A Continuance of the Temporary Break

Ski Apparel



Exhibt A: Evelyn

Exhibit B: Jennell

Black is my color on the slopes. Although I have dabbled with some other colors on jackets and headgear over the years, I’ve settled on black. I like black; I am comfortable wearing black; I enjoy the ease of replacing black ski pants with black ski pants, a black coat with a black coat, black gloves with black gloves. My ski hat actually includes gray and white snowflake designs on the band, but I had to upgrade to a helmet when I began skiing with Mishel. (See Appendix below.) Of course, I invested in a black one! However, I did purchase the sea green neck warmer last winter because Mishel was so totally convinced I’d buy the gray one!

Through the years my ski buddies have grumbled about my black attire, which makes me virtually indistinguishable from a myriad of other skiers on the slopes. And, I’ll confess, I’m grateful that my ski buddies prefer color in their ski apparel; their flamboyance eases my search to locate them at the best of times, and especially at the worst of times! Both Mishel and Jennell do the black ski pants thing, but to their credit, Mishel wears a jacket the color of an apple flavored Jolly Rancher and Jennell wears pink! (Exhibit B) When she wanted to find me, Mishel said she looked for a figure in black with red ski boots (the boots I rent from Outdoor Rec. on base have always been red) because the green neck warmer disappeared inside all my black. Jennell has informed me, though, that the red boots don’t really show up that much, and she would like to adorn the top of my helmet with hot pink ribbon streamers.

Appendix:

I began skiing with Mishel my first winter in Japan. Always a thrill seeker, Mishel adores skiing in powder, in trees, and off-piste. Mishel wears a helmet. Two years ago, the first time I skied with her on the island of Hokkaido at Niseko—a resort with this amazing snow that lures all these Australians to come for three-week ski vacations—we rode up on the gondola with two Australians who offered to take us on this way cool track into the powder and the trees and totally off-piste. Mishel was ecstatic and I was nervous. Sure enough, we skied right through a gate on top of a groomed run and into the powder. As the trees loomed into position requiring me to maneuver between them, in addition to managing powder and slope, it dawned on me that I was the only one of the four of us without a helmet. I ordered one from REI immediately upon returning home!

[Mishel transferred to Naples last summer, so this winter I have not engaged in the same types of dare-devil skiing that Mishel had the inclination to initiate!]

A Temporary Break from the Sri Lankan Journal

Ski Weekend


The evolution of my ski experiences—and me as a skier—includes an array of ski buddies, who appear only for a piece of that history due to the nomadic nature of our lives: Either I move or they move. . . Jim, Carolee, Phil, Janice, Robert, Linda, Mishel, . . .

For the MLK weekend, Jennell and I drove five hours to Nagano Prefecture for our first ski adventure together at Norikura Kogen. Jennell is a beginner; this trip marked her fifth time to the slopes. I seem to have become an eternal intermediate with more than a score of winters recording maybe two to five ski days apiece interspersed across days not in school. Jennell wants her slopes signed with green marking; I prefer red slope signs with a smattering of black. However, Jennell has a penchant for speed, which bodes well for a developing ski buddy relationship. By the end of our first ski day, she could “point and shoot” pretty much any “green” run. I talked her into experimenting with a “red” slope on sporadic occasions, but usually I skied the red paths—and a couple black ones dressed in really good snow conditions--on my own, and we’d meet up at the bottom of designated lifts at designated times.

Here is one of my "red" runs. At the bottom of the photo is midway to the bottom of the resort. I felt like I had skied into forever by the time I reached bottom with thighs on fire!

Here is my other favorite red run. Really the very top is black--steepness of incline and moguls. When I wasn't feeling on top of my game, I would ski on the red run behind this slope and emerge midway, from the left on the photo. The snow and slope of the bottom skied like a blessing!

