If you’ve been to Japan two times, the only thing left to do is to go a third time. This was my logic behind this trip to Japan. Also an important factor was that Pam’s mother Andrea, her sister Nikki, and her brother Joam wanted to meet Pam and I on neutral territory and since Andrea and Nikki would be coming from the Philippines and Joam from San Diego, we thought Japan would be ideal. Beyond geography, Japan is also ideal as it is safe, clean, culturally satisfying, easy to get around, often weird, and one of the best places on the planet to eat.
The five of us met in Tokyo for one night only. I took immense pleasure in the fact that Pam and I flew out of Boston 30 hours before a buzz-killing nor’easter arrived in the region. Once up in the air and out of this powerful storm’s potential grasp, I propelled my middle finger in the general direction of this nasty storm. I felt even greater pleasure knowing I would be in a slightly warmer climate for the next month which was a glorious thing to say during such a nonsensical winter as this one. It reminded me of my trip to Chile and Argentina during the winter of 2015, a winter so bad it seemed a work of fiction. I remember leaving behind multiple feet of snow on the ground and temperatures so low they seemed to bring you closer to God. Once in Santiago, I stood awkwardly in the airport parking lot and drank in a dry, sunny 80 degrees to the point I’m sure people thought I was a terrorist.
The next morning we boarded the magical Shinkansen train bound for Kyoto, traveling the 280 or so miles in just over two hours. We checked into the Gate Hotel at reception which was located on the top floor or the eighth in this case. The long and open lobby, bar, restaurant area provided a view that made one feel mildly important. After a settling in was achieved, we left the hotel and walked down the nearby and well-known Pontocho Street. Wishing to carry on with this search of an older Kyoto, we strolled down some picturesque streets just east of Kamo River. To remind ourselves we were in the 21st century, we wedged in a brief stop at a FamilyMart, one of Japans premier convenience store chains. And since this is Japan, a convenience store meal here probably provides more nutrition and joy than most restaurants in the US.
The following day, after a breakfast on the eighth floor that exceeded the most discriminating breakfast fantasy imaginable, we rented bicycles and rode up and down the Kamo River. Andrea had not ridden a bicycle in a very long time which explained why she did a wonderful job mimicking a plane coming down for a controlled crash landing as she descended a long handicap ramp whilst forgetting how to operate the handbrakes. Thankfully, Andrea was able somehow to ride into a railing without injury and in fabulous Filipino fashion, laughed the episode off, showing the world that not only was her body unscathed, but so was her pride.
No visit to Japan could possibly be called complete without a visit to Okariba. If you have ever read any of my scribblings of the past that deal with Japan, you know that this would be the third visit to this luminous food dispensary. “Okariba” means “hunting ground” which is fitting since the owner, Aoki, does his best to include some things on the menu that were victims of his recent hunting expeditions. In 2016, I visited Okariba by myself for the first time. In 2024, I came with Pam. This time, I came with Pam and family. Every time I show up, I show Aoki the pictures of the two of us that were taken from previous visits. He seems to enjoy this. Although older, he still allows no one but himself to cook at the grill which is located in the center of the eating area. To the chagrin of the feint of heart, this grill often fills the entire room with smoke. To the bold and hungry, this grill fills the room with delicious smoke that whispers of the stimulating dining experience to come.
I looked at Aoki’s feet and noticed that on one foot he wore the classic geta sandal with matching sock and a modern sneaker on the other foot. I attributed this oddity to a foot injury on the sneaker foot. Ironically, this awkward and unnatural footwear combination embodies Japan perfectly. Japan is that truly bizarre combination of a mysterious, infinite, tradition-respecting past and a frenetic, mind bending, trend-setting embrace of modernity in all its forms. One moment you’re quietly, genuinely paying a profound and meaningful homage to an ancient force in a quiet shrine and a moment later and a few steps away, you’re being blasted with an incomprehensible amount of light and sound in a pachinko parlor.
