We got back from Bhutan yesterday, and while we were immediately grateful for Japan’s efficiency, clean bathrooms, and the great food, we also felt detached from the world we came back to.

Though it was a mere two-week vacation, we feel like we’ve been gone for months. While we were gone, the dollar plunged to around 100 yen, Bear Stearns went bust, and a big riot broke out in Tibet. I realize now how truly disconnected we’ve been.

Before we went to Bhutan, we imagined a magical country and an equally amazing adventure. It was all that we hoped for, but we came back with much more. To answer the question, Patrick’s brother asked us — No, we did not come home as Buddhists. But I think we took something of the Bhutanese spirit back with us.

When we got home, Patrick took one look at his office, and said he wanted to clean it out because there was too much crap. This morning, when it rained, I thought about taking a taxi to work as I often do. But the thought that I would be spending the equivalent of a week’s salary for Chencho on a single ride stopped me from doing so. At the train station, I could have rushed to get on the train that was pulling up, but decided against running to catch it because I can just take the next train, and I would get to work eventually anyway.

I’m certain that as the days go by, we’ll be sucked back into our previous lives, but I hope we do hang onto some of the spirit and values that we took away from Bhutan. I used to think the idea of Gross National Happiness instead of GDP was amusing, but I think I understand it much better. If the little girl at the Bhumtang school asked me now whether I was happy, my answer would still be the same - yes, I am. But I would be more comfortable with my answer now that I have a better sense of why happiness might be all that matters when it comes down to it. As long as you try to do what you can to be happy then the little things won’t matter as much. Thinking about what makes one happy will also help you figure out what is most important to you. It’s not fundamentally different from my past outlook on life, but I’m definately more aware of it.

We may eventually forget a lot of the details about our time in Bhutan, but I think Patrick and I will wonder from time to time what Chencho, Ugyen, Rinzin and all the people we met are up to.

We got up this morning at 6:15 am to see the great scroll of Guru Rimpoche that the Paro Dzong unrolls during its festivals just once a year. It’s supposedly one of the 10,000 things everyone should see before you die, and we’d read that these scrolls, which are hidden away carefully most of the year, are Bhutan’s greatest works of art.

Many of the guests at Aman woke up at 2:30am to see the procession, in which the monks carry the box with it to the Dzong, where they hang it from the top of the temple. The scroll covers the whole side of a building. I wanted to see the procession, but Patrick was reluctant, and I was persuaded by Paul, who expounded on the meaninglessness of non-believers to witness such an event. The scroll was going to be up until 8am, so we went to see it in the morning.

Having seen it, I have to admit that Paul was right. The painting was quite impressive, but it meant nothing to me, though they say that just looking at it cleanses us of our sins, which sounds alright to me. Our guide and driver, on the other hand, were gazing at it solemnly and praying under their breaths. On the way back, I was amused that Ugyen stopped to help a young man, who was struggling to figure out how to put on the cream-colored cloth that all men have to wear on the temple’s grounds. Even in religious Bhutan, it seems some of the young are beginning to lose touch with aspects of their tradition. I was also interested to see that a popular toy for boys at festival time was a toy gun. I even saw a young monk with a toy gun in his hand, and tried to get a photo, but sadly missed the opportunity.

After lazing away the morning, we spent our last afternoon going for a bike ride and playing archery the old-fashioned Bhutanese way. I just watched, but Patrick hit the target three times, which our guide says was the all-time record for any foreigner he’s seen. I’m not sure how true that is. We got a sense of the entertainment aspect of this sport, however. Whenever Patrick missed, Ugyen, who was standing near the target, would tease him about how terrible the shot was, and point at the target to show him where it is. “It’s not here,” he would say, pointing at the air.
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Today was the big day we took our longest hike yet to see Tiger’s Nest, a monastery that hangs on the side of a mountain about 3,000 meters above sea level. It’s the place where Guru Rimpoche is said to have arrived on the back his wife, who he had turned into a flying tigress.

The hike takes a solid two hours on a fairly steep path, as well as more than 600 steps, the first 400, which dip down before you have to climb up to the monastery. This is a must-do hike that everyone who comes to Bhutan does, but it was painful. The stairs, particularly, was my idea of a personal hell. The monastery, however, is beautiful. The original, unfortunately, burnt down in a fire about a decade ago, but they’ve rebuilt it on almost the same exact footprint, and it’s quite amazing that such a structure could be built hundreds of years ago.

