In the belly of a whale

Sometime after the new year I sent the e-mail (see below) to a gaggle of Hiroshima friends, a former professor and myself:

Last year Disney promoted a campagin: "The Year of 1,000,000 Dreams". They offered up 1,000,000 incentives, at the cost of the company, to Disney guests. In the end this merely amounted to 900,000 free plastic cups for additional consumption of over-priced soda water, but I can't shake their intent. Accomplishments. Many of them. To be completed in a designated time. I can do that.

This is my new years resolution.

This is the point of the writing.

Here's what I propose: Hula's year of 52 adventures.

The idea is simple. There are 52 weeks in a year. I'm to complete 52 adventures in 2008. And I'd like your help in this effort.

Now I realize that many of my ideas hold steadfast and fade out (see: adventure mondays), but I've never fallen back on a resolution, and I write to make this work. Let this document lock testimony.

I'd like you to sign on, as well. What good are adventures if they can't be shared? So here's what I'm thinking:

We adventure like we'd never adventured before. Considering my poor financial state the adventures can be as simple and as frugal as jumping off a large stone structure in Kumano, and as elaborate as getting a tattoo. These are the things we often keep ourselves from doing. I've already completed two this year. One in Houston and the other on a San Antonio Ranch. I shot some guns. I hadn't realized my fear until I held the monster in my hands. So now, my Japan loves, what's next?

This weekend I'm up for adventure. Any and all of it. I'll start a spreadsheet to document my progress.

Adventures haven't been as timely as I initially called for, but can an adventure really be scheduled? That said, I have a few under my belt and many, most and a myriad to come. They are, as follows:

1. Crazy business in the Diamond City super mall near my apartment. Think big mall. Huge. Stadium style shops for days. It's actually something of a filthy eye-sore that I try to avoid as I don't need to accumulate anything more out here save intangible awesome fear factors that I can dutifully relay to you, my faithful blogdience. That said, I can not, in good conscience explain my actions. Know they were legal (I'm not a lifter) and perhaps the best way to start off the campaign.

2. Oyster consumption. Kaki, the word used when ordering here. Alex ordered me a lunch set of fried oyster and I squirmed and reconsidered too many times before taking one in, contemplating my palette and finally offering up an emphatic thumbs up. I ate them all. In turn, I also greedily devoured a raw one. That I could take or leave but I'm still oyster-full and ready to overcome my next great obstacle: sushi. CELEBRATE!

3. Japanese OBGYN. Now to most this is something less than an adventure and more of a questionable call to all things new. But that's a counter-argument only privy to those who haven't experienced the thrilling Sweeny-Todd type automated chair mechanism they mount you in. The doctor keep calling behind a veiled curtain, "Ittai, Ittai?" Translation: Does it hurt? Does it hurt? I had been both laughing and crying. As is the case with most fun-house rides.

4. Cue the tattoo. This is a difficult post in that my mother (hi mom) is one of few to diligently attend to my blog. She's gone so far as to call to remind me that my blog is a bore and I need to update more frequently. She's also an endearing creature, and, in being just that, doesn't want her children to deface their bodies for fear of infection and regret. Luckily my pal Dan scouted out the best artist for the job. Together we hit up "Wild Monkey Tattoo" where after an initial session being canceled (our artist sick) I had a full week to further freak out over the potential pain of being poked endlessly with needle. Our plan was for me to go first as I'd surely back out after seeing Dan writhe through the pain of his more complicated tatt. After surveying the scene (the palor clean, reputable and our artist sweet and thug-friendly) I did something more than freak out. I lost my sh&*. I paced and pouted and Dan, at the ready, offered to go first. I watched him sit stoically through the endeavor and was sure I'd bow out come my turn. Alex aided in humoring me as I kept excusing myself to make convenee store runs (chocolate for days) and writing scathing journal entries to convince myself I was a badass woman worthy of a tattoo. In the end my conviction won out as I reclined on the artists chair, after 20 minutes of deciding upon a fantastic font, extended my leg, bit my lip and waited for the world's worst pain to attack me. It hurt, but in ways I hadn't experienced. Things have hurt much more and as he inked and wiped I knew it wasn't so much the pain as it was resounding sounds- the friends in arms trying to calm me by delivering tasteless jokes, the buzz of the hand-held device, something like a lady razor- that kept me white-faced and ready to faint. I burrowed my face in Alex's green sweater. Dan and Alex acted as a dynamic duo of spoilt comedy and within ten quick minutes I was tattoo'ed. It was really that easy. So now I've an impressive "26.2" insignia on my right ankle. It's something to see everything I run. It's a nod to a comment made to me by someone I'd like to memorialize. And I'm without infection. Without blood and scab and fear. In having legs that kill I plan to unleash this beaut to the wild this summer, and all the summers that follow.

