It seems that there is but one topic of conversation in Japan, regardless of the season, and that by learning a few simple phrases, one could be a knowledgeable - even an incredibly skilled - conversationalist should one master them.
The integral phrases are as follows:
熱いですね。 (It's hot, isn't it.)
寒いですね。 (It's cold, isn't it.)
There are also variations which can be mastered for those in-between times of the year when the weather has suddenly gotten hot, or is getting hot, and likewise for cold.
熱くなってきた。 (It has gotten hot.)
熱くなっていく。 (It is getting hot.)
寒くなってきた。 (It has gotten cold.)
寒くなっていく。 (It is getting cold.)
There are other phrases which can be used to account for the vagaries of weather, such as humidity, rain, snow, storms, typhoons, wind and the like, but by and large, one could exist in Japan and never venture beyond the quintessential declarations about the obvious hotness or coldness of the day.
As it is currently summer, I am being inundated with "熱いですね"s and queries about how the weather is in Canada, as surely it is not this hot, to which I reply that in some places, it is. But not where I am from.
The thing I can't get over is how often the person who is making the statement is dressed inappropriately for the weather -- either wearing trousers and long sleeves in the summer, or only wearing a long-sleeved shirt and trousers in the winter, rather than a sweater layered with long underwear. At least, dressed inappropriately until the official start of summer or winter has passed. While typing this, I have had 3 different people comment to me that, "It is hot, isn't it." And I fully expect to hear the same at least 9 more times today, or somehow, I will not feel complete.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Monday, June 27, 2005
Rainy Season
June in Japan is the designated season of rain, but this does not include typhoons, as they are special enough to have acquired their own special time of the year. According to a Japanese person, should you be so inclined to ask, rainy season starts on June first and ends on June thirtieth. And why not, in a country where people don't generally start camping or swimming in the ocean until it is technically summer (never mind the weather) and where heaters are not brought out of hiding until at least November, no matter how cold you may be.
So far, it has not been much of a rainy season. It poured once or twice at the beginning of June, and again about two weeks ago, but that has been the extent of it so far. There was one night recently when I went jogging, and it wasn't raining so much as it seemed to be the air had turned into droplets of water, and were remaining in a state of suspension as they were not falling, but were definitely heavier than a mist.
On Saturday it hit thirty-five degrees, driving me out of my apartment in search of sudare blinds, hoping to find some feeble way of stopping the sun from trying to cook me alive in my own home. I came home with half a dozen which barely fit in my car, and have suspended them around my garden and other areas in the hopes that I will not awaken at 4:30am when the sun starts appearing over the local mountains.
This morning I awoke at 5:00am instead, which was a slight improvement, but that was due more to the winds gusting through, causing the hi-hat to clang discordantly. At 6:00am I re-awakened to the sound of sirens blaring from the roof of the nearby town offices. I suppose I am grateful that the don't change the time of the siren to co-ordinate with the sunrise, however I would be infinitely more grateful should someone (perhaps me) should make it up there with wire snips and other nefarious tools of silence.
So far, it has not been much of a rainy season. It poured once or twice at the beginning of June, and again about two weeks ago, but that has been the extent of it so far. There was one night recently when I went jogging, and it wasn't raining so much as it seemed to be the air had turned into droplets of water, and were remaining in a state of suspension as they were not falling, but were definitely heavier than a mist.
On Saturday it hit thirty-five degrees, driving me out of my apartment in search of sudare blinds, hoping to find some feeble way of stopping the sun from trying to cook me alive in my own home. I came home with half a dozen which barely fit in my car, and have suspended them around my garden and other areas in the hopes that I will not awaken at 4:30am when the sun starts appearing over the local mountains.
This morning I awoke at 5:00am instead, which was a slight improvement, but that was due more to the winds gusting through, causing the hi-hat to clang discordantly. At 6:00am I re-awakened to the sound of sirens blaring from the roof of the nearby town offices. I suppose I am grateful that the don't change the time of the siren to co-ordinate with the sunrise, however I would be infinitely more grateful should someone (perhaps me) should make it up there with wire snips and other nefarious tools of silence.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Shine On You Crazy Diamond
Shiners really. On Sunday, I decided to do my part for the community -- well, a community, even if it wasn't mine. I went to Nichinan and volunteered for a day at "World School" which sounds far grander than it really is.