Chencho told us that about 25 monks live at the monastery, including a 15-year old cousin of his that we bumped into when we were up there. He looked no older than 10 years old –Patrick later commented that their diet must be such that the teenagers probably don’t hit puberty until their much older than their Western equivalents. Inside the main temple, we prostrated ourselves, and got blessed with holy water by the head lama there.
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Today, we made our way from Punakha to Paro via Thimphu. On our way to Thimphu, Chencho and Ugyen entertained us with more stories. The Bhutanese apparently love practical jokes, and the jokes they play on each other can be a bit extreme.

Chencho was a little upset with Ugyen this morning because Ugyen yelled that Chencho was “fluttering” with other women, while he was on the phone with his wife. Ugyen had to call Chencho’s wife later to apologize, so Chencho could avoid getting the “tiger massage” treatment when he got home. Chencho also told us about how some of the staff snuck a pair of woman’s underwear in his rucksack after a trek before he got home, leaving his wife to find it. The lesson he took away — always make sure to inspect your bags for falsely incriminating evidence before you go home. Ugyen followed by telling us about the time one of the staff was sent on training to Thailand, and there was a big tsunami. Some of the guy’s friends thought it would be amusing to tell his wife that he died. His wife gave several offerings and prayers in mourning before her husband came safely home.

Apparently, there is very little that is sacred with their practical jokes, and the name of the game is often getting the husband in trouble with the wife. I read in one of the guidebooks that marriages can still be fairly informal, and government registrations are suggested, not required. I’m not sure if that has anything to do with it, but my impression is that casual sex is not unusual here.
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We spent the morning, hiking part way to the Punakha Dzong from the lodge, passing by one of the third king’s palace’s on the way. The palace is very modest in size, no bigger than the farmhouse on the Aman property, which itself used to be owned by one of the queens. People are free to walk on a trail that goes through the king’s golf course and right by his stables, where his horses roam freely. Chencho told us that the palace is still used by the fourth and fifth king and once when he was taking a pair of guests through the trail, they actually bumped into the king, who was golfing. He suggested they walk along the side, so he doesn’t hit them. The golf course was the oddest that we’ve seen. The area around each of the holes was covered in asphalt instead of grass. Even though security is clearly not as big of a concern in Bhutan, it’s hard to imagine, any other country where security around the king is as low key as it appears to be here.

The Punakha Dzong is an incredible piece of architecture, half of which is used as government offices, and half of which is a monastery. The inside of the temple had gorgeous drawings of Buddha’s life story. We learned here that the story of Buddha’s birth is similar to Jesus Christ in that he was conceived by a holy spirit. In Buddha’s case, that came in the shape of an elephant, and he was born from his mother’s armpit.

The one thing we were disappointed to witness at the dzong was the ugly tourist syndrome. We saw a woman guest from our lodge, posing in front of the monastery with her shoulders bare, an act that shows utter insensitivity to the culture. We later saw the same woman walk up to two Bhutanese women, who were chatting, and take a photo of them in front of their face without saying a word. It made us feel ashamed about being a fellow tourist.

In the afternoon, we went to the Divine Madman’s Temple, which is otherwise known as the fertility temple. For some reason our guide decided that he would use the word “dick” to explain the three penises that the monks use to bless you. That sent us snickering each time. It wasn’t the most adult moment for either of us.

In the evening, Patrick won yet another game of Scrabble. The winning word was JA, which doesn’t even exist. After unsuccessfully challenging him for days on words I’d never heard of, it totally disgusts me.

But the assistant lodge manager, Artie, had a nice surprise for us. They arranged a private dinner for us in the old kitchen of the farmhouse. I had the most delicious sausage ever, made out of yak, for a starter, followed by the Indonesian rice dish, nasi goreng. I’m falling in love with this chef’s food. Rob, the chef, came and joined us for a drink towards the end, and we had a great time chatting with him. Rob has been here for 7 months. Our guess is that it can get a bit lonely, though he seems to making the most out of his time, and his food is probably the best out of all the Amans we’ve been at. I was even amazed a couple nights ago that the butter tea he had made as part of the Bhutanese dinner was delicious.

Punakha was the first lodge, where we felt like the communal dining thing worked. Though we’re probably the youngest, we’ve met all sorts of interesting people - Brits, Americans, an artist, an orthopedic doctor, a physical therapy docter… We’ll probably be seeing many of them in Paro, where everyone is sure to be to attend the big festival.