All this. Such adventure! And surely more to come. Mountains to hike. Oceans to wade in. Horses to ride. Cheese to make. I am at the whim of all things wonderful.

There is no love, where there is no bramble.

And so we celebrate a Japanese Valentine's Day that is the inverse of all I know. Women are expected to give gifts, coated in chocolate, professionally wrapped. This is good news for the choir as I love to gift, and unconventionally so. With this great news I commissioned my pal Dan (an artist and Mass Effect guru) to draw a portrait of Alex and I. Being a patron is really all it's made out to be. I could command Dan to white wash my acne scars and tint my hair to match the fashion of the day. Thankfully my hair is always in fashion, but Dan did masterful work and the portrait, framed and gleaming, went off without a hitch.

Oh wait, there was that darling hitch I worked in. I wrapped the frame in the world's most concerning newsprint. It was a faux paper that detailed how one lady might make efforts to find her 'prince' and 'keep him'. These loosely translated articles detailed how one princess should dress, how she can find happy with her love-time soul mate if she's to keep quiet, and how said princess should turn to her friends to understand the royalty that she possesses. The later giving the paper too much credit but it's par for the course in philosophy. So I stacked on a bow and a lovely ornamental flower and stowed the gift away. Upon Alex's arrival this past weekend I presented him with the package on the pretense it was the obligatory chocolates lovers are expected to present to one another. He, anxious because it seemed to be the worlds biggest piece of chocolate, tore in. Ha, ho. Oh, we all rolled around with that one because my gift was not edible, but awesome. And, in the end, I had some freakish 3-D Ultraman and creepy alien cohort chocolate thing to present him with.

The weekend also included a ryokan stay in Miyajima. Miyajima, being on the top three illustrious list of most scenic places in Japan, was also hosting an oyster festival. CELEBRATE! Or not, as I'm terrified of fish. Oysters seem so at the ready. Bulbous. Decidedly pregnant. Ready to slide and flavor your trachea as soon as you let them in. Thus, I have never had an oyster. Any fish for that matter. And maybe it was the romance of the week. Maybe I was still reeling from the events of last night (see: Dan Fan's surprise birthday party- posts to come), but I was adamant on eating an oyster. So I ate 5. Bloody 5 oysters, of all varieties. I ate fried oyster. But that was a freebie as all fried things are delicious. Then, after much hesitation and a rowdy gaggle of friends pounding fists on a table shouting, "Hula- Oyster" in a quiet subdued restaurant, I went for the jugular and ate a slimy, just cracked, flithy-eye sore of a raw thing. Oh doctor...... it was okay! I'm getting a little crazy in my old age. Quarter life is a culinary beast.

Ryokan was perfect. Dinner was served in full Japanese fashion with all the prepared food groups present and accounted for. Breakfast even more lovely. Our view overlooked as much of the Seto Inland Sea as I've been privy to see. (That's a lot of sea, and a lot of sea/see for one sentence). As night fell, all the tourists (and hordes of them as Kaki filled as we) rushed out to make the last ferry and we pretty much had the run of the island. It was lovely to walk its ways with no one in sight and absorb all the top three ranked beauty that is this island. I'd go back every weekend if I could.

And to end, it is Valentine's Day. Students may make me cards and give me chocolates but I urge any and all reading this post to also consider others reasons we see red:

Feb 14 is also V-Day. V-Day was born in 1998 as an outgrowth of Eve Ensler's Obie-Award winning play, "The Vagina Monologues." As Eve performed the piece in small towns and large cities all around the world, she saw and heard first hand the destructive personal, social, political and economic consequences violence against women has for many nations.

From this experience V-Day was born.

