Run Me Like a River

In the age of the shinkansen, it's easy to forget how isolated parts of Japan once were.  While it's not a big country in terms of landmass, mountains are an obstacle in traveling from one area to another.   You can get an idea of this even today if you travel between Arashiyama and Kameoka.  Mind you, this is something I'd never done before, because it's kind of a pain in the ass.  It sounds cool to take the "romantic" train to Kameoka and come back via boat along the river, and that's exactly what makes it a pain in the ass.  If you love tourists like I love tourists (ie, not at all, except in the old adage that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference), this little experience is a nightmare.  

You can't just walk up to the station, buy a ticket, and board a train...I tried that once years ago with zero success (although I did find this cool little doll workshop that gave me Ideas, and Arashiyama is never a waste of time in my mind).  You have to get a ticket for THIS particular train in advance, and we're talking like well in advance.  No chance of, "Hmm, maybe tomorrow I'll take the sightseeing train to Kameoka."  On the other hand, the boat back doesn't really have a reliable advance booking.  I mean, they had something, because some people had some kind of voucher they were exchanging for a ticket, but on the websites that I read everything said you just showed up at the dock with your fingers crossed.  Given all this and the overabundance of capital-t Tourists, you may wonder if it's even worth it?

Well, maybe it's because something tells me it's going to be many moons before I make it back to Kyoto, but this time around I finally did it.  When I hadn't heard back from Ando about their doll-dressing experience, my mind turned to other things I could do, and realized that this would be an excellent chance to try something new.  Now that was a couple of weeks before I'd gotten sunburnt wandering around the flea market in the harsh morning sunlight, but when I got to Arashiyama and realized it was going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day on the Hozugawa, I scrounged around through my memory long enough to come up with the words for sun and protect...even if I got the order wrong, saying "mamoru no hi" and pointing to my arm got the message across at the Lawson's I stopped in, and I continued on my way to the train station.

The train ride really was beautiful.  When you're not going through a tunnel - and there were a lot, but their eerie beauty doesn't really lend itself well to photos - you're skirting the edge of the hills above the river.  Gold was beginning to tinge the green of the trees, and although it's supposed to be even more beautiful in November I can't really do anything about when my vacation is.  Instead, I watched the river rush by outside the windows, trying to take shots when the trees weren't whipping by in front of me.

Oh, one more thing to add...those seats are about as comfy as the dinner table chairs at your great-great grandmother's house...and don't have a lot of room for extra padding, just FYI.  Still, it does help you to get a feel for the historic nature of the train.  I guess.

I hadn't given a lot of thought to getting from Torokko Kameoka station to the dock where you embark on the river cruise - I had it marked on Google maps, so if all else failed, I figured I could walk it.  Fortunately for my already abused feet, it didn't come to that - as you exit the station, there are signs pointing to a bus that will take you straight to the dock.  One of the things that struck me the hardest from my first trip to Japan back in 2005 was how easy it is to get around, in spite of not knowing the language, and it holds true to this day.  The Japanese really know how to make systems that move people smoothly and efficiently, and this is a saving grace when it comes to shit tons of tourists being around.  So I got on the bus, got off at the dock, got a numbered ticket, and within probably half an hour was being called down to board a boat.

These boats are the old fashioned kind that used to ply the river - shallow bottomed and steered by long bamboo poles.  There were three guides in each boat that rotated between the three positions over the course of the two-hour trip - it was clearly really hard work, and I felt kind of bad about just sitting there enjoying the afternoon while they were rowing.

Okay, I wasn't just sitting there.  There was a lot to look at.  We saw ducks, turtles, herons, cormorants - even a snake on a rock at the side of the river just a foot away from my face.  The mountains we passed between were tall and imposing.  It was also interesting to me to see how the forest changes from area to area - some packed densely with shorter trees, others filled with tall ones.  There was at least one slope that had numerous trees toppled and sitting as logs on the hillside...evidence of a recent typhoon, if my experience hiking up to Kuuya-no-taki back in 2018 is any indication.  

I do wonder, sometimes, what non-artists do on long trips like this by themselves.  I was busy watching the water - especially the way it flowed over rocks, thinking about how I would paint that - and enjoying the fresh air, occasionally listening to my seatmates who would interpret some tidbit the guide shared.  But I'm kind of used to being alone in my own head, finding interest for myself in what's going on around me.  Maybe that's why I can travel alone.  Good thing I wasn't an extrovert from birth.

That is not to say that the trip was serene, smooth...er...sailing, all the way.  There were rapids.  Not bad ones, necessarily, but there was a splash guard along the sides of the boat that we lifted up from time to time to keep the water from dousing us.  The lead guide used his pole to push us along and away from some of the bigger rocks, especially in narrower passages.  It reminded me of float trips with my Dad and Shaggy when I was a kid, and with other family members when I was a bit older.  Except that after capsizing our canoe three times on one memorable trip with my sister and cousin, I'm not allowed to guide anymore.

It was also fun to see the trains pass us by.  The romantic train isn't the only one that goes between Arashiyama and Kameoka...if you really want to take the boat but can't get tickets, it IS possible just to take a normal train.  It just isn't as pretty.  There are apparently also buses - I didn't look too deeply into this possibility, because I didn't care.  But I love trains and I enjoyed seeing them flash by us as we got nearer and nearer to Arashiyama.

When we were just about there, a floating "food truck" puttered over next to us, providing snacks and lightening our wallets (literally...in Mongolia you kind of forget how heavy coins can be, and Japan's change goes all the way up to 500 yen).  After two hours I was ready to kill for a coke, and they had icy cold cans of it.  I don't even remember how much I paid.  It might have been 300 yen, but it might have been 1000.  I was thirsty enough that I didn't actually care.

