A Report on Reality--My Reality, That Is . . .

Mostly I teach school--preparing lessons, face time with classes, evaluating student work. Still, there are spaces of my reality configured with other activities and different interactions.

(1) When the movie offerings on base fail to engage my interest, I resort to Netflix, and this autumn's on-base flick options have turned me homeward more often than not. Consequently, I have finally viewed a goodly number of the selections that have languished in my Netflix queue, selections selected over a year ago for the most part, I might add. At some artsy moment I lined up quite a number of foreign films, and the last few months have become the time frame for their arrival. Now, as foreign films tend to be filmed in foreign languages, these movies have generally required the reading of subtitles to make any sense of them. Believe you me, when one must read subtitles while viewing a movie, there is no other successful multi-tasking going on. I even had to abandon folding clothes! Peeling a pomegranate and consuming the seeds--a current craving--is tricky, so mostly I stick to microwave popcorn while watching those of the foreign genre. And truthfully, I haven't been all that impressed with most of the foreign fare. (The only one I would recommend is a French one, Au Revoir Les Enfants.) Many seemed kind of preachy or else designed by agenda. I liked the Spanish ones mostly because I could listen to spoken Spanish while reading subtitles! And I confess, at the end of October I scooted some fluffy, escape-worthy flicks to the top of my queue--Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Clueless, and Ten Things I Hate About You--for a little respite!


(2) On Monday and Wednesday afternoons the base fitness center with the Olympic-size pool offers a water aerobics class at 3:30, a time I can usually manage. No fitness class works for me, though, unless I like the teacher's style, which usually means he/she has to mix-it-up because I get bored easily. I started attending this water aerobics class last April with Angela, a friend from church. She assured me "Norway" was a good instructor. Now, despite the image his name might conjure, Norway is Japanese, and I have no idea if "Norway" is his real name or not. Although small in stature, he is noticeably fit, has boundless energy, and owns a glowing reputation as an excellent instructor for both kick boxing and yoga, too. (He teaches those classes during morning times, so I have never attended.) I did enjoy the water aerobics class last spring, and, even though Angela moved during the summer, I decided to continue with the class on my own this fall. Class numbers vary, and on a couple of occasions I have been the only one in attendance. I felt awkward at first, but, man-oh-man, did Norway give me an amazing workout--one he developed and tweaked especially for me moment by moment in real time. It became an hour for me with a personal trainer for the price of attending a class...like about $2!

The other day while lotioning up--swimming pool water and the house heating systems here dry out my skin big time--and sliding the slick across my stomach I experienced a momentary shock: My abs were hard! In water aerobics class Norway is all the time reporting that we are working our "core" with such-and-such a move or with this-and-then-that particular alignment of the body, even as we do the main aerobic portion of the class. I have not fully believed how much core work indeed we have been doing...until now. I may no longer have 20-something musculature or 20-something skin, but, boy-howdy, I bet I have the fittest abs of my entire life!


(3) Having finally read the complete Twilight saga--commencing with Twilight last May and finishing up with Breaking Dawn in September--has provided source material for some entertaining, and sometimes revealing, conversations with my students. A majority of my female students have read the books and some of the guys have, too. However, even guys who haven't read the series tend to pay attention to girls who have read the series, and a lot of these guys have seen the first two movies, so we all can talk! And we do: Team Jacob or Team Edward? Werewolves or vampires? And any stated opinion must be supported well enough to withstand the challenges presented by the opposition! My students are currently in the midst of an astronomy unit in their science classes, and this last week during my Advisory/Seminar class, five of us--four students and me--explained the scientific definition of "eclipse" to a female student by including analogies derived from the third book in the series, Eclipse!


So here it is December--Thanksgiving gone and Christmas before us. All the boats harbored on the navy base wear extra lights, strings of lights, in holiday fashion, and the tugboats are still my favorites.

Mt. Fuji frequents the horizon more often in this season, too--a study in blue.

Michael Jackson's This Is It

On a very rainy Veterans' Day afternoon, I viewed a matinee showing of Michael Jackson's This Is It.

I recall being aware of the Jackson 5 and liking some of their songs; I also remember stand-out songs from Michael's early solo career. Yet, not until I witnessed him dancing did Michael Jackson hold my attention. The ways he could move on a stage, in place or across it--I was entranced.

The same holds true for this movie: I enjoyed the music; I loved the dancing...Michael's and his back-up dancers. Okay, the back-up dancers were young, beautifully bodied, and certainly talented--eye candy extraordinaire. And Michael seemed fragile--noticeably thin and shoulders slightly stooped--but, oh, when he moved, the magic moved in him. It was amazing to watch how a 50-year-old Michael could still steer all eyes to him. For the last two numbers included in the movie, Michael performed on stage alone. Whenever a camera angle cut to his back-up dancers as they watched him from the pit in front of the stage, enraptured adulation shone on their faces. I wasn't the only one mesmerized.

