Saved by the cab driver

Does everyone who get on a plane feel like they always get stuck with the fatty who snores and smells? And with the entertainment system that fails to work? And with loud babies with over-attentive parentals? And the guy who laughs out loud with no hint of constraint?

Probably. Except, maybe not all at the same time.
To be fair, I was even lucky to make the flight, so perhaps I should be grateful that I’m not stuck at the airport hashing out another £700 for a flight. London Transport threw a huge wrench in my commute to Heathrow, as the bus ride – which usually only takes about 40 minutes, maximum – ended up taking 2 hours.

I look at the time on my laptop and I know there’s still a good nine hours left in the flight. The man behind me is laughing his head off watching a movie I can’t even load on my entertainment system. I had some wine to calm my annoyance but it didn't help (the food, however, did – it’s the only thing that’s currently keeping me from flying a different airline next time). There’s still the snoring fatty and the black screen of death inches ahead of me. My food tray hasn’t been removed so I prop it on the floor; at this point I could care less about how I behave on this flight.

The day had begun smoothly, or so I thought. I left the house several hours in advance and I was firstly greeted by a caring bus driver, who made sure that the elderly got their seats on the one-door bus. There were a few whom she especially took care of, like the overweight African woman in a knit sweater and a knit cap and her shopping trolley. The driver got out of her seat – London bus drivers rarely do – kicked the young chav out of his seat for her and hauled her shopping trolley in the luggage space, next to my suitcase. Impressive.

I was basking in this small miracle at the back of the bus, and noticed that a feeling of community had settled in amongst the commuters. The air was more relaxed, people smiled more and seemed open to conversation with the stranger sitting next to them.

And then, another miracle: Another African woman got on the bus with not enough credit on her Oyster card, and not enough small change. She held up a £20 bill that was useless to this bus driver who had no change. So a lady sitting by the door opened her wallet, produced a £2 coin, and handed it over. The donor smiled, content that she had done her share of good for the day. The African woman smiled graciously, thanking her as she walked past. Everyone felt good.

I try to remember that nice feeling of content as the black screen of death continues to stare at me. I selected “500 Days of Summer” an hour ago and left it loading (or playing? who knows) in hopes that it may decide to work sometime. It has yet to make that decision.

But on that bus bound for Victoria, I had reflected in the greatness of what had just happened – people helping out, not in expectation of much in return other than a polite “Thank you,” and a feeling of charitable accomplishment. The bus was packed to its limits – at one point the driver declined an elderly woman as there was no possibility for maneuvering for seats – but no one complained, and I attributed this rare peace in the middle of London to the bus driver who had done the right thing at every stop.

My day took an undesired turn when the Travel for London (TFL) inspector boarded the bus. He slithered through the bus crowd with his small remote Oyster-card checker, and came across a dark-haired woman with dark khol around her eyes. “There’s no money on this card, ma’am,” the inspector said.

“Well I beep-ed it when I got on the bus,” the woman replied in a moderate, Middle Eastern accent.

“But there’s no money on this card, you see,” the inspector pointed at his remote. “Where did you get on?”

“By the hospital.” And so it went on.

He slithered back up towards the bus driver. “Do you remember that lady getting on the bus at St. Thomas’ Hospital?” The bus stopped and pulled over. All those people who had been so content and peaceful moments before got up in outrage.

While I failed to make out the subtleties of the conversation, I became aware of the lengthy process this woman’s Oyster card was causing, and pulled out my phone to shockingly face “11:15 am”. I had left at nine. My bag was due at the check-in counter by noon, and my flight was at one. And I was still in London. Panic quickly settled in and, seeing another bus approach behind us, I grabbed my suitcase – the woman and her shopping trolley were long gone by then – and hopped on to the bus parked behind.

Being caring and kind to the elderly is great but not when it delays the ride by an hour, and then only to be caught by an arrogant inspector whose sole raison d’etre is to find as many Oyster cards lacking credit as possible, I thought.

I laid my options out. Bus from Victoria to Paddington? No, I can’t trust London buses. Cab to Paddington and then Heathrow Express? No, there’s not enough time for that. It was 11:20 and I frantically jumped off the bus at Paddington.

Right, no time to waste, just get on a cab.

I sped across the bus station, and up to the first cab queuing by the station entrance. “Paddington?” I gasped.

The cab driver – I later learned his name was Alex – pulled his earphones out and nodded. I hopped in. “How many minutes will it take?”

“10 or 15, I’d say,” he replied.

I sighed in desperation. “Can you do it in 5?” The cab was already out the station and onto the road. I liked this driver.

“Where are you off to?”

“Heathrow. My flight’s at one and the bus driver took forever. I have to check my bag in at noon. I’m fucked. I’ve checked in already…” and I trailed off, realising I wasn’t saying anything in a logical order.

Alex looked at me cautiously through the rear mirrors, and stated, “I can get you to Heathrow by 12:05.” Then he looked ahead, as we approached the roundabout by Hyde Park. “Train or cab, miss? Your call but you have to call it now.”

I took a small breath. “Ok go for it. Take me to Heathrow.” The cab wound around and headed away from Hyde Park.

“My satellite thing tells me we’ll get there at noon, at 60 kilometers an hour. I’ll go 75 and we can try to get there by five-to. How does that sound?” He looked up.

“That would be amazing. I’ll give you a good tip if you can actually do that. I’m going to miss an international flight. No pressure.” Panic was back again. “But if you have any doubts, take me to the station.”

“The machine’s telling me noon right now. That’s what I’m going with. Okay?”

“Right…”

£65 and a futile phone call to Virgin Atlantic customer services later, it was 11:55 and I was at Terminal 3 in Heathrow. Getting on the main motorway ate up some nerve-hacking minutes, but while my fighting spirit noticeably deteriorated over the phone with the Indian customer services man, Alex had given me a confident thumbs-up through the rear mirror, conveying that I’ll be making my check-in deadline.

“Oh you’re good. You’re really good. You saved my day,” I said in relief, as we smoothly approached the terminal.

“You gotta trust the cab driver! You’ll have three minutes to get to the counter.” And he went on to explain how I wouldn’t have made it on the Heathrow Express, given the waiting time and the actual time that it takes to Heathrow – 25 minutes, not 15.

I grabbed his card, telling him I’d call him again in times of urgency. Then, dragging the suitcase out I sprinted to the Virgin Atlantic counter.

That was about three hours ago. I barely made it to the gate because the idiots at security didn’t know how to re-channel people into different security gates, causing the line I entered in to double in length by a simple, and yet so stupid, move of one line-divider. By the time I made it on to the plane, I was ready to sit back, relax, watch a movie and finally be at peace.

But, no. Snoring fatty. Dysfunctional entertainment system. Loud babies. What could go wrong now? A crash, maybe. I recalled a joking conversation with my colleague the day before:

“When you choose your seat on the plane, which seat do you go for?”