The river had other boats on it by that point, people out for a paddle, so it was easy to know that we were almost there.  My back at least was glad it was over.  This trip made me realize that I'm not the same age I was when I first came to Kyoto - I can't abuse my feet all day, or sit two hours with back support, and not pay the consequences.  It's kind of sad, but I guess it was inevitable that eventually my body would remind me I'm no longer in my 20s.  But with a cold can of coke in hand, I was ready to abuse myself at least a little more.  If I hadn't had a rendezvous that afternoon with the Kawaii Kingpin, there were still so many things I would have liked to do in Arashiyama...mossy shrines and haunted tunnels.  But I guess they'll probably still be there when I finally do make it back again.

Feet in the Abyss, Heart in Paradise

Back in April, when I used the power of the pass for Evil, I realized I had miscalculated: a few hours in Kyoto wasn't really enough.  As I was on my way back to Toyama, I couldn't help thinking about all the places I didn't get to revisit, all the art experiences I still hadn't tried.  So it was probably inevitable that - six months later, I'd find myself boarding a plane to Kansai airport.

Even though this is the fifth trip I've made to Kyoto in October, there are STILL things I haven't done, or seen (or eaten...because, ya know...as soon as I get back to Japan all I can think about eating is yakiniku, Coco curry, and Denny's French toast).  Not because I turn into a lazy bum on vacation (although I have been more than I'd like to admit lately), but because Kyoto just has a disproportionate number of things to do in October.  No sooner had the sun risen on my first morning back in my otaku homeland than I was out the door of my hotel to get breakfast at McDonald's down the street from my first temple of the day, Chion-Ji.

I've written about shopping Kyoto's flea markets before, so I won't waste too many words on this one.  Hyakumanben Tendukuri-Ichi is a handicraft market that takes place on the 15th of every market, and is filled with all sorts of beautiful and/or kawaii things.  In the hour and a half that I wandered the grounds I think I only spent around 1000 yen, on a pastry, plum juice, and a cute little cat clip made with kimono fabric.  Even though I tried to keep to the shadows I still managed to get a sunburn, so I guess an argument could be made that it was a waste of my time...except that it wasn't.  It's kind of hard to explain, but there's something about browsing all the various creations of my fellow artisans that feeds my soul, like smiling at them and complimenting their work can lift a layer of the cynicism I've been accumulating for a while.

Plus I'm pretty sure I can use that cat clip to hold the accupressure point in my hand the next time I get a migraine, so completely not a waste of time.

That said, it wasn't the main event of the day for me.  The last three times I found myself in Kyoto on fall break, I passed up going to a certain Buddhist procession at Sokujo-in.  It was a matter of prioritizing, and in the past, the other options were more interesting - it's hard to compete with horseback archery, namsayin'?  Also, maybe I got my fill of Buddhism that summer in Tibet, but since I'd been working my way through a webnovel about a dragon and a monk leading up to my departure, it seemed like an ideal time.

(It was not an ideal time...the dragon calls the monk a "bald donkey" throughout the story, and it's possible that my brain very disrespectfully reminded me of this during the ceremony.)

The Nijugo Bosatsu Oneri Kuyo was one of the least crowded events I'd ever been to in Japan.  I found non-reserved seating on a bench in the shade, and the Japanese man I sat next to explained that this ceremony was at least partially intended to bless the children that participated - he had two grandchildren that were involved.  Wearing elaborate costumes, the procession moved between the main hall and Jizo's hall of the temple across an elevated wooden bridge.  They crossed back and forth three times, traveling from the Pure Land and back.

Or they did eventually.  When the clouds first condensed over the temple, I was really happy, since I wouldn't have to worry about sunburn whilst getting snap happy.  My relief was short lived, though, as a few sprinkles came down, followed by more, until everyone was either under an umbrella, or huddling under one of the tents or shelters.  The costumes and masks are actual works of art which can't get wet, so the temple made an announcement that they would postpone til 1:30.  After waiting for most of an hour already, my feet weren't thrilled, but the rain lightened up, the crew covered the bridge with plastic, and at 1:30 the show went on.

First came the monks of the temple, followed by yamabushi, mountain priests.  I found myself thinking that they seemed to be wearing the clothes that tengu are often depicted wearing, and when my new friend explained that they were Shinto priests, I felt a little justified for making that connection.  I realize I've said this before, but it bears repeating that the way that Buddhism and Shinto coexist in Japan is something that I really love.

Following the monks and priests were all sorts of kawaii kodomo.*  It's a big honor for them to be in the ceremony, but also a big responsibility.  The littlest boy's hat kept sliding around on his head, and he seemed to be DONE WITH IT, in spite of his father's attempt to fix it every two steps.  On their second journey, they scattered paper petals from the bridge to the people below.  These are supposed to be lucky, and we all scrambled to catch them or pick them up off the ground.

This went on for a while.  The entire procession travels three times, and the third time there are extra people.  Temple patrons maybe...some kind of VIP.  They threw paper petals as well, so if I ever figure out what to do with them I'm going to have lots of good art material.  Finally, after what seemed like forever, a masked Jizo led out the bodhisattvas.

If you didn't formerly spend 8 days temple crawling in Tibet, you may not know what a bodhisattva is.  

Teach Us, Becky-sensei!

So basically, in Buddhism, there are people who have basically reached enlightenment, and are able to attain Nirvana.  However, they put it off in order to help others on their journey.  These are the bodhisattvas.  In the procession, there are 25 of them.  Immediately after Jizo there are two bodhisattvas that slowly dance their way along the bridge, followed by another carrying a censer (at least I think that's what it was), and then the rest carrying musical instruments (and accompanied by a parent, because those masks make it pretty hard to see, and it would put a real damper on things if they fell off the bridge).

Eventually they made it back to the main hall, and I decided that it was time for me to head back to my usual haunts.  It was a neat experience and I'm glad I went, but my feet were killing me by that point, comfy new shoes or not.  

*All children are cute, though...until you have to teach them.

