Podcast Premiere

Recently I hosted a Couchsurfer from Washington state who, among many other activities, has a politically oriented podcast that he does with two friends. After hanging out with him for a few days and discussing various topics he asked if I'd ever be interested in coming on the show. Being a bit of a politically opinionated person, I thought why not. So, as the snow of blizzard 2010 fell on Sunday, I logged on to Skype for a conversation with Roni and Joe that would become Episode 111 of Don't Worry About the Government. I won't go so far to say I contributed anything earth shatteringly insightful but do think I lent a little to the podcast. You can listen to it here and hear for yourself.

Two years

Another attempt at original poetry to describe how I'm feeling on the second sadversary because to say more is too hard. I've never considered myself a poet but the words just came to mind and I went with it.

* * *

I think of you
And want to hold you
I know you're not here
Yet want to call you

I don't know how to reach you
So I keep doing what
I think you'd want me
To do

The days pass
I miss you all over again
And again
You're in my heart
And mind
And breath
But never again with me

I pour another glass
And remember

And remember
Love

Three-nine

Today I celebrate my 39th birthday. Tomorrow I will mark two years since Karen died. Dates that are inextricably linked for the rest of my life. Forever will the happiness of one day be tempered by the sadness of the other yet, at the same time, the pain of the 16th made just a bit more bearable by the joy and love from friends and family from the day before. A sort of calendric Yin-Yang.

So much has taken place in the previous year: a fantastic trip to Asia; ran the NYC Marathon; traveled to various parts of the country reconnecting with old friends; watched my eldest niece become a bat mitzvah; took additional, much needed time to contemplate and process all that has taken place in my life, just to name a few things.

Notwithstanding all the things I accomplished and enjoyed over the past twelve months, today, as I did last year, I am once again thinking about the last (and only) birthday Karen and I spent together. Despite what was to happen less than 24 hours latter, it was a fabulous day. I am almost tempted to say it was the best day of my life, which got me thinking about that phrase and how, or even whether, someone can honestly say it.

“The best day of my life.” How could one actually make that statement unless they know either they will have no more good – or potentially great – days or somehow manage to have their final day on earth be the culmination of all their happiness and dreams. Sitting here now I can say that I have had several wonderful days, one of them being my 37th birthday in 2008. Another of my best days would certainly be August 17, 2008, our wedding day as well as November 7, 2010, the day I achieved my long time goal of completing the NYC Marathon. But can I truly say that any of those were my "best day"? Perhaps no, because as amazing as everything I have lived so far has been, it still might be, as both my parents said in separate places in my high school yearbook, the best could be yet to come.

I would like to think, however, that were Karen able to answer the question she would be able to say that her final day was indeed her best day. It was undoubtedly the best I shared with her. I think it was even better than our wedding day, which was of course the happiest day I had with her, because we were not constrained with all the family pressures and could just be ourselves at our own pace. Saturday we did all the things that made us both happy. We lounged in bed. Had brunch at a nearby restaurant and then strolled unhurriedly in our neighborhood. Later we went into Manhattan for a matinee, drinks at the top of a hotel in midtown, and then dinner at Aquavit. It was all fantastic and Sunday began just as amazingly.

We awoke to a beautiful morning. Lounged around our apartment before seeing my whole family for brunch. After, we once more wandered around the neighborhood and bought several new maternity dresses, after which Karen called and left a message for her mom as we walked to a local cafe we'd been wanting to try for some time, which indeed had phenomenal food. So good in fact, that Karen began to fill out the comment card, something neither of us ever did. Of course, as you probably already know by now, it was at that point that the most fantastic 24 hour period turned into a nightmare.

But that is not what I'm thinking about now. What I'm thinking about is how we did everything wonderful and how she lived life to the fullest right until the end. I also think she would say on that day everything in her life was achieved and she truly was enjoying her best day. She was with the person she loved and felt most secure and comfortable with, while doing the things she enjoyed most. She also spoke or contacted nearly all the most important people in her life, whether that was in person with my family or by phone to hers. Perhaps there was an inner feeling she had that urged her to do all the things she did that day or maybe it was just a continuation of the way she lived her life. But whatever the reason, I truly believe (and hope) that she was at her happiness when the worst happened and would say that November 15 - 16, 2008 was the best day of her life.

My Marathon Story

Once in a while there are things that you plan for that exceed your expectations when they happen. They are rare, but those moments do exist and this past weekend was one of them for me.

When I was young, my father registered to run the NYC Marathon. By his recollection it was 1978, only the second or third year the course wound through all five boroughs of New York City rather than being confined to Central Park as it has originated. Due to an injury he sustained during training, however, my father was forced to withdraw around mile 16. For me it didn't matter that he finished or not, I can still vividly recall him training and going down to 4th Avenue in Brooklyn to see him run by. More importantly though, a seed was planted in my mind - an allure of this spectacle called the NYC Marathon.

I remember trying to imagine what it would be like to run it, how old I needed to be to enter, and even developed a fantasy of being the youngest runner to compete, this despite not even being able to run around Prospect Park let alone the unimaginable distance of 26.2 miles. As I grew older, the idea of actually running the race began to take on almost legendary implications; a seemingly unattainable goal. Due in large part because I didn't really find running an enjoyable thing to do. Sure I played soccer in high school and college, but that was a different kind of running. For me, back then, the idea of running for such a long period of time seemed like the kind of thing that only certain people were capable of doing. My distance sport for many years, until this year actually, became bike riding but thoughts of the marathon still permeated my mind.

Not just any marathon though, the NYC Marathon. Perhaps it has something to do with my dad's attempt, or maybe it has something to do with how Frank Sinatra's lyrics resonated in anyone from New York (or elsewhere), or possibly because I continued to go to the race at times to cheer people on as they ran it - many times along the same stretch of 4th Avenue and later in Central Park on a couple occasions. Whatever the reason, when I thought marathon I thought NYC and almost always said "next year." Well, as you already know, 2010 was "next year."

My first order of business was just getting into the darn race, let alone training for it. With so many people vying for a limited number of entries I decided the best option was to find a charity on whose behalf to run. There are many but when I looked on the marathon page my eyes immediately fell on Team Hole in the Wall. As I explained in my earlier blog post, I was drawn to the team because of its mission and my own personal connection with attending sleep-away camp as a child. I was exceedingly excited when they accepted me and began my fundraising immediately as well as continued my training in earnest.

The fundraising was made easier by the wonderful generosity of family and friends who responded to my initial email request with numerous donations. Within a very short time I had nearly reached my goal; it was more than a little humbling to see such an immediate and overwhelming show of support. Training was another story. Having never really been much of a runner and recalling my father's story of suffering a training-related injury, I consulted an online marathon training regiment. Actually I compared two and created a sort of hybrid of them both, drawing aspects from each but keeping true to their common underlying principles and mileage limits. Through the summer I steadily added miles to my runs while paying close attention to my stride and running form -- having been impressed as to the importance of both in preventing injury. I also got properly sized for new shoes to avoid suffering the unfortunately common fate of loosing toenails.

Soon I went from barely being able to complete a lap of Prospect Park without breaking to walk, to reaching milestones such as a third of a marathon, to a half, to over 20 miles in a single day. My weekly totals climbed from 10-15 to 30-40. When before I could feel the pain in my legs the day after running 4 miles, now I would run those same distances almost as a warm up. I thanks to the concentration on form and pace, I was feeling none of the discomfort in my knees that I'd previously experienced. As the days closed in on the marathon day, I began confirming what I'd wear for the race and running long distances in each combination of clothes so that nothing would be tried for the first time on November 7.

When I picked up my number and bag of marathon-related swag from the Marathon Expo on Thursday, November 4 I felt ready. Nervous and excited for sure, but ready as I'd ever be. I felt confident about my training and every aspect of what I was prepared to wear and eat on the day of the race. All systems, as they say, were go. I was consumed by the prospect of running the race, but Saturday evening would prove to re-shape my mindset of what I was involved in.

Team Hole in the Wall had a gathering the evening before the race at the Roosevelt Hotel in midtown. The last - and perhaps only - time I'd been to the hotel was for a Federal Bar Council reception to which Karen accompanied me. That was one evening, almost three years ago, but has always stayed with me as vivid memory. A room full of lawyers and judges fresh from their offices and chambers and Karen, striking an image of beauty and poise wearing a gorgeous blue dress, holding my hand as we walked among them. Were I not smitten with her before, that evening surely sealed the deal, as well as - dare I say - endeared herself to all who met her there. So there was already an emotional aspect to what I imagined would be a more or less routine pre-event meeting that evening. How wrong I was.

Not really knowing what to expect, I said hello to the few people from the organization that I'd met at the Marathon Expo and found a seat at the periphery of the crowd. Soon after, a gentleman, Jim if memory serves me, came and introduced himself. He extended his hand saying "thank you for running." He continued by explaining that his son attended one of the Hole in Wall camps and was already excited to go back next year. As he continued, he gave an emotional account about how important the experience was for his son but, just as importantly, what a difference it made for him, his wife, and their other children. How the time at camp not only allowed his son to behave like a child and enjoy life, but permitted the rest of the family to have a moment, however brief, when they could live like a "normal" family and focus on other things than his illness. It is an aspect of the camps that I knew from reading their literature but until you hear the words coming from a grateful parent's mouth it didn't truly hit me. If I still needed an inspiration to run the following day, Jim and his family were it.