Time Passages

A view of Mt. Fuji from Ashina Beach at sunset.

Summers away from my life in Japan usually result in sharper delineations of certain markers of passing time upon my return; these markers stand distinct and do not merge into the blended shapes and colors of the continually passing panorama of my existence all because my summers unfold on such a separate panoramic stage.


SUNSET:

• The mama-san who lived in the big house next door--my landlord's mother--died sometime during the summer. She was in her 90s. Teeny tiny with a pronounced dowager's hump, she puttered away in the various gardens of our combined yard in the morning coolness and soft light of the rising sun. The small plot of vegetation in front of my house has never before looked so wild or so bedraggled.
  


• In August I returned to a Yokosuka where none of those with whom I've regularly traveled or hung out during my four-year sojourn here in Japan still reside. No movie buddies, no sushi buddies, no political discussion buddies, no Tokyo-jaunt buddies, no water aerobics buddies, no buddies--they have all moved on.

SUNRISE:

• Godiva Chocoiste: Dark Chocolate Cherries. Linda, the math teacher in the classroom next door, invited me to her birthday party, but because of a prior commitment with the church youth group, I could not go. Since Linda openly confesses a chocolate addiction, I decided chocolate would make a worthy gift. At the NEX I perused the chocolate section of the candy aisle and ultimately collected a stash of pedigreed goods: Lindt, Ghirardelli, Godiva, Cadbury. While scrutinizing the Godiva profferings in behalf of Linda, I discovered the existence of Godiva Chocoiste: Dark Chocolate Cherries. Although never a fan of those chocolate cherries fashioned with a maraschino cherry center swimming in a sickly sweet viscous fluid encased in a milk chocolate shell, I really like cherries and dark chocolate assuages even my guiltiest of hungers...and these morsels, according to the description on the package, were a perfect concoction for me: dried, tart cherries fully encompassed by dark, dark chocolate. I purchased a bag for me--not Linda, because who knew if she liked cherries, right?! Once in the car, I sampled and instantly attained devoted fan status. Now I have a ritual--one, I admit, majorly invoked to ration the contents of a given package (as they are rather pricey) and to discipline my fanatical desire: When I arrive home, I am allowed one foray into the deepest, darkest corner of the frig to retrieve the zip-lock bag of chocolate covered cherries; I remove six--eight, if the day warrants such or if one of the pieces is woefully small--and lay them on the counter to "thaw" for a few minutes while I take care of other "arriving home" activities; and then, when the lull emerges from the flurry, I surrender to ecstatic indulgence.
  


• This fall I have dabbled a wee bit with the culinary arts--very wee, actually, but any engagement by me with the "culinary arts" is quite a monumental moment in my personal history! While staying at the Lodge on the Amazon River in Peru last summer, my favorite dish in the array of lunch and dinner buffets was always the rice and beans...which surprised me just a bit because all of the food prepared was delicious. And I got to thinking that even someone like me, the antithesis of domestic goddess, might be able to manage the cooking of rice and beans...especially since I own a rice cooker and beans do come in cans! At the family reunion later in the summer I requested a "recipe" from my niece Carol, the family's resident expert on rice and beans; she served a church mission in Brazil and while there became a devotee of the dish herself. Now Carol is a purest and far more capable in kitchen matters and I; she buys dry beans and does the whole shebang--including the the use of a pressure cooker--to bring the beans to an edible state, but some of the suggestions she offered I have employed. As forementioned, I use beans from a can, but I have attained a measure of success with my rice and beans end product: I have never thrown out left-overs of rice and beans (something I tend to do quite regularly with other attempted meals cooked by me), and when I heated some left-over beans and rice in the microwave at school one day, I had three colleagues comment how good my lunch smelled!

• Philip, one of my students from last year, one of those students who takes over a piece of your heart and establishes a permanent residence in your memory, finally brought me a can of the energy drink Monster by way of his sister Melissa, one of my students this year. He threatened to bring me one all last year to supplant my Diet Coke, but I wouldn't commit to drinking a whole can, only to tasting it. By November, more acquainted with my "drinking" style, he agreed that maybe drinking an entire can might "kill" me, and he didn't want to be responsible for that, of course! Although sporadic talk of a Monster taste test continued for the rest of the year, it never happened. However, at the moment, I have a can of Monster in my refrigerator. I still haven't tasted it, despite having it in my possession for at least three weeks. Do you think it would "kill" me?

