The New Phone

A week ago David and I bought a cell phone. We bought the cheapest possible cell phone plan, since you all know how much David and I both love to talk on the phone. We also bought the cheapest possible phone. It’s one of those so-called smart-alek phones, and didn’t come with an instruction manual. Then again, the manual would have been in Japanese and less than helpful. I need all the help I can get trying to use the thing.

The other day my boss called and I couldn’t figure out how to answer the phone. Every now and then a light will blink in the corner; sometimes it’s red, sometimes green. I have no idea what it means. When I am trying to explore the various icons and what they do, I’ll change the look of my phone and be unable to put it back. The good news is we have no data plan, so I can’t run up any charges from accidentally hitting the wrong button. Argh! I’m not a fan of this phone.

This so-called smart-alec phone will be useful, though when we get internet. When that happens, David will do some magic and I’ll be able to call the United States. And you’ll be able to call us. And get this - it’ll be just like calling us in Montana. Won’t that be great?

But the best part of our new phone? Yesterday David discovered how to watch television on the phone. Television! On our phone! And it even records programs for later viewing, which will come in very handy today when, say, I’m at work during the sumo tournament.

Maybe I’m starting to like this smart-alek phone idea.

How do you know you're in a foreign country?

I was thinking yesterday about living in a foreign country. When I go to the grocery store, I don’t know what most of the things on the shelf are. Or if I have a general guess, such as, “That’s a sauce,” I still do not always know exactly what kind of sauce. Yet, whenever I go, I’m just grocery shopping. It doesn’t feel strange. There may be crates of fresh squid and other such sea creatures in the meat department, but it’s still just a grocery store.

Also, last week David and I opened a bank account. It was a very long process, and my little bit of Japanese was not good enough to make things progress smoothly. We had to struggle between Japanese and English and I quickly learned how to write my address in Japanese, which I hadn’t done yet. But, all in all, it was just like any other trip to the bank: sitting at a desk, filling out form after form, dealing with the tedium, and having someone try to sell us the bank’s credit card.

Then yesterday, on the way to work, I looked out over the fields that had been empty the week before. During the Golden Week holidays when I didn’t go to work, the farmers were busy. The whole walk to work is now lined with freshly planted rice fields. Suddenly I felt the exoticness of Japan rushing up into me.

It isn’t the language or the billboards I can’t read. It isn’t the unidentifiable food in the stores. It isn’t the multitudinous garbage and recycling schedule. It isn’t the children in their school uniforms including matching hats and high-viz yellow backpacks glowing behind them. But when I look at the rice fields with their dainty green stalks rising up out of the water, I immediately feel as if the earth has shifted under my feet. Wait, where am I? Oh, right - I am far away from home in a foreign country.

You're not in Iowa anymore!

My walk to work.

It’s the rice fields.  Stretching from the road to the foot of the mountains, pools of the unknown, reflecting the clouds, the sky, and my dreams, it reminds me just how far from home I am.

Golden Week 2012

During Golden Week, Japanese students (and many non-students) enjoy a week-long vacation. A collection of four holidays happen in a span of seven days, giving people a nice break to get spring cleaning done before summer sets in, hot and humid. Well, David and I cleaned the apartment; my students took trips to Osaka or somewhere else nearby.

One day, though, we did get out and have a fun afternoon. The school I work for is planning an excursion to the zoo next month. To help plan a scavenger hunt, David and I accompanied my boss and another teacher to the zoo yesterday on a fact-gathering mission.

Tanuki.
I might have a new favourite animal!

Fact: The Tokushima zoo has many more different kinds of animals than I expected.


Fact: A native Japanese forest dweller, a tanuki, which is usually translated into English as “raccoon dog”, truthfully looks like a cross between a raccoon and a dog.


Fact: One black bird with white polka dots reminded me of a dress Lucy Ricardo wore.

What's the real name of what I call the "I Love Lucy Bird"?

Fact: The four of us had as much fun at the zoo as we hope the children will have.