The Kids are All Right

 It was spring break, and after so long I finally took that trip to Japan that I booked three years ago.  I made one more attempt to see the hotaruika - and failed.  I stayed at a campground at the beach, and all the conditions were there...but the squid were not.  So I give up.  I'll stick to bioluminescent insects from here on out.  On the other hand, I got to do something I couldn't when I lived here before - jet all over the damn place using the Japan Rail Pass.  See, when I was here before, foreign residents weren’t allowed to use it, so all my train travel had previously been done the hard way…with lots and LOTS of money.  Not that the pass is cheap, but by day 4 it had already paid for itself (maybe…art teachers don’t do math on vacation, bitches).

So I wasn't stingy when it came to getting around.  Whether it was riding the rails up to Niigata to see the yaoi temple or hopping a train down to Kyoto for the afternoon to celebrate my best boy’s promotion to manager, the country was my oyster.  It only took me a couple of hours to make it to Kyoto…and ALL its tourists.  The Kawaii Kingpin admitted that he missed the pandemic a very tiny bit on that account, and I had to sympathize…the days when people didn’t bring their screaming children to restaurants truly were glorious, in at least that respect.

Of course, as I told him, it’s different when the children in question are your blood relatives.  My niblings are perfect, of course.  To demonstrate (and totally not because I have a lot of odds and ends blogs to catch up on), let me take you back to last summer.  I was planning to take Princess and Dirt Devil to the anime con, but a poorly timed water leak at the hotel I booked caused me to reconsider.  Instead, I took them and Monkey out for a day o’ fun with their favorite aunt.

We started at Barnes and Noble.  This is part of what makes these kids awesome; I can tell them I’m taking them to a bookstore and they’re excited about it.  After picking up some manga volumes, a movie, and some games, it was time for lunch.  Dirt Devil suggested sushi, so I found a place in West Omaha that had sushi, ramen, and a few other things, and ordered a bunch of food.  Monkey wasn’t sure about it, so we ordered a sweet and sour chicken to be sure he wouldn’t starve.  Guess what was the only thing left at the end?  They were especially huge fans of ramune.

After a quick stop at home for the bathroom we went to play mini-golf and waste money at the arcade.  Was there, perhaps, a bit of a Japanese theme going?  Whether or not I intended there to be, yes, there was.  I wish I could take credit for helping them to become the baby otaku that they are today, but in all honesty they have come to it on their own.  I mean, I DID show them Totoro, Kiki's Delivery Service, and Howl's Moving Castle, as well as a few episodes of Naruto and My Hero Academia.  But while Princess' tastes in anime and mine are nearly identical (Hanako-kun and Bungou Stray Dogs?  Yes, this is a girl after my own heart!), Dirt Devil likes One Piece.  ONE PIECE?!?  Also known as, the anime that I never even started - I read one chapter of the manga and decided this was not for me.  But he likes it.  And while Monkey hasn't gotten into anime much, he's definitely a gamer...his favorite character is Link, and when I asked him what I could bring him from Japan, he just asked for Pokemon everything.

After the arcade we went to my favorite ice cream place, Coldstone, and ate a shit ton of ice cream (Okay, I ate a shit ton...I think each of them took theirs home and stuck it in the freezer).  While this might be considered bad "mom" behavior - spoiling your kids by buying them whatever they want and loading them up on sugar - it seems like excellent aunt behavior.  Fortunately, my brother and sister-in-law are tolerant...if I want to take them out for the day, they're not too picky about where we are going.  They behave and we get along pretty well, and their parents get a day to do whatever they need to do, as responsible-type adults.  

Hopefully they'll still feel that way in a few years when they graduate and I take them on Le Grand Tour.  I'm pretty sure I already know what country they'll want to visit.

Otaku Pilgrimage: Garden of Words

So, it's been more than a month since I came back from Japan.  My 6 faithful readers have probably been wondering if I was going to write anything else about it, and honestly, I kind of wondered the same thing.  BUT one of my projects for this summer is to catch up on my backlog of posts, so I'm starting here: the Otaku Pilgrimage.  Specifically, the setting for most of the film Garden of Words, Shinjuku Gyoen.

This is not the mecca I originally intended to get to this time around, but I couldn't bring myself to go to Shimokitazawa when I got back to Tokyo, even if the live shows DID start earlier than they would here.  On the other hand, Shinjuku Gyoen was in the neighborhood I was staying in...approximately.  I still took a train two stops, because a.) my JR Pass was in its final hours and I wanted to get as much out of it as I could, and b.) my feet were busted as shit by that last day.  And for that reason, when I got out of Sendagaya station and was unsure which direction I should go in, I looked carefully at Google Maps to try and be sure I knew where the entrance was.  This was a futile move, because apparently the main gate for Shinjuku Gyoen is no longer the original location.  There's apparently a sign that points you in the right direction, but it's not visible when you come OUT of the station, so that's a fail on somebody's part (it might even be mine).

The park is pretty big, so I also scoped out Google Maps to try and figure out where I was going, rather than aimlessly wandering around.  If aimless wandering is your thing, more power to you - Shinjuku Gyoen is a beautiful park - but I was going back to Otome Road after the park, because the Lashinbang there had been working on a grand reopening the night before, and I still had money I needed to spend!  So I knew roughly where I needed to go before I entered the park, and headed in the direction of a small picnic shelter immediately.

In the movie, this is where the two main characters bump into each other, and gradually get to know one another.  For the greatest "pilgrimage" value it really should have been a rainy school day, but a sunny Saturday was all I had left.  The male protagonist talks about how when it's rainy, he can't go to school - something draws him down different paths.  He sits and draws on the bench while the woman he meets there drinks canned coffee.  I sat down and drew in my sketchbook for a while to try and get into the right mood, but - like the staircase at the end of Your Name - it seemed like this had become a bit of a tourist attraction, so I tried not to monopolize it for too long.  