Later during the meeting runners were offered a chance, in true camp fashion, to stand and tell the group a little something about themselves and their reason for running the marathon. Initially I was hesitant to say anything but as the stories got told I felt the desire to share mine as well. After, as has happened so often when I talk in public like this, several people, including Jim, came to offer their condolences and best wishes for my future. Leaving the meeting I felt re-energized and eager to run for me, for Team Hole in the Wall, and for all the children and families whose lives are touched by it.

The following day, as I ran with my team jersey, I saw many supporters along the race and soaked in the positive reinforcement showered by the cheering section at 76th and 1st Avenue. Repeatedly along the course I felt shivers run along my spine and send goosebumps to my arms. Initially I thought they were caused by the cold, or the need for water, or because of the long road ahead of me that day. Soon, however, I realized it was because of none of those. Rather, it was the emotion of the day. Being on the road toward 26.2 miles as the achievement eluded my dad in 1978 due to injury. Working toward a goal I'd secretly harbored since a child but never believing was something I could do. Thinking about Karen even though, as I mentioned before, she'd think me crazy for doing it yet knowing she'd be there cheering for me along the route and the end. But also for the importance of what I was doing to the lives of all those who attend, or have children that attend, the camps. Between these emotions, the roar of the crowds, and the perfect weather, it was a spectacular day to run the NY Marathon and an experience I don't think I can ever fully duplicate....but think I will try to next year.

Thank you all again for the support and donations to help me achieve my goal.

Thank you to all the staff and volunteers of Team Hole in the Wall -- we might have been the ones running, but you are the ones that made the possible.

Finally, thank you New York for making the day spectacular.

26.2 miles in 4:30:04

I set two different alarm clocks and my iPhone for times ranging between 4:15 and 5:30 a.m. There were many things to jeopardize me waking in time on November 7: changing the clocks back an hour at 2:00 a.m.; rumors of an iPhone bug effecting alarms set prior to daylight saving time ending; and a general concern of power failure/surge or some other freak occurrence - not that I can actually recall ever having such a thing happen to any other alarm clock I've set in my life but Murphy's Law being what it is I wasn't taking any chance.

As it turned out, I barely needed a single one of the redundant systems. I had actually been awake and laying in bed for about half an hour when the first of the alarms went off. Not that I slept for long mind you, but I'd already been told by several people that it is quite common, and not to be concerned, if one doesn't sleep much or well the night before the marathon. So, with the world around me still dark - couldn't even call it pre-dawn - I got up and started what, as I described in my other post, was to be one of my most memorable days.

Before I went to bed the night before I laid out all my clothes and prepared my snacks, water, electrolyte drink, etc., so I wouldn't need to worry about forgetting anything. NY1's weather report was showing a chilly temperature of 37 degrees so I hoped my selection of pre-race layers would be sufficient to keep me warm during the hours of waiting before my 10:40 a.m. start time. Once dressed and packed I realized I was "ahead of schedule." It was just 5 a.m. but my bus, which was departing from a running store a block from my house, wasn't going to leave until between 5:30 and 6. Rather than wander aimless around my apartment for several more minutes I decided to head out into the cold, still dark night.

It was a bit surreal. Inside I knew this was the start of a big day but everything around me was still and silent. Perhaps it is cliché to say the calm before the storm yet that is how it felt. I walked down streets normally busy with pedestrians and cars passing nor seeing even a single one of either. It wasn't until I turned onto 7th Avenue that I saw lone figures, each carrying a clear plastic bag like mine and dressed in warm clothes, although not truly warm enough for the outside temperature, making their way to the only store, other than the 24 hour bodega, open at that hour on the street. We were pilgrims beginning our journey individually but gathering together in the warmth of Jackrabbit Sports. Inside the store was packed full of bleary–eyed men and women. There were greetings exchanged as friends came through the door, while others asked one another about their previous marathon experience, if any, while still others sat in pensive silence.

By just after 5:40 I was on board the first bus of four to depart. As we headed toward the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge we drove along 4th Avenue where we'd later be running down in the opposite direction and saw the traffic enforcement tow trucks removing the few remaining cars along the avenue. However, once we crossed the bridge and arrived in Staten Island, the starting point for the marathon, the reality of the moment began to set in. Just past the bridge's end, before the toll plaza, bus after bus lined up to discharge passengers while orange jacketed volunteers greeted and guided us along the road's shoulder to the entrance of the starting area. Even though it was still early, the area buzzed with excitement and loudspeakers were broadcasting instructional messages in a multitude of languages - French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, German, to name the few that I recognized and recall now. The multi-language announcements were matched by the the cacophony of languages being spoken by the hundreds of runners around me. There could be no doubt that this is truly an international event.

Now came the waiting. With a field of over 45,000 runner, the NYC Marathon has three starting waves beginning at 9:40 (after the elite women and wheel chair divisions have already departed) and continuing until the last leaves at 10:40. I was in the final wave. Thankfully Team Hole in the Wall had a tent in the Charity Village that not only provided shelter from the wind but was stocked with hot coffee and snacks. However, because I didn't take the team bus from mid-town, when I arrived there were only two other runners, who'd also taken alternate transportation to the start, in the tent. Indeed the Charity Village itself was nearly deserted for at least the next hour and a half yet suddenly, in the time it took me to enter and leave one of the many porta-potties, the area was packed with people. It was as if all team buses arrived simultaneously.

Over the next couple hours as the sun rose the day really began to take shape. Helicopters began appearing in the skies above in preparation of the start, announcements began calling Wave 1 runners to the starting corrals, and cannon blasts could be heard announcing each start - first the wheelchair division, then elite women, then elite men and Wave 1. By the time Wave 3 was called to the corrals I'd finished my breakfast, removed a couple layers of clothes, and stretched my legs and body as I'd done on my many training runs. With excited and nervous butterflies in my stomach I made my way to the start.

By the time I walked crossed the Staten Island in front of the toll plaza the energy of the crowd around me was palpable. This was it. I couldn't see the actual starting line, a combination of the other runners and a corridor of buses used to separate the waves form one another, blocked my view but I knew it was so close. The sound of the PA announcer could be heard announcing the final preparation, then a cannon bang, and the first chords of New York, New York began. We were underway. The crowd began to move forward, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as we approached the official starting line. The clock read just past five minutes from the starting gun when I stepped over the starting mat at just barely a jog but began picking up speed as we headed onto the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

What the NYC Marathon course lacks in hills it makes up with bridges and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge begins the race with a nearly one mile up grade. How many times had I driven over this bridge? In all sorts of weather. At every time of the year. But never like this. Always among the most spectacular views, whether looking northerly at the Manhattan skyline in the distance or southerly out at the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean each it is something to behold, now it was not only a perfectly blue, cloudless day to accentuate the scenery, but moving at a mere 10 miles an hour along the very edge of the bridge allowed me to savor every angle and image spreading out before me.

Coming off the bridge we came into contact with the first groups of people cheering along the sides of the route. There weren't many at first, just a few groups here and there along the streets of Bay Ridge, but soon we hit 4th Avenue and all hell broke loose. There were bands and throngs of people lining both sides of the street. It was, as I've described before, the beginning of the worlds largest block party - and it seemed all of Brooklyn had come out to celebrate.

As I ran down 4th Avenue, watching the street numbers tick off, I knew that each block was bringing me closer to the first spot where I knew friends and family were waiting to cheer for me. That isn't to say people weren't cheering my name. Like so many others I had my name written in large letters across my jersey, eliciting shouts of "GO DREW" from complete strangers. Just past 12th Street (I think) I saw a Team Hole in the Wall sign held aloft on a pole, the other end of which was held by my mom. I made a bee-line towards her, my brother, sister-in-law, nieces, and friends with arms waving. After a moment of celebration and a hand off of a bottle of electrolyte drink, I kept on into mile 8 with renewed energy and the sight of the Williamsburg Bank Building (now known as 1 Hanson Place) in front of me.

4th Avenue was great with so many people - friends, family, and strangers - lining both sides of the wide boulevard, and even in the middle median in places, but when the spectators and runners get compressed into the narrower streets of Williamsburg the energy really seemed to pick up. Whether or not there were more people it certainly felt like it. Shouts and cheers, not to mention songs from the various bands, reverberated and powered me through the rest of Brooklyn until I found myself on the Pulaski Bridge, running under the 13.1 mile banner marking half that half the marathon was done.

The course through Queens was fairly short but with similarly intense pockets of cheering as had been throughout Brooklyn. What Queens did, however, present was the challenge of several rather sharp turns - sharp, that is, for one that has already run a half marathon and who's legs are responding less and less to instructions other than "stride, stride, stride" - leading to the notorious ascent up the Queens Borough Bridge. Having watched the television coverage of the lead runners in years past, I was well aware of how the commentators described the experience of the bridge. Not only is it an ascent like the Verrazano, but unlike the opening bridge it has to be climbed on legs that have already covered nearly 16 miles and with the absence of the cheering crowds that helped get runners to it.

On to and up the roadway we went. My pace undoubtedly slowing slightly as the whole pack ran in near silence along the lower level. Amazingly, however, about halfway up the climb a crowd of runners in front of me began singing happy birthday to one among their ranks. It was quite remarkable and has to rank as one of the more unusual places I've participated in the songs singing. As we finished and began down the bridge toward Manhattan a new sound became audible. Just as the TV commentators talk about the period of running in silence across the bridge, they mention the canyon of noise on the other side as the route enters Manhattan for the first time and the cheering could clearly be heard long before any spectators were in sight.