On the way back from the zoo, we stopped at Japan’s smallest mountain, called Bentan San. A shrine at the top of the mountain is dedicated to the goddess who created Japan. Her name slips my mind, but I’ll let you know when it comes back to me. It is a mound of trees sitting in the middle of vast fields, so it certainly doesn’t fit the terrain.

Bentan San

Cherry Blossom Viewing

It’s one of those things that just doesn’t translate well: Hanami. Literally meaning, “Look at flowers,” the concept of Hanami embodies much more than a stroll through a garden. Last Sunday David and I went with Kazuyo, my boss, to a park called Kamiyama. There we joined dozens of families having picnics, playing games, and enjoying a day out in the beautiful sunshine.

 It looked like any Sunday outing, with one major difference: the sheet of pink above our heads. Japanese cherry blossom trees in bloom are like no other colour. They aren’t the dark pink of tulips. They aren’t the garish hot pink of a nine-year-old girl’s bedroom. For one very brief moment in spring the whole country of Japan is the soft shade of a baby’s blanket. But babies are small; hence their blankets are small. Early April in Japan is the only time I’ve ever seen such an unbroken line of baby pink.

The school year in Japan begins during cherry blossom season. The promise of new life and fresh flowers carry over into the promise of a new school year with fresh opportunities to learn and grow.

Cherry blossoms represent the life cycle in miniature. They bud, flower, and whither very quickly in early spring. Since their peak time for viewing is very, short cherry blossoms also represent a fleetingness in life. So, for one day, people take time out of their busy schedules. At the height of the blooming, families and friends pack up picnic lunches and have a party under the trees.

 Hanami doesn’t translate well into English. Yet the concepts of taking a break from overly busy schedules, enjoying beauty in nature, and celebrating life cross national boundaries. Maybe we should find a word for Hanami in English. Along sakura (cherry blossom) road.

David's picture of sakura.

David and I with Momo, my boss' dog.

The First Week

This is from March 28th. I'll post it today, even though it's not current. I don't have anything current, but soon.

We arrived one week ago today. I think we’re mostly getting switched over to a 16-hour time difference. I’m sleeping through the night now, although come around the middle of the afternoon, I’m ready for bed again.

Tokushima is Japan. Everything I remember about Tokyo, with fewer people. The same type of buildings, the same restaurants, the same advertisements I can’t read. The difference comes in its surroundings. Where as I lived in the heart of Tokyo, and rarely saw greenery, Tokushima is at the base of Mount Bizan, and is surrounded by fields of vegetables. Most of the students’ families have either large gardens or farms. In the few days I’ve been at the school, I’ve received spinach, carrots, cabbage, and broccoli more than David and I could ever eat.

And then there’s the bicycle. I don’t cycle. Everyone who knows me knows I will walk for an hour to avoid cycling for 15 minutes. When that hour long walk is at night, even in a safe country, I am a little hesitant. Mainly because at 9:00 at night, I just want to be home in bed! So, I’ve been biking to work. And I’ve only fallen into one field (don’t worry, the field hadn’t been planted yet), and been the bane of only a dozen or so cars.

But, then, I’ve only biked to school twice. I am sure I’ll find many more people to run over as they days progress.

March 19, or is 20?

All in all, I must admit there are worse places to spend the night. The International Terminal at the San Francisco airport is quiet, practically empty. The night cleaning crew is here, making the rounds, and a flight to Singapore left around 1:00 am. Since then at least I have managed a couple hours of sleep.

We are camped at an unused gate, sprawled on the floor. Then again, all the gates feel unused right about now - we had our pick of floor to sleep on. I’ve never been in an airport so quiet, so deserted. If it weren’t for the fact that no one has tried to kick us out, I’d think the place was closed for the night!

And then a luggage cart will slink past out the window.

Someone is going somewhere.

Wherever they’re going, it is not Japan. The next flight to Japan is the one we will be on to Osaka at 11:30 tomorrow morning. Or is that today already? The next two flights to Tokyo leave shortly thereafter.