“I’m a window person. Always. My husband likes the aisle seat, so it should work out, technically. But these days there are three seats, so it becomes a bit of a problem,” she said.

I looked at the browser displaying the seat selection page. “Yeah, I dunno. I like the aisle because I hate waking people up to go to the bathroom.” Little did I know that I would be selecting the one seat in the entire cabin mercy to the black screen-fatty-baby combo.

“What! I hate being woken up. Kill or be killed, come on!” Thinking back, I should’ve opted to kill.

“Yeah but then there are other considerations,” I had pondered. “Like, if the plane were to crash, and split in half, then do I want to be on the back end of the plane or towards the front? And how many rows away from the nearest exit?”

“So many options…” she laughed.

I shiver at the thought.

And the man sitting behind me is laughing and shrieking again. The fatty continues to snore. The bastards.


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Off to Milan in 30 hours

"What an awkward countdown." - This must be what you are thinking. It's awkward because in the next 30 hours, I sleep, work a double-shift, take a cab to Victoria Coach Station at 1am, hang out until 3am, catch the National Express bus at 3:30am for London Gatwick Airport, hang out until 6am, and catch a flight to Milano Malpensa for a (hopefully) relaxing weekend in Milan.

Stay tuned..
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"Vive la Quebec libre!"

Of all the cities I've ever visited or lived in, Montreal was a city that was most conscious of its own existence. Walking down the streets, whether it be Saint-Laurent, Mont-Royale, or Saint Catharines, the proud vibe resonated vibrantly and consistently. And even though parts of Montreal are considered more Anglophone or Francophone, the dominant language in use - despite it being a Canadian city - was French. Everyone spoke in French and all the signs were in French. If you didn't know the history of Montreal or Quebec or even Canada, you would not know that this was an English-speaking city (which it is).

The language barrier, surprisingly, was intimidating. Surprising, because I feel rarely intimidated by the lack of knowledge of a certain language - I usually end up picking it up within a short period of time. I had previously heard that the French are so notorious for being overtly proud of their language (for good reason?) that they find foreigners' attempts to speak the language to be distasteful. Of course, my friends are different - they'll help me pronounce "Mont-Royale" with the back-throat "R" and compliment me if I'm articulating it close enough. But having been informed of French linguistic pride before, I was scared to even attempt pronouncing anything in French, and boldly stuck with English. This, however, was highly uncomfortable for someone like me who enjoys and also finds importance in conversing in the region's language. Feeling like an alien, I sorely wished that I had French under my belt - and I had scarcely wished so for Spanish in Peru!

While one magazine's claim that "Those who choose not to live in Montreal solely because it is Francophone are pussies" can be violently debatable amongst socio-linguists and cultural theorists, that the city is, for all intents and purposes, French, shouldn't put anyone off to live in it or at least visit. It is unique and vibrant and lively in its proud way and perhaps for this reason, full of character and so much color. For one thing, I enjoyed great coffee and grub, and also a hip music scene that would have been enjoyable if it were not for froshers of McGill bombarding the bars. Like many European cities, some neighborhoods are old old, and others quite new. I can definitely see myself hanging out in Montreal for a tad bit longer - and would have if LSE didn't beckon me.
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Ontario: Yours to Discover

And it certainly has been mine to discover, with the help of my good friend Alicia who drives me around to places and shows me boats and takes me to great restaurants.

In truth, I really love this small, quaint town of St Catharines. It has so much character on its own and is so peaceful and quiet - totally different from the loud and busy streets of Tokyo. Furthermore, Alicia's company has been therapeutic, to the extent that I feel so much better about where I am in life and who I am, and am grateful for the awesome friendships that make my life the wonder and beauty that it is.

Niagara Falls (picture above) was also a great time. I wandered through this casino-town built on the shores of one of the world's greatest natural wonders, thinking about how sad it is that such a natural beauty has to be accompanied by an unrestrained form of commercialism and hedonism. I myself could literally sit on the look-out dock and watch the Falls for hours on end, breathing in air that is actually more oxygen than carbon monoxide, feeling the mist of the waters from afar (and this you actually can) and listening to the echoes of roaring, powerful waters.

And now, after having finished an entire bottle of wine with Alicia and having thai curry at a local bar restaurant, I am, for the first time in a few months, totally tipsy and it feels great. But not it is time to go to bed. So much for my brief moments of intoxication.
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From Pittsburgh, PA to St Catharines, Ontario

So my week in Pittsburgh was fantastic and I greatly enjoyed staying with my friends Daniel and his wife, Joyce. Pittsburgh is such a character-full city, with most of its buildings - new and old - constructed with red brick. The Heinz factory lay nearby, and bridges stood over the merging of two great rivers. A wonderful city, and most importantly, wonderful company.

I always hope, when riding any type of vehicle (train, bus, airplane) that someone interesting would sit next to me so that the hours spent sitting can be spent entertained. Well, my train ride to Buffalo, NY where my friend Alicia awaited me, manifested this hope into reality but in a most extreme manner.

I sat next to an African-American man with corn-rolls, who was taking the train out to Chicago and then to Michigan to visit his 16 year-old son. But it wasn't him who turned the 2.5 hour ride to Cleveland interesting for me; it was a Chinese lady, probably in her late forties, who sat across the aisle from me. When everyone boarding from Pittsburgh settled down into their seats, she let out a huge "OH MAAANNNN" in a tone of complaint. I hadn't a clue what she was complaining about, exactly. She continued to sigh, and move about in her chair, talking to herself. Then she got up, and starting folding and refolding her blue blanket around herself, until it was wrapped around her to her utmost satisfaction. It was then I realized that this woman was probably mildly autistic.

Moments later she declared to the conductor walking past, that she needed to use the restroom. The conductor put a finger to his lips and explained where the toilets were located in the car. It took four more repetitions of directions to the toilet facilities before the woman started walking in the direction pointed by the rather frustrated conductor.

My interesting train ride physically began when the woman returned from using the restroom. She walked rather energetically up the aisle towards her seat... and then passed right by it. Opening the door to the next car, she slid through them and continued to walk. Few seconds later, she came back, looking confused. Staring at the numbers above the seats, and concluding that her seat did not exist in this car, she returned to the next car, only to return a few seconds later. When she went off to the next car again, I couldn't stand just watching anymore, so I pulled off my iPod and my alpaca sweater onto my seat and ran - yes, I had to run as she was now running down the aisle - to guide the woman back to her seat.

"Ma'am, are you looking for your seat?"
"Wha...?"
"Are you looking for your seat," I repeated, a little bit louder. She nodded. I gestured to her to follow me.

When we returned to the original car, I pointed to her seat and her blanket, and told her that that was her seat. However, she remained looking confused, and after a few seconds of pondering she shook her head. "This isn't my seat. My seat is number 53. This isn't my seat. 53. Number 53."
"But that's where you were sitting, that's your blanket, right?"
"Yeah, that's my blanket. No, I'm sitting in number 53 with the same colored blanket. Next to a fat white chick. I remember because I felt squished against my window. You have to help me. I have to get back to my seat. It's number 53. This isn't my seat.." and it went on.