We spent the morning on a two-hour hike to Khamsum Yuelley Namgyal Chorten, which was built by one of the queens for the fifth king in 1990. The inside of the stupa was beautiful, albeit fairly new. Chencho explained that the queen built it herself for her son to ensure prosperity and wise governance. Patrick asked if it was built with taxpayer’s money, but this was treading into dangerous waters. Chencho was adamant that it was her very own money that she earned from running a women’s organization, but I agree with Patrick that it’s probably unlikely that’s the case. But as long as the people aren’t complaining, who are we to say anything?
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We spent 6 hours in a car to get from Bhumtang to Punakha. I’m still disappointed that we weren’t able to buy honey in Bhumtang, which is known for it, because it’s out of season and the stores were completely sold out. I’ve been reading Michael Pollan’s “In Defense of Food,” which advocates eating seasonally, but I had no idea until now that even honey has a season.
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Today we went to Tang Ugyen Chholing, which required a bumpy hour’s drive on an unpaved dirt path with lots of rocks. The ride was uncomfortable at best, but on the way, we went through a village that was celebrating something to do with Guru Rinpoche, and having an archery competition with old-fashioned bows and arrows.

It was almost straight out of Katie Hickman’s book. The men were roaring drunk, and shooting at targets that were 150 yards away. We watched on the sidelines and we could see what she meant about the craziness of watching drunk men shoot arrows and trusting them not to hit you. They were, however, good-natured. An old woman sang a song as we got out of a car – we think it was that traditional song that women sing before or during such competitions. Then a friendly, but very drunk man offered us homemade bangchang, the buckwheat alcohol that we also had at the farmhouse yesterday. This one was served to us in a plastic bucket, and you could see some specks of dirt or something floating in it. Trusting that alcohol will kill bacteria, I had a sip, and Patrick finished off most of the rest of it. We seem okay so far, so no harm done. After our guide and driver had a couple rounds of archery, we took off for the most pleasant hike, on a perfect day, overlooking one of the prettiest valleys I’ve ever seen.

I finished the day with a nice massage and a pleasant dinner. It was one of the most ideal days here. I’ve so completely lost track of days here that I was startled to realize that today was Saturday, and we’ve been on vacation for a week.

What we thought would be just a pleasant bike ride today turned out to be quite an adventure. We went to a place called Ura Valley, and the idea was that we would take the car as well as the luggage truck, with our bikes loaded, to the top of the valley, and bike down into the villages, which is known to be the first Bhutanese village. Then the car and truck were to take us back up to the top, and we were to cycle down back to the hotel going the other way.

Midway, though, Ugyen had a surprise for us. We were going to have lunch at a farmhouse that belonged to the family of his former assistant when he was driving a truck. Ugyen has taken them rice and chilis when he passes by, and they are very fond of him. So we took our picnic lunch into the house, where they showed us into the alter room, where Bhutanese families would typically invite guests. We sat on mats and had lunch.
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We arrived in Bhumtang yesterday – Ugyen’s hometown. We got up this morning at 7am because I had asked to visit a school, which started at 8:15am. We got there to find the children hard at work, cleaning the school. At 8:45am, they gathered in the schoolyard for the daily assembly. The school has about 900 students in grades 1 through 8. Assembly started with a prayer for wisdom and two presentations by a student – one in English and the other in Dzongka. Finally, a student raised the flag of Bhutan and they all sang the national song. The presentations are apparently rotational and each student has to do one once a year.

The principal told us that there are about 50 students per class, but about 90 percent of them go on to higher education, which is pretty impressive. He had visited a school in Canada at some point, and he said he was struck by the informality between teachers and students there. He said they put distance between students and teachers in Bhutan, which is good in some ways, but also makes it difficult for students to confide in their teachers when they have problems. He said they were also trying to get rid of corporal punishment.
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Today we made the 5-hour trip from Thimpu to Gangtey. We started out with a blessing for a safe journey by a monk, who chanted something, tied a white piece of string around our neck and gave each of us a little holy water to drink and put on our heads. We were told to keep the string around our neck for three days. Being superstitious, I plan on doing just that.

Patrick and I are definitely feeling the altitude. Gangtey is about 3,000 meters above sea level and the two passes we have to go through to get there are even higher. Even a short hike up a hill puts me out of breath, I have a low-grade headache, and I feel tired and a bit oxygen deprived. The only consoling thought is that running will hopefully be easier when we get back to Tokyo.
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The day started with a little morning tea called ngaja, a Bhutanese milk tea (tea, milk, sugar) that was brought to our room. Bliss! We haven’t experienced this since we were in Sri Lanka, and I’ve already decided that we will order this every morning (Patrick could care less). To me, nothing makes me feel more pampered on vacation than a hot cup of tea while looking at the view outside in your bathrobe.
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We woke up bleary-eyed at the Novotel airport hotel in Bangkok after landing at midnight the night before and getting just 3 hours of sleep, but the trip started out as magical and exotic as promised even before we got to Bhutan.