So much for trying to hop an earlier flight. We’re on the earlier flight!

Great Expectations

Looking forward to leaving tomorrow, I wonder what to expect in Japan. Having lived in Tokyo, I suppose this post seems like cheating. However, even though I will be in the same country, this time is a whole different situation. A new city. A new island. A new husband. A new type of school. Whether or not I expect things to be the same as they were in Tokyo, I know life will be different.

I hope for a one-bedroom apartment with a decent kitchen. I expect a studio with one burner in the corner.

I hope for a perfect job. I expect to be daily challenged and sometimes have bad days.

I hope the grocery store is near the apartment. I expect to trudge there on my bike and ride back with a backpack full of cans and jars.

I hope to travel all over the country, seeing Kobe, Hiroshima, Himeji, Fukuoka. I expect I will be too busy with work, too tired to travel, and too broke to afford many trips.

I used to hope we would live close enough to work that I would be able to walk. Then I spoke with my boss and learned a bike comes with the job. For good reason. Now I just hope the roads between the two places are flat!

I expect to be overwhelmed by the Japanese and the unfamiliarity of the television once again. I expect to stumble over my words, desperately trying to remember the language I have forgotten. I expect to find stress living somewhere slightly familiar to me, but not to David. I expect to be thrown off balance by the differences between Tokyo (pop. 8 million) and Tokushima (pop. 200,000).

What to expect? Usually, I try not to expect anything, so as not to be disappointed. Realistically, of course, I always expect to be happy and for everything to go my way. Or unrealistically. Either way, life goes on, and I enjoy the adventure.

I will not be in expectation much longer.

The adventure begins.

Photos from packing

What we're taking -- our chopsticks, of course!


The mess in the attic I have to clean up. Or take with me to Japan...with that bigger suitcase ; )


Books! All going to the library book sale or to friends.

Throwing Away Memories

It is a relief to discover today is only Tuesday. I was afraid that yesterday was Tuesday, or perhaps Thursday. I guess if I were in an office staring at a computer all day praying for Friday, my attitude would be a little different. However, yesterday I stood, sat, knelt in a pile of my memories. My favorite books, my birthday cards, every letter sent to me by our German foreign exchange student in high school, several books of MadLibs, a present from my best friend, the program I bought when I saw Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, my elephant collection, my sumo newspaper clippings and books.

I sat in the middle of this timeline explosion, and nearly cried. My grandma’s nativity set. Too big to take to Japan, too old and broken to give to the thrift store. No one’s going to buy a nativity set where the wise men are missing hands, and the heads have been glued back on three times. Joseph is missing his staff. Or, is it a shepherd? Or, more likely, both of them. The angel sits skewed on her nail, and a two dimensional Jesus is the only one who hasn’t been chipped, safely painted into his manger. Into the garbage it goes, then.

All of my books. All except the Japanese language books I’ll need and two novels for the plane ride. I expect to obtain an e-reader in the near future, so I am not concerned with letting go of my H.G. Wells and Ursula LeGuin collections. They’re my favorite authors, but the books themselves mean little to me. However, the book Leanna gave me in high school I still have, complete with illustration she drew and has hung on my wall everywhere I have ever lived. The drawing can stay with me. The book is currently hidden under others going to the library in an attempt to make me forget it’s there.

Once I dreamed of having a home from which I travelled the world. I would go all over, see many things, and return to my bed and my pillows. My house would have photos on the walls and souvenirs of the places I visited. My dream home has morphed over the years, sometimes imagined as a large two story Victorian, sometimes a small apartment. Sometimes brick or stone, sometimes stucco or painted a pale yellow. But I had always figured I’d find a home base. It has finally occurred to me, after starting over three times in the U.S., that I don’t operate that way. I don’t go overseas to visit. I go overseas for a year. Or two. And this time, maybe for much longer.

