A single news item on the radio got me reminiscing about a pivotal day in my life in 1995. The item concerned the sentencing of the mastermind of the gas poisoning of a Japanese commuter train in March of that year. Seven months following that event, I was on vacation and trekking toward a Japanese spiritual symbol — Mount Fuji. I had somehow over the years believed that I would find my spiritual oasis on Fuji amid my confusion about North American religions. I was to take a train from Omiya to Tokyo where I would transfer to the train to Shinfuji, the city near Mt. Fuji where Ms. Ishikawa (friend of a friend) would be my host. Instinct is required when traveling where no one speaks your language and words appear as chicken scratches, so it was more or less guesswork to find the proper track. Once aboard, I found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with businessmen clones and teenage students — no older men or women. Most of the businessmen were perspiring heavily, and Japanese culture denied them the temporary pleasure of removing their jackets or loosening their ties. Instead, they dabbed the perspiration from their faces with white hand towels. Monday morning may be identical around the world — no one smiled on my train this first morning of the work week. At each stop during rush hour, commuters queued up politely. But when the train doors opened, it was a free-for-all, whether you were a fragile woman or distinguished businessman. With strained expressions they rushed the door, pushing those ahead until they were getting their leverage at a 45-degree angle. It reminded an American of the musical chairs game at the chaotic point when the music stops. Meanwhile, the passengers on the train don't give any ground to the mass of onrushing commuters. I believe I managed to board effortlessly only because the politeness of the Japanese supersedes their crazed commuter dance. They recognized a tourist and parted as a "Yellow Sea." Even though we were packed in like sardines, there is no concern in Japan for pickpockets or wandering hands. As other commuter trains pass, I could see the sardines pressed against their windows, some looking grotesquely uncomfortable, others forced to awkwardly hug total strangers. In my car, I was King Kong. At 6 foot, 8 inches, I had an unimpeded view, a Mt. Fuji to the crushed populations below.On the train leaving a bustling Tokyo I found myself one of only a few travelers aboard. Beyond my window were the low mountains and hills of the lakes district of Japan. And then there it was — Mt. Fuji — a mass of volcanic rock halfway around the world that I had come to sanctify for some yet-inexplicable reason. But isn't much of our spirituality irrational? I was merely joining the rest of humanity, searching for a key to unlock my soul.The accommodating Ms. Ishikawa greeted me at the train platform and was soon pushing forward her car's front passenger seat so I could sit behind it for more legroom. I slipped my "Fodor's Travel Guide to Japan" into my backpack — why bother when you have a personal guide! The drive to Mt. Fuji to the departure point for my spiritual hike was 45 minutes. In that time I learned that my gracious host spoke very little English, but enough to relate that she had climbed to the very top twice before to see the sunrise — a very Japanese spiritual ritual. I had to wonder if Mt. Fuji would bring similar spiritual rewards to me? (Continued next week.)