Steve, who lives there, organizes a day for his students to attend an American style school. They are not required to wear uniforms, everything is conducted primarily in English, although this time both Spanish and Korean classes were on offer, and they have sandwich lunches with the usual snack foods that would accompany such fare at home. The World part of world school comes in with the teachers (who were from Korea, the USA, Canada, and England) and the "curriculum" for lack of a better word. I taught music -- not how to play an instrument or anything, but trying to get the kids to think about the world outside of them by playing music from different countries and having them guess where it is from. That is essentially what happens in all the classes.
The final class of the day was PE. Outside in 27 degree sunshine, with just enough humidity to make it slightly unpleasant, we played -- or attempted to play -- ultimate frisbee. The boys and girls each had a separate field, and we split the kids up into two teams. We tried to explain how to play as well as inject some enthusiasm for the game into the kids. The boys teams got very into the game, despite tearing around the field in long trousers and long-sleeved polyester wonders of PE uniforms, while the girls team, to a girl, were without the uniform, choosing to look stylish in the heat. The looking stylish also meant that no one was inclined to move very much as it might possibly lead to sweating. Helen and I, who joined the girls team, attempted to get the game off to a running start, both charging out onto the field after the first throw of the frisbee, and collided head/face first. Helen's head made a very strong connection with my cheekbone, and I did my best not to cry or curse as I walked slowly off the field. The game continued behind me, as the team I was on proceeded to score.
The team that scored showed some enthusiasm for the game -- likely because they scored -- and carried on while complaining, while the competition carried on while complaining by choosing to move as little as possible. I rejoined the game after the pain receded a wee bit, but my fellow foreign teacher chose to leave the game, and walked off the field with not a word. The girls all desperately wished to do the same. It is very hard to make a match competitive, and to be competitive yourself, when no else wants to be there. As such, I let it go and they all walked off the field.
And I don't even have a shiner to show for it, although my cheek still hurts. In a certain slant of light, you can almost see a slight discolouration, although that is probably wishful thinking as no one at work has mentioned anything, and they surely would.
Steve, who lives there, organizes a day for his students to attend an American style school. They are not required to wear uniforms, everything is conducted primarily in English, although this time both Spanish and Korean classes were on offer, and they have sandwich lunches with the usual snack foods that would accompany such fare at home. The World part of world school comes in with the teachers (who were from Korea, the USA, Canada, and England) and the "curriculum" for lack of a better word. I taught music -- not how to play an instrument or anything, but trying to get the kids to think about the world outside of them by playing music from different countries and having them guess where it is from. That is essentially what happens in all the classes.
The final class of the day was PE. Outside in 27 degree sunshine, with just enough humidity to make it slightly unpleasant, we played -- or attempted to play -- ultimate frisbee. The boys and girls each had a separate field, and we split the kids up into two teams. We tried to explain how to play as well as inject some enthusiasm for the game into the kids. The boys teams got very into the game, despite tearing around the field in long trousers and long-sleeved polyester wonders of PE uniforms, while the girls team, to a girl, were without the uniform, choosing to look stylish in the heat. The looking stylish also meant that no one was inclined to move very much as it might possibly lead to sweating. Helen and I, who joined the girls team, attempted to get the game off to a running start, both charging out onto the field after the first throw of the frisbee, and collided head/face first. Helen's head made a very strong connection with my cheekbone, and I did my best not to cry or curse as I walked slowly off the field. The game continued behind me, as the team I was on proceeded to score.
The team that scored showed some enthusiasm for the game -- likely because they scored -- and carried on while complaining, while the competition carried on while complaining by choosing to move as little as possible. I rejoined the game after the pain receded a wee bit, but my fellow foreign teacher chose to leave the game, and walked off the field with not a word. The girls all desperately wished to do the same. It is very hard to make a match competitive, and to be competitive yourself, when no else wants to be there. As such, I let it go and they all walked off the field.
And I don't even have a shiner to show for it, although my cheek still hurts. In a certain slant of light, you can almost see a slight discolouration, although that is probably wishful thinking as no one at work has mentioned anything, and they surely would.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Betty Crocker Reincarnated
This is not to suggest I think I am as good a cook as Betty Crocker ever was, but merely to make a note of how much I have been cooking lately. I seem to go through phases where I am inspired to take up the spatula and then am once again satisfied with whatever I can pick up at my neighbourhood convenience store.