It took a good 15 minutes to convince the lady that the seat she was looking at, with the blue blanket, was indeed her seat. I even conceded to take her to seat 53, which was occupied by an elderly couple who was fast asleep. "See, this isn't your seat." Pulling her by the arm towards where I had seen her when I first got on the train, I pointed again and told her, "That's your seat."

When she finally sat down and I was able to convince her that it was now time to sleep because everyone else in the car was also sleeping, it had be an entire hour into the train ride. It was nearly 1 in the morning and I was getting drowsy. The woman kept trying to have conversations with those sitting behind her, telling them she could 'help them' - in what way, I wasn't entirely sure - and I kept putting my finger to my mouth, encouraging her to keep her volume down, and telling her, "Not now. Later." Furthermore, she kept insisting that the Chinese youth sitting behind me was my brother, that everyone in the car were "my people" and that they knew me, and that I looked like her younger sister who apparently only cared about her 'faith'. Whatever she thought after my appeasements I don't know, but she finally did stop talking and started gathering her blanket, with which she attempted to hit my legs. When I just smiled, she took her blanket and started wrapping herself with it.

I closed my eyes and was starting to drift off into my dreams when a "Oh god!! Oh no!" woke me up and startled me out of my seat. I looked to my right, and surely enough, there was the Chinese woman again, looking confused and worried and fluttered. What now?? I thought.

"I've lost my bag. It was up there (pointing to the overhead storage space), a black bag. You have to help me find it. I'm sitting at seat 53. This isn't my seat.." and the whole ordeal had started all over again. What concerned me most was not that her obsession with seat 53 was up and running again, but that, according to her, her passport was packed into the lost black bag. Thinking that the best idea would be to speak to the conductor about it so they can search for it rather than herself, I told her, "We'll find it. But not now."
"NOo, but I need that bag now. My earphones are inside it and I need them. My passport is in it. Shit. I need to find my bag."
"Nooo, you are not walking around, we'll find the bag, don't worry," I said.

In a few moments the conductors came walking down the aisle. I stopped one of them and explained the situation. The conductor then told me something I didn't even think about: "At the station she got on from, she had been tested for alcohol and they found that she was drunk."

Drunk? I could no longer figure out whether the woman was mildly autistic for plainly drunk and unemployed and nuts. The good news was, upon hearing of the entire ordeal, the conductor decided that he would keep a careful eye on her in case she caused any more problems. When I got off at 3am in Cleveland, OH, the woman was no longer in our car but was relocated to some other car. Thank god!!
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Memoirs of Loner Traveler: Conclusion?

Note to self: don't travel to a country you've never been to and whose language you don't speak fluently totally alone because it's not really all that fun. It's good to have travel company, especially if a magnitude 8 earthquake happens to hit you with its epicenter less than 20 miles away from where you're staying.

However, surviving what I did made every other problem in life seem stupid. I feel stronger, and I surprised myself for all the decisions I made down in Peru, instantaneous ones. At least now I can sit back and relax, and read and be peaceful.

Transitioning back into modern society was somewhat awkward. The new Macbook and iPod Nano is awesome and I love it. But, the paved roads, the un-crumbled brick buildings, the relatively low crime rate, the smell of grass and not poo, packaged fruits and accessible internet and the huge library, all seem too perfect and somehow unfair. The world, I feel now more intensely than ever, is so divided, and neither side of the division line know what life's really like on the 'other' side. It's sad.

Hopefully all these experiences will come in handy once I start studying all about it in the academic sphere.
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Pictures from Peru

Available now, here!
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Ica to Lima, Peru

Of course, the last two days had to be the most 'adventurous', to put it euphemistically.

I woke up in the morning not really rested, the obvious reason being the sporadically shaking earth, and the less obvious reason being the uncertainty of how I was to get to Lima in time to catch my plane. Earlier in the day I had the guy at the hostel reception help me book a bus ticket back to Lima. He had told me he would have it for me by that afternoon, but afternoon came and went and he was no where to be found. Much later, I found out that immediately after the earthquake, apparently he tried to rush back to the hostel from wherever he was in Huacachina, only to be injured when a brick wall collapsed upon him. Allegedly the injury was so major that some of his toes had to be surgically amputated.

So when morning came, I still had no bus ticket and we had no clue what was going on - no one did. Even the police were useless; with all electricity and telephone lines unavailable, Huacachina remained horribly isolated, besides one battery-run radio whose frantic DJ made me increasingly nervous. From what could be gathered, we found out that going to Lima was nearly impossible, as the infrastructure on the southern coast were mostly destroyed.

When you're 23, and lived a fairly multinational life, the likelihood of you encountering a totally virginial, first-time scenario is very slim, unless you are forced into participation. So in Huacachina, in this isolated neighborhood, I was facing a VERY virginial situation: how to get from point A to point B in the face of a major natural disaster, in a foreign country whose language I did not speak. I couldn't even think of where to begin, especially with limited access to any means of communication.

In truth, I was horrified and wanted to cry, even though that wouldn't have solved anything. I started by gathering as much information as possible, listening to the radio and talking to people who came into Huacachina from Ica. the problem was, no one was really sure about the information they had; it was almost always second-hand, something they had (over)heard in an adjacent conversation. Some people said that the buses were running to Lima, others said that nothing ran to Lima. Some spoke of a bridge by Pisco that had collapsed, other said it was half-collapsed and you can walk to the other side... So, by the end of my information gathering, I felt I had gotten nowhere, and was still as lost as when I had started.

I laid out the options in my head: I could stay in Huacachina until further information could be confirmed - this was something I instinctively wanted to do. Someone would, I hoped, hand me the best answer in time, and I could delay my decision until then. But, the fact that I couldn't speak Spanish, and the hostel owners' unwillingness to do much (like feed us or give us up-to-date info) told me this was a poor option. I feared nothing would be handed to me. And the 30m+ sand dunes on all but one side of Huacachina was nerve-hacking and didn't help my mental health: the image of a gianormous sand avalanche I had so feared causing the previous day appeared all at once plausible of happening.

My second option was to tag along someone else in Huacachina, who also wanted to get to Lima and had already figured out how. There was a Swiss family - a mother and her three kids - who had decided that they would attempt to fly to Lima, as they had a 2pm flight to catch that day. The mother had spoken to some woman at Ica's airport, who claimed that they were already building a substantial waiting list for flights to Lima. There were, of course, a few problems: because communication lines were nonexistent, the airport could not get a confirmation from Lima's airport that they could, in fact, land. Until that confirmation was attained, the lady claimed, there would be no flights. And when this confirmation was to be attained, she had no clue. Secondly, the chances of squeezing myself on to a plane when there was already a back-up seemed to me less than slim. Going to Ica's airport, therefore, had some major risks.

