Buzz, Buzz, Buzz

So, a brief outline of recent events. First, my haircut.Yeah, I needed one, pretty badly. I’m not sure how most of you in the states go about this procedure, but mine was pretty simple. I would casually stroll into a BoRics, or a Great Clips, or a Hair Cuttery, or what have you, sign in my name, take a seat, flip through the pages of a seven month old Home and Garden, and then be called by either a Russian or a Filipino woman over for a hair cut. I would inform her that I wanted the number three on the sides and the number four on top, and she would briskly proceed to operate the shaver and nick my hair off. A quick brush-up and I would be on my way, having paid $14 for the experience (including a $3 tip). The procedure, from walking into to the door to leaving would take perhaps 10 to 15 minutes, on a good day. Would I be happy with the haircut? Well, it would be ok. Would I be happy with the experience? Well, it would also be just ok, nothing special to speak of.

Enter the Japanese hair cut. Naturally enough, I could not be trusted to find the place myself, so I was guided along by the sweet office lady (every office in Japan has a woman who serves a variety of functions (i.e. making sure the coffee is made, making sure everyone has supplies, etc.)) We got to Hope’s Hair and upon walking in, all the employees were slightly awed by my size. I was immediately (and I mean immediately) shown to my chair and the thingy was placed around my torso. Then this lovely Japanese girl proceeded to shampoo my hair. Then the barber came by and I was trying to diligently explain what exactly I wanted (i.e. #3, #4) but in Japan, the system (naturally) is different; so it took a little while and a number of “haircut magazines” to finally figure out what I wanted. Out came the shaver and away went the hair at the sides. The top (which usually gets the shaver treatment as well) was meticulously cut with scissors. Ok, pretty fast, nice, and easy. Not much difference, and the hair looked ok. I was ready to stand, but then the man says, “Sheburu.” I’m like, what, and he’s like, “sheburu desu ka.” So, I figured, its best to agree and did so. Back comes the girl and begins to oil up my neck, ears, forehead, and then, drumroll, with a tiny razor (a real blade) shaved every available inch of my head that did not have head hair growing on it. Then I soaked in a hot towel for a while, and then she came back to shave my face. Then she clipped my friggin’ nose hairs. Then she shaved the inside of my ears. Oh, my, oh, my. The whole time, I couldn’t restrain my giggling, so she naturally couldn’t restrain hers, except I didn’t have no razor blade in my hand being applied to somebody’s friggin’ eyelids… but there were no casualties. After the shave and another hot soak, she put this thing on her hand (a big, spider looking thing) and it began to vibrate and she game me a head, neck, and shoulder massage (using her hand, which was vibrating). It was insane. Finally she finished, and I’m about to get up. But oh no, not without washing my hair, for the second time within the span of half an hour. Jesus, I have never felt so clean and well shaven and kempt in my life, ever… After a couple of bows and $32 later, I was on my way…thus is the Japanese way of hair cutting. (Again, maybe for some this is a typical procedure, but for me, the contrast between the first and the second paragraphs here should be evident…)

Later came the first night out in the local area. A bunch of us "Amerika-jins" went to this neighborhood spot called Rope, where the mama-san and the papa-san like having foreigners around and charge a ridicuously low price (i.e. 2000Y (~$20) for all you can drink all night, which included all sorts of snacks, etc; even the Japanese get charged around 3000 I think). So, the night got rolling pretty quickly, more mingling and getting to know the local Jet community, as well as some Japanese locals who were also having quite a good time. And then, lo and behold, enter the fact that it is a karaoke bar. The mikes come out and for the rest of the night, there was to be no peace, but continuous singing, usually a Japanese song followed by a Western one (as in any civilized society, we all take turns). Yes, even I sang, although it was the most painful atrocious experience to go through (not for me, naturally, I had a great time, but for those being forced to listen). And the song was? For all you inquiring minds? Yes, the song was Paradise City, by good ole G n' R. Here I thought that I knew the lines (basically a repetition of "Take me out to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty") but no, of course Axl had to add a bunch more, so that was cause of lots of stumbling. But, all in good fun. Anything becomes better with practice. Naturally enough, at closing time, we left and sang our way home through the rice paddies and the light of an almost full moon. Drinking on this particular night, with an early morning awakening necessity, was probably mistake number one for the weekend.

