Close Encounters

After a long day of travel (a train from Seoul to Busan, the Beetle jetfoil ferry back to Japan, and another train from Fukuoka), we found ourselves stepping into an exceptionally nice hostel in Hiroshima. It was around 9pm, and once again starving after a jaunt across the East China Sea, we implored the hostel staff to help us find a restaurant that would actually be open at that time of night. Japan, in this matter, is Spain’s polar opposite – one is hard-pressed to find a food service establishment open after about 8pm. We had learned this the hard way at the beginning of our trip. The staff’s friendliness and helpfulness thankfully matched their impeccably well-kept establishment, and we were soon headed 5 minutes down the street to a restaurant serving a regional treat, okonomayaki. We could barely pronounce it as it we entered the restaurant, but we had been promised that it would more than take the edge off of our hunger.

We sat on the floor around a table, the center of which comprised a miniature version of the stovetop we’re all used to seeing at Japanese steakhouses in the United States. We ordered this okonomayaki concoction that had been suggested and waited to see what would happen. The results were personal pizza-sized heaps of sizzling deliciousness laid out in front of us. Mine contained pork, rice cakes, cheese, and noodles, although it seems that almost anything can make an okonomayaki. The stovetop kept the food warm as we each dug into our individual pies (although we were so famished, and the food so good, that most of it was demolished before it thought about getting cold). Hiroshima-style okonomayaki (distinguished from Osaka-style by the presence of noodles) quickly rose to the top of my list of perfect foods. We spent the rest of the evening playing cards in the hostel (or rather, Marlayna and Jose attempted to teach me how to play Texas Hold ‘Em, once and for all) and trying to avoid a group of rather sketchy American counterparts.

We had planned on visiting the atomic bomb sites the next day, but the weather forecast suggested we go ahead and make the trek out to the island of Miyajima and hold off a day on the A-bomb sites. However, prior to embarking on this excursion, Jose and I desperately needed to change our now useless wads of Won back into Yen. This seemingly simple task would of course prove much more complicated, as we first had to find a bank operating a foreign exchange counter and then spent a good 45 minutes waiting for what must have been Japanese CIA clearance for the transaction. To begin with, the young man behind the desk was exceedingly pleasant, but clearly on his first week on the job, as he took direction for all the minutiae of the process from several three-ring binders laid out in front of him. Jose and I had to fill out forms for our exchanges, hand them and our passports to the newbie, wait for his approval, and then take dictation from him as to the amount of Yen we would be getting in exchange for our Won. The form was then passed on to another shade of red tape while the newbie thoroughly inspected EVERY single bill. Twenty minutes later, yet another bank employee (or maybe the CEO himself?) would return with our Yen and a receipt. We endured this process once for each of us, and then after I’d been handed 2 bills equivalent to Japanese Benjamins, I was implored to fill out yet another form and wait another 15 minutes…simply to get smaller change. More than an hour after we’d left the hostel to quickly change our money, we finally emerged from the bank.

We took a train about half an hour out to Miyajimaguchi and then the short 10 minute ferry ride out to Miyajima Island. The Torii gate guarding Miyajima’s shrine is billed as one of the three best views in Japan, according to the Japanese (they seem to be quite the fans of superlatives). It sits out in the middle of the water at high tide and can be reached on foot at low tide. The shrine behind it sits on piers in the water as well and boasts wide vermilion decks and a bevy of photogenic lanterns. The island is regarded as sacred by the Japanese, so much so that human life is unworthy of beginning or ending on it. Hence, there are no hospitals or nursing homes on the island. No one is “allowed” to be born or die there. With all due respect, I found this rule mildly entertaining. What, exactly, would the Miyajima authorities DO to me if I accidentally died while on the island?

In any case, we walked through the shrine and headed down along a quaint stream and towards the ropeway leading to Miyajima’s zenith. Though obviously tourist-laden, the island was quite the departure from all of the city life we had been leading. We were disappointed to find the ropeway to be rather costly, and so Jose, Marlayna, and I decided to take a rest while Marina and Katherine hiked up to the top of the mountain. It was during these few hours that we became rather intimately acquainted with Miyajima’s natives.

Along with its shrine and policy on life and death, Miyajima is famous for its population of tame-ish wild deer. They are also considered sacred, somewhat akin to cows in India, and therefore

cannot be harmed. They clearly know this, as they strut around the island stealing ice cream cones from human hands, staring down people they deem unworthy, and generally running the place. We had several conversations with a group of these deer while waiting for Marina and Katherine to complete their hike, and in sum, found them either shy or rather rude. Eventually bored with them and/or tired of receiving sardonic looks from them, we decided to take a cue from several of the deer and lay down for an afternoon snooze. I was soon awakened by Marlayna’s ginger suggestion that I consider relocating. Cautiously opening my eyes, I fully expected to find myself at the mercy of some horrendous form of spider or Japanese beetle. Instead, upon regaining sight, I realized I was staring up into the eyes of one of our furry ungulate friends. I excused myself for my clear infraction of the deer’s territory and removed myself to a more acceptable resting place.

We spent that evening taking part in one of our newfound favorite slices of Japanese culture – the all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink beer garden. It began to rain about an hour into our bacchanalia, at which point we gained even more respect for our Japanese hosts. Instead of bolting from the thunderstorm, the clientele calmly moved to covered areas. Before we knew it, the beer garden was handing out boxes of free umbrellas to everyone. The Japanese are, if nothing else, prepared. They also do not forfeit time that can be spent with beer and food. No wonder they got along so well with Germany…

In another one of our many incongruent transitions, we spent the next morning taking in Hiroshima’s atomic bomb memorial sites. Overcast skies and occasional rain drops that day provided an apt background. We first visited the A-Bomb dome, a former exhibition hall that lay just a few hundred yards from the epicenter of the explosion. Due to such close proximity to the bomb, the building survived the blast relatively intact – relatively, in this case, meaning that it was still recognizable as the building it had once been. Only about 3 buildings in the entire city could claim this honor by the afternoon of August 6, 1945. The building was particularly striking because it was still so well-preserved – it sort of has the effect of a pristine set of dinosaur bones – except that the emotional effect is compounded by black atomic scars. In addition, as had been the case at the Nagasaki Peace Park, a baseball stadium had been built in close proximity to the

A-Bomb dome. A game was on as we stood staring at the A-Bomb dome, the cheers of the crowd wafting on the breeze and into our ears. I’m still not entirely sure why, but the image of baseball in the shadow of atomic bomb memorials…or rather, atomic bomb memorials in the shadow of baseball, hit a nerve with me yet again. I think it has something to do with the eerie audio provided by happily screaming fans.

We crossed over a scenic canal (Canals play a predominant role in both Hiroshima and Nagasaki) into Hiroshima’s peace park, which showcased a children’s peace monument dedicated to Sadako Sasaki (of 1000 paper cranes fame) and a haunting peace bell, among other memorials. By far the most stirring part of the park, in my opinion, was the cenotaph erected at its center, bisecting the land between the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and the A-Bomb Dome. An eternal flame burns in the reflecting pool extending away from the museum, as the semicircular concrete structure perfectly frames the flame and A-Bomb Dome in the distance. The names of the atomic bomb victims rest in peace, entombed in the center.