My final option, however, seemed to me at the time the most ludicrous of all: I would gamble my luck with the scant information that bus companies were running to Lima, and/or the bridge crossing the river north of Pisco was only slightly collapsed and I could walk over it. This option was entirely based on my desire - however unsure - to get moving. It was only 8:30am. Even if it took me 20 hours to get to Lima, I would still make it for my flight at 10am. My hesitations came from my lack of any knowledge of the earthquake and its aftermaths; the fact that I would be going right through the epicenter, Pisco, on my way; and that I would be doing this seemingly stupid ordeal on my own. But, in consideration of the other options, I felt I had no other 'real' choice. I have to get back to Lima, I thought, and so, I packed up my belongings.

Tom and Elly accompanied me into Ica's bus terminal. There were long lines everywhere, surrounding the terminal office like a tangled bunch of yarn. I lined up behind a Peruvian couple, in a line I figured would lead me up to a counter. "Do you know if going to Lima is possible?" the man asked, surprisingly, in English. "We have no idea, we're hoping," we said.

When I got to the counter, I said, "Lima," and the woman blurted something in Spanish so fast I couldn't even catch the verb or its subject. I poked the couple in front of me and asked for a translation. "She's saying, you can't go to Lima. The bridge collapsed," the woman said. Then, whom I determined as her boyfriend conversed with the counter lady, then advised me to buy the ticket to Pisco. "Don't worry, we'll help you, buy the ticket and follow us. You can walk across the bridge to San Clementine." Seeing as there was no other option available, I did as I was told.

The man and woman whom I thought were a couple turned out to be siblings. "We'll take you to Pisco and across the brdige so you can catch a bus on the other side for Lima," the brother, named Pepe, said. I gave my bag to the bus driver to stow away, and bid Tom and Elly (who decided to leave Ica the next day) farewell. "Good luck, you'll be alright," Elly said. I wasn't so sure about 'being alright' but really, there was no other positive thought to sustain, and so I took it in as much as I could.

Inside the bus, Pepe took my ticket and told me to sit next to his sister, Paola. "We're from Pisco," she said, and continued to tell me about where she was at the time of the earthquake, how she was working at her bank, and was worried about the whereabouts of her brother who turned out to be in Ica as well at the time, and how her father, who was in Pisco, was also doing alright.

The ride to Pisco was peaceful up until the last bit, approximately two miles away from Pisco's outskirts. The bus, in fact, had stopped behind a hundred other buses, and the bus driver merely sighed. Obscenities flew around for no more than 10 seconds, and everyone started getting off the bus. "Let's go, we're walking!" Pepe shouted. So there I was and Pepe and Paola, two miles away from Pisco, the asphalt cracked in various locations, hundreds of buses lined up all the way to the horizon. "I'm a man!" Pepe claimed, and took my 11kg bag, as we walked towards Pisco under a very aggressive sun. I felt like a refugee carrying her entire life on her shoulders, migrating to some unknown land somewhere beyond the horizon on the bare hope that things will work out in the end. To be sure, things WERE starting to work itself out, since the moment Pepe and Paola offered their help, and for this I was unspeakably thankful.

Evidence of the earthquake's realities were painfully visible the closer we got to Pisco. Not only was the road destroyed, shacks and housing were flattened, brick walls partially standing, heaps of rubble were everywhere, food scraps and human feces rotting away on the side - the sewage system was done for. About twenty minutes after we left the bus, we entered the city of Pisco, and even Pepe and Paola were shocked. "We had no idea it was this bad!" Paola exclaimed. "My house is partially collapsed, my friend said." The extraordinary thing, I thought, was that she said this in the most lightheartedly way possible; she was even smiling, laughing, and I was terribly grateful of that, too.

Pepe, in the meanwhile, was talking to various people - friends, I assumed, from their familiar interactions - and asked about how to get to Lima. "We're going to find a friend to take you to Lima," he said, and I was shocked.
"A friend?"
"Yeah, we're from Pisco, we know lots of people. Don't worry."
Still shocked and not knowing what to say in the face of such kindness and really, my luck to have met these two, we continued to walk towards the notorious bridge.

Probably a good two miles from the bridge, Pepe found a family - a woman and her two daughters - who were headed towards Lima, and gladly conceded to take me along. here, Pepe gave me my bag, I gave Paola my email address, and they both smiled and said, "Go, go! You don't have much time!" I turned to the woman with her daughters, who looked at me urgently and pointed towards the bridge, saying something in Spanish at the same time. I looked around for Pepe and Paola, and they were already gone, lost in the migrating crowd.

The sun was hot, very aggressive. With the heat rose the stench from the side of the broken asphalt. And soon, the collapsed bridge was visible, and its pseudo-standing surface swarmed with people. I conversed in my broken Spanish with the two girls, Nadia and Paola, who were fascinated by the fact I was from Tokyo, and asked all sorts of questions, only less than half of which I was probably able to satisfactorily answer. Sharing a bottle of water between us, we half-ran, half-walked towards the bridge, the mother claiming we had to stick together.

The bridge was in terrible shape. Thankfully the river was very shallow, being the dry season, and we were able to cross it without getting wet. Police were fully armed and protected, guarding both ends of the bridge. Some were chasing down prisoners who had escaped a nearby prison that had broken apart during the quake. When we finally reached San Clementine, people were in a slightly rioting state, banging on cars and yelling at its drivers who were forcing their way on to the bridge. I assumed people were angry at such a selfish action that could very well fully destroy the barely standing bridge.

Once on the other side in San Clementine, we forced ourselves on a bus headed towards Chinchay. We literally flagged down a bus, and ran up to and into it while it drove on at 20 km/h. for a couple hours we rode on in the bus along the coastline and I could smell the salt in the air. Along the way we saw more houses collapsed, more roads broken, more people not knowing what should or should not be done.

Somewhere beyond Chinchay, we got off, and the mother pulled me towards another bus where I paid for another ticket. The bus, however, kept trying to go, and the mother kept trying to stop it. They took my bag, opened the side of the bus and launched it inside. The mother gave me a hug and kisses on my cheek, the ticketseller pushed me on to the bus, and like that, like it was with Pepe and Paola, the lady and Nadia and Paola were gone. The bus was off, and I was headed to Lima.

On the bus I sat next to a man who kept insisting on showing me pictures of Pisco and Ica's devastation - mainly in the form of dead bodies - on his cell phone. I looked at him in disgust and was very happy to move to another seat when it became available. This ride, too, took place through a menagerie of destructed environs, the bus tipping this way and that as the tires tried to avoid the gaping cracks in the asphalt. I dozed off for a bit, and when I woke we had arrived in the district of Lima.
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Ica, Peru

15 August, 7am
I stayed in a hostel at Huacachina, located on the outskirts of Ica city. Huacachina, which advertises itself as being "America´s Greatest Oasis," indeed strictly follows the definition of "oasis": it is smack in the middle of a desert! Now, I had never stepped into a desert landscape until today, so the great sand dunes were a marvelous sight to me. I declined the hostel´s offer to take me into the desert for some sand-boarding fun, but did manage to hike up the nearest sand dune. My feet kept sinking into the sand, and I desperately hoped that my solo-escapade did not end up launching a sand-avalanche to swallow up America´s greatest oasis. Fortunately, my fears were not manifested into reality... at least for that moment.

