Not me.

I used to joke in my comedy routine that I “work out once a year…January 2nd, when I join a new club.”

golfing with Chris Knight (Peter Brady!)

As with most humor, there’s much truth in this. I’ve signed up for countless fitness clubs, usually after a well-intentioned New Year’s Resolution, and I swear every time it will be a regular commitment, only to fade away and never be seen on their elliptical device again.

Doing waaaaay too much the first day out only encourages poor follow-through. I can’t go back because my muscles need to recover from too much strain. I’m a Philly guy – we don’t ease into anything! I still think I’m in the high school workout room, competing with my buddies to see who can pump the most reps at the highest resistance. How quickly I forget that I’m a middle-aged man who recently pulled a hamstring playing a video game.

After my “orientation” my muscles are so sore I can hardly lift the membership ID from my pocket to flash the front desk greeters. My seemingly shortened arms struggle like a T rex trying scratch its butt.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with my brain when it comes to proving myself in these workout centers, but I go full out and over-do it, trying to impress the club’s trainer whom had just been assigned to me five minutes before. If it’s a good-looking woman, I go even further, with crazed conviction, knowing she will stroke my ego with a “you are amazing for not having worked out in so long” comment. I wait for it with quiet confidence.

Don’t have to tell me she says it to everybody. I know it. But with me I sense she really means it. (Please keep quiet here and allow me to remain in my world of denial.)

Jennifer Grey, my yoga partner

I’ll bust cranial vessels before I set the weight-lifting machines to the upper third of the weight stack. I make lots of guttural grunting noises, which never fail to make female trainers uncomfortable. I’m sure they’d like to encourage me to save some of the moans for the privacy of my bedroom, but the embarrassment is magnified I slip the weights to that loud crashing sound.

Better I crash some steal than pumping a puny 40 pounds from the bench! I’ll be damned if I will be labeled a beginner or, worse, an old man. Hopefully, I’m still decades away from Jazzercize.

One reason I don’t like traditional working out is that I’m goal oriented, and looking buff doesn’t rank high on my list. I’m happily married to a woman who appreciates my “natural” body. She’s earthy and eco friendly and enjoys me being, shall we say, organic.

For me, girls have always been the best motivation for self-improvement, but now that I have a life partner who cares little for what’s on the outside, I’m less driven to focus on my appearance. She prefers thoughtful introspection over bodily inspection, which suits me just fine. Being behind in my meditation ain’t as easy to spot as when my moobs go up a cup size.

When I was single, however, I had a clear agenda – attracting chicks, and body development took me to some alternative places. I dabbled in Pilates, modern dance and spinning – all because I knew the classes were filled with pretty potential paramours.

These trends were not my kind of exercise. I need a score and a winner, and don’t tell me the victory is in the process!

As usual, my phony choices had consequences. One time I heard about this yoga studio in Santa Monica that was loaded with the most beautiful women in L.A. I was given this intel by a good looking female friend, and know that wherever one cutie goes, more will follow. The opposite it true too, where if you have a large lady telling you where she eats, you can bet there will be more hippos at that watering hole.

So, I bought a shiny new mat and met “we’re just friends” Jennifer at the hip and popular studio for my first yoga class.

My body has always been flexible, so I figured this would be a piece of rice cake. A dude who has varsity letters in 3 sports could certainly keep up with a class of girls, and guys who are a coupla hormones short of being one, right? Bending and breathing for an hour. How difficult could it be when one of the featured moves is called “child’s pose?”

My first mistake was deciding to try this for the first time in front of a room full of beauties. If I were a teen virgin, I would not want my initial foray into the go-zone to be with a super model. I’d want to be an experienced and elite lover so she would be driven to come back for more, so the same theory applies when I’m trying to impress in a 5000 year-old mind & body discipline. Three minutes and done will not cut it here.

The second mistakewas not properly vetting the class. Foolishly, I went with the most popular, rather than finding a teacher that taught to my neophyte level.

with my idol, eating champion Kobayashi!

I entered the room with confidence, placing my mat down in a lined up fashion, three feet from the surrounding classmates. I like plenty of room in whatever activity I am taking part in, but this place was a Tokyo studio walkup apartment, whereas I’m used to an A-frame Swiss Chalet with high ceilings.

This place had no air conditioning either. This shoe prefers something open toed, to a size 12 being jammed into a petite lady’s desert boot. Feeling toasty and claustrophobic, I went to open the window to bring in some fresh air, which resulted in an unexpected drop in temp – a cold stare from the room. About ten tight bodies, whose outfits resembled a thin layer of cotton paint, admonished me with a posture I had not expected from a band of Buddha-likes.

Hey, drop the ‘tude, Weeping Willow. Just pray for me…

Apparently, this particular practice of “Bikrham” calls for still atmosphere, sealed windows and temperatures hovering around 110 degrees. Welcome to Dante’s inferno. I know I came for the hotties, but this is ridiculous.

The teacher was a calm and soft-spoken man in his mid forties, and I could visibly see he held rock star status by the flirty look on the girl’s faces. If I could only be his roady, I’d be happy with his cast-offs. If I begin to describe his firm body, it will sound like I’m an author of a romance novel. As me and my old friends say, “I’m not gay, but if I was…”

He began with a simple move of “downward facing dog,” which I’ve pretty much done or been many times in the past. I’m off to a good start.

Then began a series of moves and phrases that were foreign to me. As I recall, there was something that sounded like “ashtanga” or “chatarunga.” I wish they could just keep it in simple terms like, “ok get in that push up position,” but they have to complicate it by using words from ancient Sanskrit.

Freezing on the mid-pushup position appeared easy to me at first. I have done countless pushups in my life where I tally my amount, but in this case I’m doing a half a one and counting the seconds till it’s over. Damn, this is tough stuff! Every moment I held a pose I thought about nothing but pain. It never occurred to me to search within myself for true accomplishment.

Never, and I mean never, have I sweated as much or with such volume as I did on that day. The perspiration rivaled Charlie Sheen taking a paternity test. It literally poured from me as if someone pulled the locks on a dam. Here is the worst part – the noise it made splattering on my mat was a disturbance to the class. You know that sound you hear at the bottom of a rainspout during a storm? Add garlic smell emanating from my pores and trembling arms to the liquid pounding their ears endured, and we have a sensory trifecta that repulsed the entire room.