I’m a nomadic, nostalgic packrat. I don’t keep things just to keep them. Each one has a story behind it. The Isabel Bloom statues given to me as a high school graduation present from my history teachers (yes, both of them each gave me one). The “warm fuzzy” given to me by a girl named Jodi when I learned that I would be leaving summer camp early because my grandma died. My college yearbooks; I helped make those. The walking stick with a bell on it, the one I bought on the road trip Kimberly and I made to Glacier National Park, the one which is supposed to keep away the bears. It must have worked, because we never saw a single bear the whole trip, and had to go to an animal sanctuary to find them! And all the rest of those souvenirs I brought back from my travels which would someday adorn my dream house. I can tell you a story about each piece of paper and each photo and each trinket.

Now, though, I have to condense my physical memories into two suitcases, a carry-on, and one green plastic tub of scrapbooks and travel journals, which I will be able to leave in the U.S. for now. It’s time to realize I cannot keep everything. Okay, it’s time to realize I cannot keep most things.

It was a relief to discover today is only Tuesday. I still have most of a week to transfer my physical memories into virtual memories in my head. I still have time to say good-bye. I still have time to buy a bigger suitcase.

Long Awaited Light Show

I woke from a doze in the middle of North Dakota. The sky was overcast, to the point of being unable to see any stars. I was bummed. All across Minnesota and North Dakota, I’d been watching through the train’s giant windows for a sight of the Aurora Borealis, desperate for a glimpse of the eerie, floating colours I’ve never seen.

Two days earlier, huge sunstorms erupted with the promise of a major light show further south than the beautiful apparition normally appears. Knowing we’d be in North Dakota at the ETA of the sun’s effects, I became tremendously excited. Seeing the northern lights ranks high on my “I hope to see before I die” list.

Yet nothing happened. I kept myself awake on the train, through the city lights in Minnesota and Fargo, trying to keep my eyes open long enough to get out into the countryside where I’d have a shot to see something. I dozed on and off, I looked out the window at cloudy skies, and I despaired.

The train must have jolted, causing me to wake up. Looking out the window, I could see a couple stars. But then a crack appeared in the sky, as if someone took a knife and made a slice in the heavens. Light seeped out of the crack, spreading up in streaks, then flowing a little over the crack toward the ground. The smear of bright cloud in the sky didn’t blow away like a cloud would. It danced: growing, shrinking, jagged, smooth.

I held my breath, waiting for it to act like a normal cloud. It wasn’t green or blue or purple. The grey-white, maybe-if-I-squint-I-can-pretend-it’s-green lightness was not what I was expecting, either from clouds or from the Aurora Borealis. When the streak of light in the sky didn’t blow away, I let myself believe I was in the middle of a dream being fulfilled. The cloud-light danced for another minute, then faded back into the black sky.

I watched a spell longer, still unable to believe it was what I waited for so long; hardly able to grasp my good fortune, waking up at just the right moment, I paused to take a breath. Happy, content, enjoying a nudge from the divine.

Then I sat back in my train seat and fell asleep until the sun rose over the prairie.

Where in the World?

Where in the world is Tokushima, Japan?

From the top of the map, the four main Japanese islands are:
Hokkiado (pink)
Honshu (multi-coloured)
Shikoku (violet)
Kyushu (grey)

On the eastern coast of the violet-coloured Shikoku is the prefecture of Tokushima. A prefecture is similar to a state in the U.S. We'll be living in the city of Tokushima which is the capital of the prefecture of Tokushima.




From Wikipedia.

What Getting Married Means to Me, Part 2

Getting married means ... standing in line.

First at the Iowa DOT for a new license, then the passport agency, then for a new social security card.

Tuesday March 6: We arrived at the Federal Building at 12:40 for a 1:00 appointment to order a new passport for me to be able to travel with my new name. If being on time mattered, we would have been in trouble. We stood in the security metal detector line for 30 minutes before finally heading upstairs to face another line in the office. And a security guard who told David he wouldn’t be allowed in, since there was no room in the inn, so to speak. The place was, indeed, packed, but it meant David went downstairs to spend the bulk of his birthday waiting in the tiny canteen area.