V-Day is a global movement to stop violence against women and girls.
V-Day is an organized response against violence toward women.
V-Day is a vision: We see a world where women live safely and freely.
V-Day is a demand: Rape, incest, battery, genital mutilation and sexual slavery must end now.
V-Day is a spirit: We believe women should spend their lives creating and thriving rather than surviving or recovering from terrible atrocities.
V-Day is a catalyst: By raising money and consciousness, it will unify and strengthen existing anti-violence efforts. Triggering far-reaching awareness, it will lay the groundwork for new educational, protective, and legislative endeavors throughout the world.
V-Day is a process: We will work as long as it takes. We will not stop until the violence stops.
V-Day is a day. We proclaim Valentine's Day as V-Day, to celebrate women and end the violence.

So, wear Red tomorrow, and every Feb 14, to stop violence against women and girls, especially if you, or a woman you know, has been a victim of violence. When someone comments that you are wearing red for Valentines day, correct them—tell them the real reason you wear red.

Please forward this message along. For more info visit: http://www.vday.org/contents/vday/aboutvday/mission

"We didn't need dialogue. We had faces."

A blog cruelly neglected and a Hula trying to make ammends. This post promises to maintain maintence, but blogspiration comes and goes. At the very least I can provide the play-by-play, which, in turn, has more twists than O'Henry.

Since I've last written I've changed my hair thrice. Blond to blonder to V for Vendetta short. Today I'll go back to basics. Brown and all things natural. Silly, as I can't remember the last time I've been without color. I call it the quarterly year change. Every 3-4 months, like clockwork, my hair changes, and in turn, slightly, so do I.

In related news, I think I'm having a love affair with commas today.

I suppose I should start with August 6th. It's as memorible a day as any, and I'm fortunate to have spent it in Hiroshima. We (a gaggle of friends and I) met up in the early morning hours to observe and pay our respects to the memory of the Atomic Bomb dropping. There was a peace vigil held in Peace Memorial Park. Thousands of residents gathered around the centograph in the heart of the park. It was early and I couldn't find my friends so I slinked in amongst the other observers and watched from a difficult distance. There was chatter, and general crowd bearing noise, but when the ceremony started I could hear every typically sound-less sound: the fidgeting of feet, a child clamping her barrett in place, the well paced two step of each woman who laid a wreath at the Heart of the memorial. This kind of silence is scary, and everyone watched with rapt attention. What we were so concerned with seeing, I can't remember. I know I needed a focal point, because to look at anyone else seemed an admission of guilt. The crimes of our country, no matter how old, never leave us.

8:15 promised a moment of silence. Everyone was positioned and poised to bow their heads, listen to the bells and think of lives lost. But then, the deterrent. A political protest some distance back that bellowed, ever so softly in the distance. It was a chorus of cries and I initially chalked it up to a dubbed recording of the screams of the victims of the bomb dropping. My, this is morbid. To hear that- as a product of your own making, never leaves you. It's the crime scene you witnessed. Or a loved ones last words before the machine shuts down. When I was later told about the protest I was incensed. Can't they observe a moment of silence? Can't they pay respects to the living in addition to the dead? But it all makes sense in the end. They were serving the only purpose they had left to serve. To fight it to the end. And their rhythm and rehearsed chants only fueled my conviction that this was something, and is something and will forever remain something that should never again happen.

Fast forward through the day. We purchased laterns and wrote messages of peace to be sent down the river, candle in tow, at nightfall. We splayed ourselves over bridge hangings and watched the laterns tug-a-lug down the river. Some laterns adherred themselves to others. Like lovers, hand-in-hand they floated. Some tipped, and the Sharpie penned messages washed away in the water. It's kind of redeeming to think of the capsized laterns. Their hope is forever embedded in the river walls. So it goes.

I saw a gold ring, from the bottle of the river. Glinting, at my foolish heart...

...oh my foolish heart, it had to go diving. Diving, diving, diving into the murk.

It's exhausting, keeping up with my blog. It moves so quickly- like a small Japanese child that remarkably (smallish legs and all) always outruns me.