The first Manhattanites were perched along the walls of the bridge but as we made a sharp pair of left turns leading to First Avenue we encountered multitudes. Hundreds, thousands of people were lined 10 deep behind barricades as well as clustered above on balconies along both sides of the avenue. And the noise. Yelling, cheering, ringing cowbells, blowing horns, creating a cacophony unknown to me before then. I'd been told by several prior runners that the crowds can help revive your energy at that point but also could lead a runner to break their pace, so I concentrated on staying on pace while soaking in the awesome amount of support and positive energy being directed at me and the other runners.

The Team Hole in the Wall cheer zone at 76th Street provided yet another, more focused cheering section. Dozens of supporters shouted wildly as I passed by, slapping high-fives with many, encouraging me ever northward. However, as the crowds began to thin north of 96th Street my first signs of fatigue began to show. I kept running but made a deal with myself: when I reached the next bridge, the Willis Avenue Bridge, linking Manhattan to the Bronx, I would walk the ascent, eat a packet of Hammer Gel, and assess my overall condition before I would resume running. After all, at 19.5 miles that point marks almost the longest distance I'd run to date. So, true to my word to myself, that is just what I did and it was the best decision I could have made.

Upon reaching the crest of the bridge, gel packet ingested and feeling generally positive about my legs and body, I started running again. Not long after I struck up a conversation with a fellow runner to my right. A simple exchange of pleasantries at first, she would prove to be invaluable for the remaining miles. Initially it was I helping her recover from cramping by suggesting she take on Gatorade at the next fluid station (she had until then only been drinking water and therefore not replacing the lost electrolytes) but soon we were alternatively cajoling, cheering, and even, at times, coercing each other to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I confronted my wall soon after we crossed the Madison Avenue Bridge back into Manhattan. We were just past the 21 mile mark, coursing through Harlem, when my energy seemed to slip away from me. My legs were still, reluctantly moving but the thought washed over me that I still have 5 miles to go. Perhaps short given the amount I'd already covered, but an impossible distance to consider in the moment. Jean, my running mate, feeling much better than when we'd started pacing with each other, pushed me on. Thanks in no small part to her encouragement, I rounded Marcus Garvey Park and saw the cross-street numbers decline steadily until we were at 111 and the tops of the trees in Central Park could be seen over the heads of the spectators. I knew the end was near.

As the building lined canyon of Fifth Avenue gave way to the street bordered by Central Park, we begin the second to last hill of the run. On any other day, this gentle half mile slope might seem like next to nothing. But not today. Today it stood between me and the entrance to Central Park and the final 2 miles of the race. The crowds grew larger as we approached 90th Street and the sweeping right turn into the park near the reservoir. This is the area I'd watch the runners on two occasions while living on the Upper West Side and the lines of well wishers were as deep as anywhere else on the course so far, but I knew that ahead was my father and step-mother. Knowing this and feeling the end so close at hand, my pace picked up slightly. Then even more when I actually saw them. What an energy boost, and I'm not merely speaking about the energy gel packets my dad passed to me as I ran by them. (It was also shortly after passing them that I came upon Edison Pena, the Chilean miner, who was running in his first marathon as well. He understandably struggled but did complete the race. A true source of inspiration.)

From there the race became a joy. Even with 25 miles in my legs I felt nothing. I almost floated out of the park near the Plaza hotel, along Central Park South, and toward Columbus Circle. Shortly after re-entering the park I passed under the 400 meter banner and felt a jolt of adrenaline....I was about to finish the New York Marathon. Up a final, short incline I could see the grandstands and the finish line arches. With new found energy welling up in me, I picked up my pace to what felt like a sprint, and ran the final meters slapping high-fives with the spectators. I stretched my arms over head and crossed one of the most famous lines in sports. I had done it!

Volunteers placed a medal around my neck, a mylar blanket (which I have a new found respect for) over my shoulders, and post-race bag in my hands. I shuffled forward with the hundreds of other runners, sipping slowly on water and trying to assess my physical condition. There are many stories about runners passing out, throwing up, or being general delirious at the finish line. They are all true. Thankfully, with the exception of a little loss of balance for a moment, none of those ills affected me. But I saw more than my share of misery and felt for each pained runner. (I should note that the race officials were very good at attending to these runners and I saw more medical services in this one area than I think I'd ever witnessed before. Indeed the NY Times did a great article about the new methodology the planners are now using.)

Once I was able to exit the park at 77th Street I headed downtown to Team Hole in the Wall's post-race meeting point, which was at the ABC Studios on 66th Street. What this meant is that after running 26.2 miles I essentially walked another to completely finish my race. That half mile back from the park exit seemed to take longer than a mile on the race course, but once at the meeting point I was surrounded by my family, which had seen me along the route and then come into Manhattan. It was a perfect way to finish such an amazing day.

It took a lot of work and hundreds of training miles, but the satisfaction of finishing the race is indescribable. Although my goal was to break 4 1/2 hours, I am not about to complain that my official time was 4:30:04. After all, there is always next year.....



(Stay tuned for an additional post about the marathon and additional pictures when they become available.)

Marathon Day Countdown

After hundreds of training miles and two pairs of shoes the marathon is now a little over a week away. Despite struggling at the moment to put a little flu bug behind me, I'm feeling physically ready for the run and growing more excited by the day.

I want to thank all of you who contributed to Team Hole in the Wall in my name allowing me this fantastic opportunity to join with tens of thousands of other runners on November 7 as we travel through the five boroughs. I hope, for those of you who live in the New York area, you will also come out to root us on along the course - if you've never been to the marathon and seen it first hand it is truly something to be experienced. Here is a link to an interactive map for you to precisely see the course.

My bib number is 48739 and will be starting in Blue Wave Group 3 at 10:40 a.m. Here is link to estimates for arrival times along the route, but you will be able to track my progress, whether you're along the route or not, in real-time using the NYRR's Athlete Alert system. There are several options available, including text updates and an iPhone application, and information on them all can be found here. If you do plan to come out and cheer, please let me know where you plan to be and on which side - in relation to my running direction - you'll be standing. I will do my best to be on that side of the route. There are about two hundred members of Team Hole in the Wall and we'll all be decked out in team shirts so hopefully you'll be able to spot us (me) in the crowd.

Thank you all once again and hope to see you next Sunday.

In support of the Prospect Park West bike lane

On a slightly different topic than what I've written about here in the past, I wanted to post a copy of the email I sent to members of the New York City Council in support of keeping the bike lane along Prospect Park West. For those not in the area, the Department of Transportation earlier this year reduced the number of vehicle lanes on Prospect Park West from three to two, converting an area between the curb and parking lane to a separated bicycle lane. Predictably, not all are happy with this change and some are calling on its removal and restoring the road to three lanes. I am totally in favor of keeping it since, in my opinion, the change is beneficial to pedestrians and cyclists alike and is of minimal inconvenience to motorists.

Here's what I wrote:

Dear _______,

I am writing to voice my support for the bike lane along Prospect Park West and encourage the City to continue in its efforts to create more. As I resident of Park Slope for over thirty years and avid cyclist, it is my feeling that this lane, and the others throughout the city, is a benefit to our community and increases pedestrian and cyclist safety.

I have long enjoyed the visual appeal of Prospect Park West's grand thoroughfare but at the same time felt it to be quite dangerous. Growing up and, for most of my adult life, living a block from the Prospect Park, I consistently viewed the three lanes of traffic along Prospect Park West as one of the more difficult streets to cross. Not only would drivers take advantage of the relatively open flow of traffic to speed but would routinely accelerate even faster in order to catch the few lights along the route. This scenario made it very challenging to cross the three lanes of traffic, especially when one considers that many of the people crossing to access the Park are elderly, school aged, parents with strollers, etc. Indeed my earliest memory of Prospect Park West as a young child was of a vast, seemingly insurmountable expanse of asphalt where cars careened past all but cutting off access to the Park. Installing the physically-separated bike lane along Prospect Park West was a great idea not only because it shortens the distance necessary to cross from three lanes of active traffic down to two, but provides great safety for bikers and slows down vehicular traffic.

I understand that there are many in the neighborhood that complain traffic speeds have actually increased due to people accelerating to make up for lost time due to congestion - specifically that with two lanes traffic backups occur when there's a double parked car or driver who stops to park in a legal spot. However, these same drivers would in all likelihood be speeding just as much - if not more - were there still three lanes of traffic. Moreover, this consequence of reducing the number of lanes on Prospect Park West should no more warrant the removal of the bike lane any more than it suggests expanding Eighth Avenue to three lanes because such backups occur there as well. Again, speeding is not the result of a narrower roadway (indeed I believe it is quite the opposite and happens more often on wider streets with greater traffic flow) but rather on the attitude of individual drivers. The answer to speeding and reckless driving is not to expand the width of roadways but to increase police enforcement.

Complaints against the bike path have also been raised by pedestrians that say crossing it is dangerous because they have to look both ways. This argument too, however, ought not to result in removal of the bike path. The need to remember to look before stepping onto the bike path in the short run is vastly outweighed by the long-term benefit of having the separate areas for pedestrians and cyclists. Yes, it is a change and something new for long time residents to remember to do, but I doubt anyone would now argue to remove the traffic lights on Garfield Place, First Street, Fifth Street, etc., because when they were first installed people were not familiar with them being there and had to remember to pay attention. As a child I was taught to look both ways before stepping off the curb whether there was a walk signal or not. This ought to apply whether that means stepping into the street or a bike lane.