I wanted the ladies to notice me, but not like this! We are only 10 minutes in on 90 minutes of advanced maneuvers, and I am being seen all right. I’ve never been shushed for sweat noise before! I don’t think this activity usually calls for a spotter, but I needed help in this case, and the teacher gave up even trying to improve my technique. He went through the room, adjusting protruding rear ends, and left me to suffer the consequences of my shallow agenda.

That was the end of my yoga career, and I don’t think I’ve seen Jennifer since. Now I just golf, where there are only two or three witnesses to my failure, plenty of fresh air with fellow player bodies and outfits that make me look like Adonis.

And I’m sure they say the same thing about ME!

Grace Bay Beach, Turks and Caicos

When opting for a beach vacation, the first thing that many travelers think of is beautiful stretches of sand. Both the Caribbean and Hawaii are famous for their beautiful beaches, but some of their greatest sites are actually hidden just a short swim from shore. If you’d like your next beach getaway to come with a side order of adventure, consider these four amazing snorkeling beaches!

Turks and Caicos: Grace Bay Beach, Providenciales
The Turks and Caicos island of Providenciales (“Provo” for short) is home to one of the world’s most beautiful stretches of sand: Grace Bay Beach. Over ten miles of powdery sand are met by translucent turquoise water and teeming coral reefs are just a short distance from shore. For skilled snorkelers or divers, excursions are available to the historic shipwrecks in the island’s surrounding waters.

Hawaii: Hanauma Bay, Oahu
The same volcanoes that have helped shaped Hawaii’s dramatic landscape have also created one of the world’s prize snorkeling destinations: the submerged volcanic crater of Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve. Protected from the open ocean, the coral reefs offer a sheltered haven for the resident tropical fish and snorkelers of every skill level.

The Baths, Virgin Gorda

British Virgin Islands: The Baths, Virgin Gorda
The second-largest of the British Virgin Islands, Virgin Gorda is home to a unique natural phenomenon known as The Baths. Giant boulders dot this stretch of beach, creating underwater caves and seawater pools that offer a completely unique snorkeling experience. While you will probably spot fewer fish here than in nearby Mahoe Bay, you may be lucky enough to spot an octopus or two clinging to the stones.

St. Barts: Anse de Colombier
What it lacks in convenience and amenities, Anse de Colombier more than makes up for with natural beauty. Reachable on foot or by boat, this St. Barts beach is twenty minutes from the nearest road. Slip on your snorkel mask and head for the best fish hiding places along the edges of the cove or stick to the seagrass beds and keep an eye out for sea turtles.

Whether you are planning a trip to Hawaii or the Caribbean, you can’t go wrong with these four amazing beaches. If you’ve been to one of these beaches or another great snorkeling site I’d love to hear about your experiences!

After years working in Montreal’s fashion industry, Katherine Scott has decided to pursue her love of travel writing full-time. As a regular blogger for Luxury Retreats, a leading international private villa rental company, Katherine loves to write about the best beaches in the Caribbean and Hawaii, as well as her favorite luxury travel experiences around the globe.

Texas State Capital building in Austin

Texas began life three centuries ago as a French colony. That’s right, French. Had things gone a bit differently the Texas Governor would be named Remy Perry, dining on snails would be preferred to steak, and Corpus Christi beaches would be crowded with a bunch of hairy, topless women.

France already had Louisiana, though, so didn’t put up much of a fuss when Spain began actively colonizing the area.

When Mexico gained independence from Spain in 1821 Texas became part of Mexico. That was a brief union.

That United States was, at the time, in a bit of an expansionist mood itself. America looked south, licked its chops, and said to Mexico, “You know, if you wouldn’t mind terribly much, we’ll just have that, thank you.”

the new Willie Nelson statue in downtown Austin

As it happened, the Mexicans did mind, and thus ensued the Mexican-American War. Though the war dragged on for nearly two years, it wasn’t because the outcome was ever in doubt. The Mexican army got its clock cleaned at nearly every turn (quick, name one great military victory by Mexico) but they just wouldn’t quite admit defeat, not, at least, until the US captured Mexico City in 1848.

For good measure the US went ahead and snatched Santa Fe de Nuevo México (what we call New Mexico) and California, too.

So Texas became the 28th state, and somewhere along the way locals decided that every conceivable outfit would be improved mightily by the addition of cowboy boots.

In my five days in Austin I saw literally hundreds of women wearing sundresses and cowboy boots. There were pimply frat boys wearing shorts, t-shirts and boots, and more than a few men in suits with cowboy boots, some of which inexplicably felt it was a chic fashion statement to tuck their pants into the boots.

everything goes with cowboy boots. Even hands on your ass.

The afternoon we arrived in Austin the city celebrated the great unveiling of its Willie Nelson statue. The country legend and champion for the legalization of marijuana was a native of Austin, and fans turned out in droves to commemorate his life.

Strangely, Willie’s statue isn’t clutching a joint. Everyone out celebrating the unveiling, however, seemed to be. The smell of pot was so strong that I had to be talked out of popping into a convenience store for Twinkies and Cheese Whiz on the eight-block walk from our hotel to dinner. (This is particularly troubling as I can’t recall a time in my life where I felt buying Twinkies and Cheese Whiz was a good idea.)

Thankfully I was able to control my contact-high-induced munchies long enough to reach Garridos, a splendid Tex-Mex joint at the very end of 3rd Street, which rewarded my patience with scrumptious coffee-marinated steak and oyster tacos

I don’t know if Gariddos would have been so yummy had I not trekked through a haze of cannabis smoke to get there, but I suspect it would. I ate my weight in what my mother, Soo and I all agreed was among the best Tex-Mex we’d ever had.

I was in Austin to attend the IAMC Professional Forum, a gathering of the top professionals and business leaders in corporate and economic development. I should have spent my days feeding my mind, sponging off the accumulated knowledge of this remarkable group. But my gut was louder, so it won out, and I spent my days happily feeding it instead.

Grupo Fantasma perform at Austin City Limits

Our next stop on the road to Making Adam Look Pregnant was Eddie V’s, a local steak joint so popular (deservedly so) that they now have locations in three states with more planned. The steaks were so mouthwateringly good that I believe at one point I proposed marriage to one, and the “firecracker calamari” appetizer provided an unexpected culinary delight. My colleagues were still talking about it a week later.