So what I’m saying is that Aoki gets my vote for Footwear Ambassador of Japan.
The next day was soggy but it did not stop us from taking it to the streets like the Doobie Brothers. Confronting no samurai at the gate into Imperial Palace grounds and Gyoen National Garden, we entered and found that the rain ensured that there were little to no other bodies in our way. The highlight of this experience happened just outside the southern entrance: a little matcha tea cafe “manned” by a happy, sweet lady in a kimono.
After a final and meaningful breakfast on the top floor of the Gate Hotel, we boarded the Shinkansen and arrived in Fukuoka two and a half hours later, checking into a pleasant business hotel by the name of Richmond Hotel Tenjin Nishidori.
Most Filipinos I know approach the exploration of food with the same fervor that Marco Polo approached the exploration of the Silk Road. Put simply, they are foodies. But what I like about the Filipinos I have met, they are not arrogant foodies. They are content and fulfilled to happen upon glorious street food or thoughtfully and creatively prepared meals in a common restaurant. They don’t feel the need to trade in their future financial security for a meal that could not possibly align itself with its outlandish price tag.
Today, my Filipino family had their heart set on ramen. If ramen were a prostitute, Fukuoka was surely the red-light district. With the amount of money one might find between their couch cushions, we were able to secure top-shelf ramen at Shin Shin. The excellence of the food may also been aided by the almost laughable effort required to simply find the place. Buried in a multi level shopping mall maze, a formidable hunger established itself after all the wrong turns and unnecessary sets of stairs taken.
The following day was one of rain but yet again, it did not stop us from probing the city for its cultural secrets. Our first stop was to an amusement business next door that allowed us to bowl and work out any lingering frustrations in a batting cage. Afterwards, a wet walk through Ohori Park was followed by a visit to Fukuoka Art Museum (only because we were trying to get out of the rain, making this museum of little more importance to us than an umbrella).
That evening, we decided to try a “gyukatsu” beef cutlet restaurant named Gyukatsu Motomura. Each patron can cook some of their meal on a small grill in front of them that is connected to a gas line that is controlled by the restaurant. I am one that likes to order some nice food and a couple alcoholic drinks, enjoying the experience at my own pace. I never really noticed it before but many Japanese restaurants want you to eat your meal and get the hell out. Instead of having a sign to this effect or having a staff member tell their customers this, Gyukatsu Motomura took the less confrontational approach of simply cutting the gas to our grills after 30 minutes or so. I had not quite finished my meal or my second beer so I was annoyed on a small level. My Filipino peeps said that’s how much of Asia rolls. You eat your food and move on so the next customer in line can have your seat, going elsewhere to drink afterwards.
The following day involved a train ride to Dazaifu to visit the famous 10th century Tenmangu Shrine. This shrine is the head of 12,000 shrines and is considered one of Japan’s most important. And it is also hysterically located 500 feet from a silly little amusement park whose roller coaster noise bleeds into the adjacent forest that contains smaller peaceful shrines. This again showcased the Japanese talent of ignoring irritating stimuli while in the process of some other peaceful pursuit. Back in Fukuoka, we ascended the Port Observation Tower, walked along the Naka River and back to the hotel.
The next morning we said goodbye to Nikki as she returned to her responsibility-laden life in the Philippines while Andrea, Joam, Pam, and I boarded a flight to Ishigaki. Once there, we took a taxi to the port and boarded a ferry to the quiet, nature-forward island of Iriomote. A rental car was secured followed by a 45-minute drive to Hoshitate Hotel. The drive time would have been quicker but the island’s speed limit is about 25 mph in efforts to reduce the amount of accidental road kill. Iriomote is mostly a nature preserve and the only home to the endangered Iriomote wildcat. This interested me since one year ago, Pam and I were in Tasmania which at first glance seemed to have the opposite protocol in place: drive as fast as the laws of physics will allow and wildlife be damned. Of course many Tasmanians do all they can to avoid roadkill (there are signs indicating a reduction of speed at night and many of the citizens avoid driving after dark) but I have never witnessed more high-speed, Dukes of Hazzard-styled, back road speeding nor more lifeless animals on the sides of the roads than I did in Tasmania.