I stood in line.

The line was fairly short, so I made it to the window in a short time, whereupon the clerk handed me a form to fill out and then bring back to her. Form duly filled out, I turned around and the line had grown by a factor of six. Other people at my stage of the game had jumped the queue and gone straight to the window. However there were now people in front of the passageway to the window - people waiting for others, and children and family members of people in line. The easiest way to the window was back in line.

Eighteen people later, I stood in front of the window again.

“Here’s your number. Have a seat and wait until it’s called.”

I sat. I waited.

The people ahead of me were being told to come back after 3:30 and pick up their passports. I listened to all kinds of wonderful travel stories, and about mission trips and a high school exchange student and many people who just received citizenship signing up for their U.S. passport for the first time.

Finally, though, it was my turn. I handed the clerk at Window 4 all of my documents and waited while she looked them over. “Did you come here from Iowa? Are you going back? When are you leaving Chicago?”

Those were a little funny, as they had nothing to do with my passport. I explained I was in Chicago just a couple days in order to get a new passport, then I would be on my way to Montana, flying to Japan from there.

She looked at the clock again. “The cutoff for today has passed. The earliest you could pick up your passport is tomorrow at 10:00.”

Not three people ahead of me had been able to pick up their new passports that day; I had just barely missed the deadline.

We were both exhausted by the time we got back to Vivian’s house. At least I remembered to buy an angel food cake, and we managed to sing Happy Birthday to David before he fell asleep.

The Work of Being Married

Getting married is more than getting a cool new last name. Now I have to remember all the places I have my name written down and change it in all those places. Not least of all, I have to remember to change it in my own head. It is a bit overwhelming, and I don’t even know where to begin.

No, that’s a lie. I guess I have an idea, because I went to the DMV in order to change the name on my drivers license today. I handed the clerk the requisite marriage certificate and old driver’s license.

Clerk: Have a seat and wait for your name to be called.
Me: Okay.
Clerk: Heather Green.

(Pause)

Me: Oh! Right!

Oops.

And that’s why we walked into the building in the first place. I can’t wait until we’re out and about and I begin ignoring people simply because I forget my own name.

Moving Again!

I never thought I’d be moving back to Japan. I remember saying, “I’m glad I went, but I don’t plan to live there forever.” Yet, David and I just bought one-way tickets to the Kansai International Airport (Hmmm, I hope I still have my Japanese-English dictionary!).

It’s been a long struggle to figure out where my future path lies. After a couple false starts, though, I’ve returned to EFL teaching, with a plan to continue and advance in this field. With this decision made, we leave for Japan on March 19.

I’ll be teaching English at an “English conversation school,” known as an Eikaiwa in Japanese, UI School of English. It is a small school run by a Japanese woman. We’ll be living on the island of Shikoku in the city of Tokushima.

The current plan is to stay at least a year (one-year contract, but possibility of renewal), and get a certification in EFL teaching, either concurrently or as a full-time course in a couple years.

Just like before, this blog is where I’ll post updates and links to Flickr where the photos are. Look for updates twice a month. Just because we’ll be in Japan doesn’t mean we’ll be far away. With Skype, email, and blogging, we’ll be as close as ever!

As we get closer to moving day, and as we settle in to our apartment in Tokushima, I’ll keep you all posted.

December 17, 2011: Fantasy Wish List:

A random assortment of the many things I want to do before I die.


Things I would like to learn how to make:
soap
candles
whisky


Foods I would like to eat:
Baked Alaska
Fugu


Travel related goals:
Make a Trans-Atlantic crossing by boat
Stay one night in a luxury hotel
Take a road trip along Route 66
Visit each of the seven continents (four down, three to go)
Ride in a helicopter


Other things I would like to do:
Get a Ph.D.
Write a travel memoir
Finish my novel
Name aforementioned novel --unfortunately Stranger in a Strange Land
is already the name of a sci-fi classic. I didn’t know that when I chose the name of my
(sci-fi) novel in progress.