Close to the shelter is a building called Goryo-tei (or the Taiwan Pavilion).  It's a pretty distinctive building and the landmark that let me know exactly where to find the correct shelter.  The pond stretches around both areas, and everything was green - kind of a shock coming from Mongolia, where only now is it turning fully green.

Another thing I was looking forward to is the wisteria.  I'd been in Japan for nearly a week, and although I'd seen it here and there, I hadn't yet had the chance to smell it.  In case you don't know, wisteria has the most amazing fragrance, and it seems strange to me that it's not used in more perfumes or candles.  So I finally got the chance to experience it - the first time in 4 years, since it only blooms in spring.

I struggled with Tokyo when I first moved to Japan.  There's a feeling of magic and history that saturates the streets of Kyoto that's just not apparent in Tokyo.  However, over the 2 years I lived in Yokohama, I slowly discovered it, hiding in small shrines by the wayside and the occasional crumbling building; it doesn't reveal itself for just anyone.  I think this is one of the reasons I love Makoto Shinkai's films so much.  He gets it - he notices the way two trains veer away from each other, or the potential in hiding from the rain.  It was nice to see it again in my last night in town.

Woman of Culture

Once upon a time I went to the Louvre, and in the Louvre, there are all these paintings by Rubens commissioned by Catherine de Medici.  Apparently (I say, because apparently I did not post a blog of my thoughts from the Louvre) these were intended to be a kind of visual biography, but I remember thinking at the time that if I was a hot blooded Italian woman who was also queen, I would have been appalled at the lack of good looking nekkid dudes.  Not a single eggplant in the whole cornucopia, if you catch my drift, and that just seemed wrong.  I would have called Peter-Paul into the palace and said, “Lovely work as usual, Ruby, but could you add a few naked men?  Why are they naked?  Has anyone ever asked why the women in paintings are nude…there are literally tits out all over the place, JUST GO AND PAINT THEM!” 

Well, now I have a theory about that.  Apparently, the problem was that she just wasn’t a fujoshi.  At some point during the pandemic, I read an article about a temple near Niigata, Kugamiyama Kokujou-ji.  Now, if you’ve read any of my Japan posts at all you may find yourself thinking, “Oh.  Goody.  Another temple she just HAD to visit.  #sarcasm.”  My retort would be that in this quirky country called Japan there’s ALWAYS something new to discover, even when it comes to something as seemingly redundant as Buddhist temples.

So here’s the story.  Kugamiyama Kokujou-Ji came up with the brilliant plan that they could get more visitors by adding some art to the temple.  Enter my new favorite nihonga artist, KIMURA Ryoko.  The panels cover the external walls of the main temple, and feature - among others - the original Minamoto-kun (aka Minamoto no Yoshitsune) and a demon (oni) named Shuten-Doji.

There is, however, one slight, tiiiiny little difference between Kimura Sensei’s work and how these figures are normally portrayed.  Namely, a LOT less clothing.  Okay, so just in case you’re new around here, there’s a subculture of women (originally Asian ones, but it has become a global phenomenon) that enjoy stories and artwork depicting relationships between men.  Of course, there is a whole range of what kind of relationships those are, with a whole lot of ambiguity, particularly at the more innocent end of the spectrum.  There’s probably a lot to be analyzed here about the patriarchy, the female gaze, etc, but my master’s degree is a distant memory, with two years’ worth of dust on the ol’APA-style handbook, so - if this is news to you - suffice it to say that two beautiful men are ALWAYS better than one.

Ok, and if you’re into history and lore, you might realize - for example - that it was an older member of the famous military clan (Minamoto-senpai, if you will), Minamoto no Yorimitsu, who dealt with Shuten-doji.  But if you’re like me, that’s not what y’all are here for.

I mean, if it was, I guess Minamoto Raiko with Shuten-Doji would make a helluva enemies-to-lovers trope, but I digress.

Anywho.  All of the figures in the the murals have some kind of connection to the temple (according to Sora News, anyways - I’m having a hard enough time typing this on my broken keyboard as the Shinkansen darts in and out of mountains to be very thorough in my research).  Apparently Kimura’s vision was to depict all of them living in harmony, even though they were from different times and different backgrounds.  Kinda cheesy, I know, but it’s a good excuse to paint dudes chilling in a hot tub, and nobody hates an onsen episode.  I mean, not unless you also hate fun.

The link that originally introduced me to this cultural wonder also reported that the murals were slated to be removed about a year ago.  Apparently not everyone appreciates the nude male form, or thinks it’s appropriate decor for a temple.  Japan was still closed to tourism back then, and there may have been some gnashing of teeth when I thought that I’d miss it…at least until I discovered Kimura’s Instagram, which features even more work with similar style and content.  Still, there’s something to be said for viewing art in specific contexts, so when I realized I was going to be chilling my heels in Toyama once again, I looked up Kokujou-Ji and was delighted to see that recent photos on Google Maps included the paintings.

One of the things about seeing these in person was I could tell that they were not painted with nihonga’s hand-mixed pigment paints.  This makes sense, as binder for the pigments is water-soluble, and thus susceptible to the weather.  Unless I’m mistaken, Kimura used acrylic, which is much more durable.  If you’re familiar with the anime Hoozuki no Reitetsu, there’s an episode in which Hoozuki gets one of his lackeys to repaint a mural in hell which has weathered over the years.  At the end, it’s revealed that the original painting was by Hokusai.  That is the last thing we’d want happening to these masterpieces, so even though I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to see the way the pigments sparkled in the sunlight, I have to admit that this is for the best.

All that said, Kokujou-Ji is a pain in the ass to get to.  Google Maps clocked it at no less than 3 hours in either direction.  By the time I got to Yoshida station, I decided that time is money, and hailed a cab to take me up the mountain (the bus that would get me “close” would have taken an hour, and I would have had to hike 40 minutes after that!). When I went to Zao to see the foxes and I was frustrated by the lack of a bus, I told myself that someday I’d be back in Japan and I wouldn’t have to worry about taking a taxi all by myself, no matter how much it cost.