After the long five-part journey, we arrived at Hotel Hoshitate where we were warmly greeted by the owner, Yuji. Yuji’s English was formidable due mostly to the four years spent in Alberta, Canada studying economics. Eight years ago, he decided to buy this hotel from his uncle. The hotel was definitely tired and in need of some TLC but the meals were nice and the building was located 30 feet from a very quiet beach.
After a solid Japanese breakfast the next morning, Andrea decided that, although she loved her son dearly, sharing a room with him was no longer in the cards. His moderate snoring was enough to disturb her golden sleep and enough to inspire her to request a room of her own. Yuji made it so. “Wa” (harmony, peace, balance) was restored.
We drove clockwise around Iriomote’s ring road about 30 minutes, pulled into a dirt parking, and boarded some covered carts drawn by water buffalo that took us across the very shallow stretch of water to the small Yubu Island. The carts and buffalo were navigated by drivers in semi-traditional garb that played the three-string Japanese guitar known as the shamisen or sangen and if you were lucky, sang as well. Our driver on the way over was a red-headed German woman that drove a buffalo better than she played a shamisen. Still, we welcomed the curious clash of cultures she offered.
Yubu Island was digested by our wanderings in under two hours. Our ride back was captained by a young Japanese man I would conservatively nickname the Eddie Van Halen of the shamisen. With only half the strings of his deceased American counterpart, this man filled the air with joy. The only thing left to do after these experiences was to swim in the subtropical ocean back at our hotel. Once toweled off, Joam and I lit up some dynamite Nub cigars I brought with me and strolled along the beach with Pam. Our “wa” could not have been more complete.
A Uraichi River cruise/hike was today’s main dish for Pam, Joam, and I. Once concluded, we picked up Andrea and returned to the river to rent two tandem kayaks: Pam and I in one, mother and son in the other. Part of the journey took us through a small tributary walled in on both sides by mangrove trees that created a tunnel of vegetation. This would have come in handy if we were being pursued by law enforcement in a helicopter.
On our way back we pulled into a restaurant so local, casual, and small, we would never known it was a restaurant if not for Google map’s insisting. The inside would have been impossible to recreate in the unlikely event this establishment become a chain of restaurants. The personal objects on the walls told a detailed story of the owner’s life. The owner himself was old and if I was a gambler, I guess I would have wagered he was content with our appearance in his humble eatery. It can be hard to tell at times with certain Japanese citizens. If the meal was any measure of his mood, he was filled with glee and purpose. That said, once another party came to the door, he motioned to me to finish up my beer so he could seat this new group at our table. It took some control on my part to not burst out laughing as I considered the irony of how in a country of such profound manners and politeness, a business owner could do something that would come off undeniably rude in the states where manners play a smaller role. Through very limited Japanese and body movements, I genuinely thanked him for all that transpired over the previous 45 minutes.
The four of us ferried back to Ishigaki, rented a car, and drove to an admirable Airbnb with an extensive ocean view that would house us for the next four nights. Pam and decided to walk around the neighborhood and down to the beach but were stopped in our tracks by a firmly-worded, handwritten “No Trespassing” sign that blocked the path down to the water. This was a bummer since this former easement was the only legal way down to the beach. As we contemplated our next move, three Frenchmen in a van pulled up alongside us. The driver smiled pleasantly and offered his assistance. Jordi was at the wheel with Filip riding shotgun and Nicolas in the middle of the back seat like Bobby Brady in the Brady Bunch episode where he wins a bet against brother Greg and demands to accompany he and his girlfriend on a drive-in movie date. Speaking of television references, Filip looked alarmingly similar to Billy Bob Thorton’s character’s son Cooper in the show Landman and Jordi could easily make some beer money portraying Anthony Edwards at parties (the version of Edwards found during his ER years). A wasted treasure it was that three Frenchmen drive around aimlessly in a 20-year old tan van, accidentally mimicking American TV characters that most Japanese have never heard of on a subtropical Japanese island that most Americans have never heard of.
