Land of the Rising Belly

Eeeeeee- I’m home from Japan and laughing at myself. One, I was worried about how this trip would pan out. Two, I had no idea they thought I was fat. Three, I couldn’t stop eating this time, either. Four, I got stuck on a toilet, and Five, I thought this trip would cure all that ails me.

The first trip in 1983 was so vivid I was concerned how this one in 2009 might compare. Well, let’s just say that notion was short-lived, about as effective as trying to relive a memory from long ago while strapped into a dizzying ride at the fair and being twirled and spinned into an altered state. Ha! Not a problem -- too busy trying to avoid throwing up cotton candy, elephant ears and chili dogs. Or in this case, red bean and custard waffles, oyster flavored potato chips and green- tea Kit Kat bars.

I’ve already touched on the fact that every single person who saw me again after a quarter of a century commented that I was “no longer fat.” Even the grandfather of a friend who met me once mentioned the moon face I used to have. Yes, I know I gained 40 pounds while I was living there, but as I lost it State-side, it never occurred to me that their lasting impression of me was that of a baby Buddha.

In the intervening years, I’ve tried to watch what I eat, and even while traveling to the Mecca of decadent desserts, bread and cheese (France), I’ve managed to avoid overindulging and kept most of the pounds off by miles of walking.

But as soon as I was fingerprinted and allowed entry into The Land of the Rising Sun, the trigger switch for eating-everything-in-sight was flipped on and locked in its upright position. I think it’s something they do to foreign nationals while we’re staring into the lens of the Interpol camera or fumbling with our passports, custom declaration papers and luggage, all bleary eyed and stunned from the squished cattle quarters in the airplane and recycled air.

Hey, I’m all for living green, but I do not love the word “recycle” and “breathing air” in the same sentence. And I think Japan’s new moniker should be “Land of the Rising Belly.” On our way home, while landing in San Fransisco, I was pulled out of line and ordered to be body searched. They offered a private room, but whooo boy, how do I say, Hell No without sounding like a potty mouth? As long as it was an invitation, I declined. Whatever they were going to do to me, I wanted it done publicly.

Thank God they didn’t do a cavity search because I haven’t been to the dentist in a very long time. I was miffed and slightly offended to be chosen for the big pat down as they seemed particularly interested in what I might be hiding under my blouse. Guess what folks, it was my belly! My protruding, clogged, plugged, filled to the gills with sticky white rice belly. After they felt me all over, they determined I was just fat. Oi!

But as I write this, it occurs to me they might have done me a favor. No, I don’t consider that flirting. I’m now suspecting that security could tell my eating trigger was on full tilt boogie and pulled me out of line to turn it back off. So, thank you, because now I’m not as inspired to eat everything in sight here in Homeland.

As I sat here with GlowGirl last night, (Pssst, she has a new nickname, “Crazy Bean Lady,”) sipping cherry blossom tea and nibbling on green tea cookies, she’s also been to JapanLand and knew precisely what I was talking about and we launched into fits and giggles over all the snacks and treats beautifully packaged in happy, appetite pleasing colors, wrapped and decorated with come hither ribbons and we drooled over Royal Milk Tea, Pokari Sweat, Kibidango (millet cakes sprinkled lightly with powdered soy bean), Manju (a traditional Japanese sweet filled with azuki bean paste), and chips made out of every conceivable and several inconceivable flavors.

Then there was the cabbage-muscat juice and the bamboo.

On a tour of Kyoto during the last stop (Kiyomizu Temple), we encountered a four alarm traffic jam. Well, I don’t really know how traffic jams are measured, but this one was a bouchon deluxe. Instead of sitting for the hour or two that was estimated, the “best bus driver in Kyoto” decided to take us up a narrow road on a steep hill. Scary. But our tour guide, bless her heart, was not expecting the added delay and had to repeat her memorized material. Her English is better than my Japanese could ever be, but that did not stop her nasal microphoned voice to eventually irritate me a little, especially since every word ended on a heavily accented vowel.

That last phrase would sound something like this… “every-YA wor-DA ended-A on-NA heavily-A accented-DA vowel-LA. Yipes!

I bet you forgot I was talking about bamboo. Before I sidetracked myself, I was saying that our vowel-heavy tour guide was repeating her material because the drive was taking longer than expected. She was talking about spring time edibles (see? more food references) when she landed on bamboo. Voila! A subject that I never knew could take up so much time. She milked that baby for blocks. Different ways it could be cooked, sliced, diced and quartered-DA.

Companion, who had been gobsmacked by the beauty and splendor of Kyoto, the ancient temples and shrines with their cherry blossom promises, had been quiet and mellow up to this point, but apparently the combination of the steep impromptu bus route, the loud microphone and the woman’s obvious passion for bamboo provided him with some inspiration.

