. The objects in her house, like lamps (and
inspirational words like "Dream" in flowing script on the walls) as well
as the swatches of elegant wallpaper carried whispers of her signature style.
Her store was a work of art - classy and inspiring, a balance of retail objects
together with books and materials and inspiration for planning. Hamilton and I
both got inspired to start talking of changes we'd like to make to our house.
A trip Hamilton had long wanted to do, to Alaska, came about in
mid-June to mid-July 2007. After flying
some 9 hours from Albany, I lifted the window shade as we descended into
Anchorage and encountered a world of endless white mountains. We picked up the minivan we had reserved and
drove north to Hatcher Pass with its old gold mine, then east on the Glenn and
Richardson Highways with their mountains and glaciers. From Valdez we took a cruise in Prince
William Sound, seeing Columbia and Meers Glaciers, as well as sea otters
resting afloat on their backs, seals, sea lions (one perched on a buoy some 6
feet out of the water), puffins, and dozens of bald eagles.
After crossing the sound by
ferry to Whittier, we drove through the 12-mile tunnel and down the Kenai
Peninsula as far as Seward, stopping to watch a salmon run, and to hike up to
the Exit Glacier.
Returning the car to Anchorage, we caught a bus to Denali National
Park, where cars are not allowed to travel beyond a few miles into the
park. We rode school buses the 6-hour,
90-mile trip to Wonder Lake campground, the furthest point of the road and
closest to Mt McKinley/Denali. On the buses everyone watches for wildlife and
the drivers stop (provided everyone stays completely quiet). The animals learn to treat the green school
buses as merely big rocks that roll down the road, offering no food or threat,
of no consequence in their lives. We saw
up close -- grizzly bear, moose, caribou, Dall sheep, arctic fox and other wild
and normally elusive creatures.
Our most intense adventure was canoeing the Noatak River in the
Brooks Range of far northern Alaska. We took the bus from Denali to Fairbanks
and then a small commercial plane from Fairbanks to the village of Bettles
(population 26 in winter). From there a
float plane flew us on July 1 over mountains and up rugged valleys and set us
down on a small lake near the river's headwaters. As we watched the float plane
head away, we were very aware of being hundreds of miles from any human
help. Leaning into the next and
necessary tasks, we portaged the heavy and awkward tent, sleeping and cooking
gear, and the muscle-aching burden of the inflatable canoe over rough, hummocky
tundra,
Paddling down the Noatak Valley with mountains on either side, we
often stopped and hiked up braided, gravelly tributaries into mountain
valleys. Once we were dive-bombed by
arctic terns whose nests must have been nearby.
Sometimes, after the heat of a day of paddling under the hot sun, we
jumped hot and sweaty into the chilly river and emerged drastically cooled but
refreshed.
For two days (including our anniversary, July 7), we paddled hard and
for long hours trying to ensure we would reach the agreed upon take-out before
the plane would come to pick us up. But
then we realized that we had paddled past the take-out! The fast current made
paddling back upstream impossible. We had no choice but to stop for the night
and, in the morning, since the float plane could not land on the river or on
land, find a lake to which we could portage our gear, and wait for the pilot to
find us.
The morning after our final camp on the river, when we reluctantly
acknowledged that we had paddled past the take-out, I woke early and walked
along the river's edge. Wearing my poncho against the bugs and carrying a long
staff, I felt like an Old Testament prophet, particularly when I began writing
three-foot high letters in the clay: "Tell us PLEASE WHERE," I began
and then stopped, looked at the huge letters and felt like I was addressing
God, rather than a human pilot, and asking even more than where a float plane
could pick us up.
Looking back down the riverbank, I saw Hamilton emerging from the tent and
pointing urgently across the river. I turned to look where he was pointing and
saw a huge, dark hulk, like a solitary rock.
As I looked, I saw a face emerge from the shaggy apex of the motionless statue
and two Viking-like horns on each side of the head. Then the muskox turned and walked along the bank. (Back in Bennington, I wrote an article for
our church newsletter which I titled “The Divine Face of Muskox” celebrating
this thin place on the earth where divinity shone through my experience of a
powerful bond with a magnificent fellow creature.
Portaging our heavy and hugely awkward boat was the hardest thing,
physically, that I can ever remember doing. We fed our paddles through the loop
at the bow and, pushing our hips and abdomens against the paddles, strained
like draft horses to pull the still-inflated boat. As bugs buzzed in our faces and flew into our
panting mouths, we hauled the awkward monster of our canoe uphill and over the
bushes from the river and then half a mile across bumpy tundra.
To make ourselves as visible as possible to the pilot, we set up a
large red bivvy sack on a tripod of sticks along the river as well as a big
yellow water-proof bag on a huge set of caribou antlers close to our tent. Then we two -- who are often teased good-naturedly
by our friends about our supposedly unlimited, restless energy - began our largely inactive WAIT.
In the uncertainty, our inclinations polarized: Hamilton wanted to ration food and fuel in
case we had a long wait; I wanted to eat, drink and merrily consume the food
and fuel that would be of little appeal and therefore practically worthless
once we were back in "civilization."
Hamilton’s restlessness propelled him to hike back to the river
several times during the next several days to check on the red bivvy sack. I spent much of the time in our tent --
reading, napping and writing in my journal, then copying my journal to make a
record to offer the rangers who had briefed us before our trip and given us a
small book to record our trip. Once, when
Hamilton was hiking to the river, I impulsively emerged from the tent and
improvised a solo dance, being inspired by the distant mountains and vast
landscape.
After two and a half days’ wait, when the float plane's motor broke
into our silence, we leaped into action.
The plane circled our campsite dropping small pieces of paper that
floated to us out of the sky. Those we
were able to collect all had the same message, “Stay here. Will return and get you tomorrow.” Our relief at being found was partially
dampened by our facing another day’s wait.
The following day we packed everything except our tent which
continued to be our protection, day and night, against the voracious
mosquitoes. As the plane appeared, we
quickly dismantled the tent. Touching
down, the pilot ran towards us leaving the motor running to urge us to hurry;
the wind was changing and would soon make taking off difficult or
impossible.
The plane noisily lifted us up over the tundra and flew over tundra
marked like embossed fabric with regular hummocky patterns. We flew over the mountain wilderness back to
Bettles, which was in dense smoke from forest fires.
En route to the February gathering of my family in Maui
in 2007, Hamilton and I hiked on the Big Island of Hawaii, in the
crater of the volcano Kilauea and in the rain forest. We hiked to a field of petroglyphs carved
into lava by early Hawaiians. We
snorkeled. We soaked in a thermal
spring-fed pool set in lava rock and saw lava tubes made by lava congealing
around ohia trunks (which then burned away leaving the hollow tubes). We walked through another lava tube formed
long ago when the outer crust of a river of lava started to harden but liquid
lava continued to flow through it.
One afternoon we hiked over crisp, shiny lava some 3
miles along the southern coast of the island, arriving just at sunset when the
rivers of molten lava pouring down the mountainside started to glow red in the
dark before they plunged into the ocean.
For hours we watched waves crash over the still-golden molten lava
producing loud roars of steam. When we
had to hike back again, it was dark,
and we had to follow the lighted flares set at intervals along the route. We descended into hollows out of sight of the
flares and had to trust that keeping going would get us to where we could see
the next flare.
Before we reached the highway, Hamilton was dragging so
lethargically that I was perplexed because it was so unlike him. I dug out sports drink from my backpack for
him to drink. It had a magical effect,
energizing him enough to finish the hike.
My parents joined us in the town of Hilo on the Big
Island’s east and rainy side. For a
first supper, we took them to the
take-out barbecue where Hamilton and I had previously enjoyed delicious fried
fish and shrimp. My father ordered the
beef but found it overcooked, reminding me how subjective our enjoyment of food
and how hunger had no doubt fueled our appetites the previous evening.
We drove up to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park to show
them the Kilauea Caldera, the giant crater we had already explored, where you can feel
the heat of steam billowing from cracks in the earth. We drove through lush tropical jungle of
passion fruit, mango and guava trees, saw the Rainbow Falls, and the Akaka
Falls plunging 442 feet down a fern-clad cliff.
We four then flew to Maui for some time with others of my family.
2008 Kauai
and Maui-- Hawaii in February After a seemingly endless 9-hour flight over North America and half
the Pacific, in February 2008, Hamilton and I landed briefly in Maui, stayed
overnight in a young-travelers' hostel in downtown Kahului (rough and spartan
especially compared to the condos my brother David owned and made available to
the family. Next morning, we flew to the
“garden isle” of Kauai. In 2007 we had
gone to the wet side of the big island of Hawaii and, except for one big storm
as we hiked across the crater of Kilauea, the supposed rainy season was wimpish
enough that we expected the same in Kauai.
To save on accommodations, we chose a state campground on Kauai's North
Shore where we could stay for $3 per person per night. No extra charge for the
showers, which were outdoor, some within a wooden enclosure, others nightly
downpours from the sky -- causing us to eat several dinners in our rented
vehicle and several under the roof of the picnic shelter.
One day we drove west along the
rugged north coast and hiked on the world-famous Na Pali trail at the top of
the cliffs overlooking winter surf crashing below. Our boots and pant legs were quickly coated
with mud and we struggled to avoid slipping on the liquid path and greased tree
roots. Hamilton got laughs from
returning hikers by greeting them with “I hear there's no more mud up
ahead.”
Another day we crossed a
bridged river to rent kayaks and were told “No more kayak rental today, the
river is rising, and the bridge may wash out.” We hastily returned across the bridge to
avoid being separated from our tent and gear for who-knows-how-many-days.
To escape the regular
downpours, we drove south to the sunny side of the island where we walked on
wide sand beaches with gentle swells of ocean.
On Super Bowl Sunday we stopped at a Japanese deli and came away with a
wonderful seaweed salad, a spicy raw fish dish and other delicacies. These we took up the highway that climbed
from the south shore into Waimea Canyon (“Grand Canyon of the Pacific”) where
beautiful, striated copper-colored rocks contrasted with the lush green foliage
and the plunging rain-fed waterfalls.
Among the other campers were
locals displaced by the high price of housing, many of whom had an array of
electrical appliances hooked up to the restrooms' electricity. We met a woman who ran a plant nursery and
had her tent surrounded by buckets of plants.
Somewhat of a community organizer, she asked us to give a ride to a
couple with an imminent court appointment and a dead car. That we were seeing a Hawaii different from
the tourist’s paradise was emphasized one morning as we were eating breakfast
and were approached by a social worker wondering if we needed any help!
Campers may stay 6 nights and
then have to move on as each state campsite closes for one day a week. After our 6 nights camping in rain, we drove
to the airport to meet my parents. The
four of us stayed in a vacation rental house, taking drives to Waimea Canyon,
the rainforest, a Hindu monastery set in a tropical Garden of Eden, and the
north shore (where we had lunch in a picnic shelter that was quiet until the
invasion of an excited class of elementary students about to go snorkeling to
count types of fish).
2009 I had phoned David and, thanking him for the
invitation to join him in Maui again in 2009, I asked if Hamilton and I could
invite another couple with whom we would share a condo and play with during the
day. David agreed providing it does not
interfere with the “primary purpose” which is of course, “the family getting
together.” Our friends from the
English Country dancing community, Don and Diane Bell, flew with us to Oahu in February, which we explored for
a few days with my parents, before the six of us went on to Maui.
In Honolulu’s Bishop Museum, we saw human hair wigs, a room-sized
model volcano, and walk-through cave of Hawaiian mythology. Overlooking Honolulu, we had a splendid view
of the city and Diamond Head. We drove
Oahu's mountain pass that cost a million dollars per mile to build, saw
mountains looking like those in Chinese paintings and visited a Japanese-style
temple with huge goldfish in the pools.
Driving up high
overlooking Honolulu, we had a splendid view down the city and to Diamond Head,
then lunch at a shaded table in the state park, watching and admiring the
well-muscled Asian Hawaiian who had run up the mountain and was stretching, his
body glistening with sweat, doing push-ups with his feet up the wall.
We drove west to the end of the
north shore road where, at a beach on Oahu's remote
northwest, we found a pick-up-sticks of concrete curbs bundled by a
storm, markers where new erosion control plants had been planted. Local macho guys drove pickup trucks back and
forth on the dirt road until one truck, the biggest, got stuck. Waves crashed on
rough lava; two tiny fish swam in a tidal pool awaiting the returning tide;
Hamilton saw crabs scurrying; Diane found an abandoned lei (she and I made up
fantastic stories of how it came to be left on the beach). We walked in the balmy cool evening, under a
boat-shaped crescent moon and, below the moon, Venus brilliant in
the night sky, with Orion and stars. Returning to our abode
around 10:30pm, I felt amazed how Hawaii energizes me so that I get up early,
stay up late with an enthusiastic spark for living.
We 6 flew to Maui to
get together with my brother David, sister Ruth and brother-in-law Roger. Every different combination of family members
creates a different dynamic and I found Don and Diane were a positive
contribution to that year's dynamics.
Don, who has wide-ranging interests, had numerous long conversations
with my father, even disagreeing with Dad at times, without either of them
becoming too hot under the collar. Diane got along very well with everyone
too. I especially treasure the memory of
the evening when I was so tired that I just sat listening and observing while
Diane, who makes jewelry, admired my sister Ruth's collection of shells and the
two of them arranged the shells in various configurations.
Early morning outside our condo, I would take my coffee and laptop
outside and watch as the darkness would fade into
pastel dawn, pink color staining the watercolor sky over the volcano. Don would come out onto the lanai and find a
big snail oozing his way across the grass to the shrub bed, neck and antennae
extended. A definite clicking alerting us to the
presence of two small geckos high on the wall, we watched them approach and
dance away from each other. A mynah bird
groomed itself and walked across the lush lawn.
Walking along the beach, we noticed local kids jumping
around and barking like seals. A monk
seal was swimming right offshore, its small, inquisitive head rising, perhaps
looking for where to come ashore to molt.
We watched
traditional Hawaiian outriggers head out for training practice. They would stop in a group, to watch one or
more humpback whales, waving and slapping their huge sail-like flukes.
Hamilton and I swam the night of our arrival in Maui – cool,
refreshing, velvet night, sandy bottom under our feet. After a day when I walked
south down the beach to Captain Vancouver's totem poles, I needed the gin and
tonic and the hot tub to relax my aching legs before the evening family
get-together for dinner. Often, I would
walk the shore to the Sugar Beach condominiums where David owns several and
swim back to Maalaea, using a variety of strokes, sometimes body surfed into
shore. At least a few times I swam late
in the day, watching the sun low in the west, sunset colors streaking the
western sky, pink clouds reflecting sunset colors even in the eastern sky over
inland palm trees and the peak of Haleakala.
Hamilton and I snorkeled out along Black Rock's
underwater wall and around the point to the deep-water drop-off -- none of the turtles we hoped to see, but
Yellow Tangs, slender Needlefish floating close to the surface, iridescent
Parrot fish scraping the coral with their beaks, Chevron fish with their
distinctive yellow arrows, black sea urchins in the holes of the coral, red
fingered sea anemones. (Snorkeling
at Ahihi, I had seen those plus the spotted box fish.)
Don and Diane were good
"playmates," going out on daytime expeditions with Hamilton and me to
explore Maui. http://picasaweb.google.com/chertop/Hawaii2009WithDonAndDianeBell#
One day we drove to
the town of Paia with its funky stores, new age attire, and dreadnought
hairstyles. My father went with the four of us when we drove to the summit of Haleakala,
the volcano whose crater is a lunar landscape of painterly hues of rust, black
and sand-beige, with a hiking trail like a slender thread curling down amongst
the cylindrical cones. Every visit to the summit of
Haleakala, I feel awed by the crater -- the lunar landscape of painterly hues
of rust, black and sand-beige, the cylindrical cones, and snaking hiking trail,
the white clouds piled at ground level in the passes and on the peaks. This place a “thin” barrier between the
mundane and the sacred.
We had rented bikes and
taken them up the mountain. At the
summit (10,000 feet altitude), Don and I suited up with the bright yellow rain suits
provided and mounted our rented bikes. The physical activity, surprisingly cool wind, mountain
whizzing under our wheels, views falling away – all exhilarating as we rode the downward pull of gravity. At halfway, we
changed roles, and Hamilton cruised downhill with Diane down through the clouds and into the eucalyptus
forest. She seemed small and vulnerable in the huge
helmet and rode more slowly than how Don and I sped but managed the bike well. After she gave her bike back
to me, Hamilton and I again rode
downhill until 5:30pm, almost to Makawao where we loaded the bikes and drove
for home, green fields luscious in the late afternoon sun, a dark cloud of
smoke where sugar cane was being burned, rows of pineapple in geometrical perfection.
Another day we drove the Hana Highway, a drive of many
turns, bridges, waterfalls, green bamboo forest, and cliffs falling away to
ocean surf. Walking the Kenae Botanical
Garden's path, we saw lush big red and pink hanging blossoms amongst the painted
trunks of eucalyptus. I lagged
behind the others, photographing the Impatience flowers, a double-legged
spider, a green bug, and a dangling green caterpillar. The road passed cliffs, falling away to ocean
surf, went on to the Keanae Peninsula, where orange flowers decked the
trees. Near Hana we stopped at big
roadside waterfalls. At one, climbing down to the lowest pool, where river
water meets the ocean, we watched the two opposing currents, coming from opposite
directions, clash and push each other.
I had quietly suggested that we continue on around the south shore, and thankfully Don and Hamilton reached that decision. Instead of repeating the twists and curves of
retracing our drive, we savored the rougher road and spectacular cliffs and
stark, arid mountains of Maui's less
frequented side.
Tantalizing bits of pavement, then suddenly two-lane yellow-striped
highway 31 brought us back to tourist Maui, past the Ulupalakua winery, Sun
Yat-sen garden, Kula's floral gardens and back to Kihei, where David had
barbecued Opa fish, and Fusun made a green salad,
fresh pineapple for dessert.
Hula, Polynesian and
even Maori dances.