Typhoon Melor: The Aftermath

Then, this typhoon Thursday, we had high winds with sunshine from mid-morning until early afternoon. By 1:30 the wind had diminished enough to permit another foray into the outside world. Of course I headed back down to the sea. After all, I did want to check out the possibilities of a late afternoon run along the coast road if the wind should calm just a tad more. Well, a run along the coast road won't be happening any time later today; perhaps with Japanese industry and efficiency in play, maybe Saturday I can have that particular run.

Even with four years living in the same Ashina location, I have never before seen damage of this magnitude after a storm. Usually only flung palm fronds and sand spew across the road and walkways at vulnerable points--the non-evaporating evidence of heavy surf splashing over sea walls--mark the history of a passing storm.



THE LATEST PHOTOS:

Here is the beach road, the one that runs parallel with the sea, my preferred running route. (And no wonder the police set up a barricade barring entrance onto it during the storm.)



That is sand covering the pavement of the road, by the way--remains of the surging sea swell.

Several fishing shacks lining the sea-side edge of the road collapsed and washed onto the road.



These next two photos I took from the small shrine on the bluff above the sea where I took photos earlier in the day. (See previous post for a comparison.)


You can see quite a few people (center left) engaged in clean-up where the fishing shacks collapsed.

What's left of fishing shack row:

Here is an expanse of sea wall, one of my favorite stretches on my running route because the sea is close and the views are stunning. The sea broke it today.

More aftermath:

These palms have learned the art of surviving!

Typhoon Melor

The beginning: On Sunday sunny skies prevailed, but cloudy skies with accompanying stretches of rain, usually drizzly, moved in on Monday and maintained a "weatherly" presence through Wednesday. Wednesday afternoon our principal scooted all the teachers out of the building right after the students departed at 2:10. We had previously received notification (before noon) that complex schools for Yokosuka Navy Base would be closed on Thursday due to the impending arrival of Typhoon Melor. In it's first days of existence while residing in more southern latitudes, Melor rated a "Super Typhoon" designation, a title commensurate with a category 5 hurricane. The cooler waters it has encountered in its northward travels have weakened it; at landfall on the island of Honshu, Japan's mainland, it was expected to be a category 2 storm. At one point Melor's eye had been forecast to pass 30 miles from Yokosuka. In capricious storm fashion, though, Melor's path shifted to a more southerly landfall moment. When I arrived home late Wednesday afternoon, I slid storm shutters over the windows of my house and prepared to hunker down. Nighttime brought some hard rain and occasional wind gusts.

Now Thursday has dawned with heightening wind but also sunshine moments. As one fully mesmerized by the sea and frequently intrigued by storms, I succumbed to temptation just before nine this morning and ventured outside. Ah, silly me, I chided myself, noting the bouncing power lines above and a scattering of snapped branches on the road, this could be why one is cautioned to stay inside, and then I continued enroute to the sea. It is only a three to four minute walk to the sea from my house. As I neared the place where my road intersects the one running parallel to the sea, a clot of cars jammed the approach. Momentary reconaissance of the scene showed a police blockade of the beach road to all traffic. Thanks to the manifold meanderings I undertook during my week of recuperation after appendicitis (the doctor told me to walk as much as possible and I did), I knew an alternate route up a bluff to a small shrine overlooking the sea. However, with closer proximity to the sea, the wind kept a more constant presence and grew ever rougher. Leaves and broken branches fully carpeted the lane; some glistening shards of glass directed my eyes to the frame of a blown out window. At the shrine I finally witnessed the sea within command of the approaching storm. Truely the power of nature is a marvel...and so very humbling.

So I am safely returned to my home as I type these words. The wind has increased to its fiercest level yet. It is almost 11:00 in the morning.

I did take some photos while at the shrine this earlier, but first I have some photos to show of the same general area, ones taken several weeks ago under more conventional circumstances.

Okay, here are the photos taken today. The beach road that runs parallel to the sea--part of my usual running route--lies in front of that gray house shown in the photo below.

That white boat (above) seemed to be loose.

Dear Fellow Citizens:

I shall commence with a disclaimer: I feel cranky. And, since this sentiment has slowly escalated over the past several weeks to the crankiest level of cranky yet, a level now high enough to instigate a session before the keyboard of my laptop, I forewarn you of an imminent perch upon a soapbox.

