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

A Testimonial: Altitude Counts and Oxygen Matters

The Andes

Lake Titticaca (The distant snow-capped mountains are actually in Boliva.)

And symptoms of altitude sickness infiltrated the well-being of every single one of us on "Tour Intrepid"; the degree of severity ranged from headache and malaise all the way to such a serious shortage of oxygen content in the blood as to require the administration of supplemental oxygen at a clinic. Even our tour guide Claire, who resides in Cusco (elevation in the 11,000 ft. range), experienced the increased need to pee as we wended our way from Arequipa (8,000 ft.-ish) to Puno (12,500 ft.-ish), located on the shore of Lake Titticaca. For, you see, one loses a higher rate of water vapor from the lungs at higher altitudes, so one needs to drink more to stay hydrated, and thus, one tends to pee more as well. Headache, a common complaint of many adjusting to higher altitudes, is a symptom of both dehydration and altitude sickness, and a goodly number of those suffering headaches at altitude could be dealing with either or both issues.

Well, while in Arequipa I had a slight headache most of the time, one I explained away as a sinus situation because of the dryness of the air. Now, with hindsight and a better knowledge of altitude sickness, I suspect that my current low-lander status--afterall, I have dwelt near the coast of Tokyo Bay for four years--subjected me to initiatory symptoms of altitude sickness the two days we stayed there. Altitude sickness generally becomes operative for a statistical group of the population around 8000 feet, the elevation of Arequipa.

The morning we left Arequipa to drive to Puno, we stopped at a shop selling coca leaves and goods made from coca leaves--NOT as in "cocaine," mind you--and Claire insisted that we all purchase something made with coca leaf to consume on our days's journey, an ascent of over 4000 feet; natural coca has properties that seem to alleviate altitude sickness. (STAY TUNED: I will discuss coca and our experiences with it in my next blog post.)

By dinner time that evening in Puno, our group had lost four in number--too miserable to leave their beds, they were--and a few more felt "iffy," but Claire encouraged them to try to eat something and to continue drinking at least water. Then she confided that Puno was always the point on the tour where she temporarily "lost" tour members. By 11:00 that night misery caught up with me. For the next 5-6 hours I couldn't sleep, I peed at 90 minute intervals (and continued with that pee schedule for about the next 36 hours), at moments I felt like I couldn't catch my breath, and then I added bathroom forays to deal with the kind of stomach distress that generates the internal quandary of just what one ought to do with the commode: sit on it or lean over it with mouth wide open.

Although there were moments during the night when I fully believed I would have to forfeit the next day's activities on Lake Titticaca and moan away the day in the hotel room, by morning--even if still hovering in the below average range of wellness--I decided to give it go: My destiny might never include Lake Titticaca again! At breakfast we learned that Claire had escorted two of our group to the clinic due to more severe altitude-induced symptoms; one actually spent the rest of the night in the clinic hooked up to supplemental oxygen. Ultimately, only those two remained at the hotel and did not participate in the Lake Titticaca activities. Not that the rest of us were in real great shape by any means either, as evidenced by the fact that on the three-hour boat ride out from Puno and then back to Puno, every single one of us spent an inordinate amount of both blocks of time stretched out on the benches or on the decks sleeping! Still after our lunch on Taquille Island that day, I felt crazily SO much better; even the slight but constant headache of the last three and a half days had disappeared.

Below are listed some of most common symptoms of altitude sickness--the so-called "mild" form, not the kind that puts you in the hospital and can kill you:

Headache
Lack of appetite, nasea, or vomiting
Fatigue or weakness
Dizziness or light-headedness
Insomnia
"Pins and needles"
Shortness of breath
Rapid pulse
Drowsiness
General malaise
Peripheral edema (swelling of hands, feet, or face) Several in the group mentioned they couldn't get their rings off.
"Blonde" moments

And to conclude, here is a "blonde" moment story: That first night in Puno, after dinner but before the true misery of altitude sickness caught me, Carolee decided to take her shower before bed because Lake Titticaca activities included an early morning wake-up call. After her shower Carolee informed me that none of the water had drained. I investigated the situation, and sure enough, the water in the tub did not seem to be draining at all. Since I would want a shower in the morning, Carolee called reception, and they immediately sent up a handyman. He was only in the bathroom for a moment before re-emerging with a big grin on his face. In his hand he held up the plug for the tub. Carolee had not considered whether or not the tub had a plug, and that night the thought never crossed my mind either.