Currently, my efforts belong to the inspired category. I blame it on the chocolate devil's food cake I made a couple of weeks ago. Actually, to be precise, it was 3 chocolate devil's food cakes. I have a small oven, and a smaller pan, which means I didn't trust the cake not to rise up over the edge of my pan should I pour all the batter in. Thus I ended up with 3 chocolate cakes. The next weekend, I baked brownies. Or 3 brownie cakes/pies.
Somewhere in between all the chocolate came a salad with grilled chicken (the chicken cooked up with sundried tomatoes) and a simple balsamic vinagreitte. This was accompanied by a Moroccan vegetable stew over couscous. Half of which has ended up in the freezer in advance of when the inspiration leaves me.
Quesadillas (for lack of a better word) were next -- tortilla shells piled high with freshly cut up peppers, olives, tomatoes and buried under torrents of cheese. I even made a scrambled egg wrap last weekend with what was left of the tortillas, vegetables grilled in some lemon pepper and other spices.
A mexican-style casserole has also made it into the mix -- as well as the freezer. Kidney beans, pinto beans, tomatoes, olives, green peppers, ground beef grilled in taco seasonings, tomato sauce, salsa, cheese, paprika, chili powder...
The other night, stuffed peppers. Filled to overflowing with grilled vegetables in an olive oil and red wine vinaigrette mixed with green peppercorns, oregano, rosemary and more, blended with couscous and feta cheese. As good as they were, I found I liked my stuffing more than the whole peppers and fixed up some more of the vegetables last night to bury my remaining stuffing in. I don't think this will make it into the freezer.
I blame the original inspiration to cook on a friend's mother. When visiting New Zealand, I and a friend were invited to stay with Henley's family over Christmas, and the things that Mary whipped up were fantastic. Just watching her throw a few ingredients together that turned into these gorgeous but simple meals were what started it all. I can't say the inspiration is constant though, as my fascination seems to wax and wane in correlation to what other things I am currently interested in. Presently, cooking is holding forth.
Sometimes I am frightened by my domestic tendencies.
Currently, my efforts belong to the inspired category. I blame it on the chocolate devil's food cake I made a couple of weeks ago. Actually, to be precise, it was 3 chocolate devil's food cakes. I have a small oven, and a smaller pan, which means I didn't trust the cake not to rise up over the edge of my pan should I pour all the batter in. Thus I ended up with 3 chocolate cakes. The next weekend, I baked brownies. Or 3 brownie cakes/pies.
Somewhere in between all the chocolate came a salad with grilled chicken (the chicken cooked up with sundried tomatoes) and a simple balsamic vinagreitte. This was accompanied by a Moroccan vegetable stew over couscous. Half of which has ended up in the freezer in advance of when the inspiration leaves me.
Quesadillas (for lack of a better word) were next -- tortilla shells piled high with freshly cut up peppers, olives, tomatoes and buried under torrents of cheese. I even made a scrambled egg wrap last weekend with what was left of the tortillas, vegetables grilled in some lemon pepper and other spices.
A mexican-style casserole has also made it into the mix -- as well as the freezer. Kidney beans, pinto beans, tomatoes, olives, green peppers, ground beef grilled in taco seasonings, tomato sauce, salsa, cheese, paprika, chili powder...
The other night, stuffed peppers. Filled to overflowing with grilled vegetables in an olive oil and red wine vinaigrette mixed with green peppercorns, oregano, rosemary and more, blended with couscous and feta cheese. As good as they were, I found I liked my stuffing more than the whole peppers and fixed up some more of the vegetables last night to bury my remaining stuffing in. I don't think this will make it into the freezer.
I blame the original inspiration to cook on a friend's mother. When visiting New Zealand, I and a friend were invited to stay with Henley's family over Christmas, and the things that Mary whipped up were fantastic. Just watching her throw a few ingredients together that turned into these gorgeous but simple meals were what started it all. I can't say the inspiration is constant though, as my fascination seems to wax and wane in correlation to what other things I am currently interested in. Presently, cooking is holding forth.