After we boarded our early morning Druk Air flight, the flight attendant welcomed the Royal Highness, ladies and gentlemen. Apparently, we were sharing our flight with a Bhutanese princess, though we never saw her on the plane. The flight, we found out, was also to make a stopover in a place called Dhaka, which gave us our first (and only) glimpse of Bangladesh. We were struck by the tremendous poverty just looking out the window. Then 20 minutes before we landed in Bhutan, the pilot told us to look outside the windows on the left side. We did, and there was Mount Everest in all of its glory. I never thought I’d see Mt. Everest and since I’m not a climber, it’s probably the closest I’ll get to it. Finally, when we landed, we saw a small group of officials standing and rolling out the red carpet for the princess. I still can’t figure out where she was sitting because she wasn’t in first class with us. My best guess is that she had a special seat in the cockpit with the pilots.
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Japan is the land of harmony, or “wa”. One of the most important traits for everyone to live peacefully in such a small country is to make sure that you don’t cause conflict or stand out too much. But I’m learning that it doesn’t necessarily mean that you can’t get your way, or you have to give in to people. It just means that you have to figure out way to get what you want without being confrontational. I learned about one useful technique to accomplish this at my kimono-wearing lesson this past weekend.

I had bought a beautiful antique obi (the thing that you tie around yourself at the waist) to go with my yellow kimono several months ago, but when I was finally ready to start practicing with it this weekend, my teacher discovered that it was a little too short. She suggested that I go to a kimono shop that she knows to get it lengthened, which you can do by adding other material to the parts that will be hidden when you tie it into an elaborate bow.

After she gave me all the information about what I should ask them to do, she had one last piece of advice for me. She said to me, “They are very fair at the shop, and they won’t try to cheat you, but they are running a business, so they’re going to try and sell you other stuff. Don’t buy anything else. Just tell them that you already have a lot of kimonos and accessories that were passed down from your mother.”

She then quoted a Japanese saying that essentially meant “sometimes it’s necessary to lie.” It gives white lies a whole new meaning.

The New York Philharmonic held a concert in North Korea earlier this week, and the Wall Street Journal focused its story on the spontaneous five-minute applause that occurred at the end of the concert, where there was a lot of clapping, waving and even cheering. The article went on to talk about the lengths that the North Korean government went to in order to prepare for the visitors, and the connections that the musicians felt with the attendees, even as it mentioned the political issues.

By contrast, it was interesting to watch this morning’s news on Japanese television, where there was no mention of the encores at the end, but showed face after face of grim-faced North Koreans during the concert, clapping solemnly. The Japanese network used the images as a way to point out that North Koreans were just acting according to instructions by the government, and how some of the tenseness (and Kim Jong-Il’s lack of appearance) reflected the problems of U.S.-North Korea relations. That evolved into a discussion about how screwed up things were.

Everyone knows that there’s no such thing as impartial coverage, but I found it to be an interesting example where this was very evident. The truth might be somewhere in the middle of the two interpretations, but I was startled by the degree of manipulation on the Japanese network.

There are some things I will never understand about Japan no matter how long I live here. One of those things is the relative freedom people here seem to feel about pointing out physical attributes. It’s fairly normal here for variety show MCs on television to talk about the size of a young female celebrity’s breasts, and the women themselves will sometimes even start a conversation about it.

But it’s not only on television. It seems that one of things that people here think is a sign of affection or friendliness is to comment on someone’s weight. That’s not a problem if you’ve lost weight, but that’s not necessarily always the case. I was in the elevator of my office building last week, when two guys (colleagues?) bumped into each other for the first time in a long time. After the initial “long time no see” greetings, one guy pleasantly asks the other, “Did you gain weight?” The other guy replied laughing — “Yeah, I did, and I’ve even bought a snack right now.”

I was trying to come up with any scenario in the U.S. where that kind of question would be appropriate.

Today was my grandfather’s 49 day memorial service. As the kindly priest explained it, people used to bury their dead right away to avoid decay and family members would visit the grave every 7 days for four weeks. Since cremation became popular and as people have started to die, not in their homes, but elsewhere, the ashes are kept in the home so the dead can rest at home for awhile before they go to “the other side”.

I’m a Catholic so I don’t quite understand everything about the ceremony, but it was clear that most of my relatives didn’t either. I find most religious ceremonies to be spiritual and this priest had a great chanting voice, but I was worried about having to sit with my feet tucked under me, which can be very painful if you’re not used to it. Fortunately, modernization had helped take care of that problem. Since the last time I attended a Buddhist ceremony, it appears they discovered stools.