Jose, Marina and I took a tour of the museum, but soon realized we’d had our gut-wrenching fill of atomic bomb remains in Nagasaki. The Hiroshima museum seemed to me surprisingly inferior to the Nagasaki museum. It did, however, include dioramic displays of the city before and after the bomb, showcasing in stark relief the 3 buildings that remained partially standing after the explosion. I found myself feeling slightly sick to my stomach in the display room, surrounded once again by the ravaged personal effects of people who had been as alive as you or me at 8:14 am on that August 6^th. The feeling threw me off a little, as I rarely respond so emotionally to history. I’d managed to keep it together on the pockmarked shores at Omaha Beach and in the eerie silence now presiding over Dachau, but I found myself having to leave this museum.

Our final A-Bomb stop was the Hiroshima hypocenter, once again a stark contrast to the Nagasaki version. Whereas the Nagasaki hypocenter is marked by an imposing black obelisk in the center of a park-sized field, Hiroshima’s hypocenter consists of a simple brown plaque of about chest height, squeezed onto the sidewalk beside a hospital. It was quite underwhelming after Nagasaki – blink, and you miss it. Practically speaking, the contrast makes sense. Nagasaki was actually hit in a suburb, and thus could afford a park-sized memorial to its hypocenter. In contrast, Hiroshima's detonation occurred immediately over the city's center. A park here would have meant the fundamental restructuring of the city, certainly a show of weakness on the part of an already violated nation. So instead, the small monument partially blocks the edge of the sidewalk, and the pace of life rolls on…once again, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

We toured the less-than-impressive Hiroshima Castle before heading to the station to catch our train to Osaka and back to the ordered chaos of the big city.

Visiting the Gray Area

Go to Google Maps and type in "Pyongyang, North Korea." You'll be virtually flown to Pyongyang...but you'll also quickly notice that there is nothing but an eerie gray filling in the land around it. Even the geniuses that brought us Gmail, Gchat, and every other Googly wonder are unable to map out North Korea. It is my hope that this will help answer your first question: Why the hell would Megan go to the DMZ? When it comes to traveling, the more uncharted, the better.

And so it was that I boarded a tour van the morning of July 24 bound for Paju, South Korea, the gateway to the DMZ when coming from the direction of Seoul. I was the last person to be picked up, and so ended up with a front row seat, and therefore panoramic view of whatever it was that would lie ahead of us. The barbed wire fences and camouflaged military watchtowers became commonplace immediately after we passed out of Seoul's city limits. It hit me then, as it would throughout the day, that this was not a tour into the past. As striking and emotional as places like Dachau and Omaha Beach and Nagasaki have been in my travels, the DMZ took on an altogether different character. While it is a part of history, it has not yet been relegated to the books. It is still very much an active piece of world politics - a rumbling volcano, if you will, that could stir at any time given just the wrong mixture of circumstances.

Our guide, a young, friendly, well-spoken South Korean man, provided us with some background on the present state of the Korean conflict on the hour-long bus ride up to Paju. He spoke alternately of re-unification of the two Koreas and a "Second Korean War", and of both possibilities in such a matter-of-fact way that I was startled. It seems that either no one desires to remain in the status quo, or that people are simply resigned to the fact that it cannot and will not remain indefinitely.

Surprisingly, South Korea runs an industrial complex on the North Korean side of the DMZ. After all, North Korean labor comes cheaply. Up until December of 2008, the complex was supplied daily by a train connecting the two Koreas, but service came to a screeching halt when the current, and more conservative, administration came to power in South Korea at the end of last year. South Korean tourists had also been allowed to visit two specific sites in North Korea...until one of them unknowingly wandered past the wrong line and was shot to death by the North Korean army. Now, the only daily interaction between the two countries are the trucks that have taken the industrial train's place, running up Highway 1 to Kaesong and then back across the border. Relations have once again soured.

Our first glimpse of North Korea came sooner than expected, as our guide turned our attention to increased military presence on the left side of the highway. The mountains on the other side of the river belonged to North Korea. There was no DMZ here, on the westernmost side of the 38th parallel. North Korea had refused to include this maritime region in the DMZ with the knowledge that it claimed a navy far inferior to that of South Korea. The result is the only few miles of unbuffered border in the divided nation (the only divided nation remaining on Earth, by the way). The DMZ lies 2 km on either side of the rest of the border. We continued north, slightly perplexed by the number of civilian cars still accompanying us. When asked where all these people were going, our guide responded that we had yet to hit the northernmost city on this highway, the one where LG is headquartered. That's right - your LG phone probably had its origins just a few miles south of the DMZ.

We eventually pulled into a parking lot in Paju and were told we'd be changing into a government bus for our expedition into the DMZ. As it marks the border with the militarized zone (South Korea buffers itself from the DMZ with a heavily militarized strip of land), Paju plays a significant role for many South Koreans. Some 80% of South Koreans have ties to North Korea, relatives who've lived or died there. Paju is as close as they can come to pay respects to the dead and pray for an eventual peace. An enormous peace bell hangs on a hill here, provided for all of those who mourn the families from whom they are estranged. Also in Paju is the Bridge of No Return. At the "end" of the Korean War, South Korean POWs were allowed to choose which direction to walk on the bridge, which Korea to live in. Once decided, they could not turn back. I place "end" of the war in quotes, by the way, because only an armistice was ever signed. Technically, North and South Korea are still at war.

We boarded the government bus, passed over the hopefully named "Unification Bridge", had our passports checked by South Korean military, and rolled into the DMZ. As it is, by its nature, a relatively undeveloped place, the DMZ has become one of the more unlikely natural havens in the world. Several species thrive there that can live nowhere else. Mother Nature is beautifully oblivious, or perhaps even defiant, in the face of man's squabbles. In any case, heavily forested hills are still pockmarked with a million land mines, dropped by the North Koreans at the DMZ's inception. "You don't want to get out of the bus and wander off the side of the road," we're told. No problem.

Our first stop found us at the Third Tunnel, one of the four attempts by North Korea to (literally) undermine the DMZ that the South Koreans have discovered. Chillingly, predictions estimate that at least 20 of these tunnels exist. The parking lot, full of tour buses, also boasted a large, bright, multicolored "DMZ" sign sporting a cheerful flower, in front of which people were posing for pictures - one of the more incongruent scenes I've ever witnessed. In any case, we were instructed to wear hard hats and led down a 350-meter long access tunnel to a depth of 73 meters, then allowed to walk the length of the North Korean tunnel to within 170 meters of the North Korean border. The "roof" was barely 4.5 feet in places, water dripped from the subterranean rock surrounding us, and the walk was hell on one's back - but just this once, it had to be done. I kept imagining an army of North Koreans slamming their heads on the ceiling as they attempted to invade Seoul. In any case, the tunnel was all out creepy, ending at the first of three reinforced walls installed by the South Korean military after the tunnel's discovery. It was creepier for the fact that several more of these things likely lay undiscovered, their exits in proximity to Seoul.