Well, that day finally came…and we’re not going to talk about how much that round trip taxi cost, because it now holds the record for my most expensive taxi ride in Japan.  Possibly of all time, but I’m still on vacation for 48 more hours, so I can’t account for inflation and conversion rates.  Besides which, I honestly don’t care.  It was 100% worth it to me to get to see the paintings, and you can factor in the lack of sweat from climbing a mountain as inflation, and the helpful tip that I return via a different station in order to catch the Shinkansen as the conversion rate.  

Week Without Socks

Before I get this party started, I feel like I should begin with a few disclaimers.  For starters, this blog takes a generally overdramatic approach to humor.  And uses a LOT of cursing.  If you're here you probably already know that, but it bears repeating.  Secondly, I hate hospitals.  Like, medical stuff in general is just squicky.  If I could go the rest of my life without ever having to interact with a doctor again, that would suit me perfectly.  And finally, my doctors were excellent.  While parts of my experience weren't entirely to my liking, the two doctors I primarily interacted with (the gynecologist and the interventional radiologist) were fantastic and - possibly most importantly - very patient with my histrionics.  Which is why I have left out names...this post is more about experiencing a fairly major medical procedure as an expat (I know, I know...I don't really write about the expat stuff much these days, but this was a doozy of an experience, and I thought it was worth writing about).

The previous paragraph makes it sound like I don't go to the doctor much, and that's definitely not wrong.  I DO avoid doctors (they can't tell you you're dying if you don't go to them in the first place), but it's not like I've never been to one overseas.  Actually, I think I've actually seen a doctor in every country I've ever lived in, not only for the standard visa health check, but for some small ailment or other.  Foot pain.  Constipation.  Food poisoning.  Mostly the kinds of things that they give you a prescription for and send you on your way in 15 minutes.  This time, though, was different.

Content warning: Lady Parts.  Also, Gratuitous Use of Capital Letters, but back to the first warning: if you're squeamish about women's reproductive health, I'm not sure what you're doing here, (my target audience is made of sterner stuff), but this is probably the time to close the tab.

So.  Back up about 6 years.  The first time I remember anything weird was my fourth Junk-To-Punk fashion show.  That morning the school went down to the river en masse to pick up trash, and my period went batshit crazy.  According to my estimates, I should have been fine with the tampon I used before leaving the school, but when I took the fashion victims back to the school I had to make a quick stop in my apartment to change clothes, which irritiated the fuck out of me.  Over the course of the next year, "batshit crazy" became normal, but while that was irritating, I was in my late 30s, and every woman my age that I talked to reported similar issues, so I figured this was just getting old.  Along the way I learned the "lite/regular/super" system of tampons I'd been using since my 20s also had "Plus Ultra" and "Bloodbath" iterations...which was good to know because super was no longer enough.

(If you're regretting sticking around for this, sorry, but I did warn ya.  Women bleed.  Fuck off).

Well, among the women I discussed this with, one was the Evil One.  She is probably the best friend I will ever have in this life, and she loves me very much, enough to be straight with me even when I would very much prefer to just Not Go There.  And she said, "Yeah, you really need to go to a gynecologist and get that checked out."  I ignored this the first time she said it, but eventually, for something else entirely, I took her advice (it was two years later, okay, but I DID go in the end).  That is another story that I won't be sharing in this blog post, involving High Blood Pressure and an Awkwardly Answered Question...but for the purposes of this story, the doctor found myomas.  I had to Google to figure out what the fuck those were, but before I could get "non-cancerous growths" out of the internet, she was explaining that they would try to remove them surgically, but based on the size and number they would probably need to do a hysterectomy.

I've always found the fact that this procedure is called a hysterectomy a bit comical as well as insulting.  Like just because I have a uterus I'm a bit unhinged?  But when the doctor suggested that they would need to remove it, I did get kind of hysterical (and this is definitely one of the reasons for the aforementioned high blood pressure).  I maintained my composure pretty well until I got back to my apartment, and then I Lost It.  Ironically, when I first learned about body changes in 4th grade and discovered that I would be stuck bleeding from anatomy I was previously blissfully unaware of ON A MONTHLY BASIS FOR THE NEXT 40 YEARS OF MY LIFE?!?!? I would have done anything to get rid of it.  Which I guess means I've matured somewhat since then, because a hysterectomy has huge consequences, and without even being aware of all of them, I knew I wanted to avoid them.

I wasn't thinking clearly enough to ask Google about alternatives until after 1 AM that night.  Imagine my shock when I learned that there are LOTS of alternatives, none of which the doctor had mentioned.  I'm not blaming her, BTW...skipping over everything else to surgery seems par for the course with uterine fibroids.  I kind of figured that maybe they weren't really options here...Mongolia isn't exactly on the forefront of medical technology.  But you know who is?  Korea - and I had already booked a ticket to spend my fall break there.  So I did some research, found that Seoul St. Mary's has a whole Uterine Myoma team, and made an appointment to get a second opinion.

I prepared myself for this visit by doing the bloodwork my doctor prescribed, and the MRI that she suggested.  I had a small freak out because the MRI came on a CD, and who the hell uses CDs anymore?  And the day before I left, the radiologist here talked to me about the MRI, and said that if I decided I wanted to, that they could do a procedure called uterine fibroid embolization here.  This was actually the procedure that I felt the best about.  UFE is clever.  Rather than cutting you open (or, possibly more horrifying, going in through your vagina past the cervix to nip the little bastards), the interventional radiologist goes in with a teeny, tiny tube through puncturing your artery (either the one in your wrist or the one in your leg) and uses real time x-rays to find the blood supply for the myomas.  When he gets there, he blocks it by shooting nanoparticles into the artery, which eventually causes the growths to shrivel up and die.  It's about 90% effective in alleviating symptoms, which in my case means I hopefully won't experience shark week on a monthly basis anymore (there are worse symptoms, btw, like needing to pee all the time or getting constipated...comparatively, a little anemia doesn't seem that bad).  And apparently it was a procedure that they CAN do here, if he was recommending it.