Sometimes I am frightened by my domestic tendencies.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Articles of Faith
I went back to Kinka quasi-mountain on Saturday and made it all the way up to the shrine. As rainy season has started, it was no surprise to find that it had rained the night before, and as such the precarious trail was rather slippery, since little light reaches the forest floor. I had worn practical shoes however, so it helped a bit.
At the shrine, I sat and enjoyed the view of surrounding mountains for a while and thought about the serious dedication required to build a shrine on the top of a mountain. Even if all the wood were cut from trees off the top, the builders would still have had to cut and plane the wood, as well as bringing up supplies not made of wood. Your devotion must be beyond testing if you are able to successfully complete such an undertaking.
While making my way down the trail, I began to wonder why it is I often, if not aways, visit churches, shrines, and places of worship in countries I visit. In Italy, Spain, France, Thailand and now Japan I often choose to go to the places of worship -- but never for the faith. Often because of the history and art, the detail given to the construction, the simple lines or the beautiful locations that they often possess. I am always amazed at the time, detail, devotion and money that often went into constructing these edifices. But I think I am more satisfied by the small mountaintop shrines than I am with the large, historical, tourist trap cathedrals that dot Europe. I am constantly fascinated with the ubiquitousness of shrines here, as you can turn down a crowded street in the middle of a helter skelter city and stumble across a miniature buddha, or climb a secluded mountain only to discover many people have done so before and with far better reasons, or they can do what I did yesterday afternoon -- take a walk around town and as you climb a narrow road, look to your right and see a dugout in the side of the hill where two concrete buddhas wait silently, hands raised in prayer.
At the shrine, I sat and enjoyed the view of surrounding mountains for a while and thought about the serious dedication required to build a shrine on the top of a mountain. Even if all the wood were cut from trees off the top, the builders would still have had to cut and plane the wood, as well as bringing up supplies not made of wood. Your devotion must be beyond testing if you are able to successfully complete such an undertaking.
While making my way down the trail, I began to wonder why it is I often, if not aways, visit churches, shrines, and places of worship in countries I visit. In Italy, Spain, France, Thailand and now Japan I often choose to go to the places of worship -- but never for the faith. Often because of the history and art, the detail given to the construction, the simple lines or the beautiful locations that they often possess. I am always amazed at the time, detail, devotion and money that often went into constructing these edifices. But I think I am more satisfied by the small mountaintop shrines than I am with the large, historical, tourist trap cathedrals that dot Europe. I am constantly fascinated with the ubiquitousness of shrines here, as you can turn down a crowded street in the middle of a helter skelter city and stumble across a miniature buddha, or climb a secluded mountain only to discover many people have done so before and with far better reasons, or they can do what I did yesterday afternoon -- take a walk around town and as you climb a narrow road, look to your right and see a dugout in the side of the hill where two concrete buddhas wait silently, hands raised in prayer.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Another View
Some fellow foreign freaks in the area are putting together an art show of works by... fellow foreign freaks. The show will be called "Another View," and held on the top floor of a local department store. (Consumerism and art always go so well together.) It will be showing for a week, open to the Japanese public, should they wish to express an interest in foreigners' artistic points of view about the country we are temporarily residing in. I have been thinking about submitting a sketch or two or something along that lines, but I just now received an email from one of the co-ordinators and it specified that I should "let them know what the piece is, and send in a short bio." I am now feeling slightly daunted. I have some pictures I have drawn which are pretty good, but they are generally quite small and I fear that should I try to redraw it larger, I will lose the original quality which made the first version good. Having attempted to do so before, I am well aware that it is easy to lose the inspiration that made it work the first time. Perhaps I shall just take the sketch down off the wall in my apartment and hand it in as is. It shall be called "Royal Soul" and the the bio shall be ... I would prefer to leave it out. It feels like I am being forced to justify myself or my sketch or my interest in art in some way.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Squat Where You Are
The other day I saw two men having a conversation in front of the shed at the school. They had both squatted down in the shade and carried on for quite a few minutes. I myself haven't mastered it for extended periods of time, and I don't actually think my body is capable of doing it.
Something that I have noticed a lot of Japanese people can do is to squat flat footed. The best I can do is one leg on my toes, and the other flat footed, but generally I am balanced on the fronts of both feet. Perhaps more yoga will help.