Our second stop brought us to Dora Observatory, an outpost set up for tourists' viewing pleasure. Out across the grasslands lay North Korea. People scrambled to the binoculars set up to catch a glimpse of the land too mysterious for Google Maps. A yellow line several feet behind the retaining wall marked the last allowable inch for photographers. The mountains on the other side of the border were nearly stripped clean - a consequence, we were told, of North Korea's financial inability to purchase oil. Apparently, they strip and burn trees for fuel instead. The South Korean industrial complex was also visible in the distance, a black, shiny behemoth in the middle of, well, nothing. Most striking, though, were the propaganda villages built on either side of the demarcation line. North and South Korea began a "friendly" battle years ago to see who could fly the highest flag in their respective propaganda village. North Korea's flag wins today by a long shot, some 150 meters in the air to South Korea's 95 - but only because South Korea finally decided the competition was too juvenile to care about. Evidently, this is what Kim Jong-Il spends his time worrying about. Team America: World Police isn't so far off after all. I was, of course, fascinated to be staring out over a slice of North Korea, even if it was a tiny slice, and even if it was specifically engineered for my eyes. Regardless, it's a place that may remain shrouded in mystery for the duration of my lifetime, and I simply had a childlike curiosity in catching even the briefest glimpse of it.

Our final stop has ended up enduring the most in my memory. We visited Doraville Station, the super-modern, multi-million dollar station built in 2002 to connect the two Koreas by rail. It served its purpose to some extent up through last December, when the industrial trai

ns were still rumbling through. Today, however, it sits shiny and silent, a very expensive symbolic hope and prayer. A map outside details the railway line running across the border, into Kaesong, up to Pyongyang, and then eventually connecting with the Trans siberian Railroad. A marble wall is packed with the names of Koreans who donated their hard-earned money for the station's construction. Inside, a desk labeled "Inter-Korean Transit Agency" sits empty in a corner. A display commemorates George W. Bush's peace address, made here in February of 2002. A soldier guards the entrance to a waiting room labeled "To Pyeongyang." But the schedule board is conspicuously blank. No trains will be running to the North Korean capital today...or tomorrow...or probably for a very long while. The soldier's job, in actuality, is to pose for photographs with tourists.

We exit the DMZ via a farming village - a quiet, peaceful town, once again incongruent with the reality of its location. Those who live in the DMZ are exempt from taxes and the mandatory 2-year military conscription for South Korean males (10 years for North Koreans). The DMZ is UN territory, after all. If North Korea launches an attack, it will probably be for Seoul, and not one of the inconspicuous DMZ villages. So I suppose life is fairly safe, if not particularly exciting, for DMZ dwellers. On the other hand, they're probably very careful about watching their step.

We return to the Paju parking lot to switch back into the van that will carry us back to Seoul. I notice a little amusement park that I had not seen on the way in. What an odd place for such a thing! How out of place it seems! Yet again, out of place. Incongruity is a theme here. In reality, the nature, the silly primary-colored DMZ sign, the sign to Pyongyang, the quiet little village, the amusement park - are all just part of an entire strip of land that is, quite literally, out of place. When you're in the DMZ, you're everywhere and nowhere at the same time, caught in the still-bleeding wound of the only divided nation on Earth.

Body and Seoul

Following our misadventures in Busan, we were excited to return to the relative normalcy we thought Seoul would provide. The 3 hour Korail train ride provided an opportunity to check out some of the gorgeous Korean countryside. Admittedly ignorant about Korea, I was surprised by how mountainous the country is. The landscape reminded me a lot of the scenes out train windows in South India, as one threads the needle between the Eastern and Western Ghats. Mountains, small villages, rice paddies. The mysterious white ferro-concrete apartment blocks were even more ubiquitous than they'd been in Busan. We also used our 3 hours to ponder over several of Jose's puzzle book logic problems...

While not quite to the scale of Tokyo Station, Seoul Station very quickly reminded us that we were back in one of the biggest cities in the world. We navigated our way to the Seoul Metro and pretty easily found our hostel's building, thanks to the Dunkin' Donuts marking the entrance. That's right. Rampant American commercialization seems to have been a significant side effect of the Korean War. The typical international chains (McDonald's, KFC, Starbucks) are joined in Korea by the likes of Quizno's, Dunkin', Auntie Anne's pretzels, and of course, Outback. This visual Westernization bore a striking contrast to the lack of English spoken (or admittedly spoken) in the country.

Our hostel, the Hongdae Guesthouse, was located in the area of the city surrounding Hongik University. As a result, the hostel lay at one of Seoul's ground zeros for bars, clubs, and restaurants. We were located on the 3rd floor of a building that seemed like it should have been housing offices instead of hostels. We knew we were in for an interesting experience upon entering the hostel's office and being greeted by its proprietor, Mary.

Mary's office could be kindly described as cluttered. A more accurate visualization can be obtained by imagining the result of an indoor tornado. Mary herself was a short Korean firecracker, probably in her late 50s or early 60s. She immediately requested we sit down and assured us not to worry about the roof. We were slightly puzzled as to 1) where to sit down, as the clutter enveloped all potential seating apparati and 2) why, exactly, we needed to be reassured about the roof. We gingerly scooped some of the clutter out of the way and were relieved to hear that the roof assurance was part of some idiomatic Korean. Mary then proceeded to engage Jose in all matter of conversation, flailing about the room and leaving us all with puzzled, slightly amused, wide-eyed expressions. Once she found out about Jose's love of music, she determined we all needed to create a street band to earn some money for our travels. She made plans to head out to the music store so Jose could obtain a guitar and insisted our band be called "Jose and Girls." By this point, we were all wondering what, exactly, she was on. Eventually and with no particular concern for order, rents were paid and we were led to our rooms. The rooms were pretty unique for a hostel and included ensuite bathrooms, water coolers, stovetops, and a sleeping loft. The loft would have been especially cool had it not been designed for oompa loompas. The ceiling might have reached 5 feet at its zenith, less on its soffited edges. We thus dubbed it "The Bat Cave."

We ate dinner, ironically enough, at a Japanese restaurant and spent the evening wandering between the multitude of bars at our disposal. We eventually ended up at a place called Zen, which we liked enough to return to a few nights later. Aside from the infinite number of drinking establishments, Seoul proved dangerous for its outrageously cheap alcohol. We may have been shelling out several thousand Won, but in reality that meant that full glasses of Johnny Walker ran a couple of bucks. Unfortunately, South Korean brewers could stand to take a few suggestions. The three primary beers - Hite, Max, and the interestingly named "Cass Fresh"- left something to be desired. At least they were cheap. Anyway, combine infinite bars and clubs with dirt cheap alcohol and seemingly nonexistent closing times, and you have a recipe for some sorts of disaster, at least of the cirrhosal variety. We ended the night at a club called Cocoon advertising no cover for foreigners. Cocoon provided several levels of pounding music, gesticulating 20-somethings, and green lasers. The end of the night found Marina, Katherine and yes, me, on the front stage.