Let me launch my tirade by stating that I am sick of and sickened by the spate of media pundits in positions arrayed across the political spectrum who engage in emotional rants carefully constructed with a narrow selection of facts and cleverly presented half-truths--not to overlook the addition of an out-and-out lie should any opportune moment arise--and then varnished with histrionics and demonizations of key opposition players, especially when said broadcast conversation is rationalized with "I'm an entertainer." I am totally appalled, however, with listeners who mindlessly accept what they hear from these talker-entertainers as the full truth and the only way to proceed. Religious people may be accused of having "blind faith" and acting in "blind obedience," but I would submit that a much greater danger exists from too many citizens practicing "blind faith" and "blind obedience" in the realm of politics and government. Just because someone says something is so doesn't make something so, even if that someone is a person we like, trust, or share common beliefs with. Never should we underestimate the impact of checking out the facts or the perspectives of multiple sources, including the opposition's; such efforts exponentially increase our own knowledge base and powerfully enhance our ability to focus and fine tune our own beliefs preliminary to pursuing a more authentic course of action.

Another current irritant for me is the glut of "Nazis" and "dictators" in our political system. Just because we don't like someone and/or we disgree with someone's political point of view does not necessarily make him/her another Hitler, Stalin, or Mao, nor does it necessarily make him/her a Nazi, a facist, a communist, or a dictator. Neither Bush nor Obama are dictators nor is either one really at all similar to Hitler in leadership style or philosophy. Name calling bridges nothing between differing points of view; it is virtually useless to any constructive endeavor.

And one final harangue before I close is directed to those who proclaim, "I want my America back." Get real! Beyond your personal conception of what America was or is, there is no "my America"; there is only "our America." Not even any of our founding fathers got "his America," the one perfectly envisioned in his mind--which is probably to their credit and our benefit, although I also believe that some of their ideas that didn't make it into the Constitution and our plan of government then are things you or I might still wish had been instituted and implemented. I also harbor some impatient annoyance toward one demonstrator within range of a TV microphone who avowed that she wanted her children to grow up in the same America she grew up in. Not going to happen. Impossible, in fact, if only because influences of continued advances in technology and globalization--which, of course, are not nearly all the reasons at all. And no matter what period of time in US history any of us might select as being golden, we should be mindful that for certain other Americans that same period of time represents a difficult period of time, one tarnished by economic, social, or political adversity.

Americans--our individual narratives are richly diverse and yet each records joy and sorrow, success and loss, abundance and hardship, and usually an unextinguishable sense of hope. Perchance we could think more often of the portrait of America we paint together instead of whether the colors of our personal narrative fall more blue or more red or even more green.

Virtual Flirtation 101

In May, angry at her on-again/off-again boyfriend of eight years, my friend Carolee created a profile on e-Harmony. She confessed when I asked about "the man" while we were in Peru. We talked--okay, we giggled, too--on several occasions during our travels about her experience with the process up to that point, and ultimately, to encourage her (Carolee is totally a social being) and offer moral support, I volunteered to flirt virtually with her for one summer month upon our return to the states. Once stateside, however, I discovered that Carolee's $20/month subscription fee to e-Harmony was one deal the company had no intention of offering me; one month for me would cost $60. Well, I backed right out of my proposal, fully admitting that $60 towards new shoes carried exceedingly more sway for me than the opportunity play the online dating game. So, while in the states this summer, I bought four pairs of shoes instead!

I have several friends who have sampled the online meet and match scene--some just to dabble, others to seriously engage with the method. One of my friends actually met her now husband on a site such as e-Harmony, and another one is still corresponding with someone she met through an online service. In August Carolee described a few of her "matches" to me, sought advice on how to respond, and continued to suggest that I check out e-Harmony's site. The week I spent in Japan before reporting back to school I finally succumbed to my curiosity and logged in to e-Harmony.

Guess what! You can have your personality/character evaluated, set up your entire profile, and begin receiving matches without paying the subscription fee! During one afternoon I took the personality survey, which seemed like a fairly accurate analysis except for the part that said I am "outgoing"--generally not a descriptor for me. Then I established my "settings" and kinda sorta completed portions of my profile by responding to about two/thirds of the guiding questions...rather briefly, I've since learned, in comparison to other's responses. Within 24 hours I received notification of SIX matches, and, within the next 24 hours, three of those six proceeded to dump me, all three providing as a reason NO PHOTO! (One also included the information that he was pursuing another relationship while another one also included that I lived too far away. Since I used my summertime stateside location for my profile, I'm sure "Japan" would have been a critically negative additional fact for that one!)

The next day I uploaded a photo of me taken in Peru--certainly not a "glamour" shot, as is a suggestion by the site for a higher probability of success--and I haven't been dumped since. Now, to fully appreciate this development, you should know that each day since I created that profile I receive notification of four to six new matches. (Four more showed up today, by the way.) I now have over fifty matches scattered all across the USA plus Ireland!