So catch up. It's as fun a game as any. The Hiro Happenings have been plentiful. They are, as follows:

The initiation and consequent undertaking of SUPER ADVENTURE MONDAYS! Now, SAM is a little idea I cooked up one evening when my friends and I realized why were were always so skint (see: totally broke, cash-less, without appropriate financial support). Drinks are expensive. Drinks at popular drink venues late into the evening becomes even more pricey. So why not cut out the middle man? The tenants of SAM are simple: It should be free (or free-like, the costs of bus/train/ferry fare are acceptable), and it should be wild/crazy/interesting/really, really, really pretty. So there was no better way to jumpstart our SAM than to venture on down to backwoods Kumano. Kumano is not so much backwoods as it's NOT city saavy like Hiroshima. My pal Dan lives there and we packed a picnic, donned our bathing suits (in my case another stellar three piece that really resembled a wetsuit) and headed out to a resoivor for some swimming, fishing and Happy Station Music listening.

Who knew we'd find danger and all things terrifying in pacifist Kumano. Perched atop the resoivor was a large stone wall. It had to be at least 20 feet, and my go-get-um attituded friends thought it would be fun to jump off said wall into the lake. Umm.. okay, that sounds as good a plan as any, but lets not forget my intense fear of heights. My fear of deep water. My fear of people seeing me in a bathing suit from a variety of angles. Well regardless, we did a couple test runs off a smaller, 8 foot type wall and it took all my friends in the water chanting my name, and a slew of 6 or so teenage Japanese boys counting backwards from 5 in English to get me to jump that measley distance. What followed is my greatest Kumano accomplishment. My apotheosis if you will. So I jumped. SAM is such an ego-boost.

Next Monday was lack-luster. We bought tickets to the Sun-Dance festival. This sounds more alluring than it is. No, we did not see fabulous film in Hiroshima, instead we paid the rough equivalent of $30 to go to a dirty beach. I can't complain- the company was good and transportation was included, but I'm not much of a beach bunny and we all agreed that next Monday should most certainly include more adventure.

On the agenda: Super Adventure Karaoke. My team mate John and I (see: the Dynamic Duo, members of the band "It's Something So Sad") have an agenda that includes the singing of Richard Marx, choreography, costume and stellar stunts. It is definitely something to blog home about.

Going up a mountain, coming down slowly

"I have come a few miles. I have blisters on my slippered feet, as I rise, as I rise."
All idealists should climb a mountain. Anyone foolhardy enough to believe in the good of all men, the beauty in all things, that right that exists in all wrong, should strap on some boots and scale a mountain. A tall one preferribly, in the middle of a cold, quiet Japanese night only to arrive at the summit at sunrise. It was something so much more than beautiful. It was an epic score.

I did it! Or rather, we did it. Scaled Mt Fuji. CELEBRATE!!!!

I took the 6:40 shinkansen to Tokyo to run around and do Tokyo type things with friends Tara and Matt. This weekend was touted a big reunion as 6 of our 7 initial Amity trainees we're meeting to climb the biggest mountain in Japan. Some new editions entered the fold, Kevin and David, and I was able to eat a mexican (?!- in Japan!?) dinner for proper nourishment pre-climb. This seemed sensible because everyone knows how nutrient dense chips and salsa are.

What followed dinner was chaos and confusion. We couldn't find the bus that would take us to the mountain. Our backpacks were locked away somewhere in Tokyo station (and anyone with any knowledge of/or an imagination realizes that this game of find and seek can potentially take all the days of their lives), and Owen (another friend traveling from Fukui) was running late, late and later and feared missing hte bus. Apparently Fuji was on our side as, at the last minute we found our bus, bought our tickets, extracted our baggage and boarded the bus. Something so sad, or perhaps tragic: Owen arrived just in time to watch our bus pull away. I did see him the next day at the base of the mountain and I've no worry that he had a lovely climb.

Arrival. Hooray. Celebrate! We gear up and begin our ascent. The path is nearly deserted and unlike anything I've ever traveled. For sometime we feel completely enclosed in our small bubble of friends and worry that we're descending or taking the road less taken. The first hour or so saw solely our headlamps and singing and shouting.