I woke up in pain the next afternoon, not only from a less than friendly hangover, but also from a pulsating left foot. I'd managed to do something to it while partying in front of all of Cocoon, and it was none too happy to be of any ambulatory assistance. I limped to afternoon breakfast with everyone and then decided to self-prescribe bed rest in the Bat Cave for the rest of the day. By evening, I was feeling a little better and ventured out to dinner with Jose, Marina, and Marlayna. We ate at a modified Korean barbecue that everyone seemed to enjoy a lot. We then began an expedition in search of a famous Beatles-themed bar we'd been told to visit. Once again, we found ourselves searching for a needle in haystack, the job all the more difficult for all of the Koreans who would giggle and run away when asked if they could help us out. After probably half an hour of searching, we finally found the basement bar.

Beginning to feel sick again and pathetically ordering waters from the bar, I knew I would have to call it an early night. However, I did not do so before we had one of the more entertaining encounters of the trip. A very very very (very) drunk middle-aged Korean man was swaying rather radically and precariously on his bar stool across the room from us. We were soon enrapt in watching the man's friend and the bartender attempt to dress the man in his sportcoat and lead him out of the bar. The gentleman, however, had absolutely no intention of leaving the bar on anything other than his own terms, and no one else was very much inclined to force him. There ensued a delicate ballet (almost literally) that soon swept us up with it when we became locked in the gaze of the drunkard. The man took a particular liking to Jose and babbled to him in drunken Korean while attempting to dance with him. We were all hysterically laughing, slightly nervous, annoyed, sad, and absolutely bewildered at once. Laughing because the sight of this drunkard's affection for Jose was absurdly ridiculous. Nervous because we weren't sure what the guy would do next. Annoyed because what began as funny became slightly irritating after half an hour's time. Sad because we wondered what must have happened in this man's life to bring him to such a state. And bewildered because none of us had ever seen drunkenness quite to this level before. Finally, Jose and the bartender were able to persuade the man to leave, peace returned to the bar, the Korean kids sitting beside us fled, and the embarrassed bartender bought several rounds of shots for our table. My next day would prove to be just as absurd, but under completely different circumstances. I'll chronicle my solo adventure out to the DMZ all by itself in the next post.

In any case, Seoul involved some more drinking, more dancing at Cocoon, more eating, a casino night (in which I barely took part thanks to my horrendous lack of luck and poker skills...and oh, funds) and a particularly entertaining trip to the enormous Coex mall complex. The Coex mall comes close to rivalling the megamalls of Dubai, if it lacks that city's penchant for theming. In any case, the mall boasts, among other things, possibly the largest book store I've ever seen, an enormous movie theater, and an aquarium. We took turns at all three. Aquariums can, admittedly, be dull. Once you've seen a few, you've seen them all. Except this one. The Coex aquarium was, to put it lightly, weird. One room was dedicated to displaying fish in various household appliances and fixtures - toilets, refrigerators, microwaves, even water beds. We hit the shark tank just in time to catch the tail end of a shark feeding...being carried out by Peter Pan and Captain Hook. Among the aquarium's inhabitants were bats, bunnies, and monkeys (thereby forcing us all to redefine our notion of "aquarium") and a two-headed turtle who, as the description below him read "had a tough childhood"...clearly, all of the other turtles made fun of him and left him out of their turtle games. To top things off, the snack bar offered up peanut butter roasted squid legs, or something along those lines.

Confident that someone had drugged our soft drinks after the aquarium experience, we decided to catch a movie. The only one playing at a reasonable time for us and offering enough seats was...drumroll...My Bloody Valentine. I would not dare ruin the plot for those of you who have not seen this cinematic masterpiece. Those of you who have seen it will understand why I am positive that it will win Best Picture in 2010. My Bloody Valentine, in a room full of Koreans judging American cinema...we ate dinner at the mall's TGI Fridays, gulping down two barrels (literally, barrel-shaped giganto-pitchers) of beer to soften the blow.

We left Seoul on the 27th to return to Busan by train, catch the Beetle jetfoil back to Fukuoka, Japan, and then catch a train to our next destination, Hiroshima. It was just in the nick of time for the sake of everyone's livers.

3776 and the Land of the Rising Sun

"He who climbs Mt. Fuji once is a wise man. He who climbs it twice is a fool." Unequivocally, the truest words ever spoken.

So this post is going to jump ahead, skipping over Seoul, Hiroshima, and Osaka, whose tales will come later, for the sake of describing our ascent up Mt. Fuji as close to the moment as possible (aka...post post-Fuji shower, nap, full-body massage, CAT scan, and MRI).

Arriving to Fuji 5th station (from which all reasonably sane people begin their hike up the beast) was our first challenge. The transit route from Osaka to the town of Kawaguchiko, our Fuji "base camp" if you will, is slightly convoluted to begin with. There is just really no good way to get here from there. We took a 3 hour train from Osaka to Mishima station before transferring to what was billed as a 2 hour bus ride to Kawaguchiko. Once in Kawaguchiko, we knew we had another 50 minute ride to the 5th station ahead of us after checking into our hostel and dumping our luggage. Things began to get interesting when it began pouring rain at Mishima station. It appeared that we were not only going to climb a 12,000 foot mountain at night, but that we were going to do so in the rain. We attempted to make the best of the situation in our minds: climbing Fuji in the rain WOULD make us even more badass, and it was likely that fewer people would be in our way up the mountain. In addition, well...um...so much for that...

In any case, we boarded our bus, expecting to arrive in Kawaguchiko around 6:50 in the evening, transfer to our hostel, and catch the 8:00 bus to Fuji for a 9:00 ascent. As transportation in Japan tends to be as reliable as death and taxes, the thought of a delay did not even cross our minds. This is Reason No. 762 why I'll take a train over a bus any day - buses are subject to the wiles of traffic, accidents, and general road annoyances. Trains live in a special indestructible world called the track, and they are perfect in every way. ANYWAY, the 2 hour ride time quoted us apparently did not take bumper-to-bumper, one-lane-twisty-mountain-road traffic into consideration. We crawled along for about an hour in the rain, taillights ahead of us as far as the eye could see. Our Fuji plans were in severe danger of being foiled, as we had to begin our ascent early enough to reach the summit by the 4:55 am sunrise. Nervously and impatiently waiting for the digital fare calculator at the front of the bus to reach the amount we'd paid, we finally pulled into Kawaguchiko Station at 7:30, booked it to a cab, threw our credit cards at the people mannning our hostel's front desk, transformed ourselves into spelunkers, and were out the door by 8:30 to catch the final bus to Fuji for the night at 9:15. Phew. Hard part over. Now we just had to get up the mountain.

We were giddy as we boarded the bus to the 5th station. Fuji-san has lingered ahead of us for the past month and longer. I became obsessed with the mountain back in January when I signed on for this trip and drew up the cockamamy scheme for us to climb the thing. 12,000 feet? That sounded cool. 200,000 people tackle the mountain in the climbing months of July and August every year. Some also tackle it in the off-season...of those who do, some die. So it sounded like a plausible scheme with enough danger and uncertainty involved to make it interesting.