After taking some breathtaking pictures of the desert, I explored the mini-town of Huacachina. It was basically a tourist resort location. The roads and paths leading up to the smelly, green lagoon were completely paved, and some major landscaping work had been done all throughout; this was slightly disappointing, although I can understand that America´s greatest oasis could not possibly be left untouched while it bore such a title.

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Anna Karenina, and munching on Gummy Bears Aya had given me in a ziploc bag at Puno. I decided to settle on one of those instant noodle bowls for dinner, as I reckoned my stomach needed something familiar and soft, after the malicious bite into some deadly hot pepper nearly killed my poor stomach at the lunch buffet in Chivay. Tomorrow: Lima

15 August, 7:30pm
HUGE earthquake. Never felt anything like it in my life, even while in Japan. It´s about 11am in Tokyo, and my parents are probably freaking out. But there are no means of communication available; the first thing to do when I get access to a phone is call the Japanese Embassy.

At the moment we are outside. I´m with an English couple, from Bristol: Tom and Elly. We grabbed our stuff from the hostel once things settled down a bit; the earth still shakes every now and then. When it first shook, I thought it might be over quickly, but I was VERY wrong - it continued and escalated into one that cut out the lights and slid my bed from wall to wall. I knew then that being inside the building was probably not a good idea, and I ran out the door without even bothering to get my shoes on.

The shaking continued once I made it outside, and I congregated with the others who had already been outside from the beginning. The earth shook, and shook, and shook. When finally it stopped, I went inside the building - which up to now had already survived two large earthquakes and this fact I did not know whether to take in relief or panic - and gathered my things.

The rest of the night shook with the remnants of the earthquake, as the plates underneath us tried to settle into its new positions. We were, however, under the stars, an entire sky full of the smallest ones ever invisibile in Tokyo, plus the Milky Way. Although we woke up with a startle every time there was a low rumble and the ground shifted under our sleeping bags, I will and can still remember the sky that was almost entirely white with stars.
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Arequipa/Chivay, Peru

4903m! I´m pretty sure that´s the highest I´ve ever been without the use of an airplane. I was actually more than relieved after arriving in Arequipa - never again, I had thought to myself, would I ever go 3000m above sea level. My days in Cuzco and Puno were fun and great, but my goodness, the altitude! It simply drains the energy right out of you. In any case, little did I know that I would be achieveing my all-time record after Puno´s 3800m, in Arequipa.

But before we get into that: Arequipa. Probably one of the most modern cities I`´ve been to, even compared to Lima. Allegedly Arequipans pride themselves to be slightly different from the rest of the Peruvian population, and their provincial pride can be seen from as small as a beer brand, "Arequipeña" to as grandiose as their own city-festival - held unfortunately after my departure, on 15 August - totally devoted to the celebration of Arequipa. I suppose they do have much to celebrate, as they are 467 years old, and I´ve found Arequipa to be probably one of my favorites.

Part of the reason why my stay in Arequipa is longer than any of the other cities I´m visiting is because of my planned visit to the Colca Canyon. I had booked a tour online, through the hostel I´m staying in, and I expected teh tour to be one of this trip´s highlights. Things brings us back to the earlier number, 4903m. About three hours into the drive from Arequipa to Chivay, our guide gets on the micorphone, and enthusiastically claimed, "We will now be stopping at a rest stop. We are at 3800m above sea level, and I highly encourage you to drink some coca tea because we will be reaching 4800m within the next two hours." Not only was I shocked to hear the numerical value of "4800" (and I even stopped teh guide to confirm), I was surprised that we were already at 3800m and nothing had happened to my well-being. But here I was anyway, relieved to be out of altitude´s way after Puno; my body doesn´t like extreme altitudes, I know, but Altitude apparently likes me.

It turned out that we were oat 4903m for about half an hour, during which we stopped to do touristy things like take pictures and buy more alpaca commodities. I myself bought a small coin purse for 5 soles to celebrate my newly achieved record. And then after that, we gradually began to descend, towards Chivay.

Chivay is a small town, but it fed me well. The meals I had at Chivay were probably some of the best I´ve had all trip. I also tried alpaca meat, which was very tasty and very similar to beef; as well as cactus fruit, which was sweet and juicy but you had to swallow all the seeds. In any case, lunch was at a buffet, and dinner in a local restaurant (probably serving tourists only) where a local group performed some dances with Andean live music.

The next day began bright and early. We loaded our buses at 6am to head towards Cruz del Condor, a look-out spot located inside the Colca Canyon, from where giant condors can be observed in the early hours of the day. With good weather and clear views, the condors were uplifting to watch as they freely soared through the valleys, which, by the way, are 2500m+ deep. Pictures to come later.

When we got back to Arequipa, the city was in total chaos, albeit it may have been pseudo-organized. Its people had started celebrating Arequipa´s 467th anniversary, and certain roads in the city - especially around the Plaza de Armas - were blocked. Our tour bus let us off, therefore, a few blocks from the Plaza, and I exchnaged email addresses with a German couple whom I had met on teh trip. Hopefully I can visit them when I get to Germany in April.

I walked back to the hostel, avoiding the super-crowded Plaza as much as possible, although in hindsight I probably should have paid the celebrations a visit, if only for a moment. In any case I took the 20:45 bus out of Arequipa for Ica and Ica is where I am now. Unfortunately the weather is somewhat gray, but I´m hoping it will clear up soon so I can surf through some of its famous sand dunes.
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Puno/Arequipa, Peru

So I thought that the altitude wasn´t getting to me much, but it hit me a lot harder once I arrived in Puno, located at 3800m above sea level. I got tired really easily, and definitely lost my appetite - all I could swallow was a piece of bread. On my second day in Puno, I met up with my friend Aya who was also getting pretty sick of the altitude. Once we felt a bit better, we ventured out on a tour of the floating islands of Uros located on Lake Titcaca (at this point probably reaching near 4000m above sea level). The sights there were pretty amazing.

The same night, I hopped onto a bus to take me 6 hours away from Puno - and thank goodness, to a lower altitude - to Arequipa, which is where I am at the moment. I couldn´t sleep on the bus despite its 22:00 departure, due to a massively snoring man to the left and an eternally coughing youth right behind me, plus the movie Departed being played twice around, the speakers right above my head. So at the moment, I am very tired and sleepy, but am glad that I got a full meal for the first time in days since arriving in Peru.