Finally, as a bike rider who does his best to ride with courtesy towards others, including pedestrians, I will nevertheless be the first to acknowledge that there are many others who are not. Yet I would also point out that there are many pedestrians that walk without awareness to their surroundings as well. I have witnessed and experienced first hand as many accidents and near accidents caused by pedestrian inattentiveness as by cyclist action. Providing separate paths for the two reduces incidents of cyclist-pedestrian interactions and thus the chances for accidents is lessen. Since the installation of the bike path I have seen almost no bikes - with the exception of very young children still in the learning stages - on the sidewalk and have seen equally few pedestrians using the bike lane.

Perhaps there was a time when the wide, three lane thoroughfare of Prospect Park West provided a grand boulevard for motorists, pedestrians, and cyclists alike to enjoy, but what it became in recent years was a mile long, drag strip-like stretch of a road slicing between Park Slope and Prospect Park. Drivers hoping to shave minutes from their commute would routinely speed along its length, jumping green lights and ignoring yellow (and sometimes red) in an effort to make the next. Pedestrians had to scramble to cross its expanse and cyclists forced into the dangerous position of riding unprotected and alongside increasingly aggressive and reckless drivers. Providing the separated bicycle lane has provided a reasonable and good solution these issues. The minor inconveniences it might have created or period of adjustment necessary by all in response to it does not warrant its removal.

I encourage you to resist the efforts to return to Prospect Park West to a car-centric roadway and hope you will support New York's effort to make our city more pedestrian and bicycle friendly and safe.

Thank you.

Training Update

With a little over a month away from the marathon I wanted to thank everyone who made a pledge to Team Hole in the Wall - I have exceeded my goal! - and tell you about how the training is going.

First off, before I began training for the marathon the only times I'd ever done laps of Prospect Park was on my bike (or in my car shortly after I got my license). I think I had ran/walked once or twice around but that was it. Now, doing a lap seems almost easy. In fact, a few days ago I did my longer run, 18 miles, which was 5 laps around the park...a number I barely could conceive of doing even on my bike. But that's what I'm doing now, laps, laps, laps.

So far I have been spared many of the ailments I've heard of people experiencing when doing long distance running. Thanks to a new pair of shoes properly fitted by Jackrabbit Sports - a full size larger than my street shoes - I have plenty of room for my toes (thus avoiding black toe nails), good support across my arches, and minimal rubbing in places that could cause blistering. All things I hope stay as is when I go from 18-20 mile runs to the big one of 26.2.

Another thing to mention is my absolute love for Bodyglide. For those of you who know what this phenomenal product is and what its for you'll certainly agree with me about its importance. For those unfamiliar with it, well let's just say it keeps things moving without annoying (and painful) friction.

I'm also experimenting and testing various combinations of gels, electrolyte drinks, and nutrition for the day of and days leading up to it. It actually makes me wonder if Pheidippides did any such training or contemplation? Probably not. I'm guessing his general just turned to him and said "Run!" and he did. Then again, he probably wasn't pushing 39 when he ran to Athens.

With November 7 just around the corner I am growing more and more excited for the event. I've watched runners participating in this from a very small age and even imagine doing it when I was in my early teens. Never did I actually think I would run it myself but, with all your help, I am just weeks away from that. It is very exciting but nothing - I imagine - as compared to what it will be on the day of. As I've mentioned, I'm running with Team Hole in the Wall but if you're thinking you'd like to join with me and the 40,000 other people running there is still time to get involved. In fact I know that The Fresh Air Fund has spots still available on their running team and would love to have you join with them. If you're interested click here and get ready to hit the road!

Milestones and making beds

August is a difficult month. One the one hand I try to be happy thinking about the joy I experienced on the 17th in 2008, but of course my memories of that day are marred by the events three months later. So it isn't surprising that, as the days tick by leading up to what would have been our two year anniversary, a sense of disquiet has come over me as I anticipate crossing yet another milestone.

Two years. Has it really been only two years since Karen and I stood under the chuppah? It seems at once like yesterday and a lifetime ago. That day was magical from the setting, to the weather - how the warm August day gave way to a seasonably cool evening with a surreal blue dusk sky, but mainly because of the woman standing with me saying "I do."

I think of that day often and try to use the memories of it to push from my mind the images of her death and the painful days (weeks, months, years...) that have followed and are inevitably to come. I recall the excitement I felt; how the world and future seemed spread out before us both. The anniversaries I looked forward to celebrating. The gifts we'd exchange. The memories we'd forge together.

Traditionally, the gift for a second anniversary is something made from, or having to do with, cotton. Of course there isn't a corresponding gift list for presents relating to anniversaries that are not achieved. Instead, the date becomes a milestone. Another turn of the calendar and mark of what should have been. Naturally, such as milestones are, these are significant dates. The sort of thing that one anticipates and girds themselves to face. But often the mundane, routine moments throughout the calendar that impact on me equally, if not more.

A few days ago I was changing the sheets on my bed. A banal event to be sure. As I did, I recalled how, even before Karen and I were engaged, she had accompanied me to Macy's to pick out the mattress (a funny story that still brings a smile to my face when I think about it) as well as weighed in on the choice of bed frame and headboard. It was clear, even in those early days of our being together, that I wasn't merely buying my bed, but rather was buying ours. For me, that represents the strength of our relationship and our future; together only a few months and already intuitively making a life together.

I stood, fitted sheet in place and top sheet in my hands, for several moments. Looking from the foot of the bed toward the head, staring at the Budduh she brought from her apartment and insisted we put above the headboard to look over us, it struck me like the proverbial ton of bricks: our bed was now just mine. Despite the wonderful memories of laying together, no more would be made. The morning after my 37th birthday will forever be the last we spend.

Perhaps it is fitting that such thoughts came to me on that day, just shy of what would have been our Cotton Anniversary, as I handled the cotton sheets. After all, I can assure you that I have changed the sheets on the bed many, many times. I certainly don't have the list of traditional wedding anniversary gifts committed to memory, but something innately stuck a chord with me.

The milestones are there. I'm expecting them and "preparing" as best someone can, I hope. But those moments making the bed, or cooking something, or hearing a certain song, or..., will forever I think be the one that spark the most intense feelings. Partly because they're unexpected and partly because there is a rawness to what is evoked.

I'm running the NYC Marathon and need YOUR help!

Dear Friends:

Last year, with your help, I had the experience of a lifetime riding from Tel Aviv to Eilat. This year, after thinking about it countless times, I’ve decided to run the New York City Marathon and am once again asking for your support.

In addition to training and preparing for the challenge of running 26.2 miles, I have committed to raising $3000 for Hole in the Wall Camps, who’s team I will be running with in what has come to be known as the worlds longest block party.

Founded in 1988 by Paul Newman, every year Hole in the Wall Camps provide thousands of children with life-threatening illnesses a magical, life-changing experience. For one week, at no cost to their families, these kids are given the opportunity to live like kids and enjoy the simple pleasures of summertime. Hole in the Wall Camps also give these youngsters important tools – tools they can take into the world to help meet the challenge of serious illness long after their time at camp is over.

I attended three different sleep away camps and count my time at them as some of the happiest and meaningful of my childhood. The experiences and lessons learned in those summers helped me to become the adult I am today. Knowing the value of my time at camp, it was an easy decision for me to choose Team Hole in the Wall when I searched for a charity with which to run. I'm also sure Karen would have supported the organization's mission and my decision to join their team (even if she would think me crazy for wanting to run so far!)

But in order to run, I must first meet my goal and hope you will support me with a tax-deductible gift. I know these may be difficult financial times for some, but please consider giving even a modest amount as every bit puts me one step closer to getting me on the course. Click here to be directed to my fundraising page and then click “Support Andrew” on the upper right corner.

I also hope you will continue to support me, and all the runners, by coming out on November 7 to cheer us on along the route - if you've never seen the Marathon in person it really is something wonderful to be a part of.

My heartfelt thank you,

Andrew

Kyoto again

(This is a post I started some time ago while I was still traveling. Its taken me a while to finish it, mainly because I was too busy experiencing all the places on my itinerary, and rather than edit what I've already written I decided to just pick up where I left off....)


So I'm now three countries from my time in Kyoto - amazing to consider that its only been about three weeks that I've been traveling and I've already seen four countries - but there was more about my last days there to tell. Much more, but I'll just put some of my experiences, thoughts, and impressions down here.

Before I left the states I booked a night at a Yoshimizu ryokan, a traditional Japanese style inn, located just outside the Gion district in Maruyama park near the Yasaka Shrine. The directions from the confirmation email appeared to be a bit confusing, so the day before I was to check in I wandered to the park to find the inn. As it turned out it wasn't very complicated and, contrary to some of the comments on TripAdvisor.com, was not a difficult "climb" to the front door. (I only wish they had a little sign in English to let you know you've found the right place. But even that wasn't such a big deal.) The pleasures of the ryokan are in it's serenity, traditional Japanese soaking tubs, and sleeping on a tatami mat. Yoshimizu met all three perfectly. My room was sparsely decorated and looked out over the yard of the house next door. I felt a sense of calm come over me just by sliding back the paper door and stepping inside. It was as if the world of modern Kyoto could not penetrate the paper panels.

Before getting to the inn, I walked throughout the city during the day, logging some 9 miles according to my best estimate from the map. I visited the Nijō Castle and Kinkaku-ji, also known as the Golden Temple, both places worthy of entire posts themselves, as well as walked along countless sides streets to simply soak up the atmosphere of the city. Needless to say, I was tired and in need of a good washing when I checked-in. But first would need to be dinner. Naturally.