However, because I have yet to be convinced I want to spend $60 to subscribe to e-Harmony, I only have access to the profiles of my matches...minus their photo(s). That's right--I am not permitted to SEE a visual unless I subscribe. I also cannot communicate with any of my matches. Five have indicated they would like to communicate with me, four with "guided communication" and one with "fast-track." Guided communication happens by sending questions selected from an e-Harmony designed list of questions, usually five at a time. There are four multiple choice answers provided for each question or the recipient can write his/her own response. Even in my "unsubscribed" status, I can look at the questions each of my communicative matches has chosen to send my way--and all four included "Do you consider yourself physically affectionate when involved in a relationship?"--but any responses from me cannot be sent...unless I subscribe! For the "faster" track scenario, I remain mostly clueless, although I suspect it includes emailing each other directly but with e-Harmony as the host; we would not have each other's personal email addresses. However, e-Harmony will not allow me to explore "fast-track" at all without--you know it--a paid subscription from me.

For awhile I found reading the profiles of matches somewhat entertaining, usually interesting, and occasionally thought-provoking. Eventually I can always deduce why we were "matched." And I have discovered, rather eerily too, that there really are a few people out there who write into a profile--content and style--very similarly to what I write into a profile. Now, though, two weeks into this experiment, I suspect I've wearied of profile reading because I have at least ten I haven't read yet; maybe I'll be inspired to open some more of them and maybe not. The virtual world of classes to take, games to play, flirtation to employ, and whatever else has often been a difficult sell for me. I prefer real bodies in a classroom, wind in my face, and the opportunity to look into someone's eyes. And, on the scale of desire, shoes still trump a subscription to e-Harmony.

Days/Daze of Summer: in Japan

A view from above of "my" beach, the marina beach, the closest coastal area to my home (about a 3-minute walk from my house).

The swimming beach, a 10-15 minute walk from my house. (On a clear day you would be able to see Mt. Fuji on the horizon above the sea.)

With only a week and a half of official summertime freedom spent in Japan--oh yes, school for me begins on Wednesday--the record of my history here this summer is a notably briefer tome to synthesize and summarize than are my summer experiences in other places, and so bulleted notes should suffice:

• The air has weight and instantly drapes you in a clinging wet warmth; you can feel your passage through the atmosphere.

• Cloaked in leafy treetops, cicadas squeal and moan ecstatically through the sultry day-lit hours; from their shadowed corners and dark places, crickets chirp the night lullabies of dwindling summer.
  

• Although three seriously shaker quakes--all 6+ range on the Richter Scale--rocked the Tokyo area in the five days before my return to the Land of the Rising Sun, the four tectonic plates meeting below this land seem to have settled a bit. (BIG sigh of relief from me!) I have experienced only one noticeable, but little, tremble in the last week.

• Hill runs have switched out with the track work on the running plan. My neighborhood here provides multiple hill courses but no place to encourage any sort of engagement with high stepping, backwards running, etc. The base has two tracks I can use once I move some of my runs to that location.

• One morning I saw the three runners--a man with two teens--I cross runs with every fall, usually on Saturday mornings. Of course, this time it was still summer and a week day morning too. The man does the nod and the "ohayo goziamasu" (good morning), the boy nods, the girl smiles. I have never been able to decide if the man is the father or the coach. When I first started seeing them running together, the kids were middle school age. Not any more--most certainly high school now! And now I'm thinking maybe the man is the father and the kids are brother and sister; the kids show this rather detached boredom towards each other--definitely no romantic chemistry or even interest--it's all just a running thing for them!
  

• I have abandoned skating, really not a viable option in my Japanese neighborhood, for walking on the alternate mornings I don't run. In the course of my ramblings I have discovered a vending machine that sells Coke Zero for 10 yen (11-12 cents) cheaper than all the other vending machines in the area, a small cove between the marina beach and the swimming beach where Japanese beach-dude types hang in neo-hippie ambiance, and election posters everywhere, one with a guy running on the ticket for the "bring happiness party." (Okay, I can't remember if that's the exact translation printed in small Roman alphabet letters below all the Japanese, but it was something very similar. Talk about a different culture! Can you imagine how long a political party in the USA with that name would survive?)
  

Here are the vending machines where I used to purchase a Coke Zero if the need to assauge my addiction overwhelmed me while home. (I keep no soda in the refrigerator at home.) But not any more! Notice the recycle bin for the drink containers--and either hot or cold drinks are available in these machines--to the right and just in front of the post box.

Here is my newly discovered cove between the marina beach ("my" beach) and the swimming beach.

Nearby beach houses with neo-hippie ambiance...lots of surf boards around, too.





Election posters.

Days/Daze of Summer: Part 2

Time to run.