Quietly, so as not to be rude (we were seated near the back of the bus), Companion, in a slow, Southern drawl a la Forest Gump, began naming his own twist on bamboo. “Refried bamboo, bamboo puddin’, scrambled bamboo, bamboo grits, hard-boiled bamboo, bamboo gumbo, …” Not fair for him to make me laugh like that.

The Japanese are not an outwardly affectionate culture, you know, all touchy-feely in public, but I learned a little secret. They have invented amazing machines to do some of the touching for them. Take our friend’s massage chair. We’ve sat in some before, or so we thought, with a little ball that goes ‘round and ‘round the shoulder blades, so I was expecting the usual when I was invited to sit down in the Takabochi 4000 Mach 9.

What I was not expecting was for it to lay down flat with me in it and for mechanized clamps to grab my ankles. I was strapped into this baby like I was going to receive a lethal injection. Not relaxing so far. Then the deceptive arm rests opened up and swallowed me from wrist to arm pit. Next, all the whirling massage parts were activated and vibrating things were running up and down my spine, my legs therapeutically jiggled, the blood pulsing to my head which was angled down below my shoulders. All that was missing was Hannibal Lecter’s hockey mask.

Then our hostess said, “Enough of you, time for him now.” She managed to untangle me from its grip and had me out and Companion in before either one of us could catch our breath. Japanese efficiency. While he was being “relaxed,” she motioned for me to follow her. She opened a door and the centerpiece of the small room was the most luxurious toilet I have ever seen. “Shhh…watch this,” and pushed me toward the Imperial throne. As I approached, the lid miraculously raised itself. Apparently a man should never have to lift a finger. I was in awe. I wanted to be a man in Japan.

Pointing to some fancy buttons on the wall, she told me to try it on my “magic spot.” With that little instruction, she left me alone and shut the door. The timing was right, as we had been sipping lots of tea and snacking on chocolate dipped strawberries (in honor of White Day, when men give women chocolate), so I overcame my shyness and decided to see what the mystique of the bidet world was all about. Whooo is about all I can say here.

It was surprisingly invigorating, and then I was done. But the water kept on jetting. I looked at the Starship Enterprise panel on the wall next to me, hesitated as my rosebud was continually watered and started pushing buttons. It wouldn’t stop. In fact, I think I renewed its subscription. I called out to Friend, no answer. I yelled a little louder, no one came to my rescue. I tried standing, but the fountain of youth was determined and the vicinity was getting wet. I quickly sat back down. We were heading out for dinner and who wants the telltale waterjet stream up the back of a bidet novice? Heeeeelp!

I sat there for what felt like a looooong time. Eventually the tank ran out of liquid, so I was finally free. Between the chair and the benjo, I got quite the lovin’.

As for curing what ails me, the trip did wonders in the healing department, but I imagined it would erase the pain of some other things, too, which at this point, it has not. But I remain optimistic. As bits and pieces of me are collected and the healthier tissue occupies more space, the broken bits can be collected too, and with some gratitude, offered up as well.

Mirror, Mirror…

Whoo hoo, I’m at the beach! Arrived yesterday at dusk with the wind snapping the rain into a frenzy, but woke up this morning to the waning full moon directly over the water, conducting its orchestra of waves. Streaks of silver tipped the foam, a regal encore before the sun’s arrival.

My companion and I left Eugene, Oregon yesterday and traveled Highway 99 through Corvallis, continuing to Newport where we took a walk by the ocean and shopped in Nye Beach. At one store, where I knew I was going to make a purchase, I politely asked to use their loo.

I was in for a surprise. Hovering over the porcelain throne…okay, I must interrupt myself for a moment. As I’m sitting here at the private beach house where we stay every year, a gas truck just pulled up out front and a man dragging a hose is entering the premises.

Get the humorous timing? I’m about to tell you a bathroom story and a truck full of gas appears at this exact moment. Synchronicity? I’m a fan. Hmmm, I certainly hope he knows what he’s doing. If nothing gets posted this week, then I guess you’ll know what happened. Gulp.

Okay, back to the toidy. I’ve just created the proper paper barrier and have lowered myself into the hygienic position, when at eye level, I notice all kinds of post-it notes and handwritten signs instructing the current occupier of the throne what to do in case of a smelly emergency. “If you make a stink, please use two squirts of this (chemically engineered) Spring Breeze to clear the befouled air.” That proved grin worthy.

But then I saw the price sheet.

There, on the wall, was a menu for possible toilet options. The first itemized a “liquid deposit, with one toilet flush and one hand washing, $2.00.” But what if we want to wash both hands?

The second quote was for a “solid deposit, no odor, one toilet flush and one hand washing. $3.00.”

The last menu item was for a “solid deposit with odor, one toilet flush and one hand washing.” Current market value? $5.00.