Which was all well and good, but I had already pretty much decided that I'd hit Seoul up on my way back at Christmas, get my procedure, and spend a couple of weeks crashing on my friend Happy Tree's couch til I was safe to fly.  The only problem was, when I talked to the doctor in Korea, she said I could just wait and see.  My anemia "wasn't that bad," and if two excruciatingly bloody days out of the month were my only symptom, it was okay (she has obviously never had that symptom while teaching a class of teenagers for 85 minutes straight, fully knowing that her feminine hygeine was NOT going to make it to the end of the block).  Maybe I should have said, "That's reassuring, but I'd rather have UFE and get it over with...can you make that happen?" but I didn't.  I went and paid my consultation fee back at the international clinic and left to eat a burger.

I guess I could have tried to schedule it with a different hospital in Seoul, or elsewhere.  The US is kind of out due to financial reasons, though, and other than Korea, I wasn't sure there was anywhere I wanted to try and get it done.  Maybe Japan, but that seems like it would be expensive, too.  The idea of putting it off didn't really appeal to me, and I also thought there were probably going to be more hoops - initial consultations, more tests.  Under the circumstances, I decided that if I could get it done here, that would be best, or at least easiest.  Although I did have one small trepidation...I didn't want to be the first one done in Mongolia.  I didn't ask that question directly, but I asked our office manager if there was any way to find out if a doctor had done a certain procedure, and she said she'd talk to her mom.  Within 24 hours she knew his history, and while she wasn't sure that he'd done UFE, he had 14 years of experience and was well known for being a good doctor.  From the previous interaction I'd had with him, his English was good and he had a reassuring manner, so I decided to go for it.

Well.  It was not quite as simple as that.  I had to schedule an appointment again with the gynecologist for the pre-procedure consultation.  In addition to scheduling me and telling me I needed a bunch of tests (including Covid...goody), she informed me I would need to stay in the hospital the night before and the night after, which freaked me the fuck out.  There's the fact that no matter where you are in the world, hospital food is shit, and trust me, that was pretty high on my "FUCK NO" scale, but there were more rational reasons I wanted to avoid a hospital stay.  See, thanks to the previous high blood pressure, I was now the proud owner of a wrist monitor, and I knew for a fact that it wasn't just that the pandemic had Done Things to my health...my blood pressure was completely normal when I took it at home.  It was only while I was at the hospital that it shot up.  Having Everest-scale blood pressure for an extended period of time seemed like a really, Really Bad Idea.  I also didn't think that I would be able to sleep at the hospital, and I've been in my skin long enough to know that rest is probably the most vital component to maintaining my health.*  Followed by food, which brings me full circle.  In the end, I didn't have to stay in the hospital, but there was a long, circuitous route to get there, and they really only let me leave because I told them I was staying with Engrish, so there wouldn't be stairs and if there was any problem she could help me get back to the hospital.  I should buy her a really nice Christmas present...

This is turning into a really long post...you might want to go get a drink if you didn't have one when you started.  I swear I'm trying to avoid unnecessary exposition, but this really has been an ongoing saga over the last two and a half months of my life, occupying most of my mental space.  That said, we've gotten all the way to the procedure itself, so hang in there.

So I was scheduled for Tuesday, November 29.  This is probably not the best time for a teacher to take a week off (the typical recovery time til you're back to work), but the week the doctor originally suggested we already had two teachers out, and the following week was my period, and I couldn't think of anything worse than that, if it was even possible.  The 29th was really about as late as it could be and me still be cleared to fly home for Christmas (officially there are no restrictions, but everything I read recommended avoiding travel for two weeks).  I got my leave approved, made my lesson plans - boring writing assignments that my students should have been able to do without me, although I haven't worked up the courage to actually read any of them yet) - packed so much stuff in a bag that it probably looked like I was moving in for a week, most of which I didn't use afterwards, because I was too weak to look at my phone, let alone crochet my blanket (seriously.  The nurse had to get my phome off the floor multiple times while I was in "day care").  And then showed up to the hospital over an hour late on the day of the procedure, because the traffic was fucking ridiculous.  And that was because I walked the last block...if I'd stayed in the Enkhaa Express, I probably would have been over an hour and a half late.

All things considered, I was flustered from the get go, but my doctors agreed to consider sending me home that day, they found hospital clothes in my size, and tested me for contrast dye allergy (apparently it's a different dye than they use for the MRI).  Somehow I managed to not chicken out, and found myself lying on a zoomy motor bed thing, with screens positioned down by my legs and a little x-ray device overhead (overhips???).  They started the contrast dye, and gave me another IV for my NSAIDs - not sure which one they used, but I was feeling pretty detached by the time they all came in and started the procedure.  They had to use the artery in my groin, which I wasn't happy about, because it meant I had to lie down for at least two hours afterwards...according to what I read online.  In actuality, it was 5 hours before they agreed to let me stand up.  You may be wondering what that means for going to the bathroom, as was I.  Initially they didn't put a catheter in my bladder, for which I was profoundly grateful...

Okay, you may be wondering about this hyperactive hospital phobia (nosocomephobia, if you like to know these things).  Please remember that all of this was 100% new to me.  In addition to the fact that I don't even like going to hospitals to visit, I've never actually been to one for myself.  The only time I've been under anaesthesia was when I got my wisdom teeth taken out.  My primary mode of dealing with illness is "ignore it and hope it goes away" and this has served me pretty damn well, even if I do say so myself.  So yes, having someone stick a pee-pipe in me was a major point of anxiety for me.  Until the procedure was over and the pain was kicking in, and I just KNEW that part of the reason it felt so bad was that I probably needed to pee.  When I told the nurses and they said I would need a catheter, I requested that a female nurse assist me with it, but otherwise bowed fairly gracefully to the indignity.  Maybe I covered my face while they were up in my bizness, but Baby Chicken Wing was telling the truth when she reassured me it wasn't that big a deal, even if I had to experience it for myself to believe her.  I honestly hardly felt it.