But the real luxury here was the service. John Polo, our server, was such a delight and so clearly determined to make our meal one of the world’s most enjoyable that I broke my own cardinal rule; I returned to the same restaurant twice on one trip.

When I travel I like to try everything. I want to explore all the local restaurants, discover hidden gems, and sample as many places as I can manage. I never go to the same place twice. Eddie V’s, and John Polo in particular, were so exceptional that I went back two nights later.

flowers, and butterflies, line the shores of the Colorado River

I was in Austin five nights. Two nights I ate pre-planned (and not terribly inspiring) set menus at business functions. That left three nights, and I spent two of them at Eddie V’s.

I don’t regret it a bit.

Austin, capital of Texas and America’s fastest growing city, is a terrific town. The downtown area straddling the 11 blocks between the state capital and the Colorado River is so well organized, so packed with bars, clubs and restaurants that merely stepping outside your hotel is a pleasure. And those city blocks are also home to Austin City Limits, also known as Moody Theater, one of the nation’s best concert halls.

The concert hall itself is so well respected that it was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2010. It’s rumored the waiting list to schedule events here is 10 years.

looking axcross the Colorado River at the beautiful Austin skyline by night

IAMC attendees enjoyed a terrific private concert by Grammy Award-winning Latin funk orchestra Grupo Fantasma. The band, which served as back-up performers for Prince, put on an outstanding show, though I thought it an interesting choice for a bunch of middle-aged white people.

The most unexpected meal of the trip was served for Sunday brunch.

A local had strongly recommended to Soo that we try Elizabeth Street Café, across the river to the Southwest, just off 1st Street. From the name we expected a quaint, Mom & Pop type eatery with fresh baked goods and hot coffee. What we got was some of the best Vietnamese food we’d ever had. My mother scarfed down a rather remarkable grilled octopus while I wolfed down shrimp and jalapeno spring rolls. Best of all, the delectable meal was dirt cheap. It was fat guy heaven.

The waitress, of course, wore cowboy boots.

Any left over money is used for a little bit of spoiling too, including the recent purchase of a Wii and an Xbox, meaning I was the enabler for what is now a house of video-game addicts. When you procure the system, I forget you have to keep buying the drugs to go into the bong.

I think I need Wii-hab.

We have three young sons, 2, 7, & 13. I tend to bond with our boys as individuals, not only due to the varying ages, but because they are all completely different energies and I must be cognizant of what is age appropriate. Unfortunately, the teenager doesn’t get this concept, and forces his interests on to the little ones, and tries to con me into believing it is okay for them too. We have family movie night and Justin says, “let’s watch The Hangover.” I said, “Justin, you have little brothers,” to which he fires back, “it’s got a tiger.” The three of them were singing “I got a passion in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it…I’m sexy and I know it. Wiggle wiggle wiggle.”

That age spread makes it difficult to figure out common games and activities for us to share at the same time. One boy sees a bosom as a drinking fountain, another is convinced that only cooties lurk beneath a blouse, and the third wants to try one again after a 12-year lapse (and would never call it a “bosom.”)

I’ve noticed (sadly) that our first-born is now the first to want a little less of daddy/son time. I’m also apparently embarrassing to him, which came to a head last week.

My car is in the shop, so as a joke my wife rents a white mini van, which (by the way) doesn’t seem very “mini” when I can park 2 cars in it. I laughed when I became internally aware of my beloved’s fun jab at my manhood. She knows how I feel about being middle-aged; losing hair, self-esteem and money on an hourly basis, so driving this rented parent trap won’t add any luster to my mood.

Then I decided to turn this passive poke at my dignity on to our mid-puberty middle schooler. He came home and saw it in our driveway, causing him to run into the house in a panic. “Dad, what is that thing parked outside? Not even taking a beat I replied, “Well, Justin, that is our new family vehicle.” I told him that mama picked it out, and that I didn’t agree with the color, but it’s very practical. “It will be yours some day, son.”

He went nuts. “What??!! How could you do such a thing? This is the worst day of my life. You can’t pick me up from school in that!! It’s a big, albino manatee on wheels!!!”

I kept the punking going for hours, but my wife caved in. Note to the ladies – men can hold on to a prank for decades, so please don’t blow our cover, and we’ll keep the secret that you find your sister to be controlling.

With one son in raging hormones stage and the youngest still more attached to mommy, I tend to gravitate towards the 2nd grader. It is such a wonderful age, innocence still in tact, and verbal skills aligned with mine. We both laugh at anything that has the words “poop” or “fart” in it. It’s also nice to feel like the smartest one in the room, as I impart all that elementary school knowledge I thought was useless at the time on to him. “Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred and ninety two. On the Nina, the Pinta and the…uh…Dan Marino” To him, I am a 200 pound Google.

He is big enough now where I don’t have to worry about bumping his head when we “rough house.” The little one tries to join in, but his skull is similar to a past-ripe cantaloupe, and I’m afraid my thumb might produce a seed when I give him my patented claw move.

It is game-on with Jared though, and I also don’t have to act like he is beating me either. We wrestle, and I go for the pin! A guy has to enjoy some sort of victory, no matter how old we get, especially with so many of our failures being low-lighted and pointed out by our children. If you are in need of a personal trainer to humiliate you into losing fat, please rent these boys for a week.

The other day, we gathered on the trampoline in a circle and played “Daddy Spins You All In A Circle!” with some 7 and 8 year old friends.

I twirled the kids around as I held their wrists. Some of the kids are heavier than others, but you have to give equal opportunity rides and ignore the weight difference. It’s a shame when a child still has the instincts of a small kid, but the body of a pre-pubescent rhino. I needed a hernia belt for a few of the neighbor boys and girls. I was sensitive to the heavier ones and tried not to show a visible difference in effort, even though my face looked like a wanna-be Knight trying to pull a sword out of a rock.

I spun them around and around in a circle, feeling as if (eventually) I would lose grip and toss them as if I were in the Olympic hammer throw. Little Blake went into orbit.

Daddy got dizzy. Daddy got sweaty. Daddy fell down on his bum-bum. Glad I was able to be a comedian for them. I will charge a cover next time.