Ok, as objectively as possible, here is what happened next. 9:28 AM, train to Kanazawa station (45 minutes), followed by train to Fukui City (1 hr. 20 min). Brief meal of ramen noodles with pork. Meeting some strangers, a short walk to the bus, meeting more strangers. Getting on the bus, sitting in the back, conversing with fellow Ishikawaites. Multiple stops, some naps, one or two attempts to read, Japanese greenery swooshing by outside. Movies - yes, movies. Almost Famous, followed by School of Rock. Not enough space for feet, nursing a slight hangover. Finally, 8 hours later, arrival. 10:30 pm, exit the bus and the temperature is cool, not cold, not hot, but right there in the middle, I would say upper 50s. So, fleece is put on, hat, gloves prepared, a walking stick bought with some nice bells and a Japanese flag. Off in my Converse I go, first down a gravelly path. A short while later, the incline increases and the true climb begins. It is dark, it groes progressively colder and colder, I am out of layers, but I must keep climbing. One hour, two hours. Still going. Every few hundred meters, there are rest areas and squat toilets, and climbers relaxing. Must keep going. The air is becoming thin, smoking is out of the question, for breathing has become an endeavor unlike any other. And the path varies, steep walk along gravel, climb on jagged rocks, lean against wall for support, but we all keep moving, stopping, catching breath, glancing around, and moving on. Full moon, shining, making up for the dead batteries in the flashlight, which dies ten minutes into the whole thing. Higher and higher, the pain grows, and the questions soon start. Internal monologues that cannot be allowed to take place. To dull the pain and the questioning, I put on the IPOD, hoping that good old Kitaro will make a contribution to the whole thing making sense. Briefly, he seems to do the trick, but soon enough, I discover that it is not so. Up here, it is me, in the rawest form, and the elements of nature. The wind has become very strong, the ground is very far away, and the top is nowhere to be seen. Four hours, five hours, still climb, rest, climb, breathe. There it is, the top, those lights must be the top, there's a cottage up there, that's where I can finally sit, and take in the view, fully. Yes, yes almost there, just around this turn, and ... BOOM

Only 500 meters to go. And, on Fuji, 500 meters is two hours at least. The heart sinks, the lungs shrink, and I am knocked down by the question - WHY. Why am I putting myself through this, is it necessary. The pain and discomfort I am experiencing at this point is the worst I have ever had. Converse and rocks do not mix, there are brief flashes of impending death, as breathing requires immense and focused concentration. And I decided there, that it is a matter of principle, some indefinable principle that propels me forward, deceiving me into believing that I can reach the top. So I plow on... an hour an a half later, with the first glimpse of the dawn, the end looks near (in both senses of that word). But, unexpectdely, comes the Fuji traffic jam. The back up of people on the narrow path has increased so much that virtually no movement is possible. In three columns, the climbers slowly advance, a step here, a step there, but mostly waiting, breathing, trying not to get blown over by the wind or get the small particles of dust, sand, and rock not to end up in the wrong place. An hour goes by and we have covered barely any distance at all. And then, amid screams and shouts, the sun shows itself, above the clouds. Briefly, but fiery, it shines, but no warmth comes out. And what can wee see? Well, nothing. The clouds and mist hang over so thick, you can barely see fifty feet, much less, what is thousands of feet below. Well, there's a brief glimpse, wow. But to catch it on film is nearly impossible. So you keep moving, clinging to the hope that even if there is no view, at least you made it, you climbed Fujisan, the tallest mountain in Japan. It is freezing, and the bus leaves in four hours, while you are standing still 2 miles above ground. The principle fades, and you turn around. There has ceased to be a point, but you still have to make it back down, which in the end turns out to be more difficult, because the converse and the pain act in immense synergy. So, you wind your way around all the determined Japanese who absolutely must reach the top (the principle for them is much stronger), and finally, it clears up enough to see the ground. You look down, and its kilometers of zigzags back and forth, down the steep mountain path. It takes four hours and a walk half way around the mountain to make it back to the bus. It is 10:00 Am. The night has been spent in the cold, dark expanses of Fuji, Fuji which has beaten me and proven to itself that it is not conquerable by just anybody. Back on the bus, I can barely walk, I stretch out, and I sleep. The bus ride back lasts "fifteen minutes," with brief glimpses of Meet the Parents and Three Amigos in between. My body is crying, asking for some horizontal relief, and I cannot do it. Fukui, Kanazawa, Shio, warm bath, and sleep. As I fall asleep that night, I recall the furies of the mountain and I realize that now that its over, it probably was not that bad (a key realization for any event in life.) But at the same time, it was indeed the most trying physical and mental experience of my life to date. I never thought I would be able to get as far as I did, and even though as I write this, my body aches, and at the time I never thought I would say these words, the entire experience is, somehow, incomprehensibly, justifiable and worthwhile. Although the proverb that "A wise man climbs Fuji once, a fool twice" is definitely true. Let us all rest.