My sister Mary had the idea of our meeting at some location (but not
either of our home towns) for some sisterly time together and adventures. One idea she had was the “Burning Man”
festival in which a whole community grows instantly and lasts for a week
improvising art projects in the desert Southwest during the summer. Thinking about transportation there and
obtaining the necessary equipment and food to survive a week in the heat-- led us to abandon that idea. But in May 2009 Mary suggested getting
together in Las Vegas, where she has been before and knows she likes. Our other sister Ruth figured she had too
much going on at work, but Mary and I met in the Las Vegas airport and had
almost a week of adventures and talk and fun together.
The night we arrived, it must have been 3am by the time we had our
rental car and found our way to the Golden Nugget hotel where we were staying. But next morning, we had the luxury of coffee
in our room, since Mary had brought her small coffee maker, and we talked for
so long that, by the time we went out, we had to order lunch, as breakfast was
over.
The first day we were there, we walked to a Hawaiian festival taking
place in a parking lot. Invited to spin the wheel, our first taste of Las Vegas
gambling, Mary won cards and a key ring, I won a 2x extra-large t-shirt which,
hardly a fashionable garment, was at least protection from the sun. The parking lot was like a hot griddle, where
hula dancers danced on a bare floor with ice cubes scattered on it so they
wouldn't burn their feet.
Getting back to our hotel, Mary made iced coffee and we went to the
pool where we relaxed on lounge chairs, before climbing up the two flights of
stairs to try the 3-storey waterslide,
Like Hamilton and NancyJean and me, Mary likes adventures. The waterslide zooms you through the big
aquarium/shark tank was a big part of the reason I suggested that hotel. The thrill starts with sloshing your feet in
the turbulent water when you are about to push yourself off into the twisting
yellow tube. Then you see the yellow
tube become blue as you zip through the aquarium. You glimpse fish and sharks through the transparent
tub as you hurtle down and sploosh into the pool. To warm up, we sat in the open-air hot tub,
talking. In the pool, we swam by the
fish and sharks in the tank and I ducked under the waterfall to massage my
back. Mary made photos of the inside of
the slide. I rode the slide so many
times, until sitting in the hot tub, I felt a small hole in the back of my swimsuit--guess it couldn't
take the abrasion. While we lounged on
the deck, Mary taught me blackjack.
Mary is great at starting conversations with anyone, a boy in the
pool looking at the sharks, the Louisiana man having bean soup at the diner
counter in the casino. She makes a point
of finding out the names of our servers and calling them by name.
Going down to The Strip, we walked through Caesar's
Palace (where we sat by the Trevi fountain going through our guidebooks), Steve
Wynn's extravagant Bellagio Hotel, Planet Hollywood, and Paris Las Vegas. For
$20 each we had a 3-hour luncheon in the Bellagio Buffet. I hadn't seen Mary since February of 2008 so
we needed a number of long lunches to catch up!
Our mother loves shoes so perhaps in her honor we explored the upscale Shooz
store with its glitzy, jewel-studded shoes and handbags.
Those were more affordable than the $125 t-shirts, $90 flip-flops,
and $40 programs for sale at the Cher concert where what fascinated me was
Cher's super-extravagant costumes – she changed from one dazzling masterpiece
to another about 12 times during the show.
She definitely has adopted Liberace's flamboyance of attire.
After the show, we were amongst the women ogling the cases displaying
other costumes of hers. Mary and I both
admitted she inspired us to bring “our candles out from under the bushel,” to wear and even flaunt clothes that express our
personalities. We did not want to look
like the stout and dowdy women who we saw posing for photos with the poster of
Cher in her glory.
Because I wanted to explore the desert, one morning we drove north
and east to the Valley of Fire State Park.
The desert was high-key and white in color, with evenly spaced creosote
plants. Turning off the interstate, we
drove east until hills replaced the barren flatness, and we saw red sandstone
voodoos and the white domes of Elephant Rock.
We hiked in to see a bath-tub sized pool, called Mouse Tank. On the way,
we passed petroglyphs depicting man, sun, rain, and a weird bat woman. We saw sand-scoured curved potholes and
tunnels and caves. Small birds sat
panting with their beaks open because it was so hot. Red-headed black beetles were mating with
back ends joined, one dragging the other across the path. We saw a snake, small and sinuous, a
multitude of small, long-tailed lizards doing pushups to cool themselves, and
an orange bee. The closer we looked the
more flowers we saw, including gorgeous magenta cactus blossoms, and others –
yellow, mauve, and white evening primrose.
On the hour's ride back through the desert, Mary told me how worried
our mother used to be, before I was married, about whether I would get back
into the United States after visiting them in Canada. She also asked me whether things are
different between Hamilton and me now that we are married – probably not a
conversation we would have had by email or even by phone. We talked about none of us kids getting
exclusive time with our dad and how we yearn for that when we see fathers
delighting in their daughters. Now, as
an adult, I share some photographic interests with Dad. Mary, who lives in Calgary, while our parents
are in Edmonton, had time one-on-one recently helping Dad with his computer
programs.
Exploring the desert was something I very much wanted to do, so it
was marvelous that Mary told me later it was one of the best experiences of the
week for her.
We returned to Vegas and, at night outside the hotel/casino Treasure
Island on The Strip, we watched the pirates fight the scantily-clad Sirens (who
had captured one of their men). After
the pirates fired cannons at the top of the women's ship (which they mocked as
being the women's “huge clothes closet”), huge orange fireballs went up,
blowing heat as far as where we stood across the lagoon. Eventually the Sirens sank the Pirates' ship
(which actually went down under the water), and the women lured the Pirates to
the Sirens' ship.
At the Bellagio hotel/casino, we watched the fountains dance to music
at night, first passionate opera, the next time Sinatra singing “Luck be a
Lady.” We both grooved on the Bellagio's
opulent luxury, Italian style, which makes all us ordinary middle-class
visitors feel rich and as if we own it.
Of course, the real luxury was my having time with my sister.
July Lake Lila with Reed and Deb, a lake in the Adirondacks
only recently opened. We two couples
drove to the lake and paddled our canoes, loaded with camping supplies to a
campsite accessible only by water.
Climbed a nearby mountain for a view over the lake.
2010 Japan with Mary My sister Mary planned to visit her
daughter in South Korea where Jennifer was posted with her fiancé Dennis, she
asked if I might be tempted to a mid-Pacific sisters’ get-together in
Hawaii. I replied that I was more
interested in going back to Asia. I did
the planning for our trip, buying rail passes and reserving a room in a hotel
close to Narita, the international airporty where we would arrive for several
weeks in Japan before going to Korea.
I arrived before Mary, rode the train from the airport to our hotel
and then walked out onto the street, amused at myself for delighting that everything
was Japanese, the signs, the posters and flyers, the people. After strolling through the streets, I came
to a temple where I climbed the steps to the highest point, where I suddenly
felt nauseous, no doubt from jet lag.
Walking back, I bought a large beer and disposable cups of ramen soup
since I didn’t know what we might want to do for supper.
A tap at the door – IO opened it and there stood my sisters: our plans made across thousands of miles,
from the United States gto Canada to Japan – had worked! We each snuggled into the fluffy white
dressing gowns that were provided and shared the beer, talking and catching up
with each other, then content even happy with the ramen soup to which we only
had to add hot water .
Next morning we rode the train into Toyko to the national airport
from where we took a plane to Fukuoka, a city on the northern side of the
southern island of Kyushu, which I had chosen for its proximity to Korea. We stayed in a youth hostel where we had our
own room, a set of bunk beds. The
helpful staff mentioned a coffee shop and bakery down the street, which became
our introduction to each day. I loved
that the short walk took us to where I could get tiny, free cups of coffee so
delicious that I did not add cream or sugar but just sipped the dark brew as I
walked around perusing the array of savory and sweet pastries and deciding
which I would choose for breakfast once Mary would join me.
Choosing a city less frequented by foreign tourists may have led to a
marvelous day with a retired Japanese professor. Mary and I visited a Fukuoka temple and were
wondering about something we saw when an older man offered an answer. After teaching us how we could offer a prayer
in the proper Japanese way, he offered to show us a city park. Like Central Park in New York City, it was an
expansive area of green with large ponds with curved bridges arching over and
with people boating.
After each time of showing us one aspect of the city, he offered
another. As evening approached, he
phoned his wife to arrange that he would be late arriving home because he was
taking Mary and me for supper. He led us
to a exclusive and subtly elegant dining below ground where he ordered one
delicious appetizer dish after another.
At the end of the evening, we both thanked him ethusively for the
special day he had given us. But, when I
tried to contact him to thank him again after we returned to the US, I could
not reach him. He had offered us ech
experience with him, apparently seen how we reacted and decided to offer us the
next but held that day as complete, no future ripples of contact.
Mary and I made a day trip to Nagasaki to see the sombering museum
and memorials to the devastation wreaked by the dropping of the atomic bomb
that ended the Pacific War in 1945. One
image that remains with me is of two young girls in festive dress lying dead
but with no mark on their bodies.
We also made a day trip to Beppu to experience the hot springs in a
large complex where both men and women had separate series of interlocking
pools or hot spring water and of mud baths.
Waiting for the hot spring complex to open for the day, we sat outside
eating lunch and amusing ourselves by making photos of ourselves with the
clouds of gushing steam in the background appearing to emerge from our ears and
nostrils. The only other bather we
noticed was a young man on the opposite side of a partition separating men and
women’s sides. Mary and I scooped up the
slippery mud from the bottom of a pool and plastered our faces, built walls and
constructions of mud on the edge of the pool.
For me the repercussions were itchy red blotches on my skin for the next
days.
Taking the hovercraft across to Ulsan, we stayed with Jennifer and
Dennis who had arranged a weekend in Seoul for us all and Dennis’ mother
Miriam. The classy hotel in central
Seoul offered complimentary drinks in their penthouse lounge to guests so,
after a day of exploring the city, we all met in the lounge for cocktails. Tired and with aching legs, I lacked
enthusiasm for Jan and Dennis’ plan to go to a Japanese restaurant for dinner,
especially as the lounge provided a buffet of food to go with our drinks. Instead of acquiescing, I chose to assert
that I would stay in our hotel and the lounge.
Mary decided the same and we had a marvelous evening with the lounge to
ourselves, a myriad of tasty morsels, even including a warm egg custard
pudding, and the gleeful agreemenbt between ourselves that we were enjoying all
this free with our room.
The five of us went on an organized bus tour to the DMZ border with
North Korea, viewing the fortified frontier and walking the underground tunnel
to its abrupt stony end. In one big
display hall, a map featured the proposed railway from North Korea across Asia
to Europe and highlighted that Pyongyang was only 56 km from the DMZ border in
contrast to Seoul’s 205. Outside on
fences, prayers decorated colorful ribbons that wound in and out of the fence
wires. I concluded that the DMZ had
become such a tourist attraction that it had little chance of being dismantled
but also little chance of any violent conflict yet, within a few months, there
were violent clashes between North and South Korea.
The afternoon when Jen, Dennis and Miriam chose to return to the
hotel and then go shopping, Mary and I went exploring Seoul. We found a street devolted to selling lamps
of all kinds, then a festival of colorful kites along a canal. Late afternoon, when we reached a subway
planning to take a train to where we had all agreed to meet for dinner, we
found we were at the very station closest to the restaurant. We time to kill and with my legs aching from
walking on so much pavement, we chose to sit down on the concrete floor and
wait in a relatively inconspicuous place.
We watched people stream through the station until suddenly a Korean man
apprfoached us and offered a carton of milk and package of sticky buns. Although we had no language in common, we
concluded that he thought we were in need.
The only gracious action was for us to eat and drink despite our being
about to go to a high-end restaurant.
The man had left before Jen, Dennis and Miriam arrived but, as Mary and
I exultantly started to relate our adventure, it became obvious that our companions
did not share our excitement but were scornful, perhaps embarrassed by our
siting on the subway station floor and accepting a handout of such pedestrian
subway station food. But my memories of
that are more vivid than of the classy dinner.
Our final morning in Seoul, we four women went to a spa where we
placed our bare feet in tubs where tiny fish nibbled the skin from our
toes. At first the tickling was almost
unendurably intense and only with an effort could I keep my feet in the water. Then the tickling subsided to a level where
we could talk and laugh and consume the tea and coffee which was startling
expensive, whereas the spa treatment was free.
Since Miriam had generously paid for the previous night’s dinner, I had
decided and quickly picked up the tab for the drinks.
While the others flew back to Ulsan, Mary and I took a bus to the
nearby city of . Next morning, Mary
stayed in our room studying Korena while I walked out to see and photograph the
city walls and gates, dramatic in the sun.
We heded for the bus station in the center of the city to take a bus to
a Korean village set up for tourists.
Mary wanted to stop at a Starbucks for coffee and I agreed despite
realizing we had no extra time if we wanted the 10:30 bus. Even walking quickly, we were on the far side
of a busy plaza at 10:30 and could see the buses loading. I scurried across, dodging traffic with my
New York City training and got the bus driver to wait for Mary. Later, I realized that not only could I have
been hit by cars, but my sister might have followed me and been killed, all
because I would not slow down and accept waiting for the 11:30 bus. At the
village we entered a retreat into long ago Korean life, crafts, dancing,
acrobatics and tight-rope walking, even a traditional wedding. We stood in an
audience of beautiful Korean kindergarten children on a day’s outing.
Because of an Asian Valentine-Day celebration in November, shops
displayed artistic displays of sweets and fruits to be given to loved
ones. We visited a ginseng shop, with
sensuous roots of the herb suspended in yellow, orange and red liquid in
bottles with sunlight shining through.
On a group tour, the guide asked whether one particular root was male or
female; its shape indicated male but the answer to that trick question was that
the root was neither male nor female.
Mary and I treated ourselves to a special Korean dinner of
bulgogi. We thought we had indicated to
the restaurant staff that we would have one order, about $38, for the two of
us. Dishes kept arriving, the attentive
staff solicitous, Mary and I going from gormet to gourmand with the
over-abundance of delicious food.
Finally, when the bill came and we realized they had given us twice what
we intended. A glance of frecognition
between us that we would eat the misunderstanding and remembner the feast, even
if the Korean staff remained awed by our appetites.
Daegu had a market in a multi-storey warren of little shops where we
tried on the flamboyant dress boots hoping to find some that fit. Shops of clothing filled the stairways and
heading up, I noticed a top with gold beads sparkling on knit fabric of green,
black, rust and gold – my colors. The
seller said “$10 and no discount,” despite the market being typical of places
for bargaining. Without challenging her
decision, I paid the $10 and have worn and received compliments on it ever
since.
Walking back to our Lausanne hotel, we stopped for supper in a
department store that had inexpensive but tasty meals in the cafeteria attached
to the supermarket floor. For dessert we
headed to the supermarket’s ice cream aisle to choose between green tea ice
cream or gooey-goo (caramel-chocolate) ice cream. While we had booked our hotel room for
several nights, the red and garish posters invited short terms rentals and at
night the hotel transformed itself to look bawdy.
After some introspection, Mary decided to return to Ulsan a day early
to spend time with Jennifer. I found the
night alone much more solitary than many nights traveling alone in the past and
had to reassure myself. With no one but
myself to think of, I took a tour the next day to visit a traditional Korean
farm where again I found myself amongst a class of kindergarten children on a
day trip. The children and I tried on
the traditional farmer’s “backpack” a wooden frame for carrying.
Another stop on the tour was a sacred pilgrimage up a mountain to the
site at the top. With the heat from
climbing, I soon stripped down to a sleeveless top, earning amused admiration
from much smaller Korean women climbing upwards in much heavier clothing. The
summit was made holy by their fervent prayers and the exertion we all made to
achieve the top.
Returning to Japan, its colorful building, signs and posters, we
traveled by train to Kyoto and Nara.
With November in North America, a drab sequel to autumn, we had not
expected the brilliant autumn foliage that enhanced the temples of Kyoto and
the deer park in Nara… nor the hostel being so much in demand.
On our way back to Tokyo, we stopped in Ise and stayed in a traditional
Japanese ryokan, with futons on tatami mats for sleeping, a Japanese bath,
restless and beautiful surroundings.
Arriving in Tokyo by train, we headed for the more urban ryokan where
Kyle met us and took us to the chic shopping street where young people in their
urban finery strolled on this Sunday afternoon.
Hungry from no lunch, I bought a bean paste bun from a shop. Kyle took us back to his apartment where he
and Yoshiko served us a delicious dinner of chicken with unusual spices and we
sat talking, Yoshiko revealing that she would have liked to become a radio
announcer, had not her parents needed her as an eye doctor in their clinic.
Mary left for Canada November 22, but I stayed until November 25,
planning to arrive in Newark just in time to celebrate Thanksgiving with
Adrienne and family. I went to the
Imperial Palace on the site from where the Tokugawa Shogunate ruled Japan,
their castle once the largest castle in the world, now merely ruins of moat and
walls, while the palace, being the home of the Emperor, is closed to the
public. I wandered the outskirts and
gardens where middle-aged women were collecting huge chrysanthemum flowers
after an exhibition. An official offered
me a blossom which I carried for most of the rest of the day as its petals
gradually fell off. In the Edo-Tokyo
Museum I saw a replica of the Nihonbashi bridge, and other re-creations of
Edo-period and Meiji-period Tokyo… a
wooden sewage pipe, scale models of with meticulous details.
The much smaller Shitomachi Museum recreates life in Edo’s plebeian
downtown quarter of old Tokyo where I experienced glimpses of the life of the
city before it became Tokyo: exhibits included a sweet shop, a tenement house
and the home and business of a copper boilermaker. You can learn to play traditional games and
try on period clothes. A staff woman
apparently was so impressed with my courtesy or perhaps my attempts to speak
Japanese, that she presented me with a small gift.