When I consulted my Old Kyoto Guide, which I highly recommend for anyone visiting the city, it mentioned that there was an imabo restaurant located a very short walk from the inn. When I read the description of imabo, and this restaurant in particular, I knew I had to try it. To borrow the author's description, imabo is "a dish that literally comes from the roots of Kyoto cuisine. A bowl of delicious ebi-imo (an unusual variety of shrimp-shaped potatoes imported originally by Buddhist priests from China) and bodara (a kind of preserved fish from the Japan Sea) are served with soup, rice, and the ever-present Kyoto pickles."

So that, and a bit more, was what I read and was ready to try. Off I went in search of the restaurant, which was made easy by the photo accompanying the description in the book. What I wasn't ready for was the way the hostess and three waitresses at the front tried to explain to me that this was an imabo restaurant. Obviously something that they tend not to see westerns trying - or at least not there. But I assured them with a big smile and nod that indeed I knew what was on the menu and that I was ready to get to the root of Kyoto cooking.

My kimono-clad waitress led me down the stone path with small, private dinning rooms on each side shielded from view by paper screens to mine. She pulled back the screen to my dining room, I slipped off my shoes, and hopped up and into the room. I looked at the menu and selected the third combination meal, a bottle of cold sake, and sat back to see what would come to the table. What arrived was a tray with several small dishes, which the waitress dutifully explained to me what each one was in perfect Japanese. It had to be perfect Japanese because I didn't understand a single thing and just meekly nodded each time she pointed to a dish. Even without knowing anything of what was said, I knew how perfect the tray and its dishes looked and was excited to try them all.

There was the potato and dried fish dish, a pot of Japanese rice (which I've come to realize I could make a meal out of and be happy), assorted Kyoto pickles, clear broth soup, and a dish that can be best described as seaweed wrapped around a sesame paste (I think) and marinated in a light rice wine vinegar brine. Each dish was prepared and presented with such precision that it was almost difficult to eat them, but I was certainly glad that I did. The flavors, especially the dried fish and potato, was unlike what I've previously thought of as Japanese food but exquisite. I'm not sure if imabo will ever win over mainstream western palates, but if you ever have the opportunity to visit Kyoto it is well worth the experience.

After dinner I wandered through Maruyama park taking in the changing scenery with the setting sun. The passage of each minute as the sun slipped below the horizon brought new colors and sights to the already beautiful scene. As dusk gave way to night, I headed back to the ryokan. Returning to its serenity, I changed into the kimono and went to bathe. Now bathing in Japan is not about cleaning oneself, that is done before you enter the tub. The reason it is important to clean yourself before getting in the bath is that it is a communal tub, used by many people in turn. Sitting on a low wooden stool next to the soaking tub you thoroughly scrub yourself from head to toe and rise off with a hand-held shower faucet. Because I had walked so much during the day, I actually repeated this step to be sure I was completely cleaned. Once that is done it is time to get in the tub and let the warm water soak away the tensions and pressures of the day. I remained in it for nearly half an hour and reemerged rested, relaxed, and ready for a well deserved long night's sleep.

My remaining time in Kyoto was equally as interesting and memorable. I toured the city more, seeing the Imperial Palace - where I discovered they do have an alarm system to prevent people from jumping across the small moat onto the ledge beside the wall. But the real highlight of my final day/night was dinner with new friends at a neighborhood restaurant owned and exceptionally run by Manzo-san and his son.

This was a multi-course meal but without the formality of the kaiseki meal. Instead, the meal was served and enjoyed with the semi-casual feel of a favored neighborhood restaurant. The dishes included braised short ribs, a sashimi platter, cold soba noodles, a fried custard, and more. Despite seemingly never leaving his position behind the counter, it was clear that each dish served was lovingly overseen by Manzo-san himself. He stood proudly monitoring every movement taking place in his small dinning room insuring every guest was absolutely satisfied with their experience. Even today, some two months since the meal, I am smiling and salivating at the memory of it.

We lingered over our meal and libations so long that when we were done there were no other customers left. Since they were closing up anyway, we convinced Manzo and his staff (which wasn't very difficult) to join us as we partook in that classic Japanese tradition: karaoke. Normally I am loathe to do karaoke since ever place I'd ever seen before was at bars where you basically embarrass yourself before a large crowd of strangers. In Japan - and all the other countries I traveled in - however, karaoke is done in private rooms where you're only embarrassing yourself in front of your friends...a much more appealing activity. Drinks were ordered, songs requested, and we all took turns with the microphone. I crooned to Billy Joel's New York State of Mind and a few other classic rock hits I thought I could muscle through. What I'd originally been reluctant to do, I enjoyed immensely. The night continued for some time with more drinks, songs, and friendly laughter. Considering the final karaoke encore of the night was well past 2 a.m., it was a remarkable feat of willpower to wake up at 8:30 a.m. for my train to Osaka International Airport and my flight, with a connection in Incheon, to Hanoi.

Its been about a month and a half since I left Kyoto but Kyoto hasn't, nor do think it will any time soon, left me. Why I chose only to visit Kyoto when I was making these plans I cannot say. There was something that drew me to the city, an intangible feeling of needing to visit even though I knew very little of it. After being there and speaking with others, I discovered that I am not alone in having this feeling. There truly is something special about Kyoto. Had I returned to American after my time there I think I would have been content, but it was just the beginning of a longer, deeper journey.

Update and new posts

My Asia trip came to an end about a month ago but I am still very much thinking about it and everything I experienced. I have a couple unfinished posts I am working on completing - as well as several un-started that I've been crafting in my mind - and will post them as soon as I'm happy with them. For now, however, I wanted to let you all know that the remainder of my journey was fantastic and I hope I'm able to convey some of the experiences through my words.

Please stay tuned for further updates.

Andrew

Impressions of Laos from a slow boat up the Mekong

We - my Intrepid Travel tour group, which consists of four other travelers and one trip leader - left Luang Prabang for the Thailand boarder. For the next two days we'll be traveling by long boat along the Mekong River, which sure beats another six hours in a minivan along the precarious, but magnificent, mountain roads of Laos. It also gives me plenty of time to catch up on where I've been and what I've eaten. There's much to tell so this is a bit of a long post (which I'll be putting online when I next have internet connection) so let me dive right in....

We left the harried and chaotic streets of Hanoi behind by minibus. Of course leaving Hanoi doesn't mean leaving the crazy driving entirely. Our trip down the main road to Vinh was something of an adventure in and of itself, as it would along along the roads to the Laos boarder. What classifies as a "highway" in Vietnam is simply a strip of asphalt, lined at some points but disregarded entirely whether there or not. Cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes, bicycles, pedestrians, and livestock are constantly jostling for position. Its an anarchical system (if that oxymoron can stand) that seems to work...for the most part. We did see one instance where, for whatever reason, a truck appeared to loose its battle for control of the road and toppled over into the adjacent rice paddy. To the best we could see there was no injuries, thank fully.

After Vinh our course turned westward and followed the Ho Chi Minh Trail up into the mountains. The road was windy and carved into the mountains. As our minibus struggled up the incline, which at times seemed to be over a 10% grade, I couldn't help but think about the thousands of North Vietnamese soldiers and civilians - men and women - who with bicycles loaded down with hundreds of pounds of supplies labored along this route at night, which was an unpaved path at the time, under the near constant bombing from US airplanes. How could such resolve, determination, and resolve have been expected to be broken by military means? (A lesson, it would seem, has been forgotten today.)

We reached the top of the mountains and the boarder crossing to Laos. It, like most things in Vietnam, bore the hallmarks of the heavily bureaucratic society that has embraced a state controlled economy. (The most egregious example of which has to be the toll plaza that have two booths per lane. The first of which is where you pay your money and receive a ticket, only to drive forward a few dozens yards and give the ticket to the next official who lets you pass.) While the rest of my group - two Aussies, a Kiwi, and a Canadian - all walked easily past the final Vietnamese checkpoint with the boarder guards giving what seemed only a cursory glance through their passports, I stood for what seemed like several minutes as the guard, festooned in full uniform with over sized epaulets, scrutinized each and every page of my passport, repeatedly. Not only did he seem to be reviewing all the entry and exit stamps, but kept turning to the front page to look at the picture and then back at me. Now I know the photo is almost ten years old, but it was a bit unnerving to still be on the Vietnam side of the board with this happening while the rest of my group was across and boarding our new minibus. Finally another guard, who appeared more senior, approached, gave my passport a once over glance, and waved me through. Our Lao guide later explained to me that the first guard was most likely a rookie and overzealous, which made sense but didn't help as I was standing there waiting to see what was wrong.

We were now in Laos. Laos, the mere mention of this country will forever evoke strong and powerful memories for me. I've of course heard of the country before, from studying the Vietnam War as well as just my natural curiosity of the world. After watching the episode of No Reservations when Anthony Bourdain traveled through here, however, I knew it was a place I had to see for myself. Especially now while it is still relatively untraveled and undeveloped.

There is an immediate and dramatic change as soon as we crossed the boarder. Whereas Vietnam felt like an over-active beehive with crowds of people in constant movement, Laos is markedly less populous and the people, while just as enterprising, move at a less frenetic pace. Traffic too was different; rules of the road are mostly adhered to and gone was the bravado and reckless of the Vietnamese drivers, who can be known to pass as passing vehicle while rounding a uphill blind curve. But most notable was the change in the villages we passed.

Granted that my experience in Vietnam consisted mostly of being in Hanoi and along the roads, but whereas the Vietnamese seem to be throwing up modern buildings as quickly as possible in all places at once, Lao architecture retains and continues to reflect the culture and heritage (with the exception of in the larger towns and cities.) All along the roads are the simple stilt houses in which the people have lived for generations. So while Vietnam seems hellbent on continuing its full tilt building boom, feed by a stripping of natural resources, particularly the excavating of whole mountains for the minerals, much of the Lao countryside looks as it must have - with the exception of power lines and the more than occasional satellite dish - for hundreds of years.