Time and space to focus on my level of physical activity is one of my favorite things about summer. My body handles my running best if I cross train: running every other day max and then some other activity for the days in between. Sadly I confess that during the school year fitting in two runs per week plus one or two days of other activities constitutes a magnificent training week for me. Summer means a chance to develop a better schedule that just might work into a more habitual routine.

In the summer I always run in the morning. While in the states and ensconced at my dad’s place in Stansbury Park, I usually try to beat the sun to the pavement for a cooler experience. This summer, however, did not seem as hot as the last few, and I was fine letting the sun beam over those eastern mountains before I had to arise from my bed; I could “sleep in” until seven or so and still run in the morning cool.

My run commences with the route through the neighborhood my dad set up for his run when he moved to Stansbury Park almost ten years ago; he introduced me to it on my first visit there, and I’ve used it ever since. I add a bit more on the end, though, and continue on into a nearby set of streets that have hardly any traffic at all and form a circle of sorts. Now, where my dad lives it is very flat—a fine thing for certain kinds of running…and bicycling—and there is no school track close at hand. So I forego the hill runs, knowing I can easily restore that type of training when I return to Japan, and employ the second set of streets (the real quiet ones) for my track.

As I describe this next part, please keep in mind I do all this between seven and eight in the morning. Well then, after my regular run, I segue into a routine more commonly reserved for a track scene: butt-kick running, high stepping, skipping, and running backwards. Probably no more than five people total ever really witnessed these events in the flesh—okay, I don’t know if anybody watched on the sly from a window—and, truly, the only “running styles” ever to generate a second look are running backward and skipping. Yeah, especially skipping. I guess you don’t see many ladies of my age and deportment engage in the exhilaration of skipping down a street. And usually I have to use “dance arms” with my skipping, too…because I love to skip—I loved it as a little girl, and I loved it when we did it in modern and jazz dance classes in high school and college, and I still love it. Plus, nobody really knows who I am there (so I tell myself even if some people in the vicinity do have the label “George’s daughter” in their cognizance) and I will always be gone in a matter of weeks.

On the mornings I don’t run, I try to skate. I have skates, pads, and a helmet in storage at my dad’s abode in readiness for my visits. Those skating mornings I load my gear in a backpack and bicycle to the nearest church; it has a grand parking lot that is largely empty of vehicles on week day mornings. This summer I could skate more on the roads than ever before because with less construction—economy, a maturing neighborhood, or both—hardly any mud and gravel were in evidence to booby-trap my glide.

Ready to depart for more productive skating territory.

Days/Daze of Summer

School measures most of the days in my life. I am either the student attending class or the teacher teaching it, and there hasn’t been a year in my life without school configuring the pattern of my days since I was six years old. So, with school largely designing the scope and sequence of my life, I have become quite experienced over the years with the concept and experience of “summer vacation.” As this summer vacation has dwindled to mere days, I’m looking back—reviewing, remembering, recording my summer days/daze.

Three weeks in Peru launched my summer—and I haven’t yet completed my record of that experience. Then I returned to the USA, basing the rest of my stateside summertime from my father’s abode in Stansbury Park. Summers in the states include my yearly check-in for check-ups with the medical establishment, but aside from those rounds, I lapsed into a true summering mode:

(1) I perused the movie scene. Granted, this summer’s selection was pretty weak, in my view, as far as good movies were concerned. I did manage to find four that I paid money to see—and only at matinee prices: The Proposal, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Julie and Julia, and (500) Days of Summer. (500) Days of Summer tops my rankings, probably because quirkiness engages me and the protagonist is that kid (now all grown up, of course) I always rather liked from the TV show Third Rock from the Sun.

(2) I conducted a few mall crawls. These last few years, though, I’ve noticed that the extensive collections of merchandise and the overwhelming range of choices in the various retail establishments weary me. Once I found shoes, my primary shopping objective this summer, only one mall continued to lure me inside, for within its confines resided a Mrs. Field’s Cookies! Usually I also managed a walk through the Gap—because how does one justify a trip to the mall for a cookie—before arriving at my true destination to order ONE semi-sweet chocolate chip cookie with walnuts and a Diet Coke with lots of ice. Ahhh, such gastronomical pleasure afforded by such a simple purchase!