Bagels are one of those things that the Japanese don’t understand. We’ve come along way from the awful bagel-shaped bread that they used to call bagels, and there are semi-decent bagels to be found here, mainly through frozen H&H bagels or a chain called Bagel & Bagel, though a New Yorker would probably call that a gross overstatement. Still they’re okay in a pinch. What I can’t stand are restaurants that sell bagels but totally don’t get how they’re eaten.

I was at a cafe called Zoka in Akasaka Mitsuke this morning for a German lesson, and I ordered a blueberry bagel for breakfast. I made sure they could toast it beforehand. They told me yes. Literally 10 seconds later, I get a slightly warm bagel, completely unbrowned. I ask them why they can’t toast it, and they re-toast it. Another 10 seconds later, I get a slightly warmer bagel, still untoasted. Now I ask you, who eats a warmed untoasted bagel? They really should be banned from selling bagels if they don’t understand how a bagel should be eaten. The Japanese talk about issuing sushi certification. Maybe New York should consider issuing bagel certification.

I really hate Japan right now. I needed to get my passport renewed so I went to the Passport office bright and early this morning. Before I went, I carefully checked the Web site to make sure that I had everything because I know by now that there’s a lot of documents that you need to prepare. Armed with my passport photo, my current passport, my hanko (chop) just in case, and a self-addressed stamped postcard (which they require you to provide because they can’t spare the expense of mailing you a notification card), I arrived at the office, determined to zip in and zip out.

No such luck. Of course, the one item, they won’t provide online is the renewal form. And of course, that requires the one piece of information that I didn’t have — the address of my official registry. And of course, this is the day that no one in my family, who knows, is reachable. And now I have to go back.

Damn Japanese bureaucracy.

I just spent the last week doing a crazy reporting tour around Europe, going to Dublin, Lund (Sweden via Copenhagen Airport), London and then back to Berlin late Friday. I’m not eager to do something like this again for awhile, given that my first day started out with an 11-hour delay, but it was definately an interesting trip. With the caveat that I had very limited experience in some of the countries, here is what I discovered:

Dublin: It’s a charming city, and the Guiness here is really that good — it’s the only glass of beer I’ve ever had where I’ve finished the whole thing. My Irish companion, whose father used to build Guiness breweries around the world, swears that it’s highly recommended for pregnant women because it contains lots of iron. However, their bathroom doors have no coat hooks to hang your purse and their airline, Aer Lingus, sucks. Not only was the delay unacceptable, they were horrible at keeping you informed of what’s going on. My flight that should’ve landed at noon, landed at 11:30pm. The only thing that can make it worse is traveling with a plane full of patient, cheery Irish people. I waited for a U.S.-style riot in vain.

Copenhagen: Even more precise then Germans. I was informed at baggage claim that bags would arrive in exactly 11 minutes, and on the way back out, there was a sign at security that said the wait in line would be exactly 7 minutes long. Their bathrooms, thank god, did have coat hooks, and they’ve got pretty decent airport shopping but on the minus side, they don’t sell Danishes at the airport. I looked. I can’t really tell you any more than that because I only saw the airport. (Question: does this count as having been to Denmark? Is it kosher to mark Denmark as “been there” on my Facebook map?)

Lund: This is a town on the southern tip of Sweden. We were warned that there was absolutely nothing to do here, but we found Lund to be a lovely university town — a bit like Northampton, Mass., but without the hippies. I also actually had one of my best meals on the trip here, which I’m ashamed to admit was a surprise (When I think Sweden, I think Ikea and their yummy Swedish meatballs).

London: So insanely expensive that converting everything into dollars can make you physically ill. I paid about $70 for a round-trip train ticket to and from Stansted airport into the city, $12 for a quick lunch of a Cornish pasty (meat filled pastry) and a diet coke, $20 for a disposable camera (though they were on a 2-for-1 sale), and nearly $300 for a plain hotel room. I treated myself to tea at the Ritz, and I can’t even think about how much I paid for that. Bathroom doors here also have no coat hooks, which makes going to the bathroom with a coat and a purse a challenge if you don’t want to set it down on the floor. I’m also convinced that British keyboards have an extra key on the second row because I kept hitting the percent key or something when I wanted to hit return. I guess British fingers are longer? All in all, it was a beautiful city, but I don’t think I can go back unless we become multi-millionaires. Which would also be important because I would need to get cosmetic surgery to lengthen my fingers.