Chuo-dori closed to vehicles
One evening, walking around the Ikebukuro neighborhood of my ryokan,
I approached a young woman with a shoulder length copper-colored hair and was
startled to find she was a young man, friendly and helpful. On a busy street, I found a multi-story store
devoted to animate and manga; I cased the joint skimming through every floor
but not buying anything. In another part
of Tokyo, I found a used kimono shop, but found the gorgeous garments well
beyond my price range, even though they were “pre-owned.” Eventually I bought a black yukata with
yellow and orange patterning, probably a man’s as it would require hemming
before I could wear it. When my nephew
Ross and his wife Trista visited in 2019 and mentioned their experience of
wearing yukata, I gave Ross that one and Trista a white one with blue and red
flowers; they declared they would enjoy some Japanese evenings wearing them.
Waking around 4am one morning, I figured how to let myself out of the
ryokan and traveled by subway to the famous fish market, Tsukiji, only to be
disappointed finding it closed. Getting
hungry, I bought a steaming hot but strange porridge which warmed me. Even closed, the fish market had activity,
huge tuna being hacked into pieces, drivers on motorized carts scooting up the
aisles. When I’d had enough, I walked
the neighborhood streets and went into a sushi shop that was only a small café
but one look at the menu showed me intimidating prices. I chose one of the least expensive plates,
but it was the most delicious sushi I have ever tasted. Having a tooth crack while in Japan, I had
such pain with cold or hot food that sushi had become my preferred meal. Often Mary and I bought beer and bento (boxed
lunch) to enjoy as we traveled by train.
The final day of my Japan rail pass’s validity, I used the pass to
travel to Kamakura on a day trip to see again the Daibutsu, the huge and famous
statue of Buddha in its temple that I had first seen in 1971. Walking from the train station, I encountered
smaller temples and shrines that I had not visited in 1970-71 so I stopped to
see them. On the steps leading up to one
of these small temples, I found lovely small purple flowers growing from the
cracks in the stone. I was so involved in
making portraits of these delicate flowers that I lost track of time; hearing
that the Daibutsu’s temple would close before I could visit, I felt
disappointment, but an old woman told me, “You can visit tomorrow.” Tomorrow was an impossible ocean away I knew
because I was to fly home the next day.
I spent my last evening in Tokyo in my small tatami-mat room,
removing all packaging from the small treasures I had bought, most at the
“discount” stores Mary and I had visited:
a set of tiny magnifying lens, sleeves for Hamilton that would protect
his arms from the sun, a cool set of earmuffs.
Amazingly, I managed to stuff everything into my luggage.
Next day, my main tasks were to decide how much money to change from
US dollar travel cheques into Japanese yen and then to get myself to the
airport for the late afternoon flight. Mary
had used her rail pass to get to the airport using the express train but mine
had expired and I decided to use the less expensive regular trains following
the directions to the airport from my Lonely Planet guide book. Leaving the ryokan with a big margin of time,
I took satisfaction in my economical solution until my train stopped in a
station and did not proceed. The car I
was in held no other passengers, and, as time went on, I tried to stay calm as
I considered my options. I did not have
enough money to take a taxi to the airport; there were no other trains at that
location; so, I stayed in the train, putting myself into the travel-uncertainty
mode of calm endurance… since panic would achieve nothing.
When the train finally moved again, it brought me to the airport,
where I ran lugging my suitcase, reaching the check-in counter out of
breath. The two airline employees
rebuked me for lateness, but I made no
excuses, just said, in Japanese, that I was sorry and that I had tried to be on
time. They quickly processed my ticket
and urged me to hurry to the gate.
Again, I ran. At the gate, I
joined a crowd and we all waited some time before boarding began. Despite the irony of delays at the gate, I
was so grateful not to have been too late to board that I again relaxed into
calm endurance.
I had counted on the flight, with the change of time zone, getting me
to Adrienne’ s house in time for Thanksgiving dinner, but it was evening by the
time I arrived and dinner long finished.
A small supper of Thanksgiving leftovers and excited arrival talk with
Hamilton and Adrienne before I went to bed, no regrets about my extra time in
Japan but grateful relief at my close call nearly missing my plane giving me
another dose of the excitement and highs of travel.
2012
In July we flew to Seattle
and later visited Hamilton’s daughter Stacia and my brother David and family in
the San Francisco Bay area. Exploring Washington State’s Olympic
Peninsula with my sister Mary, we were treated to the sight of whales, probably
Orcas, playing in the evening waves.
Heading to the Elwha valley for a hike and hot springs, we found the
road closed as the federal government was in the process of removing dams and
restoring salmon habitat. From an overlook, we saw the huge earthmoving restoration project in progress, then
went to a commercial hot spring. We drove to Point Flattery, the most
western point in the continental lower 48 states, visiting the Makah Indian
museum and a restaurant run by the tribe where we had excellent fish for
lunch.
Leaving the sea, we drove south
and inland, passing through the town of Forks which exploits its
connection with The Twilight Saga by advertising spooky motel rooms
decorated in black and red. Our Bed and Breakfast was a working ranch 12
miles further south, run by 80-year-old Mary, with the help of various
offspring and Hispanic workers. In the morning, we walked out to find
"Hair Sheep" (ironically named since they have short wool that
doesn't need shearing). These were so
bold that they approached and tried to eat our trousers and shoes. Other
sheep with horns and a hill of wool that made them look like oversize mops with
skinny legs, were shy and stayed at a distance. A mother lama and her
newborn were surrounded by a bevy of "aunties" eager to nuzzle the
young one. Beef cattle grazed by the meandering river. On the porch
the "house lamb" (fed by hand after its mother rejected it) bleated
for our attention and nestled contently in our arms while indoors Mary's
daughter packaged heaps of meat.
Not far away is the lush and ethereal Hoh Rain Forest, a World
Heritage Site, where the giant conifers are hung with moss, and a
plethora of mosses, ferns and other plants cover every space on the forest
floor. We ate our lunch beside the milky-hued glacial Hoh
River. Some of the immense conifers are
swept downriver and become white-bleached skeletons on Pacific Ocean beaches
like Ruby and Rialto where we walked on the huge logs, feeling dwarfed, and
delighted in seeing sea otters in the surf.
Our 5 days in Iceland in June 2018 was a fascinating stop en route to visit our friend Birgit, whom we had met in Guatemala
in 1994. In Pingvellir National
Park, we saw a mighty gash in the earth, the rift which divides the North
American and Eurasian tectonic plates and the site of the first Icelandic
Parliament, where representatives gathered and conducted government outdoors,
sitting on the rocks, which was amazing to us because, with the chilly rain, we
needed wool hats, gloves, and wet weather gear to keep warm even moving
around.
Almost everything is expensive in Iceland: a local bistro menu listed
$38 for a reindeer burger, and $65 for a main dish; another restaurant had a
$97 entrée. Once we left the capital Reykjavik, our rented camper was the most
economical means of housing, transportation and some meals, but we discovered
just how small our camper was – our suitcase had to go outside before we could
open it …or pull the narrow, cushioned ledge out to make our bed.
Savoring the warmth of Iceland’s huge number of geothermal pools, we
walked around steaming hot pots and mud pots where seething bubbles rise to
convex domes and then explode as geysers.
Colored algae grow at the pool edges; buttercups and purple lupins
blossom in the meadows and up the mountain, making a
beautiful tapestry.
Gullfoss is the most spectacular waterfall either of us have ever
seen – multiple layers of gigantic, cascading torrents, all with enormous
power. The nearby huge tourist shop sold
expensive Icelandic wool scarves, sweaters and mittens but also candles
embedded in lava and, for the kids, t-shirts with Thor’s image (for boys) and
Freya’s (for girls) as well as Viking helmets with horns (we learned that the
real Viking helmets did not sport horns; that is a Disney addition).
After hearing a Canadian woman in Calgary rave about Icelandic
horses, I had a special afternoon when we drove to a horse farm for me to ride
an Icelandic horse.
The sunlit green fields, the red roofs of farm buildings, the sharply-rising nearby mountain, the brisk breeze… all made an intense
experience astride the broad back of the ginger-colored horse. Icelandic horses are shorter and stockier
than North American horses with luxurious manes and tails and a distinctive
smooth gait (between a trot and gallop).
Inland we drove through the raw land of Reykjanesfolkvangur National
Park, a reserve to protect the elaborate lava formations created by the
volcanoes. Kleifarvatn, a vast and deep
mineral lake we drove past has submerged hot springs and black sand
beaches. From a distance, we saw steam rising
from Seltun geothermal zone. We stopped
to walk the boardwalk’s circuit loop around bubbly grey mud pots and hot pools
with amazing colors.
In Copenhagen, Denmark, bus tours with audio commentary
via headphones showed us the city’s creative energy and inspiring
environmentally-beneficial designs. We
saw former freight containers from shipping which are now being transformed
into housing for students and kiosks for street food. Torrents of bikes streamed by on the streets,
so we quickly learned, when we step off the curb to get on a bus, to look out
for bikes passing at high speed between us and the bus. Fashionably dressed women were often wearing
heels as they bicycled.
We enjoyed a
boat tour through canals and the harbor, and the Tivoli gardens where Hamilton
found me two roller coasters to ride as well as licorice ice cream to savor
(very intense, as was the roller coaster). Both Danes and Icelanders have
a lot of different foods and candy containing licorice, a flavor I like well
enough that I bought a variety, including cough drops and chewing gum to take
home with me.
Taking a bus
from Copenhagen to Arhus in Jutland, we spent a heavenly week with Birgit and
her husband, a famous potter. Their
house is one they designed and built in the countryside, and that is
wonderfully full of antiques and his pottery.
Birgit and Jac
have some seven places around their home set up for dining outside – a few are
the porches, front and back, and the greenhouse where we relaxed as Birgit
served us tea and dessert right after our arrival. Every meal was delicious; some suppers were
the fish and huge shrimp that we bought at the harbor.
Hamilton and I
slept in their “old house” a short walk away.
Besides Jac’s studio and workshop, it houses a cornucopia of his
antiques and his pottery. Hamilton and I
each had our own slender single bed upstairs.
In the mornings, I made coffee for me and tea for Ham before we walked
up for breakfast with Birgit and Jac.
The unusual
stretch of warm, sunny summer weather was perfect for our touring, exploring,
and biking but was a harmful drought for Danes, especially farmers.
One day Birgit
drove us around the beautiful countryside.
We walked out on a long, sunbaked sand spit to a ruined castle and later
swam naked in the chilly North Sea. We
bicycled through forests and admired the traditional houses and cobblestone
streets of old towns.
On our drive we
stopped for a picnic lunch at the fisherman’s shack where we had had a feast of
seafood in 2003 with Birgit’s blond Danish friend and his Inuit wife from
Greenland.
Italy
for Thanksgiving November
2018 Hamilton’s granddaughter Sophie was in Rome studying architecture for
the fall semester, which was the impulse for her mother and aunt proposing that
the family have Thanksgiving in Italy. I
was surprised that Hamilton agreed so quickly and that I, who have a passion
for travel, was reluctant. I felt it was
too far to fly even for the long Thanksgiving weekend. Hamilton with my proposal that we go early,
and I researched and planned some time in southern Italy.
Flying to Italy
about 9 days early, Hamilton and I were on our own with lovely summer weather
in Sorrento, Capri, Pompeii, the Amalfi Coast, and Naples. On what we
were told was the last boat tour from Sorrento to Capri, we motored around the
island giving us great views of the craggy cliffs and the aquamarine watery
depths of the grottos. Another day, we took a bus part way up Vesuvius
and hiked to the summit where we could look down into the enormous crater,
which brought home to us the enormity of the eruption and how it devastated
Pompeii and Herculaneum. (We decided that was our Mt Everest, a
once-in-a-lifetime, cold and windy experience that we don't need to do
again.) In Naples, we had a luxurious
and classy bed and breakfast which was in a contrasting neighborhood – colorful
markets in the street, tiny shops, gelateria and bakery, Christmas lights being
strung over the street. In a clothing shop, I bought a jacket with tiger
stripes and a red handbag with long fringes.
When Hamilton and I went to the Catacombs, we not only glimpsed
something of Neapolitan history, but also learned that the restoration of the
Catacombs was a project of young Italians to benefit their neighborhood where
young people struggled to find employment and many people lived in poverty.
Meeting up with
Hamilton's family in Rome, we had fresh pasta and other Italian cuisine,
instead of turkey, plus multiple flavors of gelato for Thanksgiving. Our
favorite gelato flavors were walnut, intense with nuts from local trees, and a
fresh fruit elixir of blueberries enhanced with lemon and a touch of
basil. It was memorable having 16 of us get together in Europe,
even having a pre-arranged, private guide for touring the Vatican museums,
Roman Forum and Colosseum.
We flew back to
Newark and met up with my sister Mary who was in New York City visiting her
daughter, son-in-law and new granddaughter. Together we drove back to
Bennington. Hamilton dropped Mary and me off at our church to plunge into
Snowball Bazaar preparations even before we went to our house. Mary was
here once again, for the fourth year in a row, to help with Snowball bazaar
preparations and sale as well as for a visit with us. We three also got out cross-country skiing on
an amazing 30 inches of snow so unusual for this early in the winter.
In early 2020,
I was planning my trip to Alberta for the celebration of my father’s 100th
birthday in September. I’d bought, and
friends had lent us, books and maps for the trip to Costa Rica we planned for
November. Covid-19 canceled all travel
plans. To my surprise, I am not pining
for travel; perhaps, like Birgit, I now have a home, marriage, church family
and community where I belong, have a niche, no longer feel the need to escape,
and have the gifts of positive experiences with friends, neighbors and our
surroundings – garden, hiking and skiing trails, church, community projects –
that I at last am content to put down roots.
Visiting the Friend in Denmark First Met in Guatemala
Uncertainties of how and when,
plane, bus, Metro, car;
until, along the Danish coast,
she takes us out of travel,
to her home set in gardens,
lit by song of blackbirds
melodic in their joy;
living with a treasured mate,
his art, antiques,
she confesses
no longer any urge to travel,
jolting me:
travel was my antidote
to not belonging;
escape became adventure,
catnip,
enlivening all my senses;
she outgrew me
by growing roots
while I remained the windblown seed;
only now it dawns:
our house is home;
our garden thrives,
as I do planted in our town,
now resolving to retire
that restless drive to roam,
and travel deep
instead of wide.
The IDEA is hatched.
October 21 - Bennington VT,
United States.
When my niece Jennifer and her fiance accepted a posting to South Korea,
I was not surprised that my sister Mary made plans to go to visit her daughter.
When Mary, thinking of stopping somewhere warm en route to Korea, asked if I
was interested in a winter vacation in Hawaii, my answer was "sure, but
I'd really like to go all the way to Asia." We discovered that both of us
would most like to be away from home in November when the autumn colors are
gone and winter darkness, and sometimes blues, close in. Time and finances
ruled out a stop in Hawaii, but Lonely Planet guidebooks on Japan and Korea
presented adventures enough for dozens of months more than the one we
have.Being unable to read straight through a guidebook, I proceed by fits and
starts, looking at and combining LP suggested itineraries, surfing the internet
for discount flights within Japan, ways of crossing to Korea, ways of
evaluating whether the Japan Rail Pass is worthwhile for our itinerary, and
accommodation ranging from youth hostels to Japanese inns or ryokan. Making
each actual booking, I feel the anxiety of uncertainty whether it's the right
decision, even though I know travel is full of uncertainties, and there are
many different roads to travel and each might be "right" just in
different ways. I reward myself for decisions made by letting myself indulge in
the tangible pleasure of throwing clothing candidates for the trip on the guest
bed, along with camera, passport and travel paraphernalia. 9 days to departure
and I am starting to wake early with pre-trip excitement, revisions to my to-do
list, and another day of tasks and mental activity divided between Vermont and
northern Asia.
Pre-trip Preparations
October 22 - Bennington VT,
United States
The day at last and almost too soon. It seems no time since it was
weeks, then 9, 8, 7 days before my departure for Japan and Korea. My “to
do†list on the computer got printed out in revised versions, then I
festooned the paper version with additions and with cross-outs as the tasks got
done. Perhaps the annoying and persistent anxiety I felt in the last week came
from the many tasks large and small that I felt compelled to complete, not only
for this voyage but for our church's Snowball Bazaar publicity and for the book
of my poems which I was trying to compile and get to my brother Glenn (who
offered to help me put together a book) as well as to my reader/editor/friends
Chris and Gail. Uncertainty about how much time was needed for these tasks as
well as whatever further items I would add to my “To Do†list may have been
expressed in the dream a few nights ago in which I was trying to return from
China but bureaucratic officials made impossible regulations that I was trying
to get around.
Trying to keep in mind to “Be here now,†I looked at the
preparations as part of the trip..but I was amazed when someone confided to me
that they planned a trip so thoroughly that ultimately they didn't need to take
it! I never plan that well and every trip I have ever taken emerges as I
travel. Some involved my first reading my Lonely Planet guidebook on the plane;
some just going and discovering once I got there. As the poet Theodore Roetke
said I learn by going where I have to go.†But, because of the many travelers
in Japan and the potential expense and vexation of being without reservations,
I had worked on-line and by phone to make reservations for our first night (a
hotel 10 minutes from the Tokyo-Narita airport), our flight the next day
toFukuoka city in southwest Japan, 4 nights in the Fukuoka Youth Hostel (where
Mary and I are to have the luxury of a twin room and, I hope, the chance to
meet other travelers and get some helpful tips about that area of Japan);
return tickets for the hydrofoil boat from Fukuoka-Hakata to Busan, South
Korea; and Japan Rail Passes for when we return to Japan November 15. In
between computer and guidebook and selecting what to take, piling those things
on the guest bed, I was rescued from mental work by raking leaves, twice in the
almost dark in the evening when the pool was closed (broken pump) and the hard
physical exertion of raking raised my sweat and lowered my tension. Several
times Hamilton rescued me from planning, inviting me to participate in the
opportunity of raking or of helping him pull the tarp laden with heavy, wet
leaves. Working with Ham, I would look up into flocks of golden yellow leaves
on our maple tree, a gentle drizzle of leaves descending as we raked, and the
azure sky brilliant beyond the leaves. For three nights we saw the full moon,
at times unobstructed and at times sailing in and out of night clouds,
illuminating the edges with magical, sacred light. Wednesday evening Hamilton
and I drove to East Greenbush for the funeral of his cousin, our generation,
amongst other things a reminder to seize these opportunities to explore the
world, to have adventures, and seize opportunities for extraordinary living.