Tucked away from more mainstream Nagano resorts, Norikura has virtually no lift lines—I rarely waited even a minute in line—despite excellent snow quality and some fabulous runs. As “gaigin” (“foreign devils,” but now graciously interpreted as “foreigners”), we stood out. The first day we skied, Jennell and I were the only gaigin at the resort. In fact, one of the lift guys started greeting me in English every time I slid into the “starting line” of his lift. Some other gaigin—all affiliated with Jennell’s school and the original planners of this trip—joined us our second day on the slopes. (Jennell and I had headed to the slopes a day earlier than the others.)

Although seemingly mired eternally at the intermediate level, I rated quite a bit higher in slope skills than any of the other eight gaigin on the trip, and I apparently acquired a reputation for my abilities that I probably don’t fully deserve. This elementary school teacher group of skiers/snow boarders subsequently included me on an invitation for another ski trip over Presidents’ Day weekend. As the itinerary began taking shape, I learned that two of the teachers planned to bring their high school-age children (four boys, all snow boarders), and Valerie, the “mastermind” of the trip,” suggested that maybe I’d like to ski with them! Once possible resorts were selected, Valerie sent me an e-mail that included this:

I went to Outdoor gear and talked to an experienced Japanese tour guide. He called Hakkoda and set up a back country trip for the boys. The guide will have some English skills and Collin has some Japanese speaking skills so things should be fine.

0800 is the show time. They will rent all the back country gear for 3000 yen and pay 4000 for the guide. (Cash) They will ride the gondola up in the morning and ski back country down and have lunch at the “warming house”. In the afternoon they will once again ride the gondola up and make their way down again at 1600.

Evelyn – if you want to join the boys, they are happy to have you. Let me know and I will call and get your reservation. It will be the same price – 7000 yen for rental of backpack, snowshoes, poles, shovel, beacon etc. and the guide. You will then buy two gondola passes at 1500 each.

You can Google Hakkoda and find out all kinds of neat stuff about the mountain. I am going to read the following article during lunch.

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/0602/sports/ski-japan.html

When I saw “backpack, snowshoes, poles, shovel, beacon, etc.,” I thought, “Yeah, right!” But I put myself on “pause” mode, just in case, and followed the link. That clinched it! Attempting diplomacy, I responded to Valerie that I have become a “comfort” skier; I don’t do hiking in order to ski. I would be fine skiing with Jennell, her, and the others. Valerie wrote back:

That sounds good. But I don’t think there is a lot of hiking involved because the lift takes you to the peak of the mountain. If I could – I would join you all, but of course I don’t have the skills to do so.

In my nest message I became more blunt and pointed out that hauling around snowshoes, poles, a shovel, and a beacon in a backpack failed to reassure me that there would not be much hiking or similar laborious adventure. She replied with “LOL” and “maybe you’re right!”

Now here it is Presidents’ Day weekend, and I sit at my computer. Yesterday Jennell bailed on the trip because of serious flu; I’ve had a sore throat and a general feeling of malaise for two days. If the two of us decided not go, the group had the option of reducing the number of rental vans needed. So, that is what has happened.

Sri Lankan Journal #4

Mirissa Beach

A driver booked by Intrepid Travel met Jennell and me at Bandaranaike International Airport, just north of Colombo, when we arrived in Sri Lanka just about eleven in the morning on Sunday, December 21. To drive us the 150 km to Mirissa, a village located on a beautiful curve of beach on Sri Lanka’s southern coast, took the driver almost five hours; infrastructure in Sri Lanka definitely ranks as third world! Still, it was a fascinating drive and often very beautiful. We spent the next four days based in a cute but rather empty hotel, the Palace Mirissa, situated on top of a headland at the western end of Mirissa Beach. Whether because of booking confusion or the lack of any crowd during this “high season” (and the Sri Lankans bemoaned the dearth of tourists throughout our trip) or some combination of both, Jennell and I each had our own cabanas but right next door to each other.

We are greeted in the arrivals hall.

This is the interior of my cabana at the Palace Mirissa.

This is a view from outside the dining area of the Palace Mirissa.