Our first stop in Laos was at the capital city Vientiane . It sits on a bend in the Mekong river across from Thailand. As you might expect, with a new country comes new food opportunities for me, which began with our first dinner. Even though the restaurant had more of a foreigner presence than others I've been to thus far, they had fried crickets with lemon grass and chillies as an appetizer. Of course I ordered them. They were crunchy and flavorful with just a hint of spice. To be honest, if you didn't look at them or feel them in your hand has you ate them, you'd never suspect what they were. I suppose it just reaffirms my suspicion that nearly anything fried properly is good to eat.

Our schedule called for two nights in Vientiane , which was plenty of time to tour the city and take in most of the sights. I of course made my usual journey to see the local market, which was full of everything from fresh meats and vegetables to clothing, hardware, electronics, and anything in between. We also saw several stupors and Buddhist temples, as well as climbed to the top of Victory Gate for a panoramic view of the entire city and surrounding countryside. As the capital city, we also saw the presidential residence, the new People's Assembly building, and all the modernity one would expect. By renting bicycles, we were able to cover most of the city quickly, including locating a small bar perched high on the bank of the Mekong with a fantastic view of the river and Thailand. The cold Beer Lao was particularly tasty there, perhaps because of the riding it took to reach the bar.

One of the most moving and thought provoking things I saw in Vientiane was our visit to C.O.P.E., which stands for Cooperative Orthotic and Prosthetic Enterprise, a non-profit organization devoted to providing free prosthetics and rehabilitation for people who have been injured by the millions of unexploded munitions that litter the jungles and fields of Laos. As I mentioned earlier, during the Vietnam War the North Vietnamese used the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which runs through Laos, as the primary route to move supplies from North Vietnam to South Vietnam and Cambodia. As a result, US bombers flew 580,994 sorties over Laos and dropped over 200 million tonnes of bombs on Laos, more than was dropped in all of World War Two, in an effort to stem the flow along it. It is estimated that for about a decade a planeload of bombs fell on Laos every 8 minutes. A portion of these bombs did not detonate on contact with the ground, the explosive components remaining dormant for years until disturbed, with deadly and devastating effect.

During its campaign in Southeast Asia and Laos, the US used a significant number cluster bombs. These bombs, once dropped from the aircraft, break apart and release multiple - as many as several dozen - smaller submunitions, or "bomblets," which either explode on contact with the ground or embed themselves to form anti-personnel or anti-tank mines. In tests conducted on these cluster bombs, as much as 30% of the bomblets did not detonate on contact. It is estimated that during the US bombing campaign as many as 260 million of these bomblets were dropped. Thus, based on the estimate of 30% unexploded, there may be as many as 78 million unexploded bomblets throughout Laos. These continue to kill today. Farmers plowing their fields or clearing new land have been known to accidentally detonate bomblets, but often times children, searching for valuable scrap metal in the jungle, mistakenly pick up these pieces of liver ordinance.

Once such story happened in a small village in 2008. Nine children, boys and girls aged 1 to about 12, were playing by the river when one found a small ball of metal. The others gathered around to look at it. When one of the older ones recognized what it was, the one holding the ball dropped it immediately. It detonated. Parents in the village heard the noise and rushed to the river to find five of the children dead and four others injured.

This was from one bomblet not much bigger than a baseball. Decades after the war has ended, there are potentially millions of these still out there waiting for an unsuspecting person to find. In addition to aiding those who have been injured, C.O.P.E. assists partners with a Swiss NGO working to build community awareness of the dangers as well as to clear areas of unexploded ordnance. As I read the material and looked at the various displays I couldn't help but feel guilt because it was my country that littered this country with these deadly devices. In a bit of morbid irony, there was a picture of a fisherman who lost both his legs and one arm to a bomblet - not to mention his family's livelihood - to a cluster bomb wearing an t-shirt with America written on it and emblazoned with a bald eagle. It was a difficult reality to face head on like that, but necessary for us to remember the long lasting consequences of whatever we do. (Again, a lesson I fear has been forgotten today.)

There was another interesting moment during our time in Vientiane that is worth mentioning. Our guide, who spent ten years as a Buddhist monk, was explaining to us that there is a Buddha for each day of the week and that the Buddha corresponding to the day of the week of one's birth has significance for personality traits, similar to signs of the Zodiac. As he explained this, he mentioned that his birthday is November 16. Now I realize that it is a 1 in 365 (or 366) chance of that and it isn't as if I need a sign put in front of me to remember Karen and what is underlying this trip, but there it was. (I should also point out that, while she wasn't Buddhist, Karen did put a Buddha over our bed when she moved into my apartment and it remains there.)

We boarded a public bus in Vientiane for the four hour trip to Vang Vieng. The description that I'd heard was that it is a small town on the Song river that is famous for its tubing and caves in the surrounding mountains. What I didn't realize is that by "tubing" they meant Spring Break-like drinking along the river to earsplitting techno music and that the town itself is a Mecca for backpacking twenty-somethings, mostly Brits, who perpetuate the worst stereotype of western travelers. In fact foreigners vastly outnumber locals in the town center and at nearly any time of the day or night, until midnight, you can find a restaurant showing Friends, or Family Guy, or the Simpsons, or any one of a number of old American sitcoms, at decibels that make one long to spend time on the LAX approach pattern.

In the midst of this post-adolescence alcohol induced free-for-all, a sort of Apocalypse Now meets Revenge of the Nerds meets the Hangover, there were things worthy of fond memories. One was the food, of course, because if one were to wade past the signs advertising pizza, burgers, English breakfasts, and other European/western cuisine classics, there was some good eating to be food. First was the beef laap, severed of course with the bamboo basket of sticky rice. Laap, which I learned to cook later at a cooking class in Luang Prabang, is a dish of minced meat or tofu mixed with finely chopped lemongrass, kafir lime leaf, banana flower, chillies, dried spices, and lime juice. It is usually served at room temperature and eaten by taking a small amount of sticky rice in your right - always the right - hand, compressing it into a ball, then flattening it slighting and using it and your fingers to scoop the meat spices into your mouth. As a first introduction to laap this one was great. Full of spices and just enough heat from the chillies to making it noticeable but not overpowering.

Another great meal was of grilled whole fish, again served with sticky rice. The fish - I'm not sure what it was but would like to think it came from the Song river but more likely was from the Mekong - was caked in salt and then grilled slowly over charcoal in a Bar-B-Que made from half of a fifty-five gallon drum and heavy gauge chicken wire, a ubiquitous technique to be sure. Gutted and scaled but still with the bones, the flesh of the fish was a perfect opaque, moist and very flavorful. The charcoal imparted a nice smokey flavor and there were just enough charred bits to really taste the Bar-B-Que.

The third memorable meal was part of a full day trek I did with one other person on the tour and a guide. After spending a day cycling around seeing several caves - one requiring us to squirm through passages no wider than our hips - and tubing down the river, sans the spring break-esque revelry, we decided to seek a more rustic setting. We booked a full day trekking to a site called Secret Eden. Our guide, Khum, was personable, very knowledgeable about the region, and taught himself English better than many people with formal schooling. After a twenty minute drive out of town and short stop to see Elephant Cave, so named for the stalactite at the entrance shaped like the pachyderm, we set off. Or should I say up because after a brief walk through a rice paddy, the trail climbed straight up the mountain. It had rained the night before so the trail was made even more difficult because of the mud. Kuhm, wearing flip-flops, blazed the trail for us and patiently waited periodically for us to catch up with him. In a matter of a few minutes, we were well above the valley floor and enjoying spectacular views.

The views got better and better as we climbed higher. And while it was somewhat cooler under the canopy, I sweated profusely. I also drank constantly, draining almost two liters in the one hour it took us to reach the top of the ridge. When we got there, Khum gave us each a bit of a branch and instructed us to add ours to the pile (a stupor of leaves and flowers) at the side of the trail. He explained that doing so was to insure our safety and well being as we continued our journey down the other side of the mountain. There was another stupor on the other side of the trail and few yards from the one to which we added that was for travelers coming in the other direction.

Blessing secured, we began our descent down into the valley. As difficult as the trek up was, down was just as tricky. But the views were more amazing since there is no habitation on this side of the mountain because no roads can access it. The only signs of life are the fields cleared by the Hmong people who use the area for farming and gathering, and the small shed-like shelter they build in which to rest during the heat of the day. Once we reached the valley floor the path continued until we reached the opening of a large cavern into which a river flowed. Khum explained that the river entered here and then continued through the mountain, emerging on the other side and feeding into the Song. It was majestic. Easily 80 feet high at the opening and twice than in width. The river cascaded down over the rocks and disappearing into the darkness. After consulting his watch Khum said we'd be eating here and invited us to relax as he prepared the meal. And prepare he did.

Out of his pack he produced a bundle of charcoal and several bags of ingredients. On a rock perched ten feet above the rushing water, he arranged smaller rocks into a circle and built a small fire. Once lit, Khum pulled his knife from its sheath and literally leaped between the rocks back into the jungle, emerging moments later with three enormous banana leaves and several sticks of bamboo. Using the banana leaves as his prep station, chef Khum deftly prepared kabobs of chicken, vegetables, and pineapple. With the coals hot, the bamboo sticks were laid parallel on the smaller rocks and the skewers suspended between them above the heat. It was camp cooking at its finest. When done, he produced cartons of fried rice and presented the kabobs, rice and baguette to each of us. Sitting on the rocks at the mouth of the cave, the rush of the water and chirping of the insects providing music, and the smell of the still smoldering fire, eating those kabobs with our hands will forever be ingrained in my memory.