December 15: Dinner Help

Chicken teriyaki fried rice is an easy, easy dish to make. Put rice, frozen veggies, and chicken into a pot. Season with teriyaki sauce. Stir. Heat until hot. Eat. Easy Peasy. So, when Hannah asked to help, I was at a loss. “Um, sure -- I’ll go sit down. You can make dinner.” What on earth could I have her do?

Let me sum up: Hannah. Kindergarten. Picture a pin-ball machine played by someone who really knows how to keep that ball moving. Now imaging that person playing with ten balls. Now put all those balls inside Hannah and watch her bounce.

Ah-ha! Pinball! Hannah, please bring me some frozen vegetables. Find a large spoon. Find a small spoon. Find a utensil that is not a spoon. Get a bowl and two eggs. It worked perfectly. Around the room. Back and forth. Up and down.

Then I ran out of things I needed her to bring to me.

But, pouring vegetables into a bowl is not so messy. Oh, no there goes the corn! (Just kidding. She did very well). “I like cracking eggs!” With much trepidation and a great deal of looking the other way, I let her crack eggs into a bowl. Whew. That went much better than I imagined.

“Please throw away the eggshells.”

“Okay.” But not before crumbing them into little pieces into the trash can.

I wanted to get after her, but she did so well up until now not messing around. We did, however, have a discussion on the importance of washing her hands after handling raw eggs. Or rubbing raw egg all over her hands like lotion. Or whatever.

She helped pour and scrape and stir. She only once fell off the step ladder with a heart-stopping crash. She was fine. I, on the other hand, had to be brought back with electric shock.

Then it was time to add the rice. I had cooked the rice earlier in a crock pot, as my rice cooker is in storage at the moment. When it was time to transfer the rice into the pot of chicken and veggies, I asked Hannah to go find a spoon. “The biggest one you can find.”

She looked in the drawer and picked up the small wooden spoon laying next to the gigantic ladle. “How about this?”

“How about something bigger?”

“Is this a spoon?”

“It’s a melon baller.”

“Oh.” Then she looked at the ladle, which I had thought looks like a big spoon, and discarded it for a different wooden spoon. A different wooden spoon which happened to be resting on top of a giant black plastic serving spoon. “This one? I want to use a wood spoon.”

I happen to love wooden spoons, and had I a bamboo rice scoop, it would have been what I sent her after. As it is, we were short a rice scoop of any material, let alone wood.

It took several tries, but we finally agreed on the ladle. And then the fun began. I had her grab the bigger utensil because I knew anything smaller would result in massive amounts of sticky rice falling all over the floor. With the ladle, we had small amounts of sticky rice falling all over the floor. My rules for myself were such that I promised myself I would not help her unless she was in danger, the dinner was in danger, or she asked for help. A little rice on the floor did not fall into these categories.

It did, though, fall into the category of “Ewww, I just stepped in something cold, squishy, and sticky. I guess it’s a good thing I am wearing socks.”

And sticky it was. Hannah frequently had rice stuck to her fingers as she worked. “I got rice on my finger. Can I eat it?”

“Oh, no. I have rice on my fingers again. Can I eat it?”

“Six cups of rice seem to have fallen into my hand, can I eat it?”

We finally got it all together, and stirred. Five year old energy was successfully harnessed into a rice and vegetables. She was so proud. It was a fun night, really. The other kids all ate seconds, and but for the rice, nothing major was spilled.

Now, though, if you will excuse me, I have to change my socks.

A New Mission

Yesterday marked three weeks since we arrived back in the midwest. Until we know what is next, our base is our friends’ basement in small town Illinois. It’s a great arrangement: they let us stay and eat, while we watch their kids and cook. This is not a new arrangement for me; I have done this in Waverly, Lake Mills, and ... well, maybe that’s it. But the arrangement is temporary, so I am job hunting.