Then I chose for all of us to play a relaxing game of “I Spy.” This is an activity I could play from in a horizontal prone position, while concentrating on not vomiting from the previous exertion.

Jared ‘s words are always simple and to the point. Whatever is in front of him is what is.

When it comes to sports and activities, I am fascinated and envious of how much fun he has without care about outcome. Winning means nothing to him, as opposed to daddy and his brother Justin, who will draw blood in a thumb wrestle.

When Jared plays “Hide N Seek,” he hides and announces where he is before the seeker is done counting. He will hide behind a phone wire and think he’s covered, but it is no biggie for Jared. I’ll say “ready or not, here I come.” I take two steps and he announces: “I’m right here dad!” It’s said as if he feels sorry for my lack of searching skills and wants to help out. He rats out others too, as soon as he is discovered.

The same thing happens when he plays the I-Spy game. He spots the something, tells us the color and immediately gives the answer before anyone else can answer, and laughs while doing so. We all chuckle at his game rules too.

During his turn on this day he gave us this: “I spy with my little eye…something yellow. (one second pause) Daddy’s teeth!

I’m headed to the mall right now for some one hour whitening….

A view of Mt. Fuji from Chureito Pagoda in Fujigoko.

Prior to August 2009 when I arrived in Yokosuka, Japan, to serve my three years here with the U.S. Navy, I had not been much of a world traveler or travel blogger. A few months before that August, I got my international feet wet by taking a cruise to the Bahamas and then flying to Frankfurt, Germany; and then taking trains to Bruges, Belgium and Paris, France. In those days, I was still buying Lonely Planet, Frommers, Fodors and Rick Steves’ guidebooks to tell me what I should be seeing, where I should be eating and sleeping, and how to get around. Of course, I didn’t feel like these guidebooks were written for me. They were lacking something, they were void of that personal touch that I felt I wanted to learn about. That’s when I discovered a myriad of wonderful travel blogs.

These travel bloggers, many gifted in writing, photography, story telling and/or just being good people in general, showed me a new way to look at and experience travel. Rather than pick up a recent edition of Lonely Planet about Japan, I started reading blogs about the country I’d be calling home. In these blogs, I saw the places, festivals, foods and entertainment that I knew I wanted to experience fully during my time here. Of all these- from going to fish auctions, phallic festivals and staying up til 7am partying in Tokyo- seeing the sakura (cherry blossoms) in bloom would be the highlight.

Standing in the shadow of Heian Shrine in Kyoto.

The sakura bloom towards the end of March and early April in most parts of Japan (colder Northern prefectures like Hokkaido do not see the sakura bloom until late April) and only stay in bloom for less than two weeks. The sakura in bloom is a big event in Japan. Hanami- cherry blossom viewing- is big this time of year. At parks and along canals all across the country you will see large blue tarp laid about the grass as groups of friends, families and co-workers sit underneath the beautiful blossoms, eating, drinking, playing games and enjoying the sights and sounds of Spring.

Unfortunately for myself, my job as a Sailor in the Navy often means that I am away from Japan for six months out of the year. Every year since I’ve been here, I’ve missed the peak of the sakura in bloom. In 2011, we were scheduled to return to Japan in late March. That return did not happen until mid-April due to the Tohoku earthquake. I returned to a Tokyo still ravaged by the disaster, with daily aftershocks that made us wonder if the next “big one” was coming again. Our efforts to assist the Japanese people after the disaster were far more important and rewarding than my own personal desires to see the sakura though. Fortunately for us, the sakura- although now falling- were still in bloom for a few more days when we returned.

A Japanese woman in a seasonal kimono enjoys the sakura at Heian Shrine's garden.

This year, our underway schedule again showed that we’d return to Japan in early April. I kept my fingers crossed. I also put in my request for vacation time. We’d only have two weeks in Japan before we would leave again for a two month patrol of our area of operations (presently out to sea going to Central Vietnam for a port visit). I began doing my research- like always, researching blogs and talking to friends- figuring out what areas would have the most blossoms in bloom and which cities I could see in the shortest amount of time. Without question, I knew I had to see the sakura in Kyoto and Nara: two of Japan’s ancient capital cities. Besides those cities and all the beautiful images of the sakura I’ve seen from them, there was one image that struck in my mind that I always wanted to see for myself: the cherry blossom trees in front of Mt. Fuji.

The ideal location for hanami at Osaka castle's Nichinomaru Garden.

To see that image, I’d have to visit the city of Fujigoko, which is a two-hour bus ride from Tokyo. I was going to be in Osaka though and it would take an eight-hour overnight bus ride for me to make it there. No worries though, I was determined. My sakura forecast research told me that I would see them in full bloom in Fujigoko by mid-April. If I waited until the end of my vacation to go there, I should be just in time.

I arrived at Kawaguchiko station in Fujigoko at 8:30 am. As you leave the bus in front of the train station, there is snow capped Mt. Fuji right in front of you. On a very clear day in the Greater Tokyo Area, you may be able to catch a glimpse of Mt. Fuji’s majestic snow-capped peak. But most of the time, even the faintest hint of clouds or smog will block her from view. Here she was, right in front of me. What I did not see in front of me though were any cherry blossom trees in bloom. I asked an English-speaking and very kind woman at the information desk about that and was informed that I was about two weeks early for the sakura.

Tarps laid out as people claim their evening hanami party spots under the cherry blossoms at Nichinomaru Garden near Osaka castle.

For most of the tour, I had been spot-on with my forecast, but now I was too early. “Well, I am here, might as well still enjoy it,” I said to myself. I went to the hostel I booked and rented a bicycle for the day. I figured I’d still get great scenery to shoot at Lake Kawaguchiko, so I rode there from the station. As I pedaled and enjoyed the clear reflection of Mt. Fuji in the lake, I looked up and there it was: the lone cherry blossom tree in bloom in the entire town.

I must have been the only one around me to notice it because the Filipino and Chinese tour groups in the vicinity were not taking pictures of it (at least not until they saw what I was photographing). I immediately dropped the bike to the ground, grabbed my gear, climbed up the small hill and started snapping away, relishing in my good fortune. I was getting the postcard view of Mt. Fuji during sakura season that I had seen so many pictures of. When I thought my luck was gone, here was the lone cherry blossom tree in bloom. I felt like she bloomed right then and there just for me.