After a full and intense day Thursday, Hamilton and I came in from
raking leaves and I was so tired that I didn't know what to do with myself.
Caffeine wouldn't help, it was too late for a nap (I thought), I had already
swum at noon – Hamilton and I sat down on our sofa and I fell asleep on his
shoulder, until he woke me over an hour later. The butterflies in my stomach
threatened to revolt if I fed them anything fiercer than an omelette: I brought
out the beautiful farmers' market eggs - green, beige and brown - and made us
the best looking omelette of my life, golden brown and delicious with cheddar
and tomatoes in the center. Friday evening, the night before I left, Hamilton
made dinner that included the delicious new potatoes and spinach from the farmer's
market. After parking my bags on the launching pad near our side door, Hamilton
and I managed to be in bed between 8-9pm, our goal!
In flight
October 30 - Newark NJ,
United States
October 30 Departure Day
Two alarms set for 4:30am woke us. I turned on the coffee maker and made
yerba mate for Hamilton, donned the clothes I had set out (amazing how quickly
they slip on after all the deciding what exactly to take!). Before 5am we were
on the road, predictably empty of cars in the early morning darkness. I was
grateful to feel a 7am wakefulness, instead of 4am grogginess. And to have
finally dropped into my “travel mode†in which my pre-trip anxiety is
replaced with a sense of “here we go†- the adventure is on, I'll deal with
whatever happens. It's also a relief that my carry-on items are all in my
daypack and waist belt, plus my much-traveled photojacket, so that walking
through security and to the gate in Albany was easy, and I had a comfortable
(though major) hike from the gate where we landed in Newark to the far distant
gate for the flight to Japan. During the wait in Newark, drawing 2 moveable
chairs over to the electrical outlet in the middle of an empty wall, I set my
pack on one, together with wireless mouse on a pad which I improvised from a
box of Vermont maple candy. I plugged in the computer and, even though you have
to purchase internet connection, I began to describe my trip, an adventure
where even mundane details take on the special significance of the voyage.
October 30,10:45pm Vermont time or Oct 31, 11:45am Tokyo time. I started
out on the tarmac at Newark reading and highlighting my guidebook, delving into
the cultural treasures of Kyoto and Nara which I hadn't found time to explore
before leaving, amazed and gratified that my mind was clearer than at home,
freed of pre-travel tasks. I watched the film Coco Before Chanel, then part of
Fellini's La Docle Vita, and suffered through the violence of Rio de Janiero
slums in City of God. Marvelous to have one's own small screen in the seat
ahead of me and be able to start, as well as pause, a film at one's
convenience. After Coco, I started to explore games, especially Berlitz
language learning... but first I had to figure out how to work the wizard wand
to get the selection to learn Japanese. The words for days of the weeks,
months, counting, simple phrases that I learned years ago! when I spent an
academic year studying at Waseda university in Tokyo... had a forgotten
familiarity. Reinforcing the learning were video games of shooting down the
numbered spaceship matching the Japanese name for the number, though I never
did figure out how to save Rapunzel in her tower from the dragon by getting the
hero to jump up to the correct month. Another welcome surprise was the hot
meals. When the first, a dinner, appeared, the woman across the aisle
exclaimed, “And we don't have to pay for them?!†to which the flight
attendant answered, “You pay for them all right.†Yakuniku with good sticky
Japanese rice. Afterwards, great sleepiness overcame me so I inflated my
pillow, covered my eyes with my black mask and huddled under my blanket. Good
Bennington time for a nap.
The woman next to me and her preteen daughter have had some arguments.
She wears a skimpy top and long black fingernails decorated with gold symbols
– as far from a geisha as one could imagine. They have kosher meals and I'm
curious about how one would keep the Jewish dietary laws in Japan. I have
gotten up almost every hour, a benefit of my choosing an aisle seat, found a
space near the emergency exits where I could stretch and do some isometric
exercises. Three hours into the flight we are over Hudson Bay, temperature
ranges from minus 50 to minus 81 degrees outside. Eight hours later when I am
trying again to sleep and the mother taps me to let her get out for the
restroom, I feel a burst of annoyance, I've had enough of this flight and the
man ahead pushing his chair back and knocking my tray table frays my nerves
more – it takes effort to keep calm externally and go with the flow – how
would I do in a mine a half mile underground with all these people for 69
days?
Some eleven hours into the flight we are over the sea of Okutsk
(according to the video monitor)...but when I raise the blind just enough to
look out, I see stark snowy and rock mountains then wilderness like one hardly
associates with the huge populations of Asia – perhaps the remote islands
north of Hokkaido, Japan?
Arrival in Japan
October 31 - Narita, Japan
Finally we descend into Tokyo. After a 14 hour flight it ironically
seems to end too fast. Passengers race walk down the corridors, as briskly as
they can without seeming rude, to get to Immigration and Customs ahead of as
many people as possible Looking for the right Immigration line, I didn't notice
a double-decker wheeled piece of luggage arc in front of me; I instinctively
called out “God!†as I fell; the Japanese man pulling it made a
conciliatory gesture --- I made a note to be more aware, even if slower.
Despite all the airports I have arrived at alone, I could not stifle a
longing to be met, a scanning of people waiting. but then I was off to
Information, Money Exchange and the Keisei train to Narita station, grateful my
luggage is not any heavier as I sweated up stairs and escalators and over
overpasses. Hesitating, then I go to the ticket booth to find which is the east
exit; up over the overpass where there are big planters of colorful flowers.
Narita's Comfort Inn is a very ordinary Western-style hotel, ours a small twin
room but it's the Hilton compared to wandering the narrow streets looking for
the ryokans that didn't return my inquiry or .... over an hour being hot and
sweaty on a train into Tokyo.
After a very welcome shower, shedding sweaty clothes, and sorting my
belongings, I ventured out walking the outdoor mezzanine back to the station,
out the other side to a busy urban environment – yet one so human-sized that
it seems minature to someone accustomed to the oversize selling-boxes of North
American big box stores. The one lane street has about 2 feet wide pedestrian
lanes marked on each side, lanes shared with bikes and parked cars. Small shops
sell an array of beautifully presented edibles, sweets to take as hospitality
gifts, fabrics for kimonos, simple and elegant salons, gaudy souvenirs, I
noticed tall stylish young women with slender, pant-clad legs and leather
boots. It's a town living its Japanese life in which I floated down the curved
street to its temple.
Especially after the compact shops, the huge complex of enormous
Buddhist temple buildings blew me away. Steeply climbing up the rocky hillside,
were the imposing gate, array of temple buildings, multi-storied pagoda,
hanging red lanterns, fierce guardian deities which all spoke to me as
powerfully as the soaring cathedrals of Europe. The falling rain and dimming
evening added a sombre dignity. I saw no foreigners, no cameras, but young
couples together and older people bringing plastic bags to make offerings to
the statues of Boddhisatvas at the smaller temples. Two lighted pavilions that
looked like food shops, turned out to be places to buy inscribed papers and
wood. I felt myself in the presence of the Divine and gave thanks for being
here.
At the upper reaches of the temple, where it extends into the greeness
of garden and park, I suddenly felt the nausea of too long without sleep.
Descending slowly, I stopped under the eaves as rain fell and as the gong began
a solemn conversation with the deep temple bell. I glimpsed, peering between
temple buildings, the man on a distant temple balcony, striking the large gong.
Walking back, I saw hanging red lanterns, Some older women, with the bent over
backs from inadequate nutrition during childhood, were working with husbands to
close up the shops. Passing a small supermarket, I strolled in, past shelves of
unrecognizable packaged foodstuffs, but also fruit including persimmons, that I
recall first encountering here in Japan in the 1970s. I hadn't expected to buy
anything, but stryfoam cups of soup noodles caught my eye and I left with them
and a Kirin beer so Mary and I would not have to go out again in the rain.
Back at our small white nest of a room, when I heard the expected knock
at the door and opened it to the wide smile and rain-soaked hair of my sister
Mary, I felt the joyous miracle – each of us had come from different places,
traveled separately half way round the world and found each other at the
appointed time in this 4th storey niche.
Flopped on armchair and bed, we poured each other the beer, in Japanese
custom of serving each other, and shared high and low points of our flights. I
had boiled water in the electric heater so we ate the soup noodles using
disposable chopsticks that the shop girl had thoughfully offered. I brought out
the cheese, crackers, pecans and dried cranberries that were my emergency
rations for the plane, since I didn't expect the two dinners and a snack.
Eventually so tired that I would lose the thread of a conversation, I fell
asleep almost as soon as we decided it was legitimately bedtime (by Japanese
time) and turned out the light.
From Tokyo subways to
Hakata (Fukuoka) ramen
November 1 - Hakata, Japan
Monday (Getsuyobi) November
1
Waking numerous times in the night, I was grateful to keep going back to sleep
until quarter to six when I got up and went to the second floor breakfast area,
and pressed the button that asked me to choose my “desired†coffee, ground
fresh from beans I could see through the plexiglass. Soon almost every table
was filling with young traveling Japanese.
I took my travel mug with fresh ground coffee up for Mary, had a welcome shower
and breakfast of miso soup, orange juice, croissant, egg boiled in salt water
(doesn't need salting), yoghurt and Danish – truly an international
breakfast!
We walked over to the temple,
Walked back and checked out and headed into Tokyo by
train for Haneda airport.
En route I began to suspect that there were two trains
on the one track, only one of which went to Haneda... we got talking to a man
nearby who got off at the same station and showed us the station where we could
transfer to an express train. He even waited with us until the correct train
arrived before he left for his gym. It was his day off from work in a hotel and
he told us he used to work for airlines. Even with the express train, we rode
for 2 hours, longer than our flight time to Fukuoka city in southwest Japan
from where we will cross to Korea.
We were at the airport 1 ¼ hours before our flight and checked in, then
were in the Ladies room when I heard an announcement about gate change.
Checking the departure listings we headed for gate 9, a loo-ong hike, where we
rested in the priority seating since few other seats were available and there
were no elderly people around to use the chairs. But, trying to board, we found
we were at the JAL flight for the same city departing at the same time as our
Skymark flight. We sprang out of our handicapped seating and ran all the way
back to where we'd come through security and then an equally long distance on
the other side to gate 24, only to find the people gone, gate locked and yet
the plane sitting outside attached to the gate. An airport employee approached
and indicated we were again at the wrong gate. We ran again, for gate 38,
though I was tempted to abandon the struggle, sure the plane would have gone.
We arrived sweaty and breathless and discovered the departure had been
delayed.... so another wait.
Flying over Tokyo gave me an idea of its enormity. Then we were over
sharp and rugged mountains. Water and harbor as we descended into Fukuoka. We
took a taxi to the International hostel where we had a twin room reserved, not
much bigger than the bunkbeds. Supper at a nearby ramen house where we sat at
the counter and watched the steam rise from the ramen pot of boiling water,
watched the bowls being heated, steaming soup and slices of pork added. The
soup was delicious, the pork ramen a specialty of Fukuoka, the décor, in red
and blank, traditional Japanese style, the pickled bean sprouts crunchy and
spiced with hot pepper, the pickled ginger hot to the tongue, You not only
chose your type of soup but also the doneness of your noodles – 5 degrees of
doneness from childishly soft all the way past al dente to the crunchy, barely
cooked rare version. Walking back, we found the air delightfully cool and less
humid that in Tokyo.
Gift of a day in Fukuoka
with Professor Nagano
November 2 - Hakata, Japan
Woke during the night several times and had to climb down the ladder but
amazingly slept until 7:30am (both Mary and I blessedly spared the worst of jet
lag). Going up to the 3rd floor kitchen to make coffee, I met 5 sisters from
the Netherlands traveling together. Then a German woman trying to book a flight
from Tokyo to Bangkok asked our help with the Internet; she is on a year-long
world trip, having divorced after 27 years of marriage because she no longer
loves the man ... so chose to seek and follow her own desires. At the bakery
“Gratie†on the main street, we encountered an artistic array of beautiful
pastries and free coffee so delicious that I drank it black.
We walked down the busy main drag to Hakata railway station seeking an
ATM which we had been told we could find in a convenience store but those ATMs
were Japanese language only. Used our map to find the main bank of the Fukuoka
bank where, at the “Foreign Exchange†we laboriously tried to explain that
we wanted to use our bank or credit cards to get money. Not possible we learned
(rather disconcerting as we have not only found our money evaporating quickly
but our credit card not accepted even in places like the Fukuoka accommodation
where I'd used my credit card to reserve our room). So each of us was
exchanging US dollars cash when a retired Japanese man came over and asked if
he could help us. Not only did he interface and translate with the bank staff
whose English was almost as limited as our Japanese but he took us to the post
office where our cards worked - a big relief. As we waited I showed him the
places we intended to visit today and asked his opinion.
He even offered and kindly accompanied us the to Kuniyoshi temple
where he explained so much of what goes on, how one dips and pours water over
one's hands and rinses one's mouth for ritual cleanliness before approaching
the shrine, how one bows twice and claps the hands twice then bows again and
pulls down on the thick cord, ringing the bell to let the gods know one is
there.
He showed us where to obtain our fortune on a small paper, in English,
and indicated where to toss a coin through the grate. At the side, was a shop
with an array of beautiful good luck charms and tokens which he explained
Japanese buy to avoid trouble, carrying these good luck tokens on their person,
or in their cars.
He then guided us an a walk through the very hip and chic covered arcade
of stylish small shops, where everything was so compact, and then out into the
downtown of skyscrapers and other huge, architecturally innovative buildings,
where everything was, in contrast, so expansive. Swarms of pedestrians and of
bicycles on the sidewalks were going both ways yet avoiding the seemingly
inevitable crashes. Everyone waits at the intersection for the traffic light,
no one jaywalking; and at the Walk signal, a melody plays to indicate aurally
that it is safe to cross --- the most memorable to us was “Coming through the
Rye.†He took us across the city by taxi to Fukuoka's “Central Parkâ€
where we first encountered the foundations or the enormous ruined castle, and
were astounded at the huge scale.
Walking and climbing to the high point of the castle ruins, we rested
above the city looking out on the modernity, the harbor, baseball dome, tower,
and the mountains of Kyushu. Then we descended into the park with its Chinese
style low curving bridges over the vast pond and its scarlet pavilions, its
paddle boats in the shape of swans, its tree-lined causeway a walking path
across the middle of the pond. The park was such a welcome and restful contrast
to the intensity of the city, to which we returned, refreshed, by taxi to
Sumiyoshi Shrine which was a brilliant, brilliant orange, with palaquins in
boat shapes resting in the courtyard.
Our Japanese friend showed us where sumo wrestlers practice in early
morning just outside the shrine. And the subtle classical building where No
theatre is performed. Hearing the drum beat as darkness fell, we returned to
the shrine and were so fortunate to watch the Shinto priest conduct a ceremony
of bowing repeatedly, chanting from a scroll, waving a white tassled standard,
and turning to all directions to bow and bow again even more deeply.
At the park, where our Japanese friend had planned to leave us, I
repeated my thanks once again and offered my name card with my invitation for
him and his wife to visit us in Vermont should their world travels take them
there. I had made cards for both Mary and me and she also offered hers with her
own invitation for Calgary.
Not only was the Sumiyoshi shrine a further treat, especially when
unexpectedly it was lit at night, a glowing orange, but our friend took us
finally to his favorite izakaya restaurant, an underground refuge of elegant
Japanese simplicity. Especially after all his kindness and numerous taxis, Mary
and I wanted to invite him, but he repeated that he wanted to pass on the
kindness he had received in Canada and the US on his various trips to
conferences as an agricultural irrigation engineer. He ordered Mary a beer and
me a sake, then many small dishes beautifully presented, finally rice with nori
(seaweed) and into which we placed a pickled plum and poured in green tea for a
beautiful digestive end to an exquisite meal. A very leisurely dining with
conversation, sharing, some jokes and laughter. After 3 beers, he laughed
easily but, had no intention of driving home...instead we three walked...his
office was on the same street as our hostel, Mary and I continuing down the
street further after our goodbyes.
Karatsu Kunchi festival -
Cultural Day
November 3 - Karatsu, Japan
November 3 Cultural Day
throughout Japan
After Gratie coffee and egg pizza plus chewy cranberry bun, we walked to
the main bus terminal where we bought tickets to Karatsu, miraculously catching
a bus at the gate 32, the closest one, due to leave in less than 10 minutes.
Leaving Fukuoka, we passed its enormous suspension bridge, beaches, harbors
along the water. Apartment buildings gave way to traditional Japanese houses
set amongst rice paddies, perfectly rectangular vegetable farm lots, and
greenhouses.
Reaching Karatsu in about 70 minutes, we descended into a crowded city
where the sound of drums drew us towards nearby narrow streets where huge
floats were being drawn by long ropes, children at the front end, adult men
closer to the floats themselves. At the corner the float suddenly swung around
at a right angle.
After watching a half dozen floats pulled by teams in identically
colored traditional garb (hapi coats with leggings and zori sandals), we let
the crowd carry us down the street.... past an amazing array of food stalls and
souvenirs for sale. Much of the crowd was surging into the approach to the
temple. We skirted around side streets and were deciphering a poster in
Japanese about the festival's schedule when a young woman approached us and led
us to the beach. She was there for the festiva lwith her parents, all from
Tendai. When we found the floats, they were arriving in a crowded, sandy
square, swinging violently around yet another corner to be lined up 7 facing 7.
Children were emerging from inside the floats as well as climbing on them to be
photographed by parents. Men in traditional garb who had been pulling the
floats were beating the drums or climbing to the highest point on the floats
like king of the castle.
Officially uniformed police controlling the crowd smiled but obliged
when I asked about where were toilets. We found port-a-potties with 2 stalls
for women, each with a door, plus an open stall with a urinal for men and a
fourth stall for hand washing. Sitting in the shade, we made a lunch, and had a
rest, with trail mix, chocolate and water.