We happily trekked down the trail from the 5th station to the 6th station, almost skipping along the downhill path. Wait. DOWNHILL? We'd blindly followed some other people in the dark...were we stupid enough to have started off in the wrong direction? I suggested we ask someone, as embarrassing as it would be. Finding ourselves at the bottom of the mountain hours later would have proven much worse. So, adults that we are, someone instantly shouted, "NOSE GAME!" to determine who the unlucky fool would be to ask the question. Of course, I was slow to the trigger and left to ask a passerby if we were going in the right direction. Indeed we were, we just had not hit the upward trail yet. Regardless, we began our hike up Mt. Fuji unsure whether we were actually headed up or down the mountain. Clearly, we knew what we were doing. In any case, we finally did find the trail and were at the 6th station in half an hour, admiring the breathtaking view below and playing 20 Questions all the way. Piece of cake. Only 4 stations to go until the top. What was the big deal, after all?

And then we left the 6th station for the approximated 60 minute hike to the 7th station. 20 Questions trailed off, as we were too busy gasping for air to waste it on guessing what animal, vegetable, or mineral someone had in mind. Oh. The climb from the 6th to 7th stations allayed our fear of heading down the mountain. I will certainly give it that. We trudged up sharp switchbacks, the air lighter at every turn, providing less oxygen to our taxed muscles and minds. It was at this point that I realized I was hiking with people-cum-mountain goats. Jose nearly ran up the trail, the other 3 girls hot on his heels. I brought up the rear...in order to...um...make sure everyone else got up safely in front of me... I was quite the happy camper when we hit the 7th station, 3100 meters up. 3 stations and 676 meters to go.

That's when we hit the second traffic jam of the day. Mt. Fuji welcomes (I use the term quite loosely) thousands of hikers a night. I'd read about her trails being packed, somewhat akin to a line at the greatest roller coaster in a theme park, but you can't really envision the situation until you're in it. I, for one, was relieved to have no choice but to slow down. By this point, the atmospheric oxygen was lessened enough that my leg muscles were screaming. Other than the traffic jam, this leg was marked by rock scrambling...that is, finding a foothold and a handhold and scrambling up sometimes narrow passages of volcanic rock. Oddly enough, it was one of the easiest phases of the climb and I had a blast. We soon hit the 8th station, confident we'd be to the summit by 1 or 2 in the morning. Such was the calm before the storm.

This is when Fuji likes to remind you that she really doesn't want to be climbed after all. The ascent from the 8th stage is nearly all switchbacks. The lack of oxygen at this elevation makes every step feel like a victory and begins to make people act as if intoxicated. Slightly lightheaded and goofy, I trudged on ahead, still bringing up the rear, but bound and determined not to quit. This is when I began to have a personal battle with Fuji, Megan Versus The Volcano, if you will. Then we hit the second 8th station. That's right. The Fuj is a real comedian, tricking you into thinking you're further up than you are, and then socking you with a second 8th station. By this point, everyone was drunk off of exhaustion and lack of oxygen. We all would have failed sobriety tests. Our zigzagging paths were especially of concern thanks to the deadly falls that would welcome us if we took an especially wrong step. People here and there along the path were dropping like flies, probably due to altitude sickness. However, after hitting the second 8th station, our little Fuji maps promised us only 80 minutes to go. At this point, I was no longer able to think straight and so am not able to report an accurate time, but it was probably around 2:00, so we still had 2 hours and 55 minutes till sunrise. Piece of cake.

A sign a little while after the second 8th station and countless more switchbacks pointed us toward the 8.5th station.

Me to Jose: WHAT THE F*** IS THE 8.5TH STATION?!
Jose: I have no idea, but that's not encouraging...
Once again, Fuji sucker punches us. 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8.5? Were we so oxygen-deprived that we were imagining this? Was there actually a top to this mountain or did it go on forever? We kept moving, barely stopping to rest. Long about 3 in the morning, we reached the Torii gate marking the 9th station. The top was supposedly ours in half an hour, according to a sign.

That's when we hit Major Traffic Jam No. 28 of the day. It appeared that the secret had somehow gotten out, and we weren't the only people who wanted to summit Fuji before sunrise. Tour group after tour group lined the rocky path to the top. We could see it, we could smell it. There was no way we would make it in half an hour. All we could do was drunkenly wait our turn and take one step at a time. The tour guides shouted instructions to their minions through bullhorns, as if this were some sort of military exercise. (We contemplated the misery one's life must entail if one resorts to being a Fuji tour guide, thereby scaling the beastly thing on a regular basis while babysitting a group of slightly lunatical folks like ourselves...) The horizon began to redden. It was around 4 am. 55 minutes to go.

The adrenaline rush from the last stretch gave me a second wind, and I soon found a path past the tour groups and hopped up through the rocks in a slightly crazed fashion. Passing through the Torii gate at the summit around 4:30, I felt absolutely elated, chills running down my spine. I'd acclimated to the oxygen levels and could breathe normally. It was freezing at the top, quite a contrast to the scorching, humid days we've endured throughout the trip, but I had no concept of temperature at the time. I turned around to see that everyone else had hit the summit as well. Wandering around in a zombie-like state, we soon all fell into a huge group bear hug. This was something no one could ever take away from us.

Jose, Marina and I headed for the caldera and then for a good spot to watch the sunrise. Poor Jose was an icicle by this point (Did I mention he scaled Fuji wearing shorts? We mused whether he might be the only person to have done that at night. Judging by his clothing, a fellow climber along the way had asked us if we'd all gotten drunk at a bar that night and just decided to climb Fuji. No, no...we'd actually been planning this for months...) In any case, we cuddled up on some volcanic rock with the throngs and watched as the sky brightened and the sun eventually burst from the horizon, eliciting oohs and aaahs from the crowd. The clouds below stretched across the sky like cotton, lesser mountain ranges poking their heads through the mist. It was a nearly out of body experience that I will keep close as long as I live. We couldn't help but giggle and grin from ear to ear, faces red from the cold, hair tangled in the winds of the volcano.
Following the sunrise, we all gulped down some miso and ramen at the mountaintop noodle hut. Then, as quickly as we'd passed through the ultimate Torii gate, we were headed back down again, the cold and our exhaustion too much for us to extend our stay. I had been told that the way down was easy, that one could essentially ski down the switchbacks. Hahahahahaha. Yet another of Fuji's jokes. Although shorter (2.5 hours down as opposed to 6 up), the descending route is arguably more painful than the ascending one. We must have slid down 50 or more dirt and rock switchbacks, terrified of wiping out on each one. This is not an exercise for the weak-kneed, literally. I'm currently contemplating double knee surgery myself. In any case, it was assuredly an exercise of mind over matter. No matter how much it hurts, you HAVE to get down. No matter how much is left below, you MUST look up to see how far you've come. You hit some pathetic vegetation and are relieved to finally see some green. You hit the emergency shelter, then the 7th station, then finally, mercifully the 6th. The endless switchbacks end, the trail levels out, you even climb UP every now and then (strangely, a relief at this point). You catch a second wind near the end and triumphantly cross the finish line, collapse, look up to the top of the mountain, and shake your fist. I beat you, you nasty beast. God bless you.