(3) I read books. Finally, after all the media hype and the impassioned recommendations of legions of female students—and, might I add, adult friends and family members—I succumbed and commenced reading the Twilight series. Vampires and werewolves, as subject matter, generally remain below my interest radar, and I couldn’t convince myself that I wanted to devote my prized reading time to those big fat books of this series. (I was too aware of their bulk since these last two years I have witnessed them constantly in the feverish clutches of multitudes of female students…and occasionally even some male ones!) Book one, Twilight, I actually finished just as school was ending in June. It was okay, very romantic, actually. After my return from Peru, I read New Moon and then Eclipse. Now I’m reading the last one, Breaking Dawn. Although I often find Bella to be frustratingly neurotic and I have a preference for Jacob, the werewolf, rather than Edward, Bella’s vampire true love, the books have provided me a lot of summer reading enjoyment. I think one of the reasons the series appeals to so many girls is that it portrays a version of a love story many girls dream about, one full of passion, drama, and an idealized love/lover. However, please know that I did not limit myself to passionate love stories between humans and werewolves or humans and vampires. In between stints with the Twilight books, I read a goodly chunk of a travel book on Peru, Little Bee, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, The Graveyard Book, and Emma.

(4) I engaged in computer time—as documented below—playing with photos and blogging a bit. Having annexed a corner of my dad’s kitchen table for my laptop station, I quickly became cognizant that my stature-challenged body would require some additional chair height to forestall a quick onset of carpal tunnel syndrome. My dad’s oversized book of crossword puzzles provided the necessary additional inches.

Cuisine a la Peru

Lunch on Taquile Island (Lake Titticaca): Notice the Inca Cola--a very popular Peruvian soft drink concoction that tastes rather like cream soda with the flavor quotient multiplied two or three times. Beth liked it, and this is a photo of her lunch!

Food partaken on one's travels always contributes color and definition to the memories of the journey. For me, that definition and those colors are largely pleasing in my memories of Peru; the food was GOOD!

For this "foodie" narrative, let me address the potato first, especially for all you rabid trivia buffs who can hardly wait to share that Peru lays claim to being the place of origin for this important tuber. In fact, the International Potato Center is based in Lima, Peru. Three thousand of the world's five thousand potato varieties grow in the Andean region, a region encompassing Peru. The story goes that when McDonalds first set up in Peru, none of those 3000 varieties of potato was deemed acceptable to use for McDonalds french fries, and then McDonalds brazenly imported an "acceptable" potato. Well, in the potato homeland, such an affront catalyzed the development of one more potato variety. Now Peru boasts 3000 + 1 potato varieties, and McDonalds no longer imports potatoes to its Peruvian franchises. By the way, every variety of potato I sampled in Peru tasted fine!

Here are four potatoes we sampled at a weaving village in the Andes. Carolee let me try the blue potato on her plate, so I tasted five different varieties that meal--all good, too.

Before I departed for Peru, my brother Phil posited the possibility of my consuming the popular Latin American speciality ceviche--raw fish (fin and/or shell) marinated in lemon or lime juice plus spices. His description of the dish failed to inspire any great desire on my part to pursue a tasting opportunity. However, tour guide Claire also raved about the gustatory pleasures of ceviche, and by DAY 2 Beth and I succumbed and ordered a portion to split. Immediately smitten, I now rank ceviche on my list of favorite foods.

A portion of ceviche: In Peru it is traditionally served with slices of sweet potato.

Here is a photo of another favorite meal: arroz con pollo--cilantro rice with chicken--for a main course. (To the left is half a portion of ceviche again; Beth and I would split an order of ceviche so we wouldn't be too full to sample other menu items as well. To the right is a portion of a salad that Beth and I also split.)

This is stewed goat with rice. Beth ordered it and I tasted it. So now I have eaten goat.

Guinea pig (cuy) is a credible menu option in Peru and apparently has been for centuries, for in Cusco's main cathedral hangs a famous painting of the Last Supper portraying Christ and his disciples dining on guinea pig. Beth and I and a couple others in Tour Intrepid determined that somewhere along the journey we would try guinea pig. In Aguas Calientes, the night before we visited Machu Picchu, our opportunity presented itself when the selected restaurant for our dinner meal included guinea pig on the menu.

That's right--those are guinea pig feet you see sticking up in the air!

Against her fork, Beth lined up "remains" of the guinea pig feast. The "gore" you see is really sauce and not blood, although I informed Beth that it could be difficult to have our viewers believe such!

Eating guinea pig is an endeavor full of bones--slow and laborious. Even if travel literature would have you believe that guinea pig has that ubiquitous chicken taste, I do not agree. I like chicken but I don't particularly like guinea pig. A once in a lifetime consumption experience will suffice.

In the Andean region I also supped on alpaca cutlets a few times--the flavor always pleasing, even the one portion that was rather tough. Quinoa soup became another trusted, and always savored, meal option.