Rejoining the crowd, many sitting on the curb waiting for the afternoon
parade of the 14 floats back to their owner shops, we made our way to the train
station and information booth where an English speaking staffperson answered
our questions about Karatsu pottery. Her instructions sent us down streets to
the canal, across it by bridge and along a narrow residential road until we
emerged on a busy street full of partytime pachinko (slot machine/pinball)
parlors and neon funhouses with names like “Lucky Day.†On the corner was a
pottery gallery of extremely expensive works by the most famous potter of the
region, a glorious collection of tea ceremony cups, sake vessels, flower vases
--- irregular shapes, earthy surfaces, glazes of infinite variations – the
kind of vessel you turn around and around, admiring every side. The elegant,
black clad woman bid us two scruffy foreigners welcome, pointed out some
aspects of the pottery and graciously allowed me to make some photos.
Returning along the lane, where painted tiles were set among the brick
cobblestones, we explored the path veering off, a narrow path into a compact
neighborhood of tranquil, traditional Japanese homes and gardens, small and
perfect, with trained pine trees, hanging white blossoms, climbing morning
glory flowers.... and huge golden striped spiders in webs against the sky...
blessed peace and quiet after the noise and crowds of the festival.
Back at the canal, we watched two cranes fishing in the shallow water,
watched the small fish glint in the sun as they turned, flashing their bright
bellies. Osprey and buzzards soared overhead on the wind currents.
We queued for the 5:30pm bus and road into darkness back to Fukuoka's
lights - multicolored in the night. Walked from the bus station to the Umauma
ramen shop where we sat at the counter having beer, pork ramen and fried
gwazu..all delicious, especially the broth which was rich with marrow flavor.
The black clad young men frying gwazu, dishing up the ramen, and washing dishes
got a kick out of our enjoyment and our attempts at Japanese, just as we were
entertained watching their busy rapid-fire cooking and washing up. We walked
back, under the train track, colorful graffiti on the tunnel walls and to the
hostel, another marvelous adventure of a day.
By Hydrofoil to South Korea
November 4 - Pusan, South
Korea
November 4 Thursday
After the precious coffee at Gratie bakery and a few of their delicious
pastries, we packed up. The young woman at the Fukuoka hostel took our photo
just before Mary and I got into the taxi (she is going to put it on their
website) and headed to the International Port for our hydrofoil to Korea. The
numerous bureaucratic procedures, fuel surcharge, and the cost of departure tax
had me wondering why anyone would purchase the weekend round-trip tickets, in
spite of their being cheaper than our tickets for a longer stay. We boarded the
Beetle, an enclosed pod that slipped out of the harbor and skimmed softly and
smoothly but speedily over the blue water, past steeply rising island
mountains, under a brilliant blue sky. It was surprising how fast we were
traveling - a ferry journey of 8 hours took us less than three.
As we approached the skyline of Busan port, the sky was milky white.
Jennifer and Miriam, Dennis' mother, met us and Jenn drove us through the city
until, in a small lane, a man rushed out and ushered Jenn's car down a narrow,
pedestrian-crowded street to the entrance to a parking garage. Jenn stopped the
car and we piled out, leaving the parking to a valet.
Walking the market streets, we saw squid hanging in curtains of
tentacles, chestnuts roasting in a churning mass of black coals, decorative
socks, Korean silk. At a small upstairs restaurant, we ate bulgogi - which came
as a bowl of various colorful ingredients - strips of marinated beef together
with vegetables, rice - dark, white, green and red... which you mix together
into a delicious combination.
Walking market streets back to the car, I was interested in the stores
selling luggage of all sizes and shapes because the zipper on mine had jammed.
But prices were not Third World! Reluctantly I admitted that I could get a
better price on luggage in Bennington!
We drove back to Ulsan on very modern expressways with
tolls, about an hour's trip, past a lot of industry (including the huge Hyundai
plant) to Jenn's condo in a high rise. There her little Boston terrier had an
energetic frenzy of greeting us, sniffing, and gnashing the dog toy Mary had
brought him.
Jennifer took us to a Korean cafe where we had a typical and delicious lunch of
beef strips, vegetables and egg on a bowl of rice. Then, on the hour's drive
back to Ulsan, we got an idea of the intensity of traffic, the extent of
industrialization in South Korea.
From Fukuoka, Japan to
Busan, Ulsan and Seoul, South Korea
November 5 - Seoul, South
Korea
Up early November 5 for a 8am flight to Seoul, we rose into clouds and
descended into Seoul's milky smog a scant 40 minutes later. The several subway
rides, with transfers, from Gimpo domestic airport into the city took at least
twice that long. By 2:30pm we had hauled our luggage along urban streets,
checked into the Ramada, had coffee and bought tickets to ride more subways, an
intimidating process of first finding one's destination on the intricately
complicated map of subway lines (most info in Korean script) and then inserting
adequate money for the machine to spit out tickets. At the end of the trip,
assuming you have survived the jaws of the turnstile trying to snag you
captive, you feed your ticket into another machine and receive whatever change
you are due as refund.
Finally getting to explore the market streets, we found beautiful
handmade paper made into cards with appliqued doll figures, silk covered pencil
boxes, pashmina scarves, huge stone carvings from Laos and Cambodia in an
antiques shop. In the middle of the sidewalk some men in bright red garb rolled
out sheets of something like rice crispy bars and then cut it with a cleaver
against a straight edge. Mary and I stopped to watch candy makers take a glob
of honey and dip it into cornstarch, then stretch it, dip it again into the
cornstarch, double it and stretch it again. Every time they doubled it over
they would double their count of strands - 2, 4, 8, 16, 32,...256. When
Japanese visitors stopped to watch, the men began counting in Japanese also.
After they had a multitude of small strands, they would break off a length of
4-5 inches, place a spoonful of almond paste in the center of one end, and wrap
the strands into a roll. One of them beckoned me to a side and gave me one to
taste - a strangely floury texture around the almond nugget.
Mary and I ventured down numerous narrow, often crooked lanes off the
main road - street vendors selling jewelery and souvenirs, tea houses, old
houses with tile roofs and walls made with broken tiles embedded in mortar. One
elegant Tea Museum had an entire wall of different types of tea - chrysanthemum,
persimmon, rooibos - as well as beautiful, individual tea bowls, each with a
glaze that invites you to turn it around and around in your hands, admiring the
color variations of the glaze, the particularities of the shape, and the
personality of the bowl.
After two more crowded subways during rush hour, and a welcome shower
back at our hotel, I luxuriated in curling up on the sofa in the 14th floor
lounge, having a beer with Mary, Miriam, Jenn and Dennis. Mary and I stayed
when the others went out to dinner, making a supper of the hors d'oeuvres -
soup, sushi, oysters, and a delicious, subtle-flavored steamed Chinese custard
with mushrooms and other delicate vegetables embedded in it. Back in our room,
we looked out on the city lights, especially a distant wall of irregular,
ever-changing vertical neon colors in an always changing rainbow of hues.
Demilitarized Zone - 56
kilometers from Seoul
November 6 - Seoul, South
Korea
November 6 Saturday
At 7:30am we left the hotel by bus for the DMZ, traveling out from Seoul
into a countryside of fields. Beside the expressway ran barbed wire which
became higher as we drove north. Before we were allowed to enter the
Demilitarized Zone, a soldier of South Korea, the ROK, came on the bus to check
our passports – tall, young, unsmiling, in camouflage, with white helmet and
large sunglasses despite the milky smog that obliterated the sun and any view
from the observation point. Ironically, considering the weather, the
observation point had a yellow line – no photos allowed from beyond it.
We got an idea of the landscape, including the mountains, from a film
and relief model. The 2km no man's land on either side of the Demarcation Line
has become a refuge for wildlife – deer, birds, ... we saw a photo of fish
swimming over bullets lying in a stream.Wearing bright yellow helmets, we
descended into the Third Infiltration Tunnel, one of 4 discovered by the the
ROK and blamed on the North Koreans' attempt to get 30,000 soldiers a hour
through to attack Seoul, only 56 m away.
The tunnel was blasted through granite with yellow splashes of paint
marking the dynamite holes. The walls were blackened to support the claim that
North Korea, the DRK, was searching for coal. An 11% grade heads steeply down
73 meters below the surface, all cool wet granite, down to where a concrete and
steel barrier blocked off the further reaches of the tunnel. I don't suffer
from claustrophobia but began to feel nauseous so I climbed back up slowly.
(South Korean soldiers used to be posted at the barrier but no longer since the
air is such poor quality.)Numerous souvenir shops sold North Korean beer and
shogu (vodka-like rice alcohol), rice, and chocolate made with soybeans. The
tour then took us to a government-run shop with uniformed Korean women giving a
hard-sell, promoting the ginseng products. Offered a thimble cup of ginseng
powder in liquid, I drank it and my stomach recovered more than from the coke.
We endured an endless drive back through crowded, gridlocked traffic.
The guide would not take us to our hotels but offered 2 drop places in central
Seoul. We chose one close to the palace and were just in time to watch a
changing of the guard - traditionally garbed Korean nobility in stunning red
and yellow court costumes.
After the procession, we lunched in a Vietnamese noodle shop –
anise-flavored broth with shaved beef. Mary and I walked to a canal and came
upon a lantern festival extending at least a kilometer along the water. Festive
lanterns came in all sizes - some so big they occupied a whole float.
Descending to the path along the water, we walked past ones illustrating
everything from Korean fairytales to themes of the countries participating in
the coming G20 conference - kangaroos, Maori, Big Ben. Under a bridge kids were
making paper lanterns to hang from the ceiling. Crossing the canal on large
stepping stones, we ascended the stairs again and found ourselves in the
hardware district - many lighting shops shone brilliantly with multi-colored
lamps as twilight darkened the city. We ducked into covered arcades where
sellers offered bric-a-brac, beads, traditional Korean attire, lace, and bead
headdresses worthy of Cher.
My legs ached and once we reached the subway, I wanted only to return to
the hotel - even if I had to make my way by myself through the intimidating
Seoul Underground. But, ironically, this turned out to be the very subway
station where Jenn, Den and Miriam were to meet Mary in about an hour to go to
dinner. Unsure whether to go or stay, I sat on the floor my calves against the
cool hard floor of the station, writing in my notebook while Mary went foraging
for a coffee. I suddenly heard a man say “Hello, mama,†and I looked up.
The man asked where I was going and where was I from. He left but after Mary
returned, he came back with 3 packages of “lunch†for us - glutinous rice
cakes and warm soy milk. In return, Mary gave him the Canadian decoration from
her handbag and he seemed very pleased with that. Miriam arrived and seemed not
to want anything to do with us, stayed at a distance except for a moment during
which I took the opportunity to introduce her and our benefactor, John, a
Baptist minister who could recite scripture and count in Aramaic. When Jenn and
Den arrived, they also stayed at a distance --- For Mary and me, it was an
unexpected adventure of interacting with a local person in a friendly way....
but the others seemed horrified. Miriam figured people thought we were begging
or homeless.Upstairs in a Korean barbecue, we sat on the heated floor. A waiter
started a round barbecue set in the table at each end of the table. We cooked
black pork belly meat and ate it with a great array of side dishes, rice and
soup at the end.
The Seoul of Asia
November 8 - Seoul, South
Korea
November 6 Saturday
At 7:30am we left the hotel by bus for the DMZ, traveling out from Seoul
into fields. Beside the expressway ran barbed wire which became higher as we
drove north. Before we were allowed to enter the Demilitarized Zone, a soldier
of the ROK (South Korea) came on the bus to check our passports – tall,
young, unsmiling, in camouflage with white helmet and large sunglasses - he was
one of what our guide described as "unhappy campers" sent to the
front lines for their 24 month compulsory military service.
T
he milky smog obliterated the sun and any view from the observation
point - which, ironically considering the weather, had a yellow line – no
photos allowed from beyond it. So the only idea we got of the landscape,
including the extensive mountains, was from a film and a relief model. The
2km-wide no man's land on either side of the Demarcation Line has become a
refuge for wildlife – including deer and birds, and we saw a photo of fish
swimming over old bullets lying in a stream.
Wearing bright yellow helmets, we descended into the Third Infiltration
Tunnel, one of 4 underground passages discovered by the ROK and blamed on the
North Koreans' attempt to get 30,000 soldiers a hour through the tunnel to
attack Seoul, only 56 m away. An 11% grade heads steeply down to some 73 meters
below the surface, a tunnel blasted thru granite with yellow splashes of paint
marking the dynamite holes. The walls were apparently blackened by North Korea,
the DRK claiming to be searching for coal. Cool, wet granite walls continued
down to where a concrete barrier and steel blocked off the further reaches of
the tunnel. I don't suffer from claustrophobia but began to feel nauseous so I
climbed up slowly (the guide had told us the air is bad enough that they no
longer station soldiers down there to ensure we tourists obey the rule of no
picture-taking)... now cameras watch us.
We visited souvenir shops where people bought North Korean beer and
shogu (a Vodka like drink), rice grown in the DMZ, and chocolate made with
soybeans, then the bus took us to a government run shop with uniformed Korean
women promoting Korean gingeng products. Offered a thimble cup of ginseng
powder dissolved in liquid, I drank it and my stomach bean to recover.
An endless drive back thru crowded, gridlocked traffic of Seoul returned
us to city center. The guide would not take us to our hotel, probably because
of the traffic, but dropped us close to the palace ... we reached it just in
time to watch a changing of the guard -traditionally garbed Korean nobility in
stunning red and yellow court costumes. After the procession, we lunched in a
Vietnamese noodle shop – anise-flavored broth and shaved beef.
Mary and I walked to a canal where there were festive lanterns of all
sizes, some so big they occupied a whole float. Descending to the path along
the water, we walked past ones illustrating Korean fairy tales, and aspects of
countries participating in the current G20 summit, including kangaroos,
Maori,and the Big Ben clock of London. Under a bridge kids were making paper
lanterns to hang from the ceiling, the bridge protecting them from the
elements.
Crossing the canal by big stepping stones, we ascended the stairs again
and encountered a hardware district with many lighting shops brilliant with
multi-colored lamps as twilight darkened the city. Then we ventured into a
covered arcade resplendent with stalls of fabric, beads, traditional Korean
attire , lace and bead headdresses worthy of Cher.
My legs ached and once we reached the subway, I wanted only to return to
the hotel even if I had to make my way through the intimidating Seoul
underground by myself. But, ironically, this turned out to be the very subway station
where Jen, Den and Miriam were to meet us, in about an hour, to go to dinner. I
sat on the floor, my calves against the cool hard floor of the station, writing
in my notebook, while Mary went foraging for a coffee. I suddenly heard a man
say “Hello, mama,†and I looked up. The man asked where I was going and
where was I from. He left but, after Mary returned, he came back with 3
packages of “lunch†for us, which consisted of glutinous rice cakes and
warm soy milk. As a thank you, Mary gave him the Canadian flag decoration from
her handbag and he seemed very pleased with that.
Miriam arrived and seemed not to want anything to do with us crazy
foreigners sitting on the ground as Koreans would apparently not do. She stayed
at a distance except when I introduced her and our benefactor, John, who turned
out to be a Baptist minister who could quote the Bible and count in Aramaic.
Mary and I settled into enjoying the unexpected adventure of interacting with a
local in a friendly way as we waited for Jen and Den to arrive. But Miriam
figured people, including John, thought we were begging or homeless.
Upstairs in a Korean barbecue restaurant, the 5 of us sat on cushions on
the floor. The waitress started a round barbecue at each end of the long table.
We cooked black pork belly meat and ate it with a great array of side dishes,
including rice and soup at the end of the meal.
Sunday November7
Mary and I headed for the palace where we walked through the gardens and
looked into doorways and windows. Walls were partitions of white paper. In the
grounds of the second palace, we walked around one of the ponds, luxuriating in
the autumn colors and enjoying the beautiful Chinese mandarin ducks before
their winter migration, colorful males with orange and teal, subtle-colored but
gentle and elegant females. In the secret garden, amongst pavilions, ponds, and
a 400-year-old mulberry tree, autumn colors were
intense even with the city's milky haze.
We hiked to the subway, taking it to where we hiked steeply up the road,
stairs and path to a Buddhist temple. At the Buddhist temple, a gray clad monk
was ringing a somber big bell, striking it with a huge cylindrical log
suspended horizontally. Inside the temple, a sacred place with the front wall a
row of golden Buddhas above multi-colored petals of illuminated lotus flowers,
red and green lanterns hung from the ceiling. A wall was composed of rows of
small Buddhas in niches. I knelt to speak my thanks, for being there, silently
but fervently. Neither of us made any flash photographs, even though we were
alone with the Divine.... the image would have been of a different place.
Across the path, another gray clad monk lit with the red light of an
electric heater was working at books.
Climbing higher we approached a shrine where a man appeared to be
scrubbing the ground before him, pushin his hands forward and drawing them back
... yet it had the fervency of prayer and we slipped quietly by lest he be
embarrassed or at least his intensity interrupted.
Yet further up the mountain we came to a Dali-esque rock above another
shrine. The rock was shaped like a huge egg with elongated Swiss cheese holes.
A woman was prostrating herself as if in repeated Salutations to the Sun.
Offerings of food and drink were on the altar as well as incense and candles.
Climbing still higher, we came to a smaller Buddhist shrine, although these
places of worship seemed to combine aspects of both Buddhism and Shamanism.
Stairs in the rock ascended still higher – in the gloaming we placed our feet
carefully, then sat gazing out over the city lights below as darkness
fell.
A maze of steep narrow laneways took us down past people's houses of a
residential neighborhood until we again reached the plateau of shops, including
ones selling pizza and fried chicken, and the subway. Despite my tired, aching
legs, I felt a tranquil exhilaration at our experiences of the day, plus my
beginning to comprehend Seoul's intimidating subway system.