We'd climbed 1471 vertical meters up and an equal number down, 10 miles in all, over 8.5 hours. We slept on the bus ride home, showered off the Fuji dust, napped, and then spent the rest of the day licking our wounds and watching movies. Still in enormous amounts of pain today, I think we'd all say we're glad we did it. Once. Never again. The views at night are something out of a fairy tale - brighter stars in this environment free of light pollution, ephemeral clouds lazily drifting over tiny cities (e.g. Tokyo) below. The views from the top must be seen for themselves. The trip down is like a hike across the surface of Mars. The elation upon hitting the top, the experience of sharing this struggle with thousands of other pilgrims - those are feelings that cannot be manufactured, memories I'd never trade. You've never lived until you've hiked Fuji once. Do it again and, well, natural selection may take its course...

Losing Ourselves

Before I turn to the adventure that was South Korea, I'd like to briefly tell the onsen story. Onsen. The actual definition of this place is a Japanese spa, but that fails to tell the whole story. Japanese spas involve getting naked in a locker room, showering, and then taking a communal dip with who knows how many other naked people. In short, it creeps me out. It makes my list of Top 10 fears in life, right along with snakes, earthquakes, and non-AC bus rides on the Bombay-Goa Highway.

We spent our second day in Nagasaki visiting Ioujima Island, a short ferry ride from the mainland. Except for a resort hotel, the island legitimately looks like something straight out of Jurassic Park - jungle-covered mountains and all. We spent awhile on the beach there and then, as part of our 980 Yen (about $10) package deal, we were required to exchange our spa ticket for the return boat ticket. I figured, as any reasonable person would, I think, that I could simply exchange the ticket at the spa desk. That was before I ran into the spa Nazi. She absolutely insisted (in Japanese, and with unmistakable hand signals) that I go into the spa or I couldn't have my return boat ticket. My Japanese is about as good as my Swahili, but what I imagine was said was, "Either you go into the room of nakedness, or you will be marooned on this island forever, and I will feed you to the pterodactyls in the mountains." Determining being served up as dinosaur bait to be a slightly worse fate (SLIGHTLY) than entering the room of nakedness, I capitulated and took a towel. I then proceeded to stand in the corner of the locker room being giggled at while Marina and Katherine took part in the festivities. I'm sure onsens are really nice; the Japanese seem to swear by them. And I am all about trying new experiences while abroad. Some things just cross the line for me, and being forced into a spa locker room under the threat of never returning to civilization is one of them.

On to South Korea. Country #20 on Megan's Lifetime World Tour.

Korea is different. I noticed the second we arrived at Busan Port that we weren't in Japan anymore. We rolled up after 3 hours traversing the East China Sea on our JR Beetle Jetfoil. Google Image this thing. It's sweet. It rises up out of the water and literally sounds like a rocket engine when starting up. It cuts a journey of 8 hours down to 3. In any case, Busan Port is absolutely bustling, full of enormous container ships from ports as distant as Singapore and Dubai. At immigration, we traded the digital fingerprints and photo of Japan for a laser-like device applied to our necks by masked, gloved officers. I'm sure they were just taking our temperatures, but it is also possible that I'm now carrying a secret spy camera in my neck, courtesy of the Korean government. After customs and immigration, we decided to go ahead and book our ferry tickets back to Japan. We were planning on taking an overnight ferry the second time around to save on a night's accommodation. We found the ticket office easily enough and the ticket agent spoke English, so we figured we had everything in the bag. We realized, however, that something had been lost in translation when he wished us a good journey...today. Jose tenderly broke the news to him that we were leaving in a week, not that day. Patiently, the ticket agent changed our date and issued us reservation tickets. Problem solved. Except not. Jose checked them (thankfully) and noticed that they were dated for 7/23 instead of our intended date of departure, 7/27. Once again, he gingerly broke the news to the agent. Ok, so we'll just fix the tickets again...except not. The ferry is full on 7/27. Fairly inflexible with respect to our return date due to future plans, we took a refund and decided to contemplate the situation later.

On to the shuttle that will take us to the metro, and ultimately the hotel. We had stood patiently waiting for the shuttle for about 10 minutes when we decided to take a peek at the schedule. We would have been waiting a long time, as the next shuttle was not for another 4 hours or so. Walking it was. Except the map we had was about as useful a navigation aid as a Monopoly board. And nobody, but nobody on the street spoke English. We wandered around for about 15 minutes before deciding to bite the bullet and take a taxi. We caught two and headed toward the hotel.

Except not. Jose's, Marlayna's and my cab driver drove us about 30 minutes outside the city and proudly pulled up to the Centum Hotel. Except we were staying at the Busan Central Hotel. There ensued a 15 minute conversation in which we tried to distinguish the "ral" from the "um". The difference clearly did not translate, and we were eventually sent in the direction of the closest metro station to our hotel. I was absolutely confident this time that we would get where we were going, as when Jose asked one of the hotel managers who'd been helping us if the station was in such and so direction, the man nodded his head and replied, "Maybe." We continued our tour of Busan and were eventually deposited at our metro station by what I'm sure was a very relieved cab driver. Now, surely, we had things in the bag. Except...you guessed it...not. Our hotel was theoretically a 2 minute walk from Exit 16 of the metro station. A few words about this. Exit 16?! 16 exits?! Continuing on...we walked down what looked like a promising street...one of the eight radiating from our metro station's intersection. No Busan Central Hotel on the horizon. We realized with amusement at this point that the hotel's name might not even be written in English, and seeing as written Korean strongly resembles crop circles to my untrained eyes, that could prove a bit of a stumbling block. We thus attempted to do what we do when lost in Japan - ask people on the street. Except the Korean reaction to "Do you speak English" was uniformly to either run away in utter fear, giggle and sheepishly slink away, reply in perfect English, "No, I do not speak English. Have a nice day! Oh, by the way, antidisestablishmentarianism is my favorite English word," or, if someone did speak English, they certainly did not know where this hotel was. We were supposedly two minutes from it, and no one had heard of it? Did it even exist?

During this period, by the way, I, being the odd person that I am, was in my ecstatic zone. I revel in chaos. Things would work out, but in the meantime, a glorious war story was developing, and I loved every minute of it. I kind of felt like we were in the middle of The Amazing Race...

At this point in our expedition, I noticed the location of addresses on buildings, and for three wonderful seconds, we thought that would help us out. Except...1) we absolutely could not read street signs, so numbers didn't really matter so much and 2) the numbers ran in absolutely no particular order. So much for that idea. And so we did what any self-respecting tourists should do. We opened our map in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at it blankly. Sure enough, a pack of people descended upon us in no time. One man in particular wordlessly signaled for us to follow him. Why not? Indeed, he led us directly to our hotel and up to its 3rd floor lobby, then disappeared into thin air like the guardian angel he was. Now, if only the other two girls were here...