I have applied for every job for which I might possibly qualify, although that does not yet include fast food and telemarketing because I don’t know if I’m even qualified for those. However, I landed a summer job teaching Intro to World Religions at a local community college. Of course, I am still looking for something to fill the void before - and after - that interlude in my unemployment.

I thought I would be finished writing my blog when we got back home from Scotland, but then I decided to keep it up. This is going to be a new challenge for me: keeping a blog when I am not out travelling. Adventures in Mission? How about finding adventure in everyday life? The new mission.

November 12, 2011: Moving Day

Today is moving day. One more time! Okay ... two more times, but this is our last move within England. The apartment we booked for our time in London was only available until Nov 12. Our flight is Nov 14.

For the last two days we are booked into a hotel right underneath the landing planes of Heathrow. It will be impossible to sleep, I’m sure. However, I would rather make the arduous journey to the airport today when I am not worried about missing my flight, than on Monday morning. This is a trial run for getting ready to fly.

We’ve been here two weeks, so the suitcases are well and truly exploded all over. From Saturday night to Sunday morning, I do not imagine we will have the same amount of packing to do.

Crystal Palace is a delightful place. It is a quiet place to live, albeit still a busy, close-to-inner-London suburb. The area was named for a Victorian-era exhibition hall, which delighted people until a fire took its toll in the 1930s. Much of the town is still Victorian in its architecture, although modern buildings are found here and there.

It has been pleasant to stay here. The park was a beautiful place to spend a few hours in the afternoon. There is a hedge maze, though at this time of year it is truly a sad sight to behold. If it weren’t for the chicken wire fences in between the rows, the empty bushes would just look like winter is coming. With the fences holding people in their rows, and the leaves fallen off the bushes, the effect is more one of decrepitude, rather than natural order.

The park also contains several dinosaur statues. Although life-size and designed by a scholar of natural history, today palaeontologists claim they are inaccurate, due to new research. I still think they are cool.

I’ll miss the park, and being able to get the best Indian food in London (in my humble opinion ; ) ). I won’t miss hiking up the hill to the highest point in all of greater London every night at the end of sightseeing, just to have to walk up three fights of stairs to get to our attic apartment.

In Orkney, Inverness, and in London, how did we always manage to find accommodations at the top of steep inclines? Well, I guess it keeps the heart pumping.

London’s Underground is undergoing massive construction work this month. Every possible line leaving Crystal Palace, and the only line to the airport are all being replaced by buses for portions of their journeys. The thought of dragging the suitcases up and down stairs to the trains, changing to a bus, back to a train, then a different train to a bus, then back to the train...umm, No thank you. Instead, we’ll take two buses. That’s all. It should take at least a couple hours to get across the city, but it will be easy.

We’ll have one more day out in London tomorrow. One more chance for blogging!

November 7: Harrods

I have mixed feeling about Harrods. On one hand it is a London icon. It has been a department store in London since 1824. Its history is interesting, being the first store in London to install a “moving staircase”in 1898. It has served the likes of A.A. Milne, Oscar Wilde, Noel Coward, Charlie Chaplin, and various members of the royal family.

It sells a little of everything. Okay, it sells a lot of everything. I started in the food area and skipped most of the clothing: slacks, dresses, purses, shoes, custom made suits. You can buy books, fountain pens, stationery, air hockey tables, gold (I mean gold, not jewelery, although they sell that, too), and by appointment only, bullet-proof clothing.

I had been looking forward to wandering through the racks of Kevlar vests hanging on the racks next to the Hermes scarves, but apparently that isn’t how the department works. Besides, the Hermes department was four floors down from Bullet Proof Clothing.

The clothing and accessories are famous names. Even I have heard of some of the names. But really, fashionable shopping is wasted on me. I love the idea of looking elegant, but I love my flannel shirts and jeans too much to do anything about it.