In the mornings I would head to the beach just after sunrise—interpretation: after 6:30 but before 7:00—to run/walk and watch the way a new day opened before meeting Jennell for breakfast at 8:00 in the dining area overlooking the cliff edge and the sea. While I gorged on fresh tropical fruit—with an emphasis on MANGOS—and a “Sri Lankan” omelet (by day four I had finally convinced the cook that I really could handle some of those chilis that officially belong in the omelet), Jennell ate eggs over easy and sausages between multiple cups of tea. Then we would unfold the design for the rest of a day by a beach piece by piece and always with robust injections of improvisation.

Monday, our first full day there, we hired a taxi and driver and headed to Galle, an adventure that will require a separate post. Tuesday, with a little help from the hotel manager, Jennell discovered Eddy, a German expat with a full repertoire of enterprises to entice the tourist, to include diving. While Jennell went diving with Eddy, I photographed boats in Weligama, a fishing village just west of Mirissa, in between chats with locals, all anxious to engage me and my tourist dollar in a variety of activities ranging from massage to fishing, from saris to snorkeling. Then I returned to Mirissa for an afternoon at the beach, an occasion commencing with selecting which of four freshly-caught fish I would like grilled for my lunch. You see, lounge chair and umbrella options at Mirissa Beach all had direct connections to beach hut eating and drinking establishments; I chose my lunch, so to speak, when I chose my chair and shade! Although I had never heard of any of the fish names given to any of the four different fish displayed in all their glassy-eyed glory on the plastic green tray the guy held in front of me, I chose the smallest of the four because I hoped I could eat more of its entire size and not have to leave behind as large a remnant. The chosen fish returned to my presence, grilled in its entirety, eyes dull and dark. French fries and salad shared the plate. The flesh of the fish startled me with its dark color, but the flavor was mild and pleasant. I devoured a goodly portion of it along with the French fries, which were awesome. I am not one who ever even craves French fries; I can eat three or four and be done. In Sri Lanka, however, the fries were always amazingly good—salty, flavorful, and perfectly textured. I probably ate more French fries while in Sri Lanka than I have eaten all together in the past two years. The salad offered was good, too, but I couldn’t decide if it was “safe,” so I only dabbled with it. I grew ever more courageous with food, though, as our trip progressed, to the point of regularly purchasing sliced mangos from street vendors even though I had no idea where the knife that did the peeling and cutting of “my mangos” had been before! I never got sick while in Sri Lanka, by the way.

Wednesday after breakfast, I returned to Mirissa Beach proper accompanied Jennell. Mirissa Beach can generate quite a powerful surf at certain times in the day—probably tide-related. In fact, surfers hang out at the western end of the beach below the jutting headland. Jennell, a true Florida girl at heart and in skills, decided it was time for me to learn to body surf. She explained, modeled, and coached. I watched and attempted to mimic her as she called out which wave to float over, which wave to duck under, and which wave to take. Now, you need to also understand that Jennell is just under six feet tall and she is a strong, experienced swimmer; I am five feet three and I know how to swim. One time I really caught a wave at the perfect moment and it was magical. One time I really caught a wave at an inopportune moment and had my body pummeled by the surf so vigorously as to move the two pieces of my tankini away from the body parts they were designed to cover. I had some serious readjustments to make once I rediscovered my bearings and the atmosphere! All the other wave moments of the body surfing experience were just plain ol’ fun.

Maybe ten minutes into our body surfing fun, five boys, ranging in age from perhaps nine to thirteen, joined our realm in the waves. Three were local boys with one boogey board to share among them; two were Germans with a boogey board each. (I had heard their father speaking to them earlier while renting the boards from a beach hut.) One of the local boys made us all friends within minutes despite limited English. He flashed these beautiful white teeth whenever he grinned, a grin so wide, so contagious, you couldn’t help but smile back.

“What your name?’ he asked first Jennell and then redirected the question to me. After we responded in turn, he asked, “What your country?” Once again we answered. Then he nodded at the German boys, “He your baby?” Even after Jennell replied in the negative, followed by me, he remained nonplussed. He simply turned to the German boys and asked their names. From then on it was just the waves and us!