I left Fujigoko that evening and with it, I felt like a man who accomplished a goal. I set out a week earlier to see the sakura in the country I love, mapping out a plan that in the end came to full fruition. It was worth every yen and every memory. Arigato Nippon!

Fidel C. Hart is a photographer, journalist and videographer in the United States Navy. Based in Yokosuka, Japan, he enjoys traveling throughout Japan, Asia and the Pacific region. He writes about his travels at Scene With A Hart (www.scenewithahart.com). You may also follow him on Twitter @ihartravel, Instagram (ihartravel) and Facebook (facebook.com/ihartravel). If you would like to contact Fidel directly, email hartsallovertheworld@gmail.com

Kawaguchiko train station in Fujigoko.

The postcard picture I've dreamed of taking of Mt. Fuji from Lake Kawaguchiko.

Self-portrait from Lake Kawaguchiko.

Playing golf along with Richard Kind at Sherwood

I don’t watch much televised golf. If I am going to take four hours away from my family, I’d better be the one playing, not spending my day rooting for a player I had never heard of, just because I can pronounce his name.

This year, a guy named Bubba won the Masters, much to my delight, since the runner up was something like “Oozeelederhosen.”

There’s just something alluring about the Masters. I’m not sure whether it’s the pristine and historic golf course they refer to every five seconds, or the half dozen regally sounding British announcers making it seem like you are on a museum tour at The Louvre. I never realized the artistic appeal of an over-sized lawn until I listened to these chaps describing a fairway. Not since Cheech and Chong have I heard grass chronicled with such devotion.

They often speak of how difficult it is to purchase a ticket to this once-a-year event, which adds to the seduction. Americans always want what they can’t have, even if it means paying a fortune for the right to stand in the sun for ten hours, sharing a Port-A-Potty with thousands of strangers to watch a few men in slacks and collared shirt filled with corporate logos, stop by every 12 minutes to take one swipe at a little ball.

There are many traditions unique to this tournament, as there are in all the majors. Whereas in the British Open they compete for the accustomed trophy (called the Claret Jug), in this match they compete for a green sports coat. Personally, I’d choose the jugs over jackets, but that’s just me.

Speaking of jugs…

Bruce Jenner on his cellphone during a photo op...

Okay, mea culpa on the most forced segue in literary history, but just pretend I said it with stateliness and grandeur of a retired golfer from southern England. Better yet, Scotland, the birthplace of the game of manners and decorum.

So, speaking of, in my best brogue, “joogs”…

For several years now a congregation of women have protested The Masters, demanding women be allowed to hold membership in the Augusta National Golf Club.

I am normally a huge fighter for the little guy (or gal), and am opposed to most cases involving white male dominance over the historically oppressed. Occupy Wall Street I can rally behind, but to organize a boycott to have the right to pay 500 thousand dollars to have the hallowed doors opened to enroll in a snob group does not put a rise in my kilt. If a woman is being denied food at the soup kitchen because she is a female, then rally the troops and fight for the cause. But Country Club access? This is where we should draw the line.

Please, don’t run to your thesaurus and come up with another adjective for “misogynist”. I was raised in a females dominated home, and growing up in “Estrogen House” caused me to have much compassion and empathy for the other gender. I probably have more respect for the womanly than the masculine energy, and wish our nation would embrace more of the feminine instincts.

Yet I’m confused by the cause the Augusta protesters are rallying behind.

Raised by a wonderful single mother, I was on the frontline of women’s liberation, watching women fight for equal rights. My mother often cried herself to sleep wondering if we were going to be able to settle the electric bill, a result of our patriarchal society not paying her a comparable salary to a man who did the same job.

That’s a fight I can get behind. But at other times I don’t get it. My first memories of feminine independence were bra-burning and Virginia Slims cigarettes, whose slogan was “You’ve come a long way baby to get where you’ve got to today. You’ve got your own cigarette now, baby!”

Huh?

Even as a child I was confused why having the same access to lung cancer was a win for women.

It’s kind-of like all those lines I stood in to get into trendy nightclubs. Once I’m inside I’m thinking “OK…now what?” They have strobe lights, deafening music and drinks marked up 300 percent, and all the hotties on the dance floor go for the non verbal men of tight abs, who have good show, but not much tell. I buttered up and bribed a velvet rope-guarding moron for THIS?

Women have fought long and hard for the same rights as men, but now many seem to want to become men. I, along with many friends are perplexed, mostly about what’s at the true core of the battle of the sexes.

I am speaking to you, ladies, when I say it’s not that great a place to be a dude.
I’m on the inside! Think of me as a spy, and I will share all the secrets I have stored on microfilm. Believe me ladies; you are not missing anything by skipping certain male gatherings.

Bonding with the boys does not involve sharing color schemes we’ve learned from the Home and Garden channel. You’ll rarely hear one of the guys discuss whether to go with the eggplant or the avocado berber carpet. Colors are not foods in our world. We know 5 colors and one of them – pink – will not touch our bodies (nor, all too often with “real” men:, does soap.)

We’re also ignorant of fashion tips from all the gay men on Bravo, and are not looking for one of their makeovers. Straight men are simple and do not require facial creams to make us happy. We don’t care about looks. Most guys by the time they are 30 have the same haircut they’ll be buried in. Our greatest concern about pants is how comfy they make our balls.

Want to be in our inner circle? You want to come into our locker room? Consider what happens in there. Have you ever had “Atomic Bomb” heating ointment put in your pants? Enjoy.

Ladies, here are some of the locker room highlights you are missing out on:

1. Pick and scratch are no longer a lotto game- it’s what you do while you’re watching a game.
2. “Making love” is out. Get down with the carpenter’s terms – bang, screw and nail.
3. The “F” word is no longer “fine”.
4. You had better be able to suck every bit of meat off a buffalo wing.
5. We’re honest- “Do I look fat in these pants?” Prepare for the answer!
6. If you go to Japan on business, accept the fact that it will include a Japanese man walking on your back and turning you over to “finish” you. And you will give us your connections too.
7. You know that guy you slept with in Cancun that no one knows about, prepare to give us every detail, as well as adding a few more to your list of one-nighters.