Tomorrow I am off early in the morning for a tour of the Colca Canyon, from which I return early in the evening on the 14th, and then I am off to Ica.
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Puno, Peru (I)

Arrived in Puno at 3 in the afternoon today, after an 8 hour bus ride on a unexpectedly sketchy bus. Well, actually, it wasn´t that bad. It´s just that, the company that I booked with wasn´t running for some reason, and the dispatcher put me on a bus of a different company. The roads from Cusco to Peru are pretty rough, and at some points it made you think you were off-roading in the middle of a desert or something - I swear the bus could´ve fallen apart at any minute!

Plus, there was the mid-ride seating change. I had found a seat amongst three Japanese women who were traveling together, but then about 3 hours into the ride, the dispatcher came and dislodged me from my seat because two Belgian (?) men were whining about their seating arrangements in the back of the bus. I found a seat in the bottom deck, thank god, which was actually a lot cooler and more comfortable. All was good until someone on the upper deck decided to vomit out of their window, and its former-stomach contents splattered our windows. That was a nice view.

Puno, I find, is a lot more approachable than Cusco. Maybe because it is smaller, or maybe because there are fewer tourists around (although, there are still a lot, considering my hostel is fully booked until next week), the place feels safer.

Anyway, tomorrow I´m rendezvous-ing with my friend Aya and we are off to tour the Uros islands. Tomorrow night I head out to Arequipa!
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Cusco, Peru (II)

The altitude hasn´t hit me as bad as I expected, although I suppose I did sleep most of the day off yesterday. I am only reminded of the substantial altitude of this place on two occasions: one, when I wake up in the morning to find myself with an annoying headache, and two, when I am climbing stairs and I´m panting madly after just a few steps. The headache was thankfully solved by a dose of Advil, so that was nothing to worry about. Otherwise, everything - healthwise - has been great.

I suppose that if I had more companions with me I would go out and venture into Cusco´s cuisine; however, I couldn´t find that energy today and thus resorted to a pack of peach juice, three apples, and a noodle bowl.

The reason for my fatigue today was a horse. I, for the first time in my life, rode a horse today and it was much fun! We trotted out to Tambomachay and Pukapukara, both of which are Incan ruins on the outskirts of Cusco, and are apparently pretty similar to Machu Picchu. I had a passing glace at Saqsaywaman on the way back, but was much too tired by then to hike that as well.

Tomorrow: off to Puno!
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Cusco, Peru (I)

Cusco is a lot bigger than I expected. My expectations were more along the lines of a single street, with hostels and bars along it, and a desolate airport and an even more desolate train station attached to it. In other words, I was expecting a shanty village. Cusco, however, is a legitimate city. Full and long boulevards and lots of traffic, venders on most corners and spray-paint graffiti on cement walls. Cars beeping, trucks honking, trains returning from Aguas Calientes letting out its steam like a high-pitch fog horn at night, llamas and alpacas trotting around the stone pathways.

It is not the metropolitan, cosmopolitan mega-city like London or Tokyo, but still, a very legitimate city located in a valley. Its architecture reminds me of Rome or even Florence, with their brown roofings and white, straight walls; the occasional window is nothing fancy but an oblong square hole in the wall, looking as if it were cut out by a cookie-cutter. The loveliest thing about this city is its winding pathways of all different widths, and its undeterminable destinations could easily get you lost. The city-center is the Plaza des Aramas, and is definitely the culminating spot for most tourists. Tourism is certainly the overriding business here, and for this reason the city is well-maintained and clean. Perhaps a bit too clean for a South American city.

Today I spent most of my time resting. Arriving at my hostel at 11am barely conscious due to a series of long flights and an unexpected chill in Lima, I was not impressed by where the hostel was located: on a hill. Climbing a set of stairs was already a full-on workout, if you could imagine that. I met three boys - recent high school graduates from Colorado! - at the hostel and we went out for lunch at a pizzetaria, a rather curiously common cuisine in Cusco (they are everywhere). Dodging offers for massages, llama/alpaca poo, and occasionally the odd pouch of cocaine, we found a place called Chez Maggy´s, run by a Peruvian surfer man who was very hippy-esque; his character was mostly reflected in the internal decor of the restaurant, which was more like an 18th century cabinet of curiosities than anything else. The pizza was delicious, too!

Additionally, I met a Japanese girl in the hostel, so that has been nice. She and I are meeting up again in Puno, to tour Uros together. Good times. But, the most exciting thing is, I get to ride a horse tomorrow!! Will take pictures of Cusco and post them up soon..
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Memoirs of a Loner Traveler: Lima, Peru

7 August 11:44 am Tokyo, Japan
I´ve been in this overpriced cafe before, with its high ceilings and echoing conversations. I´m drinking a $12 cup of latte! Who pays for such things? There´s a buzzing headache growing at the back of my head and my eyes are heavy and achy. Why did I leave my parents´ so early? Oh, right I didn´t want to prolong the parting with them for so long. Advil soon.

7 August 16:45 on LP 605
I think to myself, why am I doing this to myself? This is stupid, I don´t even know the language. It is, in fact, the exact same thing I did 5 summers ago, traveling alone to Italy. No knowledge of the language, and therefore not a clue what the sings meant or said in the airport.

If I can determine such a thing as the worst airport I´ve ever been to, it would be Los Angeles International. To begin with, it´s gianormous, making it really difficult to navigate through in a short period of time. Secondly, it´s set up according to flight companies, regardless of their international or domestic destinations. So, although Tom Bradley is an exclusively international terminal, the other 2 lengths of terminals aren´t exclusively domestic, which makes "Tom Bradley International Terminal" slightly pointless. Then of course there was a volunteer guy dressed like an airport services dude, who helped me navigate through the airport, and then said, "Now hold on a minute, I´ve got one question for you. You see, I´m a volunteer for this (pointing at this laminated ID badge) organization and we´re raising some money for kids. And I know you LOVE kids, so could you dig down in your heart, and donate some money? We take all currencies." My prompt reply was, "I´ve got no cash on me, I´m sorry."

This was, after all, post-2.5 hours lined up at customs, immigration, and connecting flight baggage check-in. It would be another 30 minutes before I had finally reached my boarding gate in Tom Bradley International. And the connecting flight baggage check'in thing was superbly sketchy. I swallowed hard into my guts watching my large pack getting sucked into a black square hole, its destination unknown, and the conveyor belt lapping every bag into it. I inquired about my bag to every LAN attendant that I laid eyes upon, but I can defintely see my bag not appearing on the conveyor belt in Lima, at 11pm. How fantastic.

17:00 on LP605
Turbulence!! I hate flying! Why am I going to Peru again?

0:30 Peru time, getting off LP605
Landed. Thank god. I´m free of airplanes for... eight hours.