The procedure ended up taking 3 hours.  Everything I'd read online said it was usually over after an hour, so I guess I'm special.  The doctor explained afterwards that my uterine artery was longer than they were expecting, and it took them some time to locate the correct access point to block the blood flow.  Which, I mean, it takes as long as it takes, but by probably halfway through I was no longer in a state of dreamy detachedness brought on by a combination of sleep deprivation and pain meds.  I was pretty much fully lucid after an hour and a half.  I told them so, but I wasn't really experiencing any pain, so it wasn't really an issue - until it was.  Probably about the last half hour or so I could begin to feel the cramping that I'd read about, and I told the doctors that, but I still had to wait for the anaesthesiologist to come before they gave me anything.  And while she was administering the fentanyl, she remarked on my low pulse, seeming to think I had an irregular heartbeat and that I should come back to see the cardiologist.  To which I wanted to reply, "FUCK YOU."  Like, let me get through the current health issue before you conjure up a new one.

Which brings me to the vindicating portion of this post: IT REALLY MIGHT GO AWAY.

Because my previous approach is not entirely off-base - I'm not being completely frivolous.  Turns out iron deficiency triggers a bunch of related shit.  Everyone thinks if you're anemic, you're just tired all the time.  Which I am, but let's write that one off to being a teacher, because that is definitely a truey.  On the other hand, at some point in the last two and a half months I have googled everything I've experienced over the last 5 years that made me go, "Hmm, that's weird...guess this is what getting old is all about." All those things can be triggered by anemia.  Slower metabolism, lowered immune response, allergies, and yes, even arrhythmia can all be effected by the fact that your blood is too weak to carry around all the oxygen it needs.  Sure, it might not be fixed just by getting my iron up, but I'll still take a hard pass at immediately freaking out and going back this week to see a cardiologist...once the Red Sea ebbs and I've been taking these stupid iron tabs a bit longer, then I'll go in and see if it's still an issue.  

I'm not going to lie - waiting to leave the hospital was a nightmare.  Maybe this was my fault for insisting that I wanted to be an outpatient, but I didn't have my own recovery room.  As they wheeled me past the door I saw a sign that said "Day Care" (haha, so many jokes to make), and noticed there were two Mongolian men in the room.  I asked about the curtain and they pulled it, but it didn't go all the way around the bed, so I still had one old guy on an IV for something within view.  They gave me my phone, my tablet, my plushie, and a call button, and then they left.  Which, I guess I wanted to be left alone, but I also wanted to be comfortable, and that was Not Happening.  For example, I had to ask for pain meds three times before they finally gave me an IV of something (and I still have no idea what it was).  By the third time I asked I was on the brink of tears.  They also only gave me 9 tablets of ibuprofen to go home with.  From everything I've read, it sounds like UFE patients typically get a narcotic painkiller which they can take up to twice a day, as well as a prescription strength OTC painkiller and a stool softener.  Maybe something for nausea.  I didn't want to go home with a whole pharmacy, but if my pain had been worse, this could have been problematic.  

And - oof - the pain was bad enough!  I feel like The Literature kind of glosses over this one.  I mean, doctors tend to do that, tell you you'll feel some pressure or a little pinch when they mean it's going to hurt like fucking hell.  And I'm not even that sensitive to pain!  However, the websites I read gave the symptoms of embolization syndrome (crampy pain, flu-like symptoms including fever and chills, and nausea), without giving the degree.  For example, "crampy pain" should be interpreted as, "IMAGINE THE WORST CRAMPS YOU HAVE FUCKING HAD IN YOUR LIFE, EVER, AND THEN MULTIPLY THEM BY 10."**  Also, when it comes to nausea, someone should mention that you probably won't have had anything but small sips of water since midnight the previous night.  You're still going to throw up, but nothing's going to come out but bile (at least, not the first three times; the fourth time I had gotten to casa de Engrish, and she had bananas, so it was banana puke the fourth time, for a fun new twist).

Well.  Nothing lasts forever, and eventually they released me to go to Engrish's place.  I mean, first I had to pay my bill, and that was mendokusai, because the hospital doesn't do direct billing with our insurance company.  I only owed a little less than $2,000,*** and I had plenty of money in my accounts to pay for it.  However, there's a little problem with Mongolian banks...they don't like you to spend more than 3,000,000 tugrugs in one go at the same place.  So the cashier tried to put 6.5 million tugrug on my Mongolian bankcard, and my card said, "Nope!"  So I had them run 3, successfully, and then they tried to do another 3.  And of course that didn't work.  Well, fortunately the day before I'd dropped the last $700 of my fall bonuses into my US dollar account, so I had them put 2.5 mil on that card, but that left me with one million left to pay.  I was able to pay the rest of it by using my mobile app and just skipping the card entirely, but I feel like this is a flaw in Mongolia's banking system.  If you are paying a hospital and you have enough money in the account, the charge should just fucking go through.

So that was it.  This is Day 6.  I finally started to get some rest on Day 2 (back in my own bed cuddled up with my dakimakura).  Gradually regained my appetite by Day 3.  Stopped freaking out about constipation on Day 4.  I've left the apartment today and the previous 2, and feel like I'll be okay at work tomorrow (it's the day I only teach 2 classes anyways).  I'm not totally Over It yet, but I'm getting there.  The first 24 hours or so, I questioned if I'd made the right choice, but compared to the recovery time for myomectomy or hysterectomy, this has been a cakewalk.  All the same, I'd still rather go the rest of my life without visiting a hospital again.  Hopefully this will make it more likely.