At first, I thought this was a joke, but as I continued to read the many signs and notices, I began to suspect the proprietor was more anal than funny. When I later handed over my credit card for a merchandise purchase rather than a “deposit fee,” I wondered if their cash register had special buttons. My mind ran with it. When people approached the counter, did they ever negotiate?

“Hi there. I’ll take one solid deposit, but skip the hand washing?” Ooooh. Ick. Or what if a customer was equally fastidious and asked for a receipt? How would that pan out come tax time? “Yes, Auditor Smith, that was for a poo I took in Newport, Oregon.”

Okay, but the really big question for me was, what about the people - and we all have them in our lives - who don’t think their mierde stinks?? What would they do in that little shop on the Oregon Coast?

“I owe you for one solid deposit, no odor.”

“No odor? I beg to differ! You can smell it all the way down the hall.”

“Oh no, ma’am. Mine smells of roses. In fact, you should pay me for the perfume I leave behind.”

Holy cow, I’ve practically had this conversation. What do you do with those who have no grasp on their toxic vapor trails -- literal or energetic? I’m really asking, because I haven’t figured it out yet. If everything is energy and we receive into our lives what we put out into the world, what do you do when someone stinks up your palace?

Deepak Chopra said to me the other day, well, not so much to me as to the television camera, “If you live with the question, you will move into the answer.”

I spent the rest of the day, living with my question, playing on the beach and hiking to Cape Perpetua. [Note: The propaganda leaflets for the trail says it’s only a mile or so climb to the top. However, and this is key folks, it is much longer from the bottom to the top than it is from the top to the bottom. Somebody lied!]

Panting, wheezing and sore muscles aside, an answer came from an unlikely source. Making our way back to the Visitor’s Center, a woman working for the Forest Service told us a story about ravens. She said that on a regular basis, ravens, upon seeing their reflections in the great picture windows of the Center, dive bomb their own faces.

Apparently, some sort of messy secretion from their beaks accompanies the assault and the glass becomes filthy after a few violent pecks. The ravens believe, whether seeing themselves in rear view mirrors, picture windows or any reflective surface, their image to be that of an enemy and knock themselves out from attacking.

So my question, “What do we do when someone stinks up our palace?” looked different through the eyes of a raven. There are people we get along with and those we don’t. The reason we don’t get along with some of them is because THEY are difficult and annoying. They complain, criticize, pick, poke, assault.

Uh-oh, I don’t like where this is going…

Perhaps they attack because they see their reflection in our own actions and behaviors and believe their likeness belongs to an enemy, us. This theory could be carried even closer to home.

Maybe we interpret our own image as belonging to an enemy and launch an assault on ourselves. Why do humans often stay in a suffering place and throw blame (read sticky secretion from our beaks) all over the place?

What is it about ourselves that frightens us so? Oh great, another question to live with. I’m a little skeerd to find out.

Companion and I went walking in Yachats, a little seaside town south of Newport. We took the meandering path along the rocky beach, passing through second-home neighborhoods on our way to the beach. The first year I saw it, I almost had a heart attack. The second year, only minor apoplexy, the third, raw anger. On a wedge of beachfront property, some scurvy dog built a ridiculously, self-indulgent temple to himself, completely obliterating the view of the quaint cottage a few feet away. A view-pirate is what he is, stealing the most valuable thing from his neighbor.

I was incensed. Furious. It was unconscionable. I’d forget about it though, in between annual walks, but as soon as I rounded the bend, the criminal monstrosity rose from the mist and I’d feel my anger all over again. Rather spoiled my walk, my mood.

This year, when I saw the hideosity and felt the flames of wrath re-ignite, I stopped in my tracks and looked at both houses. I realized I knew nothing about the situation, except what I was making up in my head. If it was all fiction anyway, could I tell myself a story that created good feelings within myself instead of bad?

I pondered and continued walking. What’s a better-case scenario? I spun a yarn about the owner of the small cottage desiring the slice of property for years and finally obtaining it. Then he managed to build his dream house and kept the smaller cottage as a place for his many guests to stay. Phew, that felt so much better.

There’s something about fresh, salty sea air that clears my mind. From that spontaneous story I made the leap that whenever we don’t know something, we make it up -- about others and ourselves. We only exist in this moment. Not an hour ago, nor five minutes from now. Here, in this minute lives the real us. Everything else is memory, thought, imagination, or figment. Does that shock you as much as it does me?

We are storytellers, fiction makers and we create all kinds of crazy business in our heads about who we are. That’s reason enough to believe enemies are lurking within every shiny surface.

If we’re going to make it up anyway, why not embellish life with thoughts that make us feel better, thoughts that create a bondship with our funny, loveable, adorable selves?

I’m going to blow a kiss to the next reflective surface I see, because as Oscar Wilde advises, “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”