I hopped onto a bus after getting off the plane, one of those that takes you to the terminal. On board, there were a group of American elderly people who were quite energetic after the 8 hour flight. "Are you all off on vacation?" I asked, and the answer I got was a little more than what I expected. "Oh no dear," one of the ladies said. "We´re Evangelists and we´re going up to Iquitos on an elderly health camp. Last year we went to Costa Rica. We´re volunteers and we talk to elderly people about health risks, like hepatitis and diabetes, and teach them how to take care of their health."

"Amazing, that´s really awesome. And you get to travel to so many places," I said.

"Yes, it is quite a fun and amazing experience for all of us. But the most important part of it is," the lady leant over towards me in a hush but with a bright grin, "we get to talk to them about Jesus. That´s the most important part. Because he´s coming very soon."

I didn´t really know what else to do but nodd and mumble, "Ohh." I still managed to keep a smile on my face. Unaffected by my awkward reply, the lady reached into her carry-on bag and pulled out a grey booklet. "It´s about the 10 commandments, you may want to read it, if you like."

"Oh, wow, thanks." I mean, what else was I supposed to say or do? So I took the booklet from her, she wished me great travels and a God Bless You, and I hopped off the bus. Only to realize, it was FREEZING. The good news was my bag that appeared on the conveyor belt after waiting 40 minutes empty-handed. Immigration and customs went smoothly as well, completed in under 20 minutes, what a record! I found Mario, the taxi guy from my hostel, holding up a sign with my last name scribbled on it, and we headed towards the hostel where I am now.

Lima is like suburban Taiwan. Lots of billboards, not many illuminated signs like in Tokyo, and even coming from Tokyo I felt that it was a very large city. We drove straight for a long time, until we veered right to turn onto the street on which my hostel was located. So in some respects, I suppose it was kind of like driving through a very urban version of Calgary. Granted, it was 2am by the time we got to the hostel, so my impressions are kind of limited. Perhaps this morning I will get a better view.

And it is still freezing. I slept for an hour and a half, and woke up shivering like I had just been retrieved from the Arctic Ocean. I tried to stay in my bed for at least another half an hour, but couldn´t, and decided to take a shower, warm up, and update my blog. In another hour and a half I am off on my plane to Cuzco, which is probably going to be as cold, if not colder, than Lima. Fantastic. You know, traveling across the equator in one summer is a bit of a pain, because you have to carry winter and summer clothes. And I didn´t really bring that many winter clothes.

Oh well.
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Crusing through Izu

> Reina and Fei trying to figure out the navigation system.

I am happiest when I'm in the countryside - I confirmed this while driving through the Izu area with Reina and Fei yesterday. I was reminded of Canada and felt, again, how much I miss it.

Very little was planned for this drive and I actually didn't really know where we were going. But it didn't matter because in less than 2 hours there were green trees and hills and rice patties extended, far beyond my viewable horizon. Our first stop was at Atami, a popular beach town in the summers for the Kanto Japanese. When we hopped off our rented car we felt a lashing whip of heat and humidity; if it were a bit hotter and sunnier it would've been great beach weather. Yet, Monday noons in early-July aren't considered a part of summer, so it was completely empty. Unfortunately this also meant that many of the stores and restaurants weren't open. But, we didn't fail to treat ourselves to an outstanding lunch!

> The Atami beach.

> Our lunch!

> Reina and Fei enjoying their post-lunch, chilled green tea.

> On our way towards Shuzenji.

A very Japanese landscape.<

We continued on towards Shuzenji, a small onsen town located more inland, and was thus a lot cooler. On our way we stopped at a winery, built on top of a hill. The uber-European establishment literally appeared out of nowhere as we veered right from the asphalt pathway and through the grape fields. We even had some wine to taste - yes, we were enjoying our rather mature and elegant cruise!

> Still on our way to the winery.

> The winery.

> Fei and I and the grapefields.

> Reina and Fei tasting some good wine!

Shuzenji was a small town full of character. Again, being low-season, there were very few tourists around, save the one or two bus tours full of grannies. It was, incidentally, the town's 1200th anniversary, and the town's subtly closed establishments seemed as if they were charging up their energy for its upcoming high-season. We wandered through the town and our two highlights were the delicious Japanese desserts we got our hands on, and the ashi-yu - a small, hot-spring pool where you sit and dip your feet (only). Reina, who apparently was talking about ashiyu's all week, had her wish come true! Our final stop was at a relatively random waterfall that was 5 minutes' drive from Shuzenji.

> Successful group picture using the timer function.

> We love trees.

> Shuzenji temple

> Fei and her dessert.

> Our feet in the ashiyu.

> Us and Asahi-dake.
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Mount Fuji

Even before I stepped onto the trail, I thought I couldn't do it. Let's just put it that way.

But here we were, Michelle and I, driving towards the oft-imagined icon of Japan.

Unfortunately, there were clouds that covered the top little bit of Fuji; this would remain the case while we hiked it. It took a while, actually, for us to find where the trail started. A colleague had given us some directions, and while we arrived at the foot of Fuji at around 7:15am, we spent the next half an hour trying to find the head of the trail. We finally gave up the given directions and decided that we "just get to Fuji!" So here we were (to the right) wandering in the greens. And we even had a treat - two deer were walking on the road up to 5th station (and I didn't grab my camera fast enough).

From 5th station we hiked up to 6th, and this was where our 'real' trek began. With all this snow, we should've known what would be waiting for us 4.5... rather, 5.5 hours later.. At this point Michelle (and I) were both grinning at the great weather and the outdoors! We were unawares as to what we had actually gotten ourselves into! Yes, we underestimated Fuji-san.








> View from 7th.
Well, the hike from 6th to 7th (and not to mention the hike down) was something to remember. The path was packed with small pieces of lava rock. This meant you had to dig into the ground with your feet so you could get enough grip to push yourself up. This went on for about 1.5 hours, until we finally reached the 7th station, and subsequently explained my sore thighs.

The clouds around us were moving so quickly. It would be sunny one moment and dark and grey the next. These, we realized, were the clouds that we saw from the car, covering the tip of Fuji. So peaceful it looked from afar! Gushes of wind would threaten to blow us off the trail, and then in the next instant would be a great, enduring silence. No other tourist, mountain/nature lover, or women, for that matter, was on trail with us.

> Station 8.

What we started to realize - but not yet to its full extent - was that each 'station' spanned across 50m in altitude. A lot of switchbacks and a fair amount of disappointment took place after one station, and until we would arrive at the next. When we reached the 'real' Station 8, Michelle checked her watch and oh my! It was already half past noon. The last two hours spent between Station 7 and 8 had literally flown by. We also saw how high we actually were - we were above most of the clouds! I popped a dosage of Advil at this point, just to make sure I wouldn't start dying of altitude sickness:

> View from one of the Station 8's.

> The gusty wind and clouds blowing upwards, downwards, to our right.