*Fact: I never used to take OTC meds because I believed my immune system was Tough Enough.  Then I took a Nyquil once when I couldn't sleep from coughing, and after a full 8 hours of sleeping like a baby I woke feeling fresh as a daisy, and decided that being Tough Enough was bullshit - quick recovery was MUCH better.

**This is somewhat subjective...my cramps have never been that bad.  On the other hand, I feel like I only made it to an 8 on the pain scale at the worst I felt. 

***Fun fact: According to the internet, you're looking at about $10,000 for the same thing in the States.

Death by Hiking

Like I said a few days back, half of the blogs out here in the interwebs about Cappadocia are about hiking.  Now, I like to think I enjoy hiking, but when it actually comes down to it, what I really enjoy is walking along nice, flat trails, through beautiful scenery, while snapping lots of pictures.  I actually know my limits, and have a tendency to lose interest when there's not a shady bench to rest on relatively quickly, at regular intervals.

Engrish, on the other hand, lives for this shit.  Hell, she probably would have run through all the valleys if I hadn't been slowing her down.  I was happy for her to get some hikes in while we were on vacation, really I was!  And when she read about Baglidere - the so-called Love Valley - she knew she'd be able to drag me out on at least one hike.

Our final day in Cappadocia dawned crisp and clear.  That morning I took a break from my webnovel long enough to go to the bathroom, and when I realized it was light out, wondered if the balloons would have already passed.  I opened the door to our cave, and there they were, floating in the bright morning sunlight (which I was not actually happy to see...I had forgotten to bring sunscreen AND a hat, and none of the umbrellas I saw during the snowstorm were opaque - more on that later).  We went up to the rooftop to watch them for a bit - wondering if there wasn't much wind, since it looked like they were coming down in town, whereas we made it much further south - and then got ready for breakfast, while I tried to figure out if there was a shortcut to get from Goreme into Love Valley.  If there was, I couldn't find it.  However, I did stumble across an app that had incredibly detailed hiking trails - AllTrails - and this got us out of town and down to the trail head, with some pretty spectacular views along the way.

Sadly, the GPS tracking on it wasn't the best.  It got fixated on one street corner in Goreme, so I was guessing how far we'd gotten by how many "trails" we'd passed for most of the walk to the trail head.  It caught up to us for a short time before finally deciding we were irredeemably lost.  Fortunately, once you're in the valley, it's pretty obvious which way you're supposed to go.

As we moved into the valley, we both noticed a distinct lack of benches.  There also wasn't much shade.  It wasn't too hot, though, and while the trail wasn't flat, it wasn't too strenuous either.  At least at first.  And it didn't take long before we got to the main attraction...the...err......heavenly pillars.

If, a few moments ago, you thought to yourself, "Huh, she didn't explain why Engrish was so sure she'd be willing to go on this hike," well, I believe it should be obvious now.  Why is Baglidere known as Love Valley?  Because the fairy chimneys in this valley have been weathered into rather phallic shapes - like, shall we say, love plungers???  

Wondering what time it is?  Time for me to make as many penis jokes as I can come up with - in other words, it's dicks o'cock!

Have you heard about the phallic formations in Love Valley before now?  They're as expected...rock hard.  That said, it just seems like a waste to me that they didn't carve these in the valley with the red stone.*  

I do have a bone(r) to pick with Engrish though.  This hike was like a giant stone dick - hard and way too long!  (If your hike lasts more than four hours, please call a doctor.)  However, I would have felt bad if I'd cock blocked Engrish.  She made it up to me by loaning me protection.**

(About seven jokes...not bad.)

Seriously, though, I struggled with this hike.  A huge part of it is because I've been a sloth for two years, but on a good day it really shouldn't have posed a problem.  Considering three days before I exhausted myself on the LAST hike and then completed underground maneuvers in Kaymakli, I really should have known better.  My legs were really stiff and sore the day before, but I was convinced that hiking would loosen them up...more the idiot, I.

Thankfully, Engrish has the patience of a saint, reinforced by the fact that I didn't mind if she went off on her own into the hills.  No matter how much I whined, she never lost her cool, no matter how slow I went or how many times I stopped, she was chill, which is amazing because I'm pretty sure I was a huge pain in the ass (much like a huge stone...nevermind, I think I'm done).  Meanwhile, when I found this cool and shady spot, I very nearly gave up and carved out my own cave home - that little trickle of water had already done most of the work for me.  The fact that there was actually nothing to eat anywhere nearby, though, provided enough motivation for me to keep moving my feet.

That said, I just want to state that this hike is a lot longer than people make it out to be.  If you hike from Goreme to Uchisar it's 3.8 kilometers, and supposedly the hike from Love Valley to Uchisar is 4.4 kilometers.  The catch, though, is that you have to hike a ways north of Goreme to get to the trail head - a whole 4.7 kilometers.  And in case you're wondering why we were trying to get to Uchisar, it's a natural fortification that was used to watch over the surrounding valleys.  Unfortunately I can't tell you anything else about it because by the time we finally got there I had given up, choosing to sit on the big leather couch in the cafe we went to get Engrish coffee from.  Maybe if some enterprising soul had set up a restaurant right where we came out of the valley - or hell, was just selling water - I could have rallied, but no.  We had to keep going from there, and even after another 20 minutes of walking we hadn't hit a restaurant.  Eventually a man at the roadside souvenir stall offered to drive us into Uchisar, but by then my spirit was crushed.  After Engrish had a look around the town we cabbed it back to Goreme, killing time drinking coke and beer before dinner at a place called Soffy's Kitchen.  What was for dinner?  Eggplant, of course***

*In case you are gullible - the shape of the fairy chimneys is due to erosion NOT carving.  There IS a valley made out of red stone, though the red stone is apparently harder and doesn't erode OR carve as easily.

**I stole her hat about halfway through.  I'm a redhead, 'nuff said.  

***PSYCH - I definitely wasn't done, I mean, it would have been a crime if I hadn't fit an eggplant joke in somewhere.