Designing a Desert: The Nazca Lines

Apparently deserts as canvas have intrigued the artistic mind for centuries. Near the dusty highway town of Nazca, an amazingly flat expanse of Peru's San Jose Desert is etched with geometric lines and shapes, some of which portray the stylized forms of a hummingbird, a killer whale, a monkey, and even a "space man." Enormous in scope and size--and best viewed from the air for a true appreciation of the mindset and vision to create them--these enigmatic lines have conjured a full array of theories, from clever to cracked, to explain their existence. The fact that the first ones of these "lines" date back to approximately 400BC only fuels the range of theoretical possibilities. Just take a look at these:

1. from the German mathematician Maria Reiche--originally the translator for the American archaeologist Paul Kosok, the one who first brought aerial photos of the lines to the world's newspapers in 1939--by the time she died in 1998 after studying the lines for six decades of her life - the lines were "the biggest astronomy book in the world."
2. from Hans Horkheimer (1947) - the lines were tribal symbols.
3. from George Von Breunig (1980) - the lines were a giant running track.
4. from Henri Stirlin later in the 1980s - the lines represented huge weavings and strands of yarn.
5. from Erich von Daniken in his book Chariots of the Gods - the entire area was a giant landing strip for extraterrestrials and one of the shapes was an astronaut. (See Space Man figure below.)
6. A popular current theory is that the lines were mainly about water in this arid land; the lines were created for religious/magical practices to ensure a steady supply of water.

Most of us in the Intrepid Tour chose to view the Nasca Lines the optimal way: by air. As one of five passengers in a small plane piloted by Juan Carlos, I had a wonderful time photographing the lines for the majority of the flight, although my stomach lost its steel after about the eighth set of steeply banked curves--modus operandi to allow people on both sides of the plane to see the lines. My queasiness quotient jumped exponentially, though, when the lady in the passenger seat beside Juan Carlos commenced urping into a barf bag. Seated directly behind Juan Carlos, I was the only one besides him who was aware of her actions for she was admirably discrete . . . . It's just that I had a direct view of both her and the barf bag. However, we landed without anyone else heaving, and a few minutes perambulating on stable ground and gulping in fresh air quickly quieted the nausea factor.

Up we go! The only green in this landscape is the irrigated swath on both sides of the Nazca River.

Some of the earliest lines.
(Click on any of the photos to see a larger perspective; details show up better, too.)

The killer whale--a "water figure."

Here is the Space Man; he's actually on the side of one of the few low hills.

Monkey

Hmmm . . . I'm calling it a dog.

Spider

Hummingbird

Hands . . . and for some reason I really like this one.

I photographed more forms and shapes on our flight than are included here; these are just some of my favorites.

Carolee tips Juan Carlos (wearing the white shirt) at the conclusion of our flight.

"On the Edge" in Peru

Mary, one of my ski buddies in Germany, used to remind us whenever we contemplated attempting a more challenging slope, “If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much room.”

Near Ica, between Pisco and Nazca, the oasis of Huacachina nestles amid towering sand dunes. Exploring these dunes via dune buggy and sandboards counts as one of our "edgier" activities while on the Intrepid Tour.



All but two of our group chose to partake in this sandy adventure, and transporting us required two vehicles. Although all of us are pictured below on the monster buggy, Beth, Carolee, Liz, and I actually rode in a second and smaller buggy.

Here it is!

We watch the monster buggy plunge down a dune, and then they--from a valley location--witness ours from a different dune.
The ups and downs, the speeds and lulls, the perspectives and blind-spots, and the fluttery and dropping stomach sensations definitely reminded us of roller coaster experiences.


Now for sandboarding . . . And, by the way, all three of the dunes we sandboarded here would dwarf the dune Beth and I descended at 90-Mile Beach in New Zealand! Here our dune buggy driver instructs me on sandboard body position while sharing precautions and tips for the ultimate descent.


Oh, yes, one must remember to keep the legs spread apart.


I'm off...and the shadows in the bottom right-hand corner are Beth's hands; she documented this descent of mine.

And then a concluding photo op above the oasis before lunching at an oasis restaurant. . . . and the sand lodged in every crevice of my body remains invisible to the camera lens!