It's not the Heat...
...it's the humidity.
Between getting lost on my run and falling on my ass, yesterday got off to a bad start. I think jet lag and the nasty weather had finally gotten the best of me, and the fall just sent me on a downward spiral. I spent the afternoon reading a John Grisham novel with my foot elevated and iced – not exactly the ideal way to spend a vacation, no matter where you are.
However, our evening plans gave me hope. We were going to the New York Grill in the Park Hyatt in Shinjuku (some might remember this Tokyo hot-spot from the movie Lost in Translation). I was very much looking forward to the view from the 52nd floor, if nothing else.
My mood was sour, though, and anyone who knows me knows that my moods can be as stubborn as they are extreme. Even as I made every effort to cheer up and enjoy the night, my mood kept sticking out its lower lip and saying, “No. I hate Tokyo.”
Colleen was, as ever, a sport, and tried to keep the mood light even as we found that the walk from the subway to the Hyatt was much longer than we had anticipated. No big deal under normal circumstances, but in jeans, in Tokyo, it’s a different story.
Tokyo, as Colleen may have mentioned in her own blog, is a little on the humid side. To put it mildly. And I believe I’ve already mentioned my issues with sweating. So, let’s just say, wearing jeans here is a mistake to begin with, and one both Colleen and I had made. Denim in typhoon weather in the Asia Pacific – a nightmare for Tokyo Jo.
By the time we finally found the Park Hyatt, I had blisters on my swollen, sweaty feet from where my favorite, never-gave-me-blisters-before shoes had scraped them raw, and I was beginning to worry that my flesh and jeans had become one, never to be separated. Sweat was streaming down my neck and back, and my face felt like it had been greased with Crisco.
Before we got to the Park Hyatt, when there was still some question as to whether we would in fact find it, I was contemplating changing my ticket for an earlier flight home. I may have been heard to utter something to the effect of, I can't believe anyone lives here! This island isn’t even supposed to be inhabited. Isn't it the just leftover from a land bridge? It shouldn't even exist! Not a direct quote, but you get the idea.
When I caught a glimpse of my damp face and limp hair in the mirrored doors of the elevator on the way up to the New York Grill, I mumbled to Colleen, “It’s a good thing I don’t sweat much.” It was my best attempt at levity, though admittedly a sad one, and Colleen played along, though I suspect she was growing less and less sympathetic. But, hey -- I was miserable. And everybody has their Waterloo. For Colleen, it’s dirty toilets. For me, it’s humidity.
Things turned around as the night progressed. The restaurant was great – all it is cracked up to be, in fact. And we met a charming guy from Australia who entertained us all evening, and even bought us a few drinks.
I do have a bone to pick with him, however, and anyone who wants to back me up on this, feel free. I recently saw a special on great white sharks that launch out of the water. It's amazing. Their entire body breaches the surface. And this came up in conversation -- I have no idea how -- and Mr. Australia thought I was stupid or crazy (or both) for believing such a thing! Now, granted, I may have referred to them initially as "flying sharks," but really, isn't that just semantics?
Anyhoo – breaching shark issue aside, our new friend, with the help of good food, good drinks and a great view, turned the night around. So all was not lost. And we took a cab home. It may have cost a day’s wages to do it, but at that point I would have paid any price to avoid the 30 minute trek to the subway.
Between getting lost on my run and falling on my ass, yesterday got off to a bad start. I think jet lag and the nasty weather had finally gotten the best of me, and the fall just sent me on a downward spiral. I spent the afternoon reading a John Grisham novel with my foot elevated and iced – not exactly the ideal way to spend a vacation, no matter where you are.
However, our evening plans gave me hope. We were going to the New York Grill in the Park Hyatt in Shinjuku (some might remember this Tokyo hot-spot from the movie Lost in Translation). I was very much looking forward to the view from the 52nd floor, if nothing else.
My mood was sour, though, and anyone who knows me knows that my moods can be as stubborn as they are extreme. Even as I made every effort to cheer up and enjoy the night, my mood kept sticking out its lower lip and saying, “No. I hate Tokyo.”
Colleen was, as ever, a sport, and tried to keep the mood light even as we found that the walk from the subway to the Hyatt was much longer than we had anticipated. No big deal under normal circumstances, but in jeans, in Tokyo, it’s a different story.
Tokyo, as Colleen may have mentioned in her own blog, is a little on the humid side. To put it mildly. And I believe I’ve already mentioned my issues with sweating. So, let’s just say, wearing jeans here is a mistake to begin with, and one both Colleen and I had made. Denim in typhoon weather in the Asia Pacific – a nightmare for Tokyo Jo.
By the time we finally found the Park Hyatt, I had blisters on my swollen, sweaty feet from where my favorite, never-gave-me-blisters-before shoes had scraped them raw, and I was beginning to worry that my flesh and jeans had become one, never to be separated. Sweat was streaming down my neck and back, and my face felt like it had been greased with Crisco.
Before we got to the Park Hyatt, when there was still some question as to whether we would in fact find it, I was contemplating changing my ticket for an earlier flight home. I may have been heard to utter something to the effect of, I can't believe anyone lives here! This island isn’t even supposed to be inhabited. Isn't it the just leftover from a land bridge? It shouldn't even exist! Not a direct quote, but you get the idea.
When I caught a glimpse of my damp face and limp hair in the mirrored doors of the elevator on the way up to the New York Grill, I mumbled to Colleen, “It’s a good thing I don’t sweat much.” It was my best attempt at levity, though admittedly a sad one, and Colleen played along, though I suspect she was growing less and less sympathetic. But, hey -- I was miserable. And everybody has their Waterloo. For Colleen, it’s dirty toilets. For me, it’s humidity.
Things turned around as the night progressed. The restaurant was great – all it is cracked up to be, in fact. And we met a charming guy from Australia who entertained us all evening, and even bought us a few drinks.
I do have a bone to pick with him, however, and anyone who wants to back me up on this, feel free. I recently saw a special on great white sharks that launch out of the water. It's amazing. Their entire body breaches the surface. And this came up in conversation -- I have no idea how -- and Mr. Australia thought I was stupid or crazy (or both) for believing such a thing! Now, granted, I may have referred to them initially as "flying sharks," but really, isn't that just semantics?
Anyhoo – breaching shark issue aside, our new friend, with the help of good food, good drinks and a great view, turned the night around. So all was not lost. And we took a cab home. It may have cost a day’s wages to do it, but at that point I would have paid any price to avoid the 30 minute trek to the subway.
posted by jolott at
12:18 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home