Lunch completed we continued walking through the Secret Eden, encountering several Hmong villagers working in the area, as we were now walking on the main path. We crossed a wide open field and were soon climbing again. The path now drier and more well-worn but every bit as steep as the one before. After about of quarter hour of climbing the quiet, until then broken only by the sound the insects in the trees around us, our footfalls, and breathing, was shattered by the sound of a tree falling across the valley from us. It was a slow, loud crack at first, followed by the distinct sound of wood splintering and branches slicing through the air as the fall picked up speed. Out of the corner of my eye and through the trees in front of me I caught a glimpse of the huge tree falling. The boom of it hitting the ground rattled all around us and then it was silent once more. It was a remarkable moment.

We crested the mountain and began down the other side, stopping briefly in Cave Number Six, so named because it was the sixth cave used by the Lao to hide in during the war. The entrance was unassuming but the inside opened to a cathedral. So high was the ceiling that our lights could barely illuminate it. Khum led us through the cave, no crawling this time, explaining the hundreds of people lived in it during the war. The beds had been removed and most other evidence of its inhabitants, but the walls bore the soot of countless fires used to light the area.

From there it was a short, but steep, climb down to the bottom and a walk through the Hmong village to our waiting tuk-tuk back to Vang Vieng. It was a remarkable day marked by the solitude and raw beauty of the area we walked, which was why the return to a town overrun by backpackers was quite the culture shock. I began to wonder what it must be like to be out in the Secret Eden at night. The absolute darkness and silence. Perhaps another trip.

After three night I think we all saw and did what we wanted in Vang Vieng. I overheard a couple guys saying that they'd been there twelve days already and that this was the second trip in six months. I honestly can't imagine surviving as, let alone enjoying, that amount of time, especially since they were of the partying-on-the-river contingent. I suppose I'm showing my age with such thinking. Besides, I guess there are those people who prefer to be halfway around the world in the middle of the jungle to drink, party, and get laid. And judging by the looks of some in the town, Vang Vieng might be the only place for them to do that.

Our next stop was Luang Prabang. Only about 65 or 70 miles from Vang Vieng as the crow flies, but we'd be following the path of a snake up and over the mountains. Now I've been on some winding roads. And I've been on some roads that had steep drop-offs. And I've been on some roads that have had both. But I've never been on a road like the one between Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang.

It is just wide enough in many places for two vehicles to pass and with a drop off on the side, or at times both, of several hundred feet straight down. Guard rails are non-existent; the only "safety" features being signs redundantly identifying sharp curves and the occasional cement post standing about 3 feet high. I doubt highly that these would have any effect on a car, let alone our minivan, were it to collide into one. Perhaps these are only for marking the location where a vehicle has parted ways with the road so the occupants can be recovered -- note I didn't say rescued. The mountains all around were jagged limestone monoliths with lush greenery covering portions of each peak. In other places the rock face was either too steep or too recently bared to permit vegetation to grow.

What made this precarious road all the more remarkable was that all along it was dotted with villages. Little more than a line of houses set mere feet from the road edge - where there was one - and incredibly clinging to the cliff's edge. As our minibus drove through them, glimpses of rural life were made. A young girl finding endless amusement from the two sticks she played with, a group of boys bathing at the water cistern, and women and men engaged in all manner of chores for their family and village. I thought it would have been nice to have stopped and watched these activities more closely, but then it occurred to me that there would be something intrusive in doing so and that what I gained in the momentary glances was enough to create a lasting impact. Besides, we still had several hours on the road to go.

Luang Prabang. Until 1560 this was the capital of Laos before it was moved to the more centrally located city of Vientiane . It remains, however, a spiritual capital of the country with many wats (Buddhist temples) and shrines, including one housing the footprint of Buddha. The city sits on the intersection of two rivers, the Mekong and the Khan. Crossing the Khan is easily done by the several bridges - two permanent and others seasonal - whereas the vast Mekong is only traversed by ferry.

Walking the streets of the city, I felt the same sense of calm and spiritual energy that I noticed in Kyoto. The pace, at least in the old part of the city, was more relaxed than anywhere else in Laos. Sitting on the corner eating my bowl of kaopiak sen, Lao pork noodle soup, I was nearly alone with just my thoughts and slurping of the noodles.

For dinner one evening, we crossed the Khan river by one of the rickety seasonal bamboo bridges to a place called Dyen Sabat. Nestled among the tall bamboo shoots above the river, the restaurant is a patchwork of wood platforms protruding from the hillside creating an idyllic, almost movie set, environment. Removing our shoes, we reclined on the large cushions around our squat table at the far edge. Below us the ground dropped away, leaving us suspended in the air surrounded by the bamboo. The food was no less impressive.

I ordered platter number two, a set mixture of Lao dishes, most of which I hadn't tried before. Buffalo skin with Lao chili paste was the center piece. The magenta colored paste, which I later learned is relatively simple to make, was at once spicy, tart, and sweet. I was instructed that the best way to eat the mixture was to pick it up with the Mekong weed coated with sesame seeds. The combination of flavors was indeed quite tasty, although the pieces of buffalo skin provided more texture than flavor and were quite chewy. An eggplant dip flavored with kafir lime was tangy and a nice accompaniment to the chili. Rounding out the platter were Luang Prabang sausage, a spicy pork sausage, and dried pork strips with sesame. Both of which were fantastic in their own rights. After such a meal it was a nice thing to have the walk back down the hill, over the bridge, and through the night market.

The following day I took an all day cooking class where we learned to make several classic Lao retrospect it shouldn't have been) is the ease and simplicity of the dishes. The Lao are adept at coaxing layers of flavor from few ingredients. Principle among them are lemon grass, kafir lime leaves, ginger, galangal root, and the ever present chillies - in either powder or fresh form. From these basics we cooked chicken laap, fried rice noodles with chicken, pork with vermicelli noodles and choko, Luang Parang salad, and a coconut curry with chicken. The instructors also demonstrated how to prepare sticky rice and Lao chili paste. I have a feeling that a rice steamer and mortar and pestle may soon join my already overstocked kitchen supply cabinet.

I was very excited for my final day in Luang Prabang. One of the things I'd heard so much about before coming to Laos was the morning procession of the monks to receive alms. It takes place at some level throughout the country - since alms is the only way by which monks can eat - but in Luang Prabang there are so many temples and monks that I've heard the streets are a veritable sea of saffron and gold robes in the early hours of the day. Of course where there's a sight to be seen there are tourists to ruin it.

The faithful lined the street, facing toward the road. Respectfully sitting with their offerings awaiting the line of monks. Walking single file, I presume in order of seniority based on the oldest looking being in the lead with the youngest bringing up the rear, the slowed before each individual who raised their offering - sticky rice, banana, etc. - to their head, touching their forehead before placing it in the monk's waiting basket or bowl. This repeats itself over and over again as each new line of monks make their way along the route. It was quite a sight.

However, the solemnity of the moment was spoiled by the onlookers who, despite the signs throughout town and the comments in every guidebook about how properly to view the event in a manner not to spoil or interrupt the solemn occasion, seemed unable or unwilling to respect it. It was shocking and depressing to see the dozens of people intruding on the procession by getting in close to snap a picture and insuring they got the shot by using their flash. Two things they are explicitly request not to do. As I sat watching the spectacle of the tourists, I wondered if it occurs to them at all that they are, by their actions, disrespecting and interfering in someone religious observance. I wanted to ask how they would feel were flash-happy tourists to come into their church snapping pictures as they knelt to receive communion? Or had a stranger thrust a video camera into their view while they said their morning prayers? There is a way to observe the receiving of alms without disturbing it and it is sad to see so many people unable to understand the distinction.

We left Luang Prabang early in the morning to be sure we made it to Pakbeng in the daylight, which we managed to do by only a few minutes. Pakbeng is a small way station of a town roughly halfway to the Thailand boarder crossing. It seems to exist mainly as an overnight stop for boats traveling to and from Luang Prabang and the board, with several guest houses and cafes but not much else. It has a Frontier Town feeling to it and in fact has only been connected to the Laos electric grid for about three months.

For my last dinner in Laos I tried the (water) buffalo laap, which had a good flavor and wasn't at all chewy as the skin had been. After dinner I accompanied the tour leader and our Lao guide to another small cafe whose clientele was entirely Lao for grilled spicy goat and blood sausages. The goat was indeed spicy, dusted with black pepper and chillies, with a fantastic smoky flavor. I was nearly meated-out but managed to try a small bit of the blood sausage, which has never been my favorite of flavors and this one, while quite good, did not go far in altering my preexisting feeling.

Now, as our boat slowly approaches the end of its journey and we prepare to cross into Thailand, I can look back on my days in Laos and say without equivocation that this was a country worth coming to see. My only regret is that I didn't have more time to spend here and specifically that I wasn't able to see the Plain of Jars in the center of the country. But there's always the next trip......


Note: I've taken LOADS of pictures but the internet connection I'm getting on my travels has not been good enough for me to include them here. I will be uploading them when I can to Facebook and Picasa and will post a subsequent message with links when they're online.

Hanoi

While I still have much to tell about my last days in Kyoto - food, sights and karaoke - I wanted to put a few thoughts down about Hanoi, the city I arrived in late Friday evening.