The hike between 7 and 8 was probably the worst and the most demoralizing. The temperature began to drop, we started to feel the effects of altitude on our breathing patterns, and the cherry-on-top was the huge amount of snow that had not melted, leaving a good 3ft of icy, season-old snow for us to trample through. Needless to say, our socks were getting a little damp by this point, and the most agonizing part of it all was that some parts of the trail we couldn't even locate! As far as we knew, we were the only ones on this volcano at the time, and we didn't want to be stupid by risking our lives climbing it under poor conditions. But, we trudged on.

>Somewhere between Station 8 and 9.

I eventually lost count of how many pseudo-Station 9's (actually different sections of Station 8) we had come across. The climb was getting steep, and that the snow had eased a bit was our only savior. The occasional glimpse of where exactly we stood on the mountain gave us a mental umph to keep going. Again, the clouds whipped pass us, teasing us with the sun and the bright blue sky they would reveal in snapshots. In any case, Michelle and I definitely looked at each other in exhaustion when we saw that the final set of mountain cabins were labeled "Station 8.5."

Despite all this, the view was great when we could see it! We were all smiles again when our bodies had finished acclimatizing, and we started to feel a lot better. However, we bumped into an old man - we guesstimated his age to be between 70 and 80! - who was obviously decked out and prepared for the climb, and had hiked Fuji several times before. We asked him if he reached the summit, and he replied, "No, I came down after reaching Station 9 - there's way too much snow to get up to the summit right now. Maybe the snow will melt in a few weeks." After having left Station 8.5 (which was not followed by a Station 8.6, but rather, 9) and considering that we had hiked for 4.5 hours, and reconsidering the near-80 year-old man's advice, we decided to stop at Station 9 and start our descent. We took a last look at the summit, which you can see below, just past the torii gate:

It may look like the summit is only another 15 min away in this picture, but it is deceiving. That last little hike from Station 9 to the summit, apparently, would have taken another 1.5 hours... which we're really glad we didn't do.

Our descent, by the way, was a whole 'nother story! I truly realized how much we had climbed - a total of about 1400m in altitude - when we started descending, and descending, and descending... and the trail wouldn't hit Station 6. It took us 4.5 hours up, and a good 2 hours to come back down. Of course, as all hikes often are, the descent was far worse than the climb. I was, despite my initial concerns, quite well and un-fatigued by the end of the climb, but was definitely ready to go home (and was getting slightly cranky) by the end of the hike down.

A Japanese lady of whom we estimated to be 60+ years-old passed us on our way down, complimenting us for how far up we had gone. When we reached Station 6, she was sitting there, taking a rest.. but not just a regular rest: a cigarette rest. Then, her husband came to pick her up in their car. 3 American boys that passed us on our way up - and had made it to the summit, drenched and near-frozen - passed us on our way down, and asked, "Oh, you guys are still making it back down?" Michelle and I just looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Then there was the Belgian man, who we later found out had biked all the way up to Station 5, hiked all the way up to Station 9 and down, and biked home, back down from Station 5. There are some crazy people out there! But all in all, it was a fantabulous experience, totally fun to do, although I don't reckon I would do it again! Off to bed I go!!
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Reconfigured and finalized, finally.

My summer 2007 trip plan: 3 continents, 4 countries, 14 cities.
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Irony

On the final day of their entire secondary schooling career, on which all the 12th grade students here have their final exams, the train is late. Two seniors came in (actually pretty relaxed) about 20 minutes late into the classroom. The principal had walked in about half a minute before them, and gave a sympathetic laugh as the two rushed in. One of the kids presented to me a blue slip noted, "Tardy Admit," with a white paper that looked much like the following stapled onto the corner:
The principal took a long look at the blue slip and its white attachment, and asked, "What's that? A receipt for a cab?" I explained to him that this was a ticket that train companies would print when their trains are late on a given day at a given time. The n-thousand people that are thus affected by the delayed train are, upon submission of this small 'proof' to their respective companies, excused for their tardiness. According to the principal, this is also a Japanese phenomenon unseen anywhere else in the world. This makes sense. No other country in the world (that I've been to or heard of) is as obsessed with running transportation systems consistenly on time as Japan, to the point where they feel that they must put their apology on paper and distribute it in times of delay.

Living with such a transportation system, however, spoils you. I remember my first weeks in Vancouver when none of the buses seem to appear on time. In fact, it took me a while to figure out that there even existed a schedule; as far as I was concerned there wasn't one that the drivers cared to adhere by. As months passed I realized that Japan's transportation system, in the greater scheme of things (called, the world), is a total anomaly. In fact, my return to Japan after four years abroad revealed to me that, as some of my previous entries have attempted to show, Japan is an anomaly in every sense of the word. It's interesting (and tiresome to adapt to, actually) what seeing other countries does to our world views. I can't even imagine what I'm going to think after my upcoming years in London.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about the upcoming move. Don't get me wrong - the prospect of going and living in Europe is exciting; it's something I've always wanted to do. I get to fly to continental Europe anytime for a pretty cheap price, and I can't wait to hit up Italy and Germany again. And it's not even that I'm worried about being able to adapt to the city - I've done it too many times before. It's just that the moves are getting tiring. I've been in one city for no more than 5 consecutive years, and while 5 years may seem like a long time, it's actually really not, considering that I can't set my roots in too deeply during them. I uprooted myself from Hawaii (you know I used to speak fluent Hawaiian? crazy thought.), from Tokyo, from Florence, from Vancouver, and from Tokyo again, and now I'm moving somewhere from which I'm going to uproot myself, sooner or later. Traveling is awesome, in every which way possible. But it's also very tiring and it drains me mentally and emotionally. But, what can you do. I suppose some people would love to live the way I do.
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Leaving... again.

Which means, I'm packing, again. Except this time I am leaving the final remains of my mini-library. After having parted with over 100 books last summer, this is an all too easy separation. The Republic and Leviathan, and all my Foucaults will be left behind in this bland apartment. I kept 5 books: my Italo-English dictionary, Oxford English dictionary, the novel Q in the original Italian, my UBC Institute of European Studies publication, and Michel de Montaigne's Complete Essays. Besides that, my boxes dominantly contain clothes and the occasional shoe.

I filled out just over 20 pages of paperwork for shipping four boxes to London. After being asked "Do your shipments contain the following types of food?" about 5 times per page, I got the point that I was not to ship any food, which sucks. I was also already hesitant in packing for London - I seriously pondered whether I really wanted to go to this widely loved yet fatally expensive city - so this extensive writing process just made it that much more arduous and painful. Thank god I had tea - it solves everything.

So much thinking about what to and not to pack, so much writing, so much cleaning up. This left me with a slight appetite, so I cooked some dinner for the first time in who knows how long. But I realized today that I don't like the regular kind of spaghetti; it's too thick. So I tried adding a little bit of vermicelli pasta with the regular kind, which was a bad idea. The vermicelli overcooked. And once I started eating I realized that I don't like overcooked pasta, either. The better of the two evils? Hmm, that makes too much sense.
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