Thursday, Christmas Day, we breakfasted at our established hour, said our good-byes to now familiar hotel staff and the British family of three—currently living in Dubai—with whom we had shared numerous conversations over breakfasts and dinners, and climbed into the van we had hired along with a driver (thanks to Eddy and one of his other enterprises) to head east along the coast to Yala.






Here is where the surfers hung out at Mirissa Beach. The stilt belongs to a fisherman whom we never saw!

Sri Lankan Journal #3

Malaria . . . Prevention, I Hope

Today marks the last day I plan to swallow a turquoise capsule of doxycyline, my prescribed medication to increase the odds that no mosquito unfolding its life cycle in Sri Lanka—especially one having sustained this life cycle by imbibing at least one bloody cocktail swimming with malaria parasites before guzzling my own blood in the ongoing pursuit of sustenance—will infect me with malaria. (PLAN A: This antibiotic annihilates any malaria parasites that happen to invade my body before malaria—the disease—evolves. PLAN B: Seek medical treatment immediately should any malarial symptoms appear within a month of returning home!)

Two to three days before one enters the established malarial zone, one commences ingesting one capsule of doxycyline per day and continues for four weeks after departing said zone. It’s those 28 days of pill-popping after one’s return that become a real labor, especially when one’s stomach has launched a rebellion against the pill itself. Now, to be fair to my stomach, it has endured three sessions of doxycyline infused malaria prevention within the last year: India (Christmas Break, 2007), Indonesia (June, 2008), and Sri Lanka (Christmas Break, 2008). Gulping pills first thing in the morning or last thing at night works better with my memory for keeping the event regular, but no amount of water alone—even up to 16 ounces—inhaled with the capsule could preclude a stomach ache this time around. I immediately switched to sucking it down with meals only to discover that I had to monitor what else I ingested with it: Dairy products NOT good at all; grain products alone not sufficient to forestall stomach distress either. Fat grams in the mix, especially meaty ones, work best!

When I returned from Indonesia last summer, I cheated on the 28-day continuance of the ritual and cut off by about day 23; I had two or three bites—my friend Mishel seemed to be the mosquitoes’ morsel of preference—and Bali, the last part of the trip, wasn’t part of the malarial zone anyway. This time, though, I couldn’t cheat . . . not after Yala!

Our first night in Yala the mosquitoes ate me up! We discovered the next day an open window in our cabin. Apparently the cleaning people hadn’t closed it, and we had never opened the curtain covering that window to realize that it was even open. Meanwhile, though, I battled through a night of buzzing and biting. My bed was situated closest to the window, and these mosquitoes definitely seemed to prefer me over Jennell! The next day I had a collection of TWELVE bites on my face alone! My arms, legs, and especially prime areas of my hands—like knuckles that poked out of the sheet with which I had desperately tried create a barrier of protection for myself—sported numerous bites as well.

We left Yala December 26 and headed into the highlands. Neither of us suffered any more from flying pests . . . although I will confess that I wore some mosquito bites on my skin even until I returned to Japan, to include several on my face! Today, January 26, I’m calling it quits on the pills.

Here is Jennell on the porch of our cabin in Yala.


This is a panorama from the viewing tower located on top of hotel reception and the second-floor dining area. The hotel pool is right below, the ocean is to the left, and Yala National Park begins just across the lake.

The entrance to Yala National Park, Elephant Rock, Jennell and I spot our first leopard in the wild, that first leopard, and one of the elephants we saw in the park.

Sri Lankan Journal #2

Things Not Finished

In my life there are some things not finished. Other people, looking in on my life, might not realize these certain things are not yet finished, but inside me I can feel the blank space on the canvas, sense the unfilled record of the experience. For the past four years, Sri Lanka has been one of these things.

The December, 2004, tsunami not only truncated an anticipated tourist journey, it linked me to a time, place, and people with an intimacy I did not fully conceive until after I had returned to a life quite removed from it all. Yet, I have always known I would need to go back to Sri Lanka. Ever since moving to Japan in August, 2005, I have played the airfare to Sri Lanka game on a variety of travel search engines, but never has a trip there been financially feasible again until a small window of time this past autumn.