In many ways, Kyoto was a city of marked with a sense of spirituality. Even in the midst of the clamor of the downtown and the noise of ubiquitous pachinko parlors, there a calmness and underlying sense of serenity. By contrast, Hanoi is a pulsating mass of humanity, operating in a sort of organized chaos of sight, sound, and smell.

The ride in from the airport was at night so I couldn't see anything of the surrounding area - sure I'll get that in the coming days. One thing I noted was the distinct lack of electricity, since with the exception of the street lights down the middle of the road, there was very little illumination on either side. Yesterday I met up with some people - a mix of other folks from CouchSurfing.org and people they'd met at their hostels. We set off to the see the city with no real agenda, just a sense of wanting to experience a bit of Hanoi.

First stop, it turned out, was to the food market just a few meters from my hotel. No surprise there, I know. Here, on the street between two buildings, all manner of produce was being sold, meat butchered in the open air, and seafood and fish kept live up until the time of purchase. There were also many vendors selling prepared foods and the mix of smells coming from their pots, combined with the raw ingredients around, was indescribable. Another unique thing about the market was the number of people riding their motorbikes right through between the stalls, stopping to by this and that, and then continuing on (or, more precisely , weaving through) the flow of pedestrian shoppers.

Motorbikes are in fact the most common sight in Hanoi. They form a kind of river through the city streets, ebbing ever so slightly to enable pedestrians to cross the streets, which is something of an art form in and of itself. Traffic laws are virtually nonexistent, or at least go totally unenforced, leaving the streets a sort of Darwinian free for all. As best as I can gather, there are four tools for operating motorbikes and cars here. In order of importance they are: the horn, the gas peddle, the flashing headlights, and the break.

The horn is clearly the most critical of the four and is used by drivers nearly constantly. At first the continual honking is noticeable but it soon recedes into a kind of background white noise - that is until the horn comes from behind to alert you individually. The gas peddle is pretty self evident, although given the massive amount of other vehicles on the road, it can only be effectively used in the evenings. The flashing of high beams on the headlights is still a bit of an enigma. It isn't clear if the action informs the other drive not to cross in front of the approaching traffic or that it is okay. Put another way, I'm not sure if it says "please go first" or "don't get in my way." Somehow it seems to work out though. Lastly the break, which I imagine is used as little as possible to reduce wear on parts difficult to acquire in Vietnam.

From the market we headed through the Old Quarter, around Hoan Kiem Lake, and to the Hoa Lo Prison (the "Hanoi Hilton"). I'm still processing that visit and will write something more about it later.

After a visit to the temple of literature, we stopped for lunch at a small pho stand for bowls of the hearty dish. These common restaurants are usually owned and run by a whole family, with the dishes prepared and served right on the street or just off on low tables. The noodles were tender, the goose (at least that is what the proprietor said it was but I think it might have been duck) was well cooked and fresh. Accompanying the dish was sliced bamboo shoots, sprouts, and green onions. There were also the usually sauces and accompaniments - mint leaves, spicy red chillies, garlic in vinegar, fish sauce, etc. - but also a sort of hard bread that could be broken up and put in the bowl to absorb the broth. Over all it was a great bowl of pho.

Our final stop was at Ho Chi Min's mausoleum. We couldn't visit the inside because the last tour runs at 11 a.m., but just walking around the enormous plaza in which the building sits was impressive.

I ended my evening by meeting back up with some of the people from the day's tour - as well as two other new people - for dinner in the Old Quarter (to be described later) and drinks in a street cafe at boi hoi corner, named for the several establishments offering the style of Vietnamese beer.

Today I meet up with the tour group with whom I'll be traveling to Laos and Thailand. I've been seeing and experiencing so much and can't wait for what is coming up next -- which this morning starts with a pho breakfast.....

Womb of the Buddha, and baby octopus, and vending machine sake...oh my!

Yesterday was quite a day. No way to begin other than with at the beginning....firstly, the rain stopped and the mountains past the river exposed themselves ever so slightly, but with picturesque fog still shrouding them.



I began the day by meeting up with someone with whom I connected via Couch Surfing, a really great site for people traveling to meet others and even find inexpensive/free places to stay, at the Kyoto rail station. After an initial navigation problem on my part - there are at least three different "information" centers within the station for the railroad, the building, and for Kyoto - we set off for Kiyomizu Temple in eastern Kyoto.

"Temple" doesn't really accurately describe it since typically I think of a temple being a single (or in Beth Elohim's case, two) buildings. Kiyomizu is better described as a temple complex, spread over many acres and consisting of dozens of buildings, shrines, and other structures. And even though the weather was overcast it was still a beautiful sight to take in, with lush green vegetation punctuated by the almost ubiquitous pink cherry blossoms. We spent quite some time wandering throughout the site with the thousands of other tourists - both foreigner and Japanese, some of who were traditionally dressed for the occasion.

But the highlight of the visit has to have been the journey into the womb of the Buddha. It was toward the entrance of the temple - in fact before you actually paid the admission fee to enter the temple grounds - and was little more than a set of steps leading down into darkness overseen by a pair of elderly Japanese women who handed over a bag to carry our shoes, took our ¥100 donation, and instructed us to walk slowly with our left hand on the handrail. We descended into absolute darkness, the likes of which I've never before experienced. Completely enveloping; as if light never existed in this place. The stairs ended and the banister became a rope with over-sized Buddha beads that guided our way. Eyes opened or close it was indistinguishable, there was nothing but black all around and nothing but the rustling sounds of our footsteps. It is the thing that at first can be a but scary, but as I gave myself over to the experience, I found my mind clearing and focusing only on my breath. Turning a corner suddenly there was the womb glowing in the darkness. A round, marble-looking stone engraved with a Buddhist (I presume) symbol, the belief is that if you make a wish and touch it at the same time your wish will be granted. There was a light shining down on it from above, but what was remarkable about it was that not a single bit of light illuminated anything around it. Even standing right in front of the shaft of light my hands only revealed themselves from the darkness as I placed them upon the stone and disappearing just as completely when removed. It was as if the womb kept even a single bit of light energy from escaping; there was no ambient light surrounding it at all. Continuing on the path ascended back to the surface, returning us to the same elderly women. I've no idea how long the actual path was or the time it took us to walk it, but it was an experience that transcended space and time. I've only scratched the surface about what it is like and encourage anyone who might come to Kyoto to be sure to seek it out.

We continued to wander the path through Kiyomizu, visiting the dozens of individual shrines. From there we ambled along the twisting streets of the Gion district, eventually finding our way to the Yasaka Shrine, which sits in the Gion district just at the beginning of Maruyama Park. Much smaller and with fewer buildings than Kiyomizu, Yasaka Shrine was notable for it brilliant orange arches and buildings (again, I think Christo and Jeanne-Claude almost certainly visited Kyoto before conceiving The Gates).

But enough about the temples....bring on the food reports. We tried a whole bunch of things, all more tasty than the one before. First were small, pearl shaped rice balls skewered and grilled over a hibachi then coated with a sweet, soy-based sauce. For a starter or small bite to tide one over while walking around a multi-acre Buddhist temple nothing could be beat. Next we found ourselves in what could best be described at the front room of a family's house at the top of Maruyama Park - yes, they had a menu out front so it wasn't like we just barged into thee lives unwelcome. With only pictures of odd-looking foods, we ordered two items. One we were able to discern from our hostess was going to be sweet, the other was a mystery but involved rice. First, however, we sipped a black tea that had a distinctive and appealing cigar aroma, almost as if it had been steeped with tobacco leaves. The dishes, when they arrived, did not disappoint. The one on the right was a type of gelatin rice (think Jello in consistency), covering red beans and topped with a sweetened seaweed puree. It might sound unappetizing, but I assure it was quite pleasant and refreshing. The other was a pair of rice cakes wrapped with nori. One turned out to have a sort of sweet jelly-like fruit filling whereas the other had small cooked shrimp like fish that I'd seen throughout the Nishiki market. Sitting in the small, open air balcony overlooking this family's manicured garden it felt like we were living a hundred years ago.

More walking led us back to the Nishiki market and a fest of octopus. First was the baby octopus stuffed with a quail egg and served lollipop-style. Really, I couldn't make this sort of thing up. I mean, honestly, how cool do they look? And the taste? Amazing.
While octopus can sometimes be chewy and difficult to eat, this was succulent and tender with a hint of sweetness (again from a soy-based sauce I think it was cooked in.) The quail egg, which was stuffed in the head of the octopus, added a richness that made the experience that much more tasty. It might have seemed a bit like an Andrew Zimmerman moment, I can assure you the taste was WELL worth taking the plunge and ordering them. I can see baby-octopus pop shops opening up throughout America....okay, maybe not. We completed out Octopus eating with an order of takoyaki, a kind of fried octopus fritter served with sliced green onions and the syrupy soy sauce I've been seeing used over and over again, to delicious affect! As with anything fried, I envisioned hordes of post-bar hopping Japanese flocking to this little stand to indulge on plates upon plates of these in the light-night/early-morning hours. And I can assure you that if they were given a name without reference to octopus, the stands would be just as popular in college towns across the States.

Finally it was time for a drink and what better than a nice, cold glass of sake dispensed from a vending machine?


It should be noted that we broke one, unwritten rule about Japanese culture with the sake: we walked and drank at the same time. We later heard from a Swiss guy with whom we had sushi later in the evening, that it is considered impolite to walk and eat or drink. Indeed, as I thought back on the day and my time here so far I can recall seeing not a single Japanese person doing this. So live and learn for the next time, but the sake was very tasty and a great way to end a great tour.