What luxury, back at our hotel, not to have to go out again but shower
and just walk down the hall from our room to the lounge where our temporary
membership scores us not only a beer but “appetizers†that more than
suffice for supper. When they returned from pizza and garlicky salad at an
Italian restaurant nearby, Jennifer and Miriam found us there by the picture
window, city night lights spread out below us.
November 8 Monday
Mary, Jennifer, Miriam and I made our way two subway stops to another
area of modern urbanity – storeys-high neon signs and tv screens, trendy
shops, and ads displaying platinum-blond Korean models. After some hunting, we
found the second floor Dr Fish spa, where you pay W2000 for access to sit
beside a long rectangular box set in the floor, containing water and small
fish, who immediately when you put your feet into the water, rush to nibble on
them. Initially the sensation is so intense a tickle that you grimace and twist
but eventually you settle down into watching the little pink mouths kiss and
pluck at your skin, apparently eating off the dead skin. Ironically the watery
coffee, or other drinks you are expected to buy, cost W4800 to 6800 more than
twice the price of the unforgettable experience of being food for the fish!..
but the spacious spa with picture windows looking over the street, “self
bar†of breads to eat with butter and jam, along with our coffee, gave us a
luxurious relaxation before Jenn and Miriam headed for the airport, and Mary
and I lugged our suitcases to the subway for a trip on 3 different lines, transferring
twice, ending at Suwon, a distinct city from Seoul, although with no break in
the urban metropolis.
Suwon's Korean Folk
Village, Spa and Fortress
November 9 - Suwon, South
Korea
In Seoul, I had called the Hwaesong Guest House there, using Jenn's
phone. Reaching Suwon subway station, I found a tourist info booth where an
English-speaking staffperson wrote the name and phone number in Korean so I
could give that to a taxi driver. He talked on his cell phone as he drove and,
miraculously, at a small street past the historic gate to the Suwon fortress, a
Korean man obviously expecting us, was waiting to show us down the street to
the guest house. We have a room with a double bed and bright pink flowered
walls. You remove your shoes to step up into the room and put on a kind of
flip-flop to go into our attached and huge bathroom.
Walking out for supper, we found fierce wind bending streetside trees;
sleet pelted and soaked us with temperatures dropping from September to late
November's. After walking past shops, including a tailor's, and more colorful,
illuminated gates of the fortress walls, we ducked out of the rain into a
spacious Korean restaurant. Immediately three women descended on us in fervent
welcome. We wanted the famous galpi beef dish and were royalty with two of the
women bringing us perhaps 15 different side dsihes and one beautiful woman
cooking for us over the hot coats at our table. she made and handed ech of us
rolls of the delicious marinated beef, plus kimchi, vegetable, red sauce and/or
raw garlic... all wrapped in a lettuce leaf. Following her example we learned
to make our own. Mary was able to thank them, say how delicious, and ask what
various things were... giving them great pleasure and a little amusement.
Back at the guest house, we discovered we had no sheets or pillow
cases...so went on a search and, from the Korean men's dorm, obtained pillows
and two covers from bunk beds.
November 9 Tuesday
First morning stop was the bakery on the corner – cakes, pastries and
sandwiches to rival our Japanese Gratie coffee and pastry place in Fukuoka.
Mary tells me that a candy company managed to create a Korean Valentine's day
on November 11 (armistice for warring couples?) and the bakery is resplendent
with cakes (made of rice paste) that are dazzling works of art.
Walking to the train station, or more specifically, the tourist
information house, we catch the bus to the Korean folk village. A half hour
ride through industrial, commercial and residential high-rises identified only
by number 316...327...409 (people-storage devices), takes us to the village
that quickly became my favorite place in Korea. At the huge gate were guards in
traditional dress. Beyond the souvenir shops and food court, traditional
buildings of farmer and nobleman, from both northern and southern Korea, formed
a village with a pottery shop, paper-making shop, and blacksmith shop. There
was a craftsman in traditional white garb weaving a bowl, another making a mat,
both from rice straw, and in another dwelling, even a fortune teller. There
were flame-colored autumn leaves on the trees.... and no cars!
Besides the peace and quiet, we were treated to performances - drum and
dance including spectaular acrobatics as part of what was supposedly a farmer's
dance, but involved tassled and colorful attire, with long ribbons on the hats
that the men dancing moved with slight movements of their heads and made them
swirl like in a Chinese ribbon dance. The musician/dancers sounded their drums,
tambourines and cymbals in energetic percussion, as they marched, circled and
spiralled, reaching a frenzy of excitement in which the outer ring of dancers,
as if propelled by centrifugal force, whipped themselves into twirling
somersault cartwheels.
The “peasant†troupe had barely marched away when, in a nearby
performance space, a solitary tightrope walker walk/climbed up the 40 degree
rope from ground to aerial tightrope. There he repeatedly crossed from one
platform, via the rope, to the other, amazing us with his bouncing down to
straddle the rope and apparently bouncing back up off his groin! Or squatting
on one foot, spinning to face the other way. Especially during the periods of
talk/explanation that we of course couldn't comprehend, we were entranced by
the group of kindergarten children sitting beside us with their teachers –
beautiful, dark-haired, almond eyed children.
At noon a traditional wedding ceremmony took place in the courtyard of
the nobleman's villa. With white-clad Confucian officials presiding, the groom
entered first in maroon robes, then the bride bedecked in silk was escorted in
with a woman attendant on each side. As they faced each other on opposite sides
of a table laden with fruit and other food, bride and groom each separately
bowed to each other, were given drink and something to eat by the officials.
Finally a procession, groom on horseback and bride carried in a palaquin
proceded from the nobleman's house..
Just before we left, we witnessed a spectacular display of equestrian
skill, riders galloping their steeds around a ring and doing acrobatic stunts
– bouncing off the ground back up to the saddle, springing into headstands,
throwing a spear into a poster of a boar or shooting arrows into a target, all
at high speed.
The 4pm bus brought us back into the land of traffic, industry, crowds
and neon signs. Mary went to the Starbucks to get a real coffee (almost
everywhere else coffee is a weak and unsatisfactory brew). Meanwhile I went to
the tourist info outside Suwon station to get times for the trains to Daegu for
tomorrow, and ask about Suwon's jjimjibang (upmarket sauna and spa) and camera
shops (since I have already filled my 2GB card with images). In the camera
store I opened my camera and showed the card and the battery so, despite our lack
of mutual language, I was able to buy both.
At Starbucks, Mary and I discussed plans for the next few days; she had
looked up Jjimjibang, some are right at hot springs, have baths of such
substances as mud, cedar, and green tea. The young woman at the tourist info
had told me Suwon's jjimjibang was near the bus station but that she had never
been to it and didn't know the name. On the map it looked within walking
distance but even at a fast pace, we tromped for ages (at least 1 ¼ hours) on
pavement from downtown into extremely untouristy areas of furniture stores,
past garages and repair shops and into another downtown of looo-ooong city
blocks. When we stopped to ask to make sure we were on the right street, we
were told in effect, “Take taxi or you reach there tomorrow.†Dragging,
with aching legs, I was so ready to give up, especially when we had to retrace
our steps. A taxi would have been only $5-6 but we had no name of the place. By
great good fortune, as we thought we were nearing the bus terminal, I
approached a businessman and asked “Jjimjibang?†and he kindly showed us a
nearby pink sign – one for women.
We took stairs to a lower level where pink-clad Korean women giggled and
took our W5000 ($5) and gave us tea-towel sized orange towels as well as each a
key to a locker. Women were walking around nude so we stripped, piled our
things into our lockers and went to shower, squating and pouring water from
basins over ourselves as well as soaping ourselves. Then into the hot tub.
There were 3 comfortably hot, one with bubbly, and another fiery hot that Mary
enjoyed, particularly after the cold pool,where we could swim the 25 foot
length but mostly used the jets to massage our backs and my aching legs. We
tried out the steam room, where you sit on benches, and the dry sauna (64-67
degrees Centigrade) where you sit on the floor stones. Those rooms, as well as
the relaxation room above them, had walls of pink and black tumbled pebbles in
a design that suggested black mountains and pink sky. In the relaxation room,
we tried out the plastic pillows with hard nubs over their surface but then
gave up and shared the one soft pillow, the size of a bread loaf, our heads on
the pillow and our bodies extending out in a pie shape. Most jjimjibang are open
24 hours so you can sleep overnight in the relaxation room.
Back downstairs, we found beach lounge chairs to stretch out on. On pink
massage tables, lay women naked and being massaged, oiled, and pummelled by two
other women in what appeared to be black bra and panties. In the outer room one
naked woman knelt on the floor, her body and head stretched out along a bench
while another woman straddled the bench, massaging her tattooed back. As Mary
and I relaxed in this community of women indulging, rejuvenating, luxuriating
in the comfort and stimulation of touch, I wondered how Korean immigrants, if
not in a community of Koreans, must pine for the sisterhood of the jjimjibang.
A taxi home was another automatic indulgence requiring no decision. Mary
said I was asleep even before the little fridge in our room began rattling the
tea cup sitting on it.
November 10 Wednesday
Mary has been making strides in learning Korean and the people are
delighted, and sometimes amused, to talk with her. Using a course loaded onto
her ipod, she hears the Korean, and writes memory clues to help remember it.
While she studied this morning, I walked briskly up to see the massive gate at
the far end of Suwon's fortress wall. (Our guest house is near the south end's
huge entrance gate and at night we see the gate, observation towers, and
fire-beacon platforms magically lit.) I hiked along the wall, looked out on the
modern city, its rectangular buildings so different from the historic fortress,
then strode along the Suwoncheon (river) back to our guest house.
From Suwon's fortress to
Daegu's dog soup
November 10 - Taegu, South
Korea
November 10 Wednesday
Mary has been making strides in learning Korean and the people are
delighted, and sometimes amused, to talk with her. Using a course loaded onto
her Ipod, she hears the Korean, and writes memory clues to help remember it.
While she studied this morning, I walked briskly up to see the massive gate at
the far north end of Suwon's fortress wall. (Our guest house is near the south
end's huge entrance gate and at night we see the gate, observation towers, and
fire-beacon platforms magically lit.)
I hiked along the wall, looked out on the modern city, its rectangular
buildings so different from the historic fortress, then strode along the
Suwoncheon (river) back to our guest house. We took a taxi to Suwon station and
train to Daegu - past autumn forest hills, water standing in rice paddies, a
cultivated pond of what appeared to be lotus root, acres of greenhouses (some
open so I could see the smoothly manicured soil, others assembled with metal
hoops, irrigation sprinklers, and translucent covering). We saw traditional
houses, some with bright blue roofs. Our train crossed 3 rivers on bridges. We
discovered that seats are assigned when a Korean man approached us pointing to
his ticket; we obligingly moved; he took pains to brush the seat off
completely!
Our hotel's name is romanized either Lausanne or Rozan; either way, the
pamphlets outside and poster inside, up only at night, are evidence it is a
“love hotel.†But, unlike in Suwon, we have the luxury of sheets.
Walking out to a restaurant about 10 minutes away, we had to match the
Korean characters in the sign to the notation in our guidebook, as well as the
menu, as there was no English in either. We tried their goat and their dog
soup, each ordering a bowl of one or the other, probably for the one and only
time, (the goat meat was tough and the dog meat mercifully sparse in that
soup). Then walking back, we stopped into “Home Plus†a huge supermarket
plus department store with food courts offering everything from Korean,
Japanese, Chinese, Greek cuisine, and pasta to Krazee Burgers. Tiny ice cream
cones were $4-5, but we had decided on ice cream to quench the fire in our mouths
from dinner; Mary had the inspired idea that we buy a package from the grocery
section. Passing up the green tea ice cream, we chose “Goo-Goo†–
chocolate covered peanuts, caramel, chocolate and marshmallow ice cream... and
we ate up the whole liter of it!
Daegu's Korean Oriental
Medicine Market
November 11 - Taegu, South
Korea
We took a taxi to Suwon train station and train to Taegu - past autumn
forest hills, water standing in rice paddies, a cultivated pond of what
appeared to be lotus root, acres of greenhouses (some open so I could see the
smoothly manicured soil, others assembled with metal hoops, irrigation
sprinklers, and translucent covering). We saw traditional houses, some with
bright blue roofs. Our train crossed 3 rivers on bridges. When a Korean man
approached us pointing to his ticket, we discovered that seats are assigned; we
obligingly moved; he took pains to brush the seat off completely!
Our hotel's name is romanized either†Lausanne†or “Rozanâ€;
either way, the pamphlets outside and poster inside and which are up only at
night, are evidence it is a “love hotel.†But, unlike in Suwon, we have the
luxury of sheets.
Walking out to a restaurant about 10 minutes away, we had to match the
Korean characters in the sign to the notation in our guidebook, as well as the
menu, as there was no English in either. We tried their goat and their dog
soup, each ordering a bowl of one or the other so that we could share them and
each get to experience both, probably for the one and only time, (the goat meat
was tough and the dog meat mercifully sparse in that soup). Then walking back,
we stopped into “Home Plus†a huge supermarket plus department store with
food courts offering everything from Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Greek cuisine,
and pasta to “Krazee Burgers.†Tiny ice cream cones were $4-5, but we had
decided on ice cream to quench the fire in our mouths from dinner; Mary had the
inspired idea that we buy a package from the grocery section. Passing up the
green tea ice cream, we chose “Goo-Goo†– chocolate covered peanuts,
caramel, chocolate and marshmallow ice cream... and we ate up the whole liter o
November 11 Thursday
We made our own filter coffee with hot water from the dispenser in the
hall and ate some of the walnut topped and coffee-filled pastries that we had
bought last night when we got our Goo-Goo ice cream.
Also last night, a woman who spoke good English had addressed us as we
made our way to the restaurant; I took the opportunity to ask her what bus we
should take to go downtown to the Oriental medicine market. But, this morning,
on the bus #427 that she recommended, we had an uncommunicative driver so we
had to pour over our only and minimal map (the small one in our guidebook) and
try to match its features with the bus's turns and its crossing a river. A
woman on the bus indicated we should get down at Towel Street, which indeed had
shops selling mountains of towels.
We walked many twists, turns and even backtracked before we found a
street of shops displaying Oriental herbs - ginseng root in golden or in red
wine, various types of fungus, deer horn and many more substances we could not
even guess. It was fascinating to see and to make photos of the multitude of
shapes, colors, and especially the colored wine lit through with sunlight.
Most shopkeepers went about their own business, but one youngish man
invited us in and showed us the tailbone of a deer (a smooth, black, concave
arrow shape), dried seahorses, and various other medicines. He gave us each a
red berry that has 5 different tastes – I could taste pepper, citrus and
sweet. He offered and gave us tea that is supposed to relieve fatigue. We asked
about some thorny stems and he indicated they were from cactus and were for
knee problems, so I asked to buy some; he wrapped up two 4 inch twigs as a gift
to us. He supplemented that with a package of fragrance, also a gift. Mary took
out money, determined to buy some of the fatigue relieving medicine, but he
made us a gift of even that. Overwhelmed, we each took out our name cards to
give him: I wrote on mine that, if he ever visits the United States, I hoped he
would visit me. His English was only slightly better than our Korean but he had
a ipod with translation from Korean to English so was able to show us what a
number of the medicines were, and also to communicate that he was born 2
storeys above the shop which his father and grandfather had run before him.
Leaving with many thanks, we finally found the Museum of Korean Oriental
medicine, a two storey spacious building set in a garden, whose interior had
displays, interactive media where you could find out which of 4 body types you
are, and videos telling in story form about people discovering the healing
properties of various medicines. You chose from the menu English, Japanese,
Chinese or Korean. A very detailed audio tape introduced us to the history and
explained how Oriental medicine is based on duality – yin and yang, cold and
hot, night and day, and on restoring the balance in the body as a whole rather
than just treating a specific part of the anatomy as western medicine does.
Balance is important also in the harmony and the antagonism of the elements
fire, water, wood, earth, metal, each with its own color.
When we left at 2pm, I was ravenous; the young woman at the info booth
guided us around the corner to a restaurant connected to the museum where we
sat on cushions on an ondol (heated floor) and ate ginseng chicken with rice
soup and, for dessert, savored ginseng tea sweetened with honey. Especially in
the chicken, whose skin was blackened yet soft, the ginseng had a bitterness
that may be, like coffee and beer, an acquired taste. As we left,the woman who
had made and served our meal offered us coffee to go, made directly from a
dispensing machine, it was the only coffee we've had in Korea, except
Starbucks', that has been strong and flavorful enough for Mary and me to enjoy.
We made our way along Jewelery Street to Seomun Market, which is a huge city
block of many small laneways crowded with shops selling everything – shoes,
socks, clothing, costume jewelery, everything. Stalls were slipped in sideways
- cooking and serving broth, intestines on skewers, noodles floating in soup.
Within the warren of lanes is a multistorey building equally or more crowded
with shops selling silks, beautiful traditional Korean wedding dresses in every
color, shoes in traditional style for weddings, pairs of carved ducks to give
as wedding gifts, funky fashionable modern women's clothing, especially tops,
vests and jackets ... no wonder the young women we see are so stylish! Mary and
I got talking with a man selling colorful fabric foot-covers that extend part
way up the calf; he was eager for us to try them on and to tell us about them,
despite our sparse common language,.... but we found him not receptive to
bargaining. Eventually we did buy 6 pairs, not nearly as heavy to carry home as
gifts as is the package of oriental herbs (turned out to include 8 packages of
soy-like liquid) that we were given earlier today.
We found the stairway to the top floor lined with vendors of food and
drink, and that the exit on the top floor goes to the outside where two men sat
playing mahjong under a pale skyline and hazy pink sun. Trying to head home to
our “love hotel,†we found the market became more colorful as lights came
on and darkness fell. Finding a subway entrance, we ducked in out of the
beginning rain and rode to the closest station to our hotel - from which it was
still a long walk. But we emerged into a downpour, fierce wind scattering the
pedestrians. It took much pondering, as well as deliberation between us, and
several descents into the subway only to again come up a stairway that proved
not to be what we wanted... before Mary asked a man unlocking a bike which way
was “nam†or south, and I asked someone which way was the Home Plus store,
as I knew we could find our way from there. It then took another descent into
the subway to get on the correct corner of the huge intersection. Finally we
walked past the Grand Hotel, whose location on our map showed we were headed
home.