When we told Jordi of our beach access woes, he said there was another option but that it required courage due to its proximity to a house that went as far as putting garbage in front of the path in efforts to deter tourists from trying to hit the beach (a move, we were told, used by many locals all over the island). The other option was to walk a few minutes east over the river and down to Tommy’s Beach. Officially illegal but requiring less courage due to far less houses and buildings nearby (except for a great French bakery that had recently gone out of business after many years that was bizarrely located in the woods), Pam and I made our way over to Tommy’s and had only to share this secluded little beach with lots of trash. Sadly, it seemed most of the beaches I’ve ever been to in Japan are trashy (not in the good way).
After exploring the Ishigaki by car and foot, we took part in a kayak/walking tour with a doll of a man named Shuji. Shuji was recommended to us by ER Jordi. This tour was in a dense mangrove forest and included a walk around the extremely muddy environment. Andrea decided that in addition to not wanting to share a bedroom with her son, she also no longer wished to share a tandem kayak with him, making this a tough week for Joam. The mother and son instead paddled in their own personal kayaks. Pam and I, however, decided to again put our marriage to the test by engaging the mangroves in a tandem kayak.
At the end of the tour, Pam realized she lost her sunglasses back somewhere in what can only be compared to The Dagobah system in Star Wars. Pam more or less accepted the fact she would not see them again, that Yoda probably found them with no intention of bringing them to a “lost and found”. But after our tour, after we left, Shuji went back into this primeval armpit of vegetation during a wet and windy storm and miraculously found them, a feat that could only be achieved by two types of beings: Jedi and Japanese. And to top it off, Shuji even drove to our rental house to drop them off. As I said, he was a doll.
Today we said goodbye to our Ishigaki headquarters and drove into town and over the Southern Gate Bridge onto a small man made island that hosted a park where feral cats reigned supreme. Although wild, they looked well fed and had bowls of water everywhere to drink from. It was at this moment that I realized how overrated zoos are. Watching a bunch of wild cats dominate a small island provided me with more animal-viewing pleasure than the most highly-regarded zoo.
Sadly, this was the part of the journey where Pam, her mother, and her brother parted ways with me. They would take a different flight later in the day back to Tokyo and eventually to their respective homes. I dropped them in the middle of town and issued each of them a different style yet affectionate hug. Custom hugs: this is one of many things I am known for. After leaving my precious babies to their own devices, I dropped off the rental car and flew back to Fukuoka where I picked up another rental vehicle that would be part of my life for the next 16 days as I explored parts of southern Honshu and a smidge of northern Kyushu.
After a two hour drive, I checked into Hotel Oyado Onn Yudaonsen in Yamaguchi. This nice hotel was one full of rules. Although the restaurant and onsen (hot spring bath) were accessed by going outside briefly, I was required to wear slippers that were slightly uncomfortable and too small. If I was on my way to the hot spring, I was to wear my yukata (traditional robe) and slippers. Not wanting to invite unwelcome stares, I watched a brief YouTube video that told me how to appropriately wear my yukata and how to tie the accompanying belt.
If I had to go out on a limb and make a generalization, the one I would make is this: in Japan, the further you find yourself from the larger, more tourist-saturated centers (Tokyo, Kyoto, etc.), the more rules you can expect to find. I believe the reason behind this is that such establishments are catering less and less to western barbarians like myself. I’m not much for drinking games, but if I was, I would create one in Japan where you must drink every time you inadvertently trample upon one of the more subtle, delicate rules in a given environment like an onsen. Without attempting to break any rules, I would still probably be passed out in a puddle of my own vomit within 30 minutes of embarking on such a drinking adventure.