8. No more long, after-shock orgasms either… and take the word “multiple” out of your vocabulary. You get one (if you’re lucky), and a second only happens in your late teens, so enjoy it.

You want to be a member of that club? If women want equal rights then all things should be equal. So next the time you want equality consider your man’s equal rights. If we are to consider both sides of a 50-50 agreement, then it works both ways:

When you’re planning a wedding be sure to give us equal say. Be prepared to see a stripper pop out of the store-bought cake, and a wedding bouquet of marijuana.

Get ready to have a wet tush at 4am as you fall into the toilet because that thing stays up half the time.

If you are out of doilies, then there will be cardboard coasters stolen from the local bar.

Half of the money you’ve been saving for a trip to France will be placed on the Rams to beat the Vikings by 7 ½ . Don’t know where the half point comes from — better learn.

Need a jar lid removed? Start working those hand muscles.

Is there a class that teaches celebrating? Remember, high fives are out, chest bumps are in. When you score a goal for your local beer league team, are you willing to tap ta-ta’s?

If you ladies really want to be a part of the men’s club, consider what it really means to be in our fraternity. We live in a world of logic and blunt truth. Here are a few you will have to deal with:

1. Many men smoke cigars. We know it smells – that’s the point. And if you choose to smoke with us, just know we are visualizing what you will be doing to our Macanudo later.
2. Men like auto racing. You can’t hear complaints over the engine roar.
3. We golf because we want to crack our own balls instead of the ball busting that awaits us when we come home late.
4. Men read on the toilet not because they are educating themselves – it’s to have some alone time – and we know the odor will keep it that way. We read shampoo directions rather than come out to another household chore.
5. We like to see explosions in movies because we’re wondering how good it would be if someone came along and blew up our home that looks like Martha Stewart threw up in.
6. We snap towels at each other in the locker room without fear that it’s the new “decorative” towel. Yes, it also hurts, but you can’t cry or tell anyone.
7. if you make a mistake or have a habit to make fun of, men show no mercy. I know a friend who forgot deodorant one day, and is still call him “skunk” ten years later.

There are some honest facts about why we do want to be separate.

Want to battle to be able to handle weapons better? Want to race for the beer chugging championship and be able to describe your vomit with a sense of pride the next day? Want to join us in line at the stadium as you pee in front of a hundred strangers while your friend behind you pushes your head into the wall?

The point is – shouldn’t we have some things that can remain separate and exclusive to our specific gender? Shouldn’t we celebrate our differences instead of trying to change the other sex into one that is more like our own?

Ladies, you’ve already won the battle of the sexes, so back off on this one. Let us have our freedom to assemble in private clubs. If you really need to be a part of a private club, then build one. Spread the word that you play naked golf at your place, and leave the men begging at your door to get in.

When it comes to a place as unique as Phoenix, it’s no surprise that people either love it or loathe it.

“It’s 120 degrees! You can fry an egg on the sidewalk! There are rattlesnakes everywhere! It’s flat and brown!” Perhaps you’ve heard some of these common misconceptions spewed out by those who have a construed aversion to the Sonoran Desert and its climate. They have undertaken the responsibility of “warning” everyone they come across about how unbearable Phoenix is. Ironically, some of these people have never even set foot in Arizona. Others have simply watched too many reality TV shows and fear they’ll uncover a rattlesnake from beneath their sheets at the downtown Marriot.

We slathered on sunblock, equipped ourselves with plenty of water, doused ourselves in rattlesnake repellant spray –- I wish — and hit the road to hike some desert terrain. I was on a very tight schedule this trip, so that Saturday would be my only opportunity to enjoy one of my favorite places on earth -– the Sonoran Desert.

When we arrived at the main entrance to the park, we discovered it was closed-off by big orange cones. The paved road up the mountain was devoted to some kind of bicycle race. Where’s a twelve-speed when you need one? Probably being ridden by a cyclist on a busy roadway causing the driver behind them to mumble an onslaught of obscenities, that’s where.

The curt park ranger blocking the drive up the mountain grudgingly informed me that the roadway was only open for those whose asses were wrapped in spandex. (Butt padding optional.) The bottom line was, if you hadn’t had your bowl of Kashi Go Lean that morning, you simply weren’t getting up that road. I’m more of a fruit loop girl. We pulled into the parking lot.

How disappointing that we couldn’t lazily drive the 2,330 feet to the most accessible and highest point of the mountain, Dobbins Lookout. Being that we had one infant and a small child with us, the 14.3-mile hike to the panoramic view on top was not an option. The only alternative was to stroll through the only area that the unenthusiastic park ranger claimed “might be” appropriate for us: the interpretive Judith Tunnel Trail, which was located at the base of the mountain adjacent to the parking lot.

Surprisingly, it worked out well. Krista’s daughter was able to brush up on her reading and reciting skills and she taught all of us a few tidbits about South Mountain culture and wildlife. For a place that has over three million visitors a year, we were fortunate to be amongst the few people out for a stroll. The ease of the loop, the smooth, flat pavement, the shade-providing ramadas, and numerous water fountains make this trail ideal for people with disabilities, strollers, and hangovers.

Many people have the erroneous belief that the desert in Arizona is sparse, brown, and devoid of life. This is entirely false. In fact, the Sonoran desert is a very diverse biome which comes alive in early spring — with delicate magenta flowers bursting out of prickly cacti, looming saguaros (which grow exclusively in the Sonoran), rare elephant trees, cholla and colorful wildflowers that paint the rolling hills, among other unique flora.

Although “rattlers” are the most prevalent, coyotes, javelinas, Gila Monsters, scorpions, tarantulas, roadrunners, desert tortoises, jackrabbits, owls, lizards and a myriad of other animal species call South Mountain home. The highest density ever recorded of the strange looking carrot-tailed chuckwalla is located in South Mountain. Although we saw one, it was too far away to take a snapshot of. I can assure you, it is one strange looking reptile whose name suits it perfectly. Those little creatures would give Carrot Top a run for his money.

It’s challenging to find all of these unique animal species because they blend into the earth smoothly, hide out behind rocks, and burrow themselves underground inconspicuously. Being in the middle of the Sonoran and sharing the earth with this bashful ecosystem always mystifies me. Where are they lurking? How do they survive? How long will I survive if they attack me? Amazingly, these creatures have adapted naturally to an intense environment with very little water and extremely high temperatures — that’s pretty heroic.