Finally we reached Home Plus and, in its food court, we chose from
plastic displays, me a Japanese cutlet supper and Mary a Greek omelet stuffed
with rice --- both accompanied with rice. Mary packed faster than I've seen
anyone and we headed out to the bus stop for #814 as she is headed by train for
Ulsan where she and Jennifer will have most of tomorrow just the two of them.
Korean Farm Visit
November 12 - Taegu, South
Korea
November 12 Friday
Waking up before 7am, I packed and dragged my suitcase down the 3
flights of stairs. It is considerably heavier now that it contains 7 packages
of Korean herbal medicine, 7 of them liquid. Mostly through acting it out, I
conveyed my request that the hotel keep my luggage and I would return at 19:00.
Once the perplexed look on the face of the attendant disappeared and he took my
suitcase to the nearby closet, I headed out for bus #814. Even though the bus
was rush hour crowded, I felt good about knowing how to get where I wanted to
go.
At DongDaegu train station, I bought my ticket for Ulsan for this
evening, bought a pastry decorated with egg and hot dog slices, and went
outside to find the city bus tour. The small office was staffed with a young
woman who spoke almost as little English as I speak Korean, so we communicated
via my very limited Japanese, my even translating for some Israelis who arrived
to buy tickets. When I asked her if I could sit and eat my breakfast pastry, she
quickly offered me coffee which she made from hot water from the hot/cold
dispenser and I had a relaxed wait for the 10am bus. This bus headed north out
of the city to the mountain Palgonsan which rises a jagged ridge above autumn
hills and under azure sky. I got off at the Guam farm where I was greeted by
three culture guides in dark uniforms. I returned their greeting but continued
walking looking for the ticket booth. One followed me and told me his English
name is Ken. He showed me the workshop for braiding hemp into rope and for
making it into baskets, mats and all sorts of traditional items, including back
packs used by farmers of old.
He showed me the room where fabric is dyed a pale orange earth color,
and made into garments. Then the lunch room where classes of schoolchildren get
to taste traditional foods like the freshly made rice patties turned out and
dusted with a pale brown flour by women cooks. Ken and I each ate several
pieces and, while not having a lot of flavor, they were soft and chewy, unlike
the rice paste items from the “lunch†the Korean man had bought Mary and me
in the Seoul subway (which we ate until the last pieces, several days later,
were too hard to be food and we used them, on the train from Suwon to Daegu, as
spoons to eat our yoghurt.
An elementary class had piled on a wagon and Ken had us join them for a
trip around the small roads to see farm workers assembling a greenhouse from
the metal hoops and the huge sheets of transparent plastic film. Excited boys
jumped up and down testing their balance as the wagon turned around corners;
girls in pairs obviously were best friends; all shouted enthusiastic greetings
to the farm workers.
Returning to the workshop area, we found a class of kindergarten
children being helped by their teachers to try on the traditional backpacks.
The teachers would also lift each kid up to stand on one end of the rice
pounder and experience how the other end pounds rice kernels into flour On the
way out, Ken showed me the small traditional wedding room. The bed was a futon
on the floor, the walls were covered with inscriptions, and bright colored silk
attire hung nearby.I was amazed that there was no ticket to buy and Ken asked
for no money. After warm thanks and goodbyes, I walked out to the highway. Some
6 city tour buses head out from 10am to 16:40 and stop at 7 different sites
where you can get off and then get on a later bus. In the bus, a large screen
tv shows the sites of “colorful Daegu.â€
Mountain Temples outside
Daegu
November 13 - Taegu, South
Korea
I next got off at Gatwabi temple, together with a young Korean woman,
who turned out to be a “salaryman†on vacation from her work in a trading
company in Seoul. She is traveling around her country for a month. I knew the
famous Buddha statue was a 2 kilometers hike away, but, if I had known that we
would climb 800 meters elevation gain, I might have stopped at one of the
intermediate temples. My companion got winded even before me. Stopping to rest,
she pulled out a brick of rice cake studded with red beans and offered me some.
I brought out my sweet walnut pastry and offered her some but she told me “I
don't like breadâ€. Stripping off my fleece and turtleneck, I was happy to
hike in my sleeveless dance shirt. But diminutive Asian women in padded jackets
continually passed us heading down and marveled to my companion and me that I
“very strong†if I wasn't cold. Some 50 feet before we finally reached the
top, the chanting reached our ears. Then we came around a rock outcrop onto a
plateau where dozens of people were praying to the huge stone Buddha, many
performing what looked like salutations to the sun, rising and kneeling, while
some were chanting, some fingering rosary beads. Between the worshipers and the
Buddha was a long glass case where people knelt to light candles and incense;
and also stalls where women were preparing and handing out something that
looked like small slabs of spare ribs. When I approached, one of them beckoned
me over and gave me some of the “spare ribsâ€which turned out to be freshly
made rice paste bars covered with red bean flour and crumbs. Still warm, it
became my gratefully eaten lunch and I understood at a “gut†level why my
companion prefers it to the easily crushed soft sweet breads available here in
Korea.
My companion told me the worshipers come and pray for the success of
their children in Korean civil service exams. When I asked whether it was only
the mothers who did so, she replied in amazement at my question, that the
“fathers are working and don't have the time.â€We'd abandoned any attempt to
descend for the bus we'd planned to take and, in fact, had to hurry to even
have a chance of getting the next bus. Even so, it took us 50 minutes to
descend, and near the end we had to run, barely making it to the bus before it
left.
She got off at the stop for the museum while I rode to Dongwasa Temple,
a huge complex of temple buildings spread over an area, ascending and
descending the mountain. There were buildings being used by the gray-clad
monks, buildings under construction, recently-painted buildings with vivid red,
green, yellow, and blue intricate patterns and paintings. Dusk had softened the
brilliant hues of red and gold maple trees by the time I found the 33 metre
high Buddha.
Evening rush hour made the 1 ½ hour bus ride back into the city of
Daegu a slow crawl. Eventually reaching the train station, I waited with many
other pedestrians for the traffic lights finally to change so I could run
across the 8 lane thoroughfare. The #814 bus I could see in the distance had
pulled away from the stop by the time I reached it and would not stop for me so
I waited for the next, only to find it was headed in the direction opposite
from Rozan hotel! Exasperatingly, I had to retrace my steps back across the
thoroughfare for a bus headed south to Beomeo district.
After a quick shrimp fried rice in the Home Plus food court, and
retrieving my luggage, I caught a north-bound 814 bus for the train station
arriving in plenty of time...but finding it nerve-racking sitting still waiting
at 8:35 before being allowed to head for the train which would be leaving at
8:40. As soon as the track number is posted, people flood down the stairs and
along the track platform; I had a considerable hike to the boarding place for
car #14. Finding a woman in my seat, 12A, studiously ignoring me and realizing
she and the woman next to her would both be disrupted if I insisted on my
assigned seat, I was fortunate to find a double seat vacant before the train
picked up speed to some 300 km/hour. It hurtled through the night, getting me
to Ulsan in 24 minutes, a journey that would have taken 2 hours by bus.
What a pleasure to see Mary, Jennifer and Dennis all tall individuals
who stood out in the crowd of people meeting passengers!
Rest and Recovery with Jenn
and Den
November 14 - Ulsan, South
Korea
November 13 Saturday
My legs are sore and crippled from yesterday, especially from the climb
up Gatbawi. What could be better than a decadent morning starting with my
making Green Mountain coffee for everyone! Jenn made us bacon and eggs, I
laundered clothes, even my photo jacket.
Almost noon when we drove north through dense traffic heading for
Gyeongu and the ancient temple complex Bulgoksa, a UNESCO world heritage site.
Vivid autumn foliage had attracted crowds of families and everywhere cameras
focussed on groups of family, and friends, the Koreans being photograhed always
making the V for “victory†sign. Beautiful children, fashionably chic
adolescents even with platinum or bright red hair. Lovely ponds, curved
bridges, even the toilet houses had traditional temple tiled roofs!
So did the nearby town's restaurants where we had a late lunch of rice,
vegetables and meat in a hot pot that kept everything hot until the last bite.
Next door, in the souvenir shop, Mary bought a pair of wedding ducks like the
mandarin ducks we'd seen in a pond at the palace garden in Seoul. When I picked
up a package of sticks with cribbage like holes, a Korean woman with good English
explained the traditional game yut-nori that is played with them.
Evening we headed for Ulsan's harbor where we chose a simple-looking
restaurant with tanks of crab outside. One tank held pinkish crabs about 10
inches across. Another held crabs at least 2 feet across and costing $200.
Eager to sell us one of the giants, the Korean employee hooked one and lifted
it up into the air to let us see the mouth parts working and the long legs.
Plopped upside down on the scales, the huge creature could only wave its legs
feebly. It was a surreal and sad experience watching these fascinating and very
alive but doomed creatures that we were about to eat.
We were shown to a small cabin, the size of a child's playhouse, with
walls covered with pink, rose-patterned wallpaper. Sitting on cushions as the
floor heated beneath us, we drank beer and ate from the many appetizer and side
dishes – abalone, snails, a white fish, seaweed, kimchi, small white sweet
potatoes. The main attraction, a platter of four crabs, arrived with a Korean
woman who showed us how to use scissors to cut the shell and how to suck out
the meat... which was delicate and sweet. We left a table littered with debris
and took the four small beautiful abalone shells with us.
November 14 Sunday
Breakfast of bagels, peanut butter, jam and marmalade! Jen, Den, Mary
and I, together with their Boston terrier-Pug, Arnold, hiked from their complex
of apartment buildings, past small garden plots growing cabbage and huge green
radishes that were popping out of the ground, and up the nearby hill. We passed
oak and pine, beautifully-tassled grasses, and the web of a 2 ½ inch,
vibrantly striped spider.In the afternoon Jenn and Den went to the Korean
wedding of Den's colleague. It was one of some 10 going on in a wedding palace
that provides hair salons, dress shops and an overflow area in the open space
in the center of the various wedding rooms so that extra guests can mingle and
create an excessive amount of noise. Mary and I had the luxury of staying in
the apartment, taking it easy, except for throwing the ball dozens of times for
Arnold to retrieve. When Jenn and Den returned, the coffee table became the
site of a Korean game, in which you build a tower then take turns removing a
lower piece and adding it to the top. Eventually the tower is so high and so
full of holes that it collapses.
Jennifer made us a delicious dinner of pineapple glazed pork tenderloin,
together with the basmati rice that is expensive and difficult to buy in Korea.
For dessert, ice cream sandwiches in the shape of sea bream, the fish that is
much prized at restaurants.
Hydrofoil back to Japan
November 14 - Pusan, South
Korea
November 15 Monday
Suitcases packed, we headed out to the main thoroughfare for a taxi,
Jenn and Arnold continuing for a walk. Taxi to bus station, intercity bus to
Busan, an hour away, subway train to the fish market, another hour. We knew we
had only 15 minutes for a brief glimpse of the amazing variety of creatures at
the fish market, the boats unloading in the harbor... but an intense 15 minutes
was better than missing it...plus we got a taxi direct to the very door of the
nearby Ferry terminal. There we again went through bureaucratic procedures,
including buying the inevitable departure tax. The hydrofoil took us swifty
across blue water, past islands as we again heard Japanese spoken on the
intercom and amongst passengers.
Landing in Fukuoka, we now knew to take bus 88 to the train station and
how to walk back to the Khaosan hostel. In a convenience store en route, I
bought packages of udon noodles in soup, a large beer for us to share, and milk
for tomorrow's coffee. So, at the hostel, Mary and I went to the common kitchen
on the third floor, added boiling water and enjoyed our supper talking with a
policeman from Paris, a dark-haired young woman from the Netherlands, and an
athletic young man from Slovenia who wants to go to Canada and ski at Whistler.
Sumo tournament
November 17 - Hakata, Japan
November 18 Thursday
Both Mary and I experienced the tops of our feet itching after the mud
bath last night. She washed her hair before going to bed and some of the mud
particles also may have got into her eyes, stinging them with irritation like
chlorine water does. I woke in the night and finally at 5am with toothache and
with itching over much of my body. Tiny angry red spots (pitchae roseata?) over
almost all of my chest and belly, around my waist and back, down the insides of
my legs making a red battlefield of allergy. Raised welts on the back of my
neck.
Mary and I packed up, had a final coffee and Croque Monsieur at Gratie,
amidst the Jazzy Christmas music of our favorite Asian bakery. We did photos
outside our Khaosan Fukuoka hostel against the poster wall, various
combinations of Mary, me, and the Japanese man working there who had helped us
with information about Fukuoka and helped us search for future hostel
reservations .With thanks and farewell, we headed off with our luggage to
Hakata station to park our luggage in the big 500 yen ($6) lockers,
Mary had been anticipating getting to the "100" yen store,
which is like a dollar store in North America. Strangely, it was almost hidden
away on the 4th floor of the bus terminal, spread out like a department store,
all items 105 yen unless otherwise marked (just as "dollar" stores in
Canada apparently now charge $1.25 for most items). Mary bought some kids'
glasses with mirrors to experiment using as rear view mirrors for a bicycle
(they looked truly futuristic on her face), terry-covered toilet seat covers
and various other fun items. I found some sunglasses with untinted lenses, set
of tiny magnifiers like Barb Hines carries for inspecting tiny flowers and
fungus. Mary and I would set a time to meet; 2 or 3 times we met up and then
would set a new time, making additional rounds of the store finding more
treasures that we hadn't noticed before.
I was seriously fading when we finally escaped and got ourselves to the
8th floor of the bus terminal where all the restaurants were. Too tired and
hungry to deliberate, we went for the chicken cutlet that had caught my eye
displayed in plastic outside in the window. In that restaurant, we were, at
first, the only ones sitting in the Japanese tatami mat section where my legs,
aching from so long standing in the store, were grateful to be tucked up under
me as I sat on the floor . Approaching being too hungry to function, I felt
nothing could be so delicous as the chicken cutlet, especially with the miso
soup, sticky rice and various condiments.
All too soon it was time to hurry to the Kokusai where from 3pm the
higher ranking sumo wrestlers would be contending. The taxi dropped us into a
scene of excitement; a traditionally dressed massive sumo athlete crossing the
busy thoroughfare in front of the stadium, together with us, when traffic
lights allowed us to do so. Colored flags flapped above the stadium, groups of
businessmen arrived enthusiastically eager for entry. Inside the building the
carnival of food and souvenir vendors surrounded the auditorium, inside which
corridors like spokes led to the central ring, aisles radiating out from the
raised circular stage which is apparently built of rice hemp embedded in clay.
We learned to place our shoes, jackets and bags in the storage area under the
trap door above which was a square of carpet. We sat cross-legged on cushions
placed on the carpet. We watched a procession of competitors parade in, each
wearing an embroidered apron of rich silk and ornate decoration, each with his
hair in the style that imitates a gingko leaf and also helps to protect the
competitor's head in the case of a fall. Each bout was preceded by a proclaimer
in traditional costume who announced in a voice chanting or singing in a style
that reminded me of No theatre. Then a more elaborately gowned MC announced
with dramatic gestures of his fan... and the two huge sumo athletes would mount
the stage. They bowed to the black-clad elders (sitting on cushions on the
ground in front of each side of the stage - north, south, east and west), and to
the official MC. They then faced each other and lowered their huge bodies into
squats, then would spring into standing on one leg, the other leg high in the
air, demonstrating their athleticism, despite their huge size. After that, they
would face each other, squat and stare with such intensity until one would turn
away and stride with dignity to his corner, and accept, from a minion, a face
cloth to wipe the sweat away or a dipper of water to drink. Each would scoop up
a handful of salt and throw it in a ritual purification of the ring, then they
would resume facing and string. Suddenly the giants would spring at each other,
grappling until one stepped or fell out of the ring, or let any part of his
body touch the ground. Both would bow to each other, then the loser would leave
and the victor receive an official envelope laid on the black fan of the MC who
would offer it to the victor.
Once again, a fast taxi trip to the station, where we bought beer and
bento boxes on the platform as we waited for the Hikari, the bullet train,
whose long white nose is streamlined to allow speeds of 300 kilometers per
hour. Its speed was evident from how quickly it carried us from the southern
island of Kyushu half way up the main island of Honshu to the central city of
Kyoto.
Here, we are staying in a new Khaosan hostel, 5 floors with our tiny
twin room filled mostly with the bunk beds, but with a luxurious lounge and
kitchen where young people from all over the world cook, eat and talk. A young
German is traveling with her two Japanese women friends, all from Keio
University in Tokyo. An Australian traveling alone talks with Mary; she has a
bad cold and I give her my night-time cold medicine which I've been fortunate
not to need.
Nagasaki's simple, elegance
evocation for Peace
November 17 - Nagasaki,
Japan
November 17 Wednesday
Another 2 hour train trip begins our day trip to Nagasaki. Our Japan
Rail Passes let us board trains without standing in lines for tickets, to
travel freely without evaluating the cost of specific trips, and to return to
our Fukuoka hostel in the evening so we don't have to pack up each day and
move. In the shopping arcade attached to Nagasaki station, we bought, for our
lunch, bento boxes of cold rice and various delicacies that make even the cold meal
an adventure. At the Atomic Bomb Museum and the National Peace Memorial for the
Atomic Bomb Victims, we learned the history leading up to the destruction of
Nagasaki. From the entrance of the museum, we first experienced the people of
Nagasaki before the bombing, through photos and memoirs... making the tragedy
specific to individuals and families. Then we saw the consequences - horrible
burns, shadows of people and trees burned into buildings, a rosary melted into
a blob of glass, the diary of a survivor remembering two young girls laid out
beautiful in death in their special kimonos and light makeup. The Peace
Memorial is a place of simple beauty and elegance, the names of the over
150,000 victims inscribed in volumes that are stored in a tall column, in a
high-ceilinged hall with 12 tall skylight columns. On the roof above is a pool
quiet with the evening sky above it and the 150,000 tiny lights, one
representing each victim, emerging as darkness settles in.