Today I walked around this small city. There was something rather livable about the place. I hit a few tourist attractions but was starting to feel like a tourist attraction myself. Most of my path for the next two weeks would be off the beaten one for most westerners so I found people looking at me far more than they would in other major cities.
In one day, one can burn through Yamaguchi’s top tourist spots and still have time to complete a 10K road race with a limp. Since road races are no longer a part of my world nor do I have a limp, I searched on my map to see if any points of interest caught my attention. I quickly spotted some sort of viewpoint on the map and GPS seemed to be confident in my ability to reach this point in a vehicle so I drove towards it. Soon I was climbing up a small road at a reasonable pitch. However, the last half mile of this ascent to this viewpoint was truly a case of “Where eagles dare”. Barely enough room for my small economy car, things would’ve got fantastically grim if a vehicle was coming the other way. There were so few guard rails that I wondered why they even installed any at all. This entire stretch of this last leg of this brief journey was partnered with a steep drop off on one side, being a strong candidate for a guardrail in its entirety.
The next morning I hit the road in the direction of Miyoshi. Forty-five minutes in, I was forced to stop at a checkpoint on the highway. A highway official looked at my tires closely and decided my vehicle didn’t have what it took to conquer what must have been snowy roads ahead. I was forced to turn around and figure out another circuitous path to Miyoshi which tacked on almost two additional hours of driving. This ultimately caused me to miss my crucial massage session I had planned the day before, all of this reminding me just how daunting and unfair life can be. When I arrived at the hotel, I walked next door to where the masseuse was and apologized, relieved she was not a cantankerous samurai with two swords that was inclined to behead me for my chronological impudence. We rescheduled for tomorrow morning at 8:30AM.
I walked around this pleasant but boring town. The most stimulating thing during my walk was a group of Japanese elders in a riverside park playing some strange form of laid back golf with large-headed, cartoonish golf clubs. The look and feel of it combined real golf, mini golf, and field hockey. I guess these people used to play real golf, now they play convalescence golf. It made me wonder if this was another example of how our world is on the down slope. In the states, we used to play tennis, now we play pickleball. Once a society decides to start playing less challenging versions of existing sports, the rot has begun.
On my way back to the hotel, I stopped in at a local little izakaya restaurant. I ordered a couple microbrew beers that apparently came from Hiroshima. The beers were acceptable. In fact, all the microbrew beer I have had in Japan was fresh but the taste is often too short, clean, and tidy. Thankfully the okonomiyaki I ordered left nothing to be desired in the foreseeable future. The only thing that could possibly compete with this dish was the Queen documentary I absorbed once back in my hotel room. It had been weeks since I have been able to turn on a television and have even a remote idea of what’s going on.
The next morning I headed down to the first floor for breakfast. I don’t mean to brag but it was about 7:15 in the morning (that’s impressive for me). On the way down, the elevator stopped at a floor, allowing the entry of a disheveled roly poly man that seemed to have the outfit and attitude required to be standing at a bus stop for 30 minutes in the middle of winter. In one hand was an open 16 oz. can of beer. Even with a breathalyzer, it would have been impossible to tell if this man was drunk. He bowed far too much; perhaps to make up for the fact he was drinking a beer 12 hours before the norm.
The breakfast room was all business. It was predominantly men who seemed to be shoving their food down as quickly as possible so they could run off to some vital business engagement. Upon seeing all this rushing around and sad efficiency, I longed for the sloppy morning beer drinker.
After breakfast, I headed north and then west to Tottori. On my way, I drove through an adorable little seaside town by the name of Daisen. After a cup of coffee in a tiny café, I stopped in at a business that sold the catch of the day on the first floor and legendary meals on the second floor. This was a real local place and was so fresh that not even a bear in a river yanking jumping salmon out of the air could claim a fresher catch. While I waited for my meal to arrive, some exuberant Japanese youths in their early 20s approached my table. Clearly not used to seeing many Westerners, they applied their broken but welcomed English to the situation. They were interested to know where I was from and what part of Japan I liked most. I told them I liked everywhere I have ever been in Japan but perhaps the island of Yakushima claims a special part of my being. They gave me a ramen restaurant recommendation in Tottori and I told them to watch one of my favorite movies, Lost In Translation. Just like that, two opposing cultures became one.