The prehistory of South Mountain is quite impressive and intriguing. Dating back to 300 A.D. the Hohokam people, who are thought to have migrated out of Mexico, inhabited the area. Hohokam translates into “those who have gone.” Although they vanished by A.D. 1450, the Hohokam made an important impact on the future of the entire “Valley of the Sun” by constructing intricate canals and irrigation networks to water their crops. These were (arguably) the largest and most sophisticated irrigation networks ever created with preindustrial technology. They are said to rival those of the Egyptians. Today these canals lie beneath the streets of metropolitan Phoenix.

Further clues left behind by the Hohokam can be found etched in stone throughout South Mountain in the many petroglyphs scattered throughout the park.

Evidence also remains of a less pleasant time at South Mountain: the mining era. Beginning in the 1800s, the mountain, like much of the western United States, was mined for gold, silver and copper. Unfortunately, depression era work camp conditions were terrible; often times there was no running water, killer heat, and most workers earned just $2 a day.

South Mountain was bought by the city in 1924 for preservation and recreational purposes, but the mining did not cease completely. It continued until 1993, at which point the park was rehabilitated and the mines were filled and covered.

Modern day South Mountain has pretty liberal park hours. You can explore this gem at almost anytime you desire –- dawn, dusk, or twilight. According to the city’s website the park is open from 6am to 11pm. Although the entry gate closes at 6pm, the exit doesn’t, so once you’re in the park you can enjoy the enchanting desert beneath the glow of the moon for several hours.

Another fantastic thing about this park and preserve is that the trails vary in intensity and match all skill levels. Although most of the trails may not be very challenging to the advanced hiker, the gorgeous views of the expansive valley and many eclectic mountains as well as the unique Sonoran Desert experience are worth the trip. Whether you decide to drive or cycle the road, hike, horseback ride, mountain bike, take a stroll or even picnic, remember that there is much more to this ecosystem than what you’ll casually observe. If you keep your eyes peeled and pay attention, I can assure you will catch a glimpse of some of the area’s unique fauna.

If you decide to include South Mountain in your next trip to Phoenix, I suggest doing it between late fall to early spring, which is when the weather is ideal. Don’t forget to grab a park map – many people have gotten lost and ended up as a coyote’s Lean Cuisine meal.

Just kidding — coyotes are relatively harmless; it’s clearly the rattlesnake venom that you should worry about.

Stop at Carolina's, which is nearby, for the best burrito you've ever had under $5. It's a dive, it's busy, you will eat out of styrofoam, but it's worth it. They have weird hours: http://www.carolinasmex.com/

Idaho State Capitol Building

Sue and I were back in Boise, ID over Easter weekend for the last lacrosse tourney of the season. Given the continued value implosion in the residential real estate market and the amount of time I am spending here to watch young women beat each other with sticks, I think I will just buy a condo off of Main Street, buy season tickets to the Idaho Stampede and live here until Kenna graduates from Whitman College next spring and puts away her mouth guard for the last time. It has to be a better value than blowing through my Hilton Honors points and my Alaska Airline miles…but at least we now get the 10th floor VIP suite upgrade at the downtown Hampton AND the complimentary bag of M&Ms. Nothing like the thrill of traveling enough to reap the rewards of Platinum status!

After a quick Bombardier Q400 puddle jump from Seattle on Alaska subsidiary Horizon Air (might be the only domestic US airline that offers complimentary regional wine and microbrews to all passengers on every flight…perhaps reason enough to fly all over the NW to these games), we grabbed the rental, checked into our “penthouse suite” and headed off to our favorite restaurant, Fork. The place is always packed and I am too dull to ever consider reservations, so we now simply prey upon the poor souls in the oversized bar and pounce at the first sign of movement to pay a tab. We were out-witted by a couple of cougars this time around who had the audacity to actually sit down at four-top the moment the somewhat shocked young couple motioned for their bill. The things we can learn on the road…next time!

A few minutes later, we found our perch at the bar. I bellied up, but Sue is actually not big enough to do that, so she just kind of sat down. To her absolute elation, they were pouring L’Ecole cabernet sauvignon by the glass, her favorite from Walla Wall, WA. I opted for a surprisingly clean and citrusy chardonnay from Snake River valley, ID vintner, Cinder Cellars. Who knew Idaho grew more than taters? The menu is the worst part about this place. I never know what to do. The owners, Cameron and Amanda Lumsden, have made a commitment to be “Loyal to Locals.” The majority of all of their ingredients are sourced from local bakers, farmers, ranchers and even purveyors of spirits (75% of their adult beverages are produced in the Northwest, which makes me compelled to be loyal to locals by default), which makes for very interesting and very delectable menu options. Do I start with the tomato basil fondue and grilled cheese with garlic glazed Zeppole bread or the seared (local) lollipop lamb chops? And then do I move on to the wild mushroom and local herb pesto ravioli or the Idaho rainbow trout. I will not even mention desserts, but you can imagine! I do know that everyone has to get either the all natural rosemary-parmesan fries or the asparagus “fries” with dipping sauce. Needless to say we left stuffed and smiling as always.

Saturday morning and early afternoon were filled with victories over the University of Idaho and Central Washington. While Sue went off with some friends to one of her favorite outdoor stores, I made a quick pass through the seventy-five year old Boise Art Museum. While certainly not the MET or the BFA, the galleries were well hung with enough interesting work to spend a good hour or so. The East meets West rooms were particularly interesting in the way the very disparate art forms and styles where displayed side by side. Since I was all alone, I left the museum to find myself in a nearby brewery for what I considered to be a well deserved local ale and big screen view of the last few holes of day three at Augusta. That night we had another wonderful meal with lacrosse-parent-friends at Asiago’s. I will not put you through the pain of another food digression, but suffice it to say that Asiago’s is another keeper and Sue is still recovering from the chocolate-espresso flourless torte with raspberry coulis and homemade vanilla bean ice cream!!!