In fact, their cab had taken them directly to the hotel, and they'd showered and were already sipping on some beers, contemplating what they might do if we actually were dead, as they slightly suspected we were. In truth, our little adventure proved quite useful. We'd gotten the lay of the land and seen much of the city...which turned out, to our great surprise, to be full of row after row of uniform white ferro-concrete apartment buildings, their addresses labeled in big block numbers on their sides. I've never visited a Communist country, but this is what I imagine it would look like. We found this especially odd considering South Korea's lack of affinity toward its red northern neighbor. In any case, we'd also spotted an Outback Steakhouse.
So, as it was the 23rd anniversary of Jose's birth, and as his reaction upon sighting Outback was akin to Pavlov's Dog, and as none of us had eaten in 24 hours, to Outback Steakhouse we ventured. I've never eaten so much in one sitting, taking down my first steak in 2 years (don't worry, Hari...I'll emerge back from the Dark Side once I'm back home) as well as half of Katherine's dinner. The wait staff sang Happy Birthday for Jose and brought him their sweet, yet ill-advised attempt at a cake - rye bread smothered in raspberry sauce. It's the thought that counts. We returned happily stuffed to the neighborhood around our hotel, had a few birthday drinks in Jose's honor, and promptly fell asleep, slightly exhausted from our great adventure.

To Seoul next, but for now I notice I'm being properly stared down for hogging the computer. Seoul, the most dangerous city on the planet (will explain later) with a solo field trip to the DMZ and a glimpse into North Korea...

The Resilient Beat Goes On

Nagasaki, Japan. A plutonium atom wiped 1/3 of this city off the map just 64 years ago. My dad would have been 5 years old. Today, it becomes my favorite city yet in Japan.

If Kyoto slowed us to a walk following our breakneck pace in Tokyo, Nagasaki brought us to a glorious crawl. It's small. It's walkable. It's by the mountains and the ocean. When you're too lazy to walk anymore, its main form of transportation is a tram line. It's hard to believe this city fell victim to the most powerful bomb ever detonated in wartime. Her streets are quaint and quiet, her hillsides peaceful, her people happy and friendly. I fell in love with Nagasaki almost immediately.

Our hostel, Akari, was, as promised, one of the best I've ever seen. Its owners were incredibly helpful and friendly, its accommodations immaculate, and its location along the river exceptional. It also helped that Nagasaki is small enough to pretty comfortably traverse on foot. We ate the first night at a

hostel-recommended restaurant down the street. Ever the culinary adventurers, Jose and I went for the local specialty, champon, or noodles in seafood stew. I'd have to honestly admit it was probably my least favorite food of the trip so far, save maybe for Jose's cow stomach in Kyoto. The animal parts were varied, sometimes excessively chewy, and often unidentifiable.

We met 4 awesome British/Scottish guys at the hostel and invited them out to a jazz club we wanted to check out. We walked the 10 minutes along the river to the main commercial area of Nagasaki and fairly easily came upon a doorway advertising jazz until 26:00. I'm all about adding extra hours to the day. Anyway, we tromped up the narrow staircase to the 3rd floor and discovered a gem - a spectacular hole-in-the-wall bar packed with CDs, vinyls, memorabilia, and likely the largest liquor collection in Nagasaki. The bar boasted all of 7 seats, perfect for our group of 7. Jose instantly befriended the proprietor, a Mr. Mizaguchi. Mizaguchi-san would serve us a drink from his extensive collection, ensure that our bowls of bar snacks were full, and then accompany one of his own CDs on the saxophone. Jose was smitten, and the rest of us were

instant fans. In the course of conversation, we discovered that Mizaguchi-san had been born in China in October of 1945. His family moved to Nagasaki in May of 1946. The bomb had been dropped just 9 months before. Reluctantly leaving around 12:30 so we could get ourselves up to sightsee the next day, we promised Mr. Mizaguchi we'd be back before we left Nagasaki. Not 8 hours into Nagasaki, we had friends and our own amazing watering hole. We would return 2 nights later, with Mizaguchi playing "Happy Birthday" for Jose on the sax and then digging into his record collection to treat us to a Frank Sinatra vinyl. Simply amazing.

We invited the Brits and Scots out the next day to visit the atomic bomb sites. It was, as

predictable, quite an emotional experience. We first visited the Nagasaki Peace Park, perched on a hill above the suburb of Urakami, ground zero for the explosion of Fat Man. The park is full of peace statues donated from other countries. Its centerpiece is a gigantic Buddha-like

figure, one hand outstretched in a gesture of peace, the other pointing toward the heavens from which the bomb fell. Like so many other things we've seen in Asia, it was massive and impressive. I suppose such grandeur is humanity's attempt at matching the size of the continent.

Our second stop was the reconstruction of Urakami Cathedral. The US did not originally intend to drop the bomb on Nagasaki, but cloud cover prevented the pilots from unleashing Fat Man on their first choice city. Nagasaki was unfortunate enough to finish second (interestingly, chillingly, Kyoto, that grand historic city of 2000 temples, was the final city to be removed from the short list...) The intended target was the Mitsubishi Shipbuilding Factory; a break in the clouds instead brought into focus the Mitsubishi Arms Factory in the northern suburb of Urakami. In yet a final

slip-up, the pilots missed this tertiary target and instead, in a dark twist of irony, hit a Catholic church, Urakami Cathedral. Only the church's front door and surrounding wall remained standing, the saints on either side charred black from the explosion.

Our next two stops were what really hit my gut -

ground zero for the bomb's detonation and the atomic bomb museum. The zero point is marked by a stark black pillar surrounded by concentric lawn circles. It is, in my opinion, an absolutely appropriate memorial. It is flanked on one side by one of the actual front pillars from Urakami Cathedral. I was immediately glued to any building remains actually impacted by the bomb. Even more stark was a simply marked set of stairs leading to "ground level when the atomic bomb exploded". Venturing down the stairs, I found a glassed-in preserved patch of Earth still containing the debris from the day the bomb exploded. It was incredibly eerie. Accompanying the patch of Earth was a stream that had been dammed with dead bodies the day after the bomb exploded. It was surrounded by some of the original flagstone, still exhibiting flash marks from the tremendous heat generated by the bomb (3000-4000 Celsius at the hypocenter). I was speechless, almost reduced to motionless.

The atomic bomb museum ranks right up there with the best museums I've ever seen. It explains every aspect of the explosion, from the build-up to the chemistry behind the bomb, the personal aftermath, rescue efforts, and the state of nuclear proliferation today. It is an impressive nod to human resilience in the face of indescribable disaster. Numerous actual artifacts from the day of the explosion are on display, some attached to mind-numbing, jaw-dropping, heart-wrenching personal stories. Particularly striking are two clocks that literally froze in time at 11:02 am, August 9th, 1945. I was personally thrown by a tin full of carbonized rice, a little girl's lunch that day. She could never have possibly known her lunch would end up a museum exhibit. The lobby of the museum is decorated with thousands upon thousands of paper cranes exhorting the world to peace.