Once, when in Okayama with Katherine, we were waiting at a streetlight when an elderly obachan came along. She too was waiting to cross, and chose to squat down to do so. She was very small -- I thought I could put her in my pocket and carry her if need be -- and hunched over like she was about to start planting rice at any moment. I sincerely doubt she was physically capable of straightening out, and as such, it was probably more comfortable for her to crouch at our knees.
Drink your milk, eh?
Something that I have noticed a lot of Japanese people can do is to squat flat footed. The best I can do is one leg on my toes, and the other flat footed, but generally I am balanced on the fronts of both feet. Perhaps more yoga will help.
Once, when in Okayama with Katherine, we were waiting at a streetlight when an elderly obachan came along. She too was waiting to cross, and chose to squat down to do so. She was very small -- I thought I could put her in my pocket and carry her if need be -- and hunched over like she was about to start planting rice at any moment. I sincerely doubt she was physically capable of straightening out, and as such, it was probably more comfortable for her to crouch at our knees.
Drink your milk, eh?
Monday, June 06, 2005
Granny Included
At Diane and Hiro's on Friday night, I was told of the latest adventures in house-hunting. They had seen a property that looked excellent on paper -- an older house, built during WWII (which means the owners were either very very poor or very very rich) which came with a large lot of land surrounding the house. When the open house rolled around, they eagerly visited the property.
The land was as large as they had thought it would be, however it also had a number of outbuildings on the property that nearly completely filled the lot. There were storage sheds, a second small house, and even a detached tea room, surrounding a miniscule patch of garden. The house itself was a fair size, with 4 large tatami rooms downstairs which could easily be converted into one by taking out the screens between, and 2 tatami rooms upstairs which seemed to be the guest rooms -- with the very ornate scroll work stretching the width of the 2 rooms over the paper screen doors.
The woman that lived in the house was in her seventies and was looking to move to Osaka as her children were there and she wanted to be closer to them. Apparently she was a fairly energetic seventy year old grandma, who took pride in showing the house to these two strangers. Diane was first startled by the samurai suit of armour standing in a corner of the genkan, then fell in love with the engawa, which are hallways that run across the front of the house, creating a space between the rooms and the outer windows. (During a jog last night, I concluded that those hallways are for the very specific purpose of drying laundry, as rainy season has started and what else are you to do with it?) She was also very impressed by the tea room as it had it's own building with a short step to the main house.
She was slightly less impressed by the toilet. Being built during the war as the house was, it is really more of an outhouse in style -- a board with a hole in it that you squat over. However, according to granny, it was somewhat poorly constructed as when you stand, you naturally lean forward, which means you hit your forehead on the wall in front of you.
The other drawback to the property was the older grandmother it included. In the little house on the back lot lived a ninety year old woman who was either a stepmother or mother-in-law to the woman in the house. As such, she would not be moving to Osaka. It was expected that whoever bought the property would buy the land under the second house, but not the house itself. The tenant would pay rent for the property and ostensibly live there until she died. Naturally Diane was concerned that this would mean the purchasers would have to assume some level of responsibility for the old woman, such as checking to make sure she hadn't died during the winter and such.
Curiously enough, they lost interest in the property.
The land was as large as they had thought it would be, however it also had a number of outbuildings on the property that nearly completely filled the lot. There were storage sheds, a second small house, and even a detached tea room, surrounding a miniscule patch of garden. The house itself was a fair size, with 4 large tatami rooms downstairs which could easily be converted into one by taking out the screens between, and 2 tatami rooms upstairs which seemed to be the guest rooms -- with the very ornate scroll work stretching the width of the 2 rooms over the paper screen doors.
The woman that lived in the house was in her seventies and was looking to move to Osaka as her children were there and she wanted to be closer to them. Apparently she was a fairly energetic seventy year old grandma, who took pride in showing the house to these two strangers. Diane was first startled by the samurai suit of armour standing in a corner of the genkan, then fell in love with the engawa, which are hallways that run across the front of the house, creating a space between the rooms and the outer windows. (During a jog last night, I concluded that those hallways are for the very specific purpose of drying laundry, as rainy season has started and what else are you to do with it?) She was also very impressed by the tea room as it had it's own building with a short step to the main house.
She was slightly less impressed by the toilet. Being built during the war as the house was, it is really more of an outhouse in style -- a board with a hole in it that you squat over. However, according to granny, it was somewhat poorly constructed as when you stand, you naturally lean forward, which means you hit your forehead on the wall in front of you.