On my first trip to Sri Lanka, a wood carving of a stilt fisherman caught my eye in a wood carving shop our tour group visited. We had not seen any stilt fisherman; indeed, at that point, we had only explored the interior regions of Sri Lanka. Nishantha, our tourguide, promised me, however, that we would see stilt fisherman when we traveled the south coast at the end of the tour. I bought the stilt fisherman a couple of days before we arrived at Yala, an animal reserve situated on Sri Lanka’s southeast coast, and the next morning the tsunami struck. We were evacuated inland first and then over to a hotel in Negombo, near the international airport on the west coast. I never saw a stilt fisherman.

This December’s trip, Jennell and I commenced with five beach days on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I saw stilt fishermen.

Christmas Day Jennell and I arrived at Yala Village, exactly four years from the Christmas Day I had arrived there before. We booked an afternoon safari into Yala National Park, where we did find that elusive leopard—two of them, in fact. The next morning, the anniversary of the tsunami, our driver drove Jennell into a nearby town in pursuit of a possible diving trip. I wandered over to the beach, the beach where I probably would have gone the morning the tsunami swept in if I had not decided to return with a few friends to Yala National Park to look for a leopard.

Alone on the beach, except for two fishermen watching me (or maybe just the sea) from their shacks, I removed my flip-flops and walked—a journey along a sandy stretch of coastline, but also a journey through memory and thought and emotion. In the end . . . a tsunami redemption?


Although I would certainly travel to Sri Lanka again should the opportunity come my way, I have designed the canvas and completed the record. Sri Lanka can be finished.

Sri Lankan Journal #1

(In honor of inauguration day . . .)

While in Sri Lanka’s central highlands—think towering summits overlooking terraced tea plantations and verdant valleys—Jennell and I spent two nights in Nuara Eliya at the Grand Hotel, a still classy establishment despite an aura of fading colonial elegance. Now, never in Sri Lanka did Jennell or I ever maneuver or carry our own luggage at any time; someone always emerged at any instant to take on that task if we showed any inclination to move any piece of baggage.

The morning of our departure from Nuara Eliya, we checked out and then waited in the sunshine beside the stately drive and entrance of the hotel for the arrival of our driver and, at this point in the trip, collection of multiple bags. Jennell remembered something she wanted from the hotel and had disappeared inside again by the time two porters produced our rather embarrassing assortment of bags and suitcases—certainly in the range of six or seven. I tipped them generously (although it probably did not amount to more than $2), and the tall one, who had this beautifully deep and dignified voice, says “Madame, where you from?” [Jennell loved all the “madams” bestowed on us during our days in this country!]

“USA,” I replied.

Very seriously, he stated, “USA good place.” I smiled. Then he flashed me a huge grin in return and added, “Barack Obama.”

Sri Lankan Journal #1

(In honor of inauguration day . . .)

While in Sri Lanka’s central highlands—think towering summits overlooking terraced tea plantations and verdant valleys—Jennell and I spent two nights in Nuara Eliya at the Grand Hotel, a still classy establishment despite an aura of fading colonial elegance. Now, never in Sri Lanka did Jennell or I ever maneuver or carry our own luggage at any time; someone always emerged at any instant to take on that task if we showed any inclination to move any piece of baggage.

The morning of our departure from Nuara Eliya, we checked out and then waited in the sunshine beside the stately drive and entrance of the hotel for the arrival of our driver and, at this point in the trip, collection of multiple bags. Jennell remembered something she wanted from the hotel and had disappeared inside again by the time two porters produced our rather embarrassing assortment of bags and suitcases—certainly in the range of six or seven. I tipped them generously (although it probably did not amount to more than $2), and the tall one, who had this beautifully deep and dignified voice, said “Madame, where you from?” [Jennell loved all the “madams” bestowed on us during our days in this country!]

“USA,” I replied.

Very seriously, he stated, “USA good place.” I smiled. Then he flashed me a huge grin in return and said, “Barack Obama.”