Table Rock From The Trail Head

With about four hours left before our flight home, we headed to the foothills for a little trail work. Remember that Sue does not sit well! Boise is fortunate to have preserved over 135 miles of interwoven foothill trails for running, hiking and biking right in its backyard. The preservation projects dates back to the 1940’s when a handful of wealthy locals convened to discuss what might become of the old military training area. What foresight to salt away this treasure for future generations. The Rivers to Ridge partnership is a model for public/private cooperation and the trail system is now maintained primarily with over 2,000 volunteer hours each year. We have been on a couple of longer hikes in the past, but I had scoped out Table Rock trail #15 for our time-sensitive, pre-flight trek. It is a tough little 1.7 mile climb up to a very cool mesa-like formation in the midst of a bunch of gently rolling hills. Unfortunately, the top of Table Rock looks a lot like grandma’s old Christmas dinner table setting, adorned with an atrocious number of cell towers and a massive cross. I guess we call this progress. With my back to these 100+ foot candlesticks, the warmth of the sun, clear skies and views of the city 1000ft below made me wish we had more time to romp through the adjacent ravines. Instead, it was a quick sprint down to the parking lot.

Boise Penitentiary from the trail

The parking lot also serves the Old Idaho Penitentiary, a facility that opened as one of only seven or so territorial prisons in the late 1800s. We didn’t have much time, but I just could not be this close to one hundred and one years of history and not have a look. This National Historic Landmark was authorized by Congress in 1867, with construction beginning in 1870. “The penitentiary looms up like the frowning walls of some impregnable fortress…The man who would commit a felony within sight of its gloomy walls ought to spend the remainder of his days within them,“ wrote a reporter from the Idaho Statesman in September of 1870. The perimeter walls and most of the 32 buildings that were built over the years are still standing, many having been fully restored. The facility took in its first handful of “guests” in 1872 and finally closed down in 1973.

One of the "TOUGH" women

In the early years, between 1872 and 1947, the facility incarcerated at least 7,500 men women and children, as young as 10 and as old as 82. Every inmate’s information is captured in an incredible registry that can be accessed online. Men and women shared cell blocks until a women’s ward was built in 1904. This was the old west, a territorial prison housing gunfighters, cattle rustlers, bank robbers and syndicalists (they clearly did not like those early unionists!!!). In these early years, burglary, forgery and grand larceny put the most convicts behind bars, but incest (40), cohabitation (47), bigamy (19) and polygamy (11) claimed their share. (I just have to know, if you are going to go to prison for bigamy, why not go hog-wild and just move directly up to polygamy??? ) Over the years, convicts came from 46 surrounding counties and from the day the prison opened, a few were always on death row.

I thought the last one hung in '58?

No soft peddled capital punishment here, Idaho was a hanging state until 1978!!! Initially the hangings occurred out in the courtyard, but a more formal and intimate gallows was built into one of the cell blocks, just steps from the death row inmates. Only one man was ever actually hanged in this room, the last man to be hung in Idaho in 1957. Touring the death row cells and the adjacent gallows (and

The "drop" room

even the “drop room” below…yuck!) brought the Fred McMurray, Robert Vaughn western, A Good Day For A Hanging to mind. This 1959 classic film explores the vehement emotions of townspeople as some fight for the release “of an innocent boy” and others thirst for the violent end to a callus murderer’s life. It is the 1880s and the bank has just been robbed, the Marshall murdered and a young bank robber’s life is in the balance. Of the 13,000 who served time over the 101 year life of the Idaho Penitentiary, thirty lived on death row and only nine were ever hung to their death. One of the thirty awaiting his fate opted to plunge head first from the rafters onto the concrete floor of the cell block the day before his scheduled execution, rather than to succumb to the hand of the warden…he had told his mother that he would never be hanged

There are some great exhibits housed in the facility, a firearms museum and a prison tattoo display to name a couple, but like Alcatraz across the bay from San Francisco, the intrigue of the Old Idaho Penitentiary is the stark reality of the lives the convicts led in this stone fortress. The cells are left much the way they would have been

Solitary Cell - "Siberia"

in 1973 when the prison shut its doors. An old dining hall is still without a roof, burned off during an inmate riot in the 1970. The six claustrophobic 3’ x 8’ cells of “Siberia,” the penitentiary’s solitary confinement building, each with only a bucket and a tiny skylight in the ceiling to occupy the detainees for as many as six weeks “in the hole.”

This is the stuff you see in movies and figure Hollywood is just being Hollywood again, but the stories here are real. There was John Burns (no. 498) who, in 1896, cut a hole in his sleeping friend’s overalls pocket and “extracted” two dollars which he spent on a round of drinks at the nearby

The courtyard

John Banks Saloon. Poor Mr. Burns spent seven months in the Pen for grand Larceny. In 1903, there was fifteen year old Ida Laherty (no. 901) who stole a team of horses from a Moscow, ID livery stable “at the request of a young gentleman.” She and the young man drove the team to Oakesdale, WA where the two parted company. Laherty drove the team on to Sprague where she was arrested and convicted. She spent three months in the Pen for horse thievery. And then there was seventeen year old Lester Thompson (no. 3288) who, in 1923, set fire to the floor of the Idaho Industrial School admin building. His prison intake records classified him as a “criminal type” because of the shape of his ears “being small and too close to his head.” Seven years after his release, Lester’s four year stint with the Pocatello “colored Giants” baseball team was cut short with second conviction.

As McMurray’s character, Ben Cutler, replies when reminded of poor Eddie’s (Robert Vaughn’s) age, “Do you think this kid is any less hardened? Since when is a young rattlesnake any less poisonous than an old one?”

Ahhhh…the old West!!!

Hope to see you on the road!

It was a major scene from a disaster movie.

The shore of the tiny island littered with zombie looking people, staring in disbelief at the ship, listed at 45 degree angle, while the rescue boats bobbed up and down in the churning waves, eventually the power surges left the ship in total darkness with more people left to rescue. Very old people in pajamas and boxer shorts with no shoes, most left everything behind.

The tiny town opened up their stores, homes, empty school, church and small clinic to cope with the injured, while the helicopters hovered all night.

The captain allegedly deserted the ship with living people still needing to be rescued.

Our evacuation took 4 days and I did not sleep for nearly 5 days after awakening that fateful day. The next month was spent emerging from a dense fog. Needless to say, I have a new perspective on life, values and a sense of purpose for having been spared.