As I drove to Totorri, I drove through a massive road construction project. They seemed to be upgrading the road I was traveling on. Per usual, I marvel at how organized, neat, and precise their construction projects are. The other thing that is truly awe inspiring is Japan’s near dominance of its landscape. It has one of the highest concentration of tunnels of any country in the world. In the US, you could literally drive for days without going through a tunnel but due to Japan’s mountainous nature, one seems to encounter a major tunnel every few minutes. And due to the rugged topography, that also means lots of bridges. The cost and maintenance of all this must be blinding. I guess that is one of the reasons the toll prices here are worse than alimony payments. After driving nine hours, I spent about $25 for gas but over $100 in tolls.
Today I visited the ruins of Tottori castle and climbed to the top of the small mountain behind it. The view was nothing to be sad about. Two miles to the north I could see the Tottori sand dunes besides the ocean. On my way down I met a lovely couple in their 60’s. The husband had a firm grasp on the English language due to the fact that he had worked in the states for over 10 years. They were curious as to why I was in this part of Japan. After introducing myself, they gave me their names: Michael and Angelina. As they were Japanese, I became perplexed at their names. Maybe their time in the states explains it. Or maybe they wanted to sound like a couple that could have been in the movie Goodfellas? I didn’t ask.
After a quick stop at 7-11 for sustenance, I drove to the Tottori dunes. Anywhere in Japan is a strange setting for sand dunes of this nature. It was as if someone scooped up a little chunk of the Sahara and plopped it down on the Japanese coast. The dunes are actually not due to dry weather but instead are the result of sand being deposited by the nearby Sendai River. The ocean and winds bring the sand back to shore, forming these dunes.
I checked out of my stale hotel room and drove west towards my next destination near Matsue. On the way, I stopped off at a cute little town by the name of Kurayoshi. I started by visiting Utsubuki Park. Other than a few maintenance people, I had the park to myself. Supposedly, this is one of the 100 best parks to view cherry blossoms during the spring. Whether that is true or not matters little to me. What did enrapture me however was a strange pedestal that was equipped with four buttons and a speaker below it. As I soon found out, each button corresponded with a song meant to capture the essence of each of the four seasons. The winter song was a Japanese version of “O Christmas Tree”. This was yet another example of Japan not being afraid to allow technology to intertwine itself with their profound and ancient obsession with nature.
After leaving the park, I strolled through the Shirakabe Dozogun part of town which used to be the merchant district. This wonderful area had finally answered my craving for a simple, quiet, traditional, and appealing neighborhood that I could walk around with no irritating agenda. Par for the course, I was the only white hombre around. The only other tourists, which were few, seemed to be Japanese. The buildings were well preserved and were either clad in wood or a beautiful smooth white plaster. All the roofs were covered with the typical ornate tile.
Further on, my next visit was to an interesting art museum by the name of the Adachi Museum. Of course there were a lot of pretty paintings by Japanese artists but what made this place unique were the Japanese gardens which are rightly defined as living art. You can’t actually walk through these gardens. They are either behind a glass wall or roped off. Whether this type of garden is your thing or not, you can’t help but to be bowled over by the sheer amount of time and effort it took to create these gardens and perhaps more impressive, to maintain them.
Yet again, I was the only whitey here. Although the weather was not great and it is a little bit in the off-season, there were still tour buses and cars in the large parking lot that brought in a sizable crowd that seemed to be exclusively Japanese. Here I was approached by an older Japanese gentleman who was again surprised by my presence. His English was decent so we spoke for about 10 minutes. He told me he has never been to the USA but would like to visit a friend in San Francisco. For some odd reason, he wants to see big surfing waves. The other funny thing he told me was that his primary concern with a visit to the US is that everyone will be so tall, making him feel even shorter