With regard to the Amazon stint of our travels in Peru, our most notorious meal for the memories would have to be when we dined on the piranha caught during a morning fishing trip. Actually, I should clarify: Carolee does not like fish, so it was I who ate piranha and I who discovered the delectable flavor. Eating piranha is bony labor, too, but the flesh in between the abundance of bones is incredibly tasty. I would eat piranha again any time.

Our catch all arrayed on a bench in the boat. The piranha--at least the kind we caught--have the red bellies.

Still, when all is eaten and remembered, only one menu item is likely to be transferred into my real life cuisine: rice and beans. Every lunch and dinner we consumed at the lodge on the Amazon--always served buffet style--included a rice dish and some kind of local beans. Any of the food offered for the lunch and dinner buffets was worthy of sampling and ultimately ranked in the "delicious" category most of the time, but it was the rice and beans that became my favorite part of each meal. I would save them for last; they were dessert.

"La coca no es droga."

“Coca is not a drug.” That statement appears in published articles, particularly with regard to coca use by the Andean people of Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia; and I know that slogan shows up on T-shirts for tourists, at least in Cusco. Andean people have chewed coca leaves for centuries and brewed “mate de coca” (coca tea) for maybe just a century or two fewer. Certainly coca leaves can be refined to produce purified forms of cocaine; novocaine is a synthetically created derivative of cocaine, by the way. However, in the Andes most people use coca leaves in centuries-old, traditional ways. Research substantiates that when chewed, coca acts as a mild stimulant and suppresses hunger, thirst, pain, and fatigue; it also seems to alleviate symptoms of altitude sickness. Coca leaves have an amazing amount of nutrients as well, which include proteins, carbohydrates, calcium, iron, and vitamins A, B₁, B₂, and C. Researchers believe chewing the coca leaf has been an important dietary supplement for the Andean people and the reason Andean people have better dental health than many other groups lacking the same degree of dental care.

Okay, all the above is really the scenic route or the annoying detour—you decide—to my real objective: coca and its connection to altitude sickness. All the travel books for Peru, our tour guide Claire, and even Carolee’s travel doctor advised us to drink coca tea to help our bodies acclimate to increasing altitude. Claire even shared an article on coca (and, yes, this article contained the statement “coca is not a drug”) which explained that coca’s chemical makeup might be a reason it seems to alleviate symptoms of altitude sickness and then provided this formula for it: C₁₇H₂₁NO₄, especially noting the four oxygens. All of our hotels in the Andean alto plano, beginning in Arequipa, had complimentary coca tea fixings available in the lobby, and so we began imbibing in Arequipa. (Carolee also informed Beth and me that although her travel doctor told her to drink the coca tea, she would test positive for cocaine in a drug test for up to a month afterward!)

Now, those of you who know me very well also know that I dislike tea, any kind of tea, even if it has added infusions of flavors or sugar or milk or lemon or any combination thereof! To me it always tastes like a swill comprised of hot water, grass, leaves and possibly a bit of dirt. Coca tea, though definitely not good-tasting by any means, proved to be not as offensive to me as most teas I’ve sampled. I would take a cup of coca tea at breakfast and then, some other time during the day, one more cup created from the complimentary fixings in the hotel lobby. Carolee hated the coca tea and always added multiple spoonfuls of sugar before drinking hers; I preferred mine “black,” and I chugged it so it wouldn’t inhibit my enjoyment of any aspect of a meal’s real food and drink.

I mentioned in my previous post that at the coca shop in Arequipa Claire insisted everyone on Tour Intrepid purchase at least one coca product to consume during our day on the road between Arequipa and Puno. I purchased coca toffees and cookies made with coca flour. I liked the toffees, but the cookies engaged my gag reflex with the first swallow. Beth actually bought some coca leaves as part of her purchase, and Carolee, Beth, and I all tried a coca leaf chaw . . . and each of us only managed one chaw, too! It was just way too much like chewing—well, leaves!

In the end, our consumption of coca didn’t save any of us from at least some symptoms of altitude sickness, but perhaps our suffering was eased!

Fixings for coca tea at our hotel in Puno. (My cup is there brewing in the bottom left corner!)

Carolee just "loves" that coca tea!

Some of the coca products for purchase at the coca shop in Arequipa.

Here are Beth's and my coca products. The packet of coca leaves is front and center!

This is NOT one of Beth's better photographic angles, but she wanted to document the coca leaf chaw!

"In certain valleys, among the mountains, the heat is marvellous, and there do groweth a certain herb called Coca, which the Indians do esteem more than gold or silver; the leaves thereof are like unto Zamake (sumach); the virtue of this herb, found by experience, is that any man having these leaves in his mouth hath never hunger nor thirst."

-Augustin de Zarate, contador real
under Viceroy Blasco Nuñez Vela