The mountain is peppered with another 5 stations where we could purchase provisions, if needed, and stop and rest. The distance between each station was enough to warrant a rest whenever we approached one. Initially, with all the excitement and low level terrain I moved quickly and found the climb manageable. After the sixth station, however, I began to feel the burn. We were nearly vertically climbing. Holding onto big rocks, haphazardly placed atop one another like a Lincoln Log set. Most of my group had previous climbing experience, but I merely run the roads and found the ascent increasingly difficult. I kept my pace. I didn't outdo it, and marched along with the leaders of our group. Looking like an Addidas astronaut, I wore my silver running tights to wick off sweat and maintain heat. This was all good and great, and my gear was appropriate, but my pisspoor athletic ability was tested to the limits. After an hour of vertical climbing and acclimating my body to elevations of some 3000 meters, I began to familiarize myself with akward climbing technique. I enjoyed jumping from rock to rock and even humored myself a badass adventurist. I convinced myself I was made to rock climb. I started calling Mt. Fuji my darling lover. I couldn't stop smiling.

2/3rds into the climb, climbers began appearing in droves. We're they materialized from, I know not. Many climbers hike during the day, spend the night in the few huts scattered at each station, and ascend in the early hours of the a.m. to see the sunrise. Regardless, we were engulfed by them and what followed was an eerie procession of hushed voices and lowlit lamps that moved in accordance with one another, pursuing a common goal. I was happy to walk in step with them. We regulated eachother's breaths. We felt one another's sore heels. We moved in one unit. In rhythm and time.

And then, the summit.

Whoa.

I've never seen anything like it. Sky for days, no mountains to surround. I felt as though I were on top of the world, and while there were hundreds of people surrounding me, speaking loudly of their adventure and hopes and dreams, the moment was muted and there was nothing but clarity and control and hope and happiness.

We watched the sunrise. Silly, I've never seen a sunrise. I usually rush about my everyday doings. I have to move, move, move that I never allowed myself the simple pleasure of this everyday event. And now I'm hooked, although I fear nothing will compare with this particular sun. It moved in stages, like a controlled ballet and turned the sky a milieu of colors. It was stunning. Everyone at the peak huddled around the makeshift wall and watched with simliar amazement. Cameras flashed, keitais clicked and we each captured a moment our minds will never forget.

Then, the descent. Oh doctor. Now I'm regretting this fool decision.

There is nothing romantic about the descent. It is not scenic. It is not exciting and it most certainly is not easy. Despite its downhill draw, the descent is murder on the knees. You escape the summit in steep terrain, on a sandlike surface that requires you balance yourself with every step to keep from falling forward. I cursed Fuji in my descent. I fell four times. I cried and ran screaming for the final base station. But then, some 2.5 hours in, it's all over. I browse the gift shop, buy, buy, buy for students and school and am filled with pride and accomplishment. I climbed Fuji! Me! And I smile and smile.

Fear not the finicky eater

How I know I'm going to be okay...

A product of my own making.

This may be my proudest moment.

Oh how I love this place, it's sweet and bitter taste, has left me wretched, wretching on all fours- Hiroshima, I'm yours...

Big plans in the making. The training crew (in near full) is meeting up in Tokyo this coming weekend to board a bus to the fifth station of Mt. Fuji. That's right. We hope to scale the tallest mountain in Japan. It's an overnight climb, and if we all make it to the top we'll huddle near one another and watch the sunrise. I think that promises to be something so lovely.

Now I am more than pleased with my extravagant camera purchase.

I've been trying to save money as best I can because spending is the name of the game here. Weekends out are pricey. That darling and far too complicated shirt in every store window is necessary. And because Japan basically mandates that you walk around with a concerning amount of yen in your pocket because credit cards are nearly non-existent, it's easy to fall prey to anything and everything pricey.

Working hard on establishing a running regimine so the International Marathon goal may be realized. Richard and I hope to run the Tokyo marathon, and fingers crossed that we get accepted despite lottery, and I hope he's all in. I tire of running alone. I can slow down with the promise of another. I can't imagine what it is to cross with added energy. I bet it's the best feeling in the world.

Green tea is delicious. I think I'll take up yoga. Japanese, as a language, is tricky.

Oh, and I have no idea what I'll do with the rest of my life. I have nine months left of careful contemplation. But I'm always contemplating. I'm always thinking and planning and proving. I was hoping to escape introspection. Maybe in my old age.

The weather is fine, and I'm sure, at least for today, that it will hold.