We caught a bus back toward the station but actually rode further than
Nagasaki Station, wanting to see the Spectacle Bridge, a two-lobed arch over
the smaller of the two rivers. We walked along the river's lovely traditional
scene, with so many arched bridges, people crossing each bridge in both directions,
herons fishing below in the shallow water.
Trying to make our way back to the station, we first followed a quiet
road past old temples, then found ourselves in a very chic covered arcade of
shops and trendy restaurants. A brisk half hour walk brought us into oversize
urban architecture and finally to an arcade where we quickly bought 2 bento box
for our supper, 2 beer, and Mary grabbed what she assumed were yoghurts for our
dessert (turned out to be fruit drinks, which I enjoyed greatly). After our
"cocktail hour" on the train, Hamilton could well have asked his
usual question of was I drunk yet.... tired and relaxed, I found the alcohol
went right to my head. Mary and I talked, we ate and, when the train spewed us
out at Hakata station, we amazingly walked the kilometer to our Khaosan Fukuoka
hostel with some vigor.
Nagasaki's simple, elegance
evocation for Peace
November 18 - Nagasaki,
Japan
November 17 Wednesday
Another 2 hour train trip begins our day trip to Nagasaki.Our Japan Rail
Passes let us board trains without standing in lines for tickets, to travel
freely without evaluating the cost of specific trips, and to return to our
Fukuoka hostel in the evening so we don't have to pack up each day and move.
In the shopping arcade attached to Nagasaki station,we bought, for our
lunch, bento boxes of cold rice and various delicacies that make even the cold
meal an adventure.At the Atomic Bomb Museum and the National Peace Memorial for
the Atomic Bomb Victims, we learned the history leading up to the destruction
of Nagasaki. From the entrance of the museum, we first experienced the people
of Nagasaki before the bombing, through photos and memoirs... making the
tragedy specific to individuals and families. Then we saw the consequences -
horrible burns, shadows of people and trees burned into buildings, a rosary
melted into a blob of glass, the diary of a survivor remembering two young
girls laid out beautiful in death in their special kimonos and light makeup.
The Peace Memorial is a place of simple beauty and elegance, the names
of the over 150,000 victims inscribed in volumes that are stored in a tall
column, in a high-ceilinged hall with 12 tall skylight columns. On the roof
above is a pool quiet with the evening sky above it and the 150,000 tiny
lights, one representing each victim, emerging as darkness settles in.
We caught a bus back toward the station but actually rode further than
Nagasaki Station, wanting to see the Spectacle Bridge, a two-lobed arch over
the smaller of the two rivers. We walked along the river's lovely traditional
scene, with so many arched bridges, people crossing each bridge in both
directions, herons fishing below in the shallow water.
Trying to make our way back to the station, we first followed a quiet
road past old temples, then found ourselves in a very chic covered arcade of
shops and trendy restaurants. A brisk half hour walk brought us into
oversize urban architecture and finally to an arcade where we quickly bought 2
bento box for our supper, 2 beer, and Mary grabbed what she assumed were
yoghurts for our dessert. After our "cocktail hour" on the train,
Hamilton could well have asked his usual question of was I drunk yet.... orna
on train to Nagasaki tired and relaxed, I found the alcohol went right to my
head.Mary on train to Nagasaki Mary and I talked, we ate and, when the train
spewed us out at Hakata station, we amazingly walked the kilometer to our
Khaosan Fukuoka hostel with some vigor.
Side Trip to Nara
November 20 - Kyoto, Japan
November 20 Saturday
Kyoto - Toothache and itches woke me before dawn. Going down to the
kitchen, I discovered it was before 6am. The only two people in the lounge were
at the computers. Another man appeared to be crashing, sleeping on the floor at
the back and side of the TV (probably couldn't get a bed, as Mary and I found
everything booked for the coming Saturday). When Mary came down, we had a
"mikan" (Japanese orange) and the two persimmons, using part of the spreadably
soft fruit as jam on our remaining French bread left from yesterday. The
Australian woman to whom I'd given the night-time cold medication told Mary
that had helped alot.
I asked Mary if she'd rather stay and explore more of Kyoto possibly by
bike, but she has never been to Nara, so we are off by train for a day trip
there. After waking so early with toothache and itch, I slept much of the way
there and part way back to Kyoto, reviving me. Arriving in Nara eager for
coffee, as well as hungry, we were disgorged into the strip in front of the
train station, where we spotted a McDonald's. Mary had a chicken carbonara on a
bun, I had a McD terayaki. These fueled us for the afternoon, although it was
probably the least satisfying meal I've had in Japan, and probably a crime
against Japanese tradition to have McDonald's in the ancient capital of Nara.
We walked up the commercial drag Nobori-Oji to the deer park, Nara-koen,
which is home to some 1200 deer. In pre-Buddhist times, they were considered
messengers of the gods and now are “National Treasures.†Although
white-tailed, they have caribou-like faces. Vendors sold shika-sembei (deer
biscuits) which people feed to the deer. The most fun was watching children
delighting in running after the deer and trying to feed or pet them. The most
painful was watching terrified children screaming in hysterics while parents
laughed or filmed them, surprising especially because we see parents here
normally so loving towards their children.
Within the forested park, crowded with families enjoying and
photographing each other amongst the gorgeous autumn foliage, we visited the
3-storey and 5-storey pagodas, dating from 1143 and 1426. Then we walked around
the other temple buildings of Kofuji temple and on to enter the enormous gate
Naidai-mon of Todaiji temple which houses the Daibutsu (Great Buddha). Fierce
Nio guardians, carved in the 13th century, are huge ferocious protectors
standing on either side of the gate. Continuing uphill, we came to an open
plaza surrounded by temple buildings. We climbed the stone steps to the veranda
of Nigatsu-do temple to look out over temple roofs and down to Nara city, then
walked around all four sides of that temple admiring the huge globular lanterns
hanging from the eaves. Then, running out of time if we were going to make our
train, we had to speed up, descending past Sansangatsu temple down several
staircases, past the hill Wakakusa-yama miya-jinja of startlingly bare grassy
slopes to Kasuga Taisha (Shrine)'s strikingly orange structures. Downhill
through Ni-no-Torii gate then Ichi-no-Torii and eventually leaving the
beautiful park for a busy intersection, we grabbed a taxi and sped for the
train station.
We'd agreed to take a taxi from Kyoto station to Khaosan Kyoto, ask the driver
to wait while we picked up our luggage, so that we could have a chance of
making the 17:05 train. Despite this extravagance, rush hour traffic made it
apparent well before we reached the station that we would miss our train... so
we had to accept that and be ready to make a new plan once we reached the
station. Mary photographed bicycles and other vehicles from the taxi windows,
trying to catch one moving at the same speed as we were, with motion blur
behind.
At the station, we found a railway information office, where a uniformed
employee looked up the next set of trains that would get us from Kyoto to
Shizuoka city on the Shinkansen bullet train, transfer to the local Kodama to
travel to Atami, and transfer again to the Ito line. With Mary on the platform
with our luggage, I went to forage for beer and supper, coming back with bento
boxes and a can each of Kirin and Asahi beer. On the train, we admired and then
unwrapped the pink tissue paper from our boxed suppers, opened the lid and
admired the colorful and artistic arrangement of delicacies for our supper –
shrimp and tuna sushi, a slice of egg, a bed of sticky rice, and slice of
ginger.
When the third train we rode that evening disgorged us at Ito's small
station, we had trouble finding the exit. Once outside, we found the streets
almost completely quiet and empty of people. One stylish young woman was coming
towards us so I checked with her whether we were on the right street for our
ryokan. She genuinely seemed to want to walk with us the 10 minutes to get
there, excited to hear we were from Canada as she hopes to go there once she
has learned enough English. Vancouver is the magnet, known by most Japanese to
whom we tell we are Canadian... as they have watched the recent Olympics.
K's House on a quiet street beside the river is the first ryokan we've
stayed in on our trip. A beautiful 100-year-old traditional house with alcoves
of garden, lovely art arrangements. Up the wooden stairs to our tatami-mat room
on the 4th floor where we opened the sliding door and gazed out through pine
trees to the river below. Mary and I descended to the beautiful pristine
"o-furo" bath.and sat on stools to wash ourselves clean before we
climbed into the bath which ran the length of the room, and which we had all to
ourselves. After relaxing in the hot water and robing ourselves in fresh cotton
yukata, we luxuriated (and photographed each other) in the beautiful but simple
ryokan room of tatami mats neatly woven, mattresses, sheets, pillows and fluffy
coverlet piled for us to make our beds.
Tokyo with Kyle and Yoshiko
November 21 - Tokyo, Japan
November 21 Sunday
I wandered around the lovely ryokan early admiring the art, tasteful
simplicity, in the alcoves.
A young woman approached Mary and me. She is from Tokyo, wants to be a
singer. She showed us where we could access her on Facebook and we gave her our
email addresses. Mary commented later how welcoming it is to be greeted
enthusiastically by a stranger who wants to be friends.
Mary and I walked out to the river and crossed the bridge to where we
could look back at our ryokan, workmen cutting pine branches several storeys
up, right outside our window.
The result of our making images of this beauty was that we had to run
down the street to catch the second of the two trains that would get us to
tokyo, we thought, in time to meet Kyle.
Breathless and sweaty, we collapsed into seats but soon leaped up at the
lovely sight of Mt Fuju, blue and perfect pyramid with a band of white snow or
cloud across its middle.
The train took longer to reach Tokyo than we'd been told, but I happened
to hear the address system mention Yamanote line so we were able to transfer
before reaching Tokyo station, the busiest (most people) of any station in the
world. (I had trouble grasping, hearing and learning any Korean beyond helloâ€
and “thank you†but I listen to announcements and to conversations around
me and feel like a toddler just beginning to grasp the language.)
The usual confusionof streets in a new neighorhood, Ikebukuro, before we
find Kimi Ryokan. strange and magical to see Kyle come through the entrance
curtain and hug us. kyle took us to harajuku where crowds of trendy young
people and chic stalls and shops. Then tokyo's Fifth Avenue (Meiji-dori) with
upscale elegance. Suddenly we escaped into a quiet parki and temple. circling
the grden we came upon two wedding parties, both brides respendent in white
gowns.
Having missed lunch, we bought steamed buns with minced meat, curry or
pizza taste inside. Taxi to supermarket where I had a sample – taste of
minature delicious mushrooms – and Kyle bought lettuce and tomatoes.
Kyle and Yoshiko live in Nakameguro in a area where buildings are
restricted to 4 storeys. entering through clean parking garae and concrete
hallways, we rode the elevator up 7 storeys, possible because their building is
on a hill, 4 storeys one side, 7 the other providing a marvelous view over the
city, especially fro the balcony where they grow lemons, oranges and other
fruit. Yoshiko welcomed us. the cats, however, were dubious; a handsome slender
Brumese, a tiger striped, and a lepard-spotted with huge golden eyes, they
esconced themselves on ledges like living works of art, displayed beside the
other art, either elegant or cute.
We sat at the counter drinking champane and eating appetizers – bacon
wrapped around prine, prosciutto around shrimp. Kyle donned his executive Chef
jacket and began cooking the chicken with shigo, a distinct and invitingly
definite taste for our leisurely dining with the lights and night of toyko
spread below us.
Kyle walked with us to Shinjuku Station and we saw shinjuku Crossing,
when traffic lights let al pedestrians cross in any direction, including
diagonally. Lights in every color, illuminated pisplays storeys high – the
pizaazz rivals Times Square.
Mud Bath and Hells of Beppu
November 16 - Beppu, Japan
November 15 Monday
Suitcases packed, we headed out to the main thoroughfare for a taxi,
Jenn and Arnold continuing for a walk. Taxi to bus station, intercity bus to
Busan, an hour away, subway train to the fish market, another hour. We knew we
had only 15 minutes for a brief glimpse of the amazing variety of creatures at
the fish market, the boats unloading in the harbor... but an intense 15 minutes
was better than missing it...plus we got a taxi direct to the very door of the
nearby Ferry terminal. There we again went through bureaucratic procedures,
including buying the inevitable departure tax. The hydrofoil took us swiftly
across blue water, past islands as we again heard Japanese spoken on the
intercom and amongst passengers.
Landing in Fukuoka, we now knew to take bus 88 to the train station and
how to walk back to the Khaosan hostel. In a convenience store en route, I
bought packages of udon noodles in soup, a large beer for us to share, and milk
for tomorrow's coffee. So, at the hostel, Mary and I went to the common kitchen
on the third floor, added boiling water and enjoyed our supper talking with a
policeman from Paris, a dark-haired young woman from the Netherlands, and an
athletic young man from Slovenia who wants to go to Canada and ski at Whistler.
From Nara's deer park to
Ito's O-furo
November 20 - Ito, Japan
November 20 Saturday
Kyoto - Toothache and itches woke me before dawn. Going down to the
kitchen, I discovered it was before 6am. The only two people in the lounge were
at the computers. Another man appeared to be crashing, sleeping on the floor at
the back and side of the TV (probably couldn't get a bed, as Mary and I found
everything booked for the coming Saturday). When Mary came down, we had a
"mikan" (Japanese orange) and the two persimmons, using part of the
spreadably soft fruit as jam on our remaining French bread left from yesterday.
The Australian woman to whom I'd given the night-time cold medication told Mary
that had helped alot.
I asked Mary if she'd rather stay and explore more of Kyoto possibly by
bike, but she has never been to Nara, so we are off by train for a day trip
there. After waking so early with toothache and itch, I slept much of the way
there and part way back to Kyoto, reviving me. Arriving in Nara eager for
coffee, as well as hungry, we were disgorged into the strip in front of the
train station, where we spotted a McDonald's. Mary wisely suggested that we eat
as well as caffeinate. She had a chicken carbonara on a bun, I had a McD
terayaki which fueled us although it was the least satisfying meal I've had in
Japan, and probably a crime against Japanese tradition to have in the ancient
capital of Nara.
We walked up the commercial drag Nobori-Oji to the deer park, Nara-koen,
which is home to some 1200 deer. In pre-Buddhist times, they were considered
messengers of the gods and now are “National Treasures.†Although
white-tailed, they have caribou-like faces. Vendors sold shika-sembei (deer
biscuits) which people fed to the deer. The most fun was watching children
delighting in running after the deer and trying to feed or pet them. The most
painful was watching terrified children screaming in hysterics while parents
laughed or filmed them, surprising especially because we see parents here
normally so loving towards their children.
Within the forested park, crowded with families enjoying and
photographing each other amongst the gorgeous autumn foliage, we visited the
3-storey and 5-storey pagodas, dating from 1143 and 1426. Then we walked around
the other temple buildings of Kofuji temple and on to enter the enormous gate
Naidai-mon of Todaiji temple which houses the Daibutsu (Great Buddha). Fierce
Nio guardians, carved in the 13th century, are huge ferocious protectors
standing on either side of the gate. Continuing uphill, we came to an open
plaza surrounded by temple buildings. We climbed the stone steps to the veranda
of Nigatsu-do temple to look out over temple roofs and down to Nara city, then
walked around all four sides of that temple admiring the huge globular lanterns
hanging from the eaves. Then, running out of time if we were going to make our
train, we had to speed up, descending past Sansangatsu temple down several
staircases, past the hill Wakakusa-yama miya-jinja of startlingly bare grassy
slopes to Kasuga Taisha (Shrine)'s strikingly orange structures. Downhill
through Ni-no-Torii gate then Ichi-no-Torii and eventually leaving the beautful
park for a busy intersection, we grabbed a taxi and sped for the train station.
We'd agreed to take a taxi from Kyoto station to Khaosan Kyoto, ask the
driver to wait while we picked up our luggage, so that we could have a chance
of making the 17:05 train. Despite this extravagance, rush hour traffic made it
apparent well before we reached the station that we would miss our train... so
I had to accept that and be ready to make a new plan once we reached the
station. Mary photographed bicycles and other vehicles from the taxi windows,
trying to catch one moving at the same speed as we were, with motion blur
behind.
At the station, we found a railway information office, where a uniformed
employee looked up the next set of trains that would get us from Kyoto to
Shizuoka city on the Shinkansen bullet train, transfer to the local Kodama to
travel to Atami, and transfer again to the Ito line. With Mary esconced on the
platform with our luggage, I went to forage for beer and supper, coming back
with bento boxes and a can each of Kirin and Asahi beer. On the train, we
admired and then unwrapped the pink tissue paper from our boxed suppers, opened
the lid and admired the colorful and artistic arrangement of delicacies for our
supper – shrimp and tuna sushi, a slice of egg, a bed of sticky rice, and
slice of ginger.
When the third train we rode that evening disgorged us at Ito's small
station, we had trouble finding the exit. Once outside, we found the streets
almost completely quiet and empty of people. One stylish young woman was coming
towards us so I checked with her whether we were on the right street for our
ryokan. She genuinely seemed to want to walk with us the 10 minutes to get
there, excited to hear we were from Canada as she hopes to go there once she
has learned enough English. Vancouver is the magnet, known by most Japanese to
whom we tell we are Canadian as they have watched the recent Olympics.
K's House on a quiet street beside the river is the first ryokan we've
stayed in on our trip. A beautiful 100-year-old traditional house with alcoves
of garden, lovely art arrangements. Up the wooden stairs to our tatami-mat room
on the 4th floor where we open the sliding door and gaze out through pine trees
to the river below. Mary and I descended to the beautiful pristine
"o-furo" bath.and sat on stools to wash ourselves clean before we
climbed into the bath which ran the length of the room, and which we had all to
ourselves. After relaxing in the hot water and robing ourselves in fresh cotton
yukata, we luxuriated (and photographed each other) in the beautiful but simple
ryokan room of tatami mats neatly woven, mattresses, sheets, pillows and fluffy
coverlet piled for us to make our beds
edit
No comments:
Post a Comment