The other drawback to the property was the older grandmother it included. In the little house on the back lot lived a ninety year old woman who was either a stepmother or mother-in-law to the woman in the house. As such, she would not be moving to Osaka. It was expected that whoever bought the property would buy the land under the second house, but not the house itself. The tenant would pay rent for the property and ostensibly live there until she died. Naturally Diane was concerned that this would mean the purchasers would have to assume some level of responsibility for the old woman, such as checking to make sure she hadn't died during the winter and such.
Curiously enough, they lost interest in the property.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Accidental Climbing
On Sunday I went to Kinka mountain (although, being a west coaster, I often think the use of the word mountain is very liberally applied here, but it defintitely wasn't a hill). I had intended to enjoy a short hike to the top, visiting the shrine, enjoying the view, and following the recommendation of Corinne by "singing the mountains." I had worn my favourite sandals which are incredibly comfortable and often mistaken for slippers by those that see them. I had also packed my sketchbook, water, chocolate and music, should the need for any of the aforementioned arise.
I started through the concrete torii gates and ascended the first stage of mossy, leaf strewn stone steps in disarray. In some places, they no longer appeared to be steps, just errant stones that had tumbled down and happened to come to rest in a level place. The lanterns were still standing part-way up, but appeared to have suffered a little in the last earthquake, perhaps even being re-erected by local devotees. The base of one was all akimbo, while the other had lost a wedge off its hat.
Carrying on, I passed through a wooden torii gate and started to ascend a steep path that soon lost all resemblance to a trail. I chose not to follow the path to the right, as my intention was to make it to the shrine, and how could a trail that does not go through the torii possibly lead to solitude and reverence? It turns out I had chosen the path less travelled as the route rapidly devolved into bushwhacking and rock climbing. I was not appropriately dressed.
After climbing some rock faces and coming to a small secondary shrine-- not the intended -- I was encouraged, and thus ascended the rock in behind, as surely the main shrine couldn't be that much farther? However I was sadly misled as I was confronted with shrubbery that had reclaimed it's ground, and a more foreboding rock and some steep drops. It is possible they weren't all that steep, but as someone who is not an afficionado of heights, they were steep enough to deter me from continuing. I phoned a friend and conveyed my verbal will, told her where to find me if I didn't show up in a few days. I sat at the top of a drop for a few minutes enjoying the birdsongs, and began my slide down (I felt far more comfortable sliding down on my behind than I did trusting my sandals). I came across a wheel. A car wheel. I pondered it's presence, wondering who would be insane enough to cart the whole wheel up to that point, or whether it dropped out of the sky...
And once again, I accidentally climbed a mountain.
I started through the concrete torii gates and ascended the first stage of mossy, leaf strewn stone steps in disarray. In some places, they no longer appeared to be steps, just errant stones that had tumbled down and happened to come to rest in a level place. The lanterns were still standing part-way up, but appeared to have suffered a little in the last earthquake, perhaps even being re-erected by local devotees. The base of one was all akimbo, while the other had lost a wedge off its hat.
Carrying on, I passed through a wooden torii gate and started to ascend a steep path that soon lost all resemblance to a trail. I chose not to follow the path to the right, as my intention was to make it to the shrine, and how could a trail that does not go through the torii possibly lead to solitude and reverence? It turns out I had chosen the path less travelled as the route rapidly devolved into bushwhacking and rock climbing. I was not appropriately dressed.
After climbing some rock faces and coming to a small secondary shrine-- not the intended -- I was encouraged, and thus ascended the rock in behind, as surely the main shrine couldn't be that much farther? However I was sadly misled as I was confronted with shrubbery that had reclaimed it's ground, and a more foreboding rock and some steep drops. It is possible they weren't all that steep, but as someone who is not an afficionado of heights, they were steep enough to deter me from continuing. I phoned a friend and conveyed my verbal will, told her where to find me if I didn't show up in a few days. I sat at the top of a drop for a few minutes enjoying the birdsongs, and began my slide down (I felt far more comfortable sliding down on my behind than I did trusting my sandals). I came across a wheel. A car wheel. I pondered it's presence, wondering who would be insane enough to cart the whole wheel up to that point, or whether it dropped out of the sky...
And once again, I accidentally climbed a mountain.
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