So there I was, wandering through the most famous department store in the western hemisphere, wondering if I would get kicked out for violating the dress code. Jeans, scuffed-up muddy Eastlands, and a Goodwill purchased shirt boasting a Cabella’s label. Other than being ignored at the food sample stands, though, no one seemed to care how I was dressed. While I drooled over the $4000 fountain pens, I actually had two sales associated ask if I needed help. Maybe they were just concerned I was in the wrong store and were willing to give me directions to the nearest Asda. “You know, there’s an Ikea just down the street,” they were thinking.

While having this fascination with seeing the famous London department store, and wondering how the upper echelon lives, I hate paying for a name. I have an aversion to paying grandiose amounts of money for anything, unless the quality is such that the price covers the long years of use I will get out if it,. My favourite purse, for example. I used it for almost ten years. Of course, I spent almost $100 on it. I about died handing over that much money for a purse. But I used it for years and years.

And there I was in Harrods staring at purses costing 10 times that.

I do not understand fashion, and I confuse it with quality. Are the goods in Harrods worth their price? Or even, taking into consideration a typical 30% mark-up, are they worth two thirds of their price?

Are customers paying for a name? It is a famous name. Are customers paying for quality? Famous does not necessarily mean quality. But, sometimes it does. I guess I’ll never know until I try.

Harrods. I went. I saw. I bought.

November 8: Stonehenge and Bath

Part 2: Stonehenge

Rising up out of the tunnel into the field, the first thing I notice is their size. Stonehenge is huge. Enormous. I am used to seeing them on television; in books. Size is deceptive.

The second thing I noticed is how amazed I am by their size. I had just been there two years before. I should not have been this awe-struck. But that is Stonehenge. It does not become less impressive by familiarity. It just gains in mystery and grandeur. The more I study it and learn about it, the more magnificent it becomes.

New studies of the area are always being undertaken. New theories tested. New evidence being found. Nearby at Durrington Walls is the site of a settlement. Archaeologists believe it might be the settlement of workers who built Stonehenge. Who were they, and why here?

Within the last few years, evidence of another stone circle has been found nearby. Research points to the existence of another circle at the end of the ancient avenue leading out from Stonehenge to the river Avon. Are they related? Were they two parts of one ritualistic journey?

The stones at Stonehenge come from two places: The smaller inner circle of stones are from nearby fields, no more than twenty miles way, The larger stones are from Wales.150 miles away. Why not just build the circle in Wales?

I drug David to every possible stone circle in bussing distance all over Scotland. All equally impressive and equally mysterious. Yet, none like Stonehenge. I haven’t done my research yet, but our guide yesterday told us it is unique in Britain because it is the only one that used sculpted stones. The other circles were made of natural stone, but stonemasons shaped Stonehenge’s boulders into the uniform monoliths we see today.

While research is carried out all over the surrounding area, Stonehenge itself is rarely a dig site. Although I do not know for certain why that is, I do have my guesses. Archaeology, while being beneficial to our knowledge of the past, is invasive surgery. In order to get under the ground, we have to dig up the present. There are ways of minimising damage, such as using radar to search for clues underground before digging pell-mell. It does not seem difficult to dig in small sections, and carefully replace dirt to put things back to normal.

However, a clue from a Smithsonian article in 2009 provides insight into views on Stonehenge. Before beginning the first dig on the Stonehenge in 44 years, prayers were spoken and blessings were requested. Even today, Stonehenge is still a holy place. Druids worship here at the Solstices. The mounds surrounding the area are the burial places of hundreds of people.

Yet, we do much research and digging across the middle east and the cradle of Christianity, Judaism and Islam. We want to know our history, including our religious history.

That leaves me to agree with Geoffrey Wainright, President of the Society of Antiquaries of London. He was involved in the research at Stonehenge in 2009. He told Smithsonian,“I think what most people like about Stonehenge is that nobody really knows why it was built, and I think that’s probably always going to be the case. It’s a bloody great mystery.”

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/light-on-stonehenge.html#ixzz1dHkr1ACk