Staring up that day, fixating on the sky above the black column at the hypocenter, I couldn't even come close to imagining the horrors of that day in August, 1945. The sky shone bright blue, scattered with fluffy white clouds, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

2000 Temples, 1001 Gods

Taking the train to Kyoto, I was reminded of how much I love said form of transportation. Japan's super-modern trains are indeed quite the departure from Indian trains, but both certainly have their charms. It was a welcome break for all of us to sit for a couple of hours. Mountain ranges emerged in the distance soon after our departure from Tokyo. Jose and I realized that we were on the rail line that passes in front of Mt. Fuji, and I began an ardent lookout for the volcano. I'd looked down for a few minutes to write in my journal when a sixth sense prompted me to glance out the window. There she was, lording over the entire landscape, significantly more grand than anything surrounding her. Clouds floated about halfway up the mountain, the almost perfectly conical peak reaching into the heavens. Overexcited, I nearly slapped Jose on the top of the head to alert him. The middle-aged Japanese man beside me looked concerned that I might be having a seizure. In reality, though, I did have quite an emotional reaction on first glimpse of Fuji-san. There is something divinely beautiful about that mountain in all its grandeur and perfection.

We had booked our first night in Kyoto at a traditional ryokan and essentially ended up having one all to ourselves. The serenity and cleanliness of our tatami room marked a vivid contrast to our hostel in Tokyo. After eating, we all climbed into yukatas (traditional Japanese robes) and relaxed for nearly the rest of the night on our futons (traditional Japanese bedding laid out on the floor). Our one departure was a trip out for dinner. We were lucky enough to land at a Korean barbecue boasting every part of the cow on the menu. I went for the tongue, while Jose ordered the stomach. The tongue arrived in very thin slices and, despite being a bit chewy, was actually quite good. I would certainly eat it again. The stomach looked and tasted like stomach. It had the consistency of lard, and attempting to chew it was a futile operation. After 15 minutes of frustrated mastication, I finally gave up and swallowed the thing whole. I cannot say that I would try it again...

The main attractions in Kyoto are its some 2000 temples. I managed 6 of them - Higashi and Nishi Hongan-Ji, Yasaka, Sanjusangen-Do, Kiyamizu, and To-Ji. We all visited Nijo castle and the Imperial Gardens and were lucky enough to be in Kyoto for the main celebration of the Kyoto Gion Matsuri Festival. Had we tried to manage more, we may well all have collapsed in sheer exhaustion. Kyoto sits in a valley, which serves to insulate the heat that steadily builds there throughout the day. In addition, we're in the middle of Japan's rainy season, so the humidity is outrageous enough as it is. There were days in Kyoto that most certainly reminded me of the Delhi heat.

In any case, our first two temples, Higashi and Nishi Hongan-Ji, are Buddhist temples in the Jodo shin school. Nishi Hongan-Ji is the mother temple for Jodo shin Buddhism, while Higashi was built later as part of the breakaway sect predominated over by the Tokugawa shogunate. Higashi's temple is one of the largest wooden structures in the world, but was unfortunately under renovation while we were there. I was lucky enough while inside the cavernous interior of Nishi to run across 3 elderly women chanting their prayers for the day. I felt absolutely privileged to be in their presence.

Day 2 counted as one of my favorite in Japan, but for odd reasons. We began with a visit to the Yasaka shrine to check out free traditional performances occurring there in celebration of the Kyoto Gion festival. The vermilion-colored shrine sported a carnival-like atmosphere, complete with aromatic food stands...and beer. After lunch, Jose, Marlayna and I attacked our absolutely rank laundry while Marina and Katherine took a trip out to visit the golden temple, or Kinkakuji. Laundry time actually turned out to be pretty entertaining, as an Australian school group showed up at the breadbox-sized laundromat just ahead of us. We thus spent several hours sitting on stools on the sidewalk, solving logic puzzles, and waiting for our clothes. It was one of those moments that was just off-color and unique - I'm sure the Kyoto-ites driving by wondered what in the world those gaijin were doing chilling on the side of the street.

The next day took us to Sanjusangen-Do and Kiyamizu. These rank among some of the most impressive structures I've ever seen. Sanjusangen-Do is affliliated with Tendai Buddhism and boasts 1001 statues of Kannon, the goddess of mercy in its 120 meter hall, the longest wooden hall in Japan. 500 life-size statues flank either side of an enormous central figure, and all are guarded by 28 Japanese deities in the foreground. The entire display is exceedingly impressive and like nothing else in the world. It took over 100 years in the 12th and 13th centuries to carve the 1001 statues. This stuff is OLD.To make things even cooler, the back hallway of the building was once used for archery tournaments. Kiyamizu rests atop a cliff above Kyoto and thus provides a fantastic panoramic vista of the city and surrounding mountains.

The walk to the temple takes one up a narrow, winding residential road and then through an area that has been turned into a tourist haven. We were actually really excited to run across souvenir shops at this point, as they marked the first we'd seen in Japan. In any case, the torii gate guarding the temple suddenly rises above you at the top, and once in the complex, it affords gorgeous views. The famous Love Temple is part of the complex and with its county fair-esque atmosphere seemed oddly incongruent with the rest of the temple, but was entertaining nonetheless. Here, a life-size Donnie Darko-esque rabbit accompanies the Japanese goddess of love (http://media.photobucket.com/image/Jishu-jinja%20shrine%20rabbit/AngelicCross/Kyoto/Kiyomizu%20Temple/RabbitnearOkuninushinoMikoto.jpg).

The last day brought the Gion Festival parade, where we found ourselves amidst an enormous mass of humanity, watching 32 enormous floats pulled and carried down the street by every sort of man, young and old. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what I was watching, but the festival lasts for a month and has been a staple in Kyoto, even through the rough times. It was a privilege to just be in the middle of it. After squeezing our way through the parade crowds, we toured Nijo Castle and its grounds, the most remarkable aspect of the castle being its hummingbird floors, designed to squeak under footfall to warn the emperor of the arrival of potential intruders. At the end of the day (e.g. around 4pm), we all dragged ourselves, maimed and dripping in sweat, to To-Ji temple, home of Japan's largest 5-storey pagoda. To-Ji also boasted two halls with an impressive array of enormous Buddha shrines. By this point, it was raining and we all had at least one bum leg, so we called it a day and shrank back to our ryokan.

One final notable aspect of Kyoto was its food. I have yet to have a bad meal on this trip, but the stuff in Kyoto was, in my opinion, exceptional. One night found us at an all you can eat and drink beer garden on the top of a hotel roof overlooking the sun setting red into the Kyoto mountains; another night found us stumbling into a hole in the wall that turned out to be an exceptional traditional restaurant. We sat on the floor enjoying outstanding miso, salad, teriyaki chicken, shrimp tempura, and sushi. We weren't exactly sure what kind of fish lay on our plates, but Marina, Marlayna and I gobbled them all down. I later found out that one, an odd fluffy-looking white fish, was actually sea snake. I was pleased to add that to my bizarre foods list for the trip...all the more so because I did not have to know I was eating it!

Our next stop is Nagasaki, the city that caught all of our hearts in one way or another, and not just because of its atomic fate. I'll write about her soon, but as a preview...hole-in-the-wall jazz club, the proprietor of which, a Mr. Mizaguchi, moved to Nagasaki as an infant in May of 1946. Fat Man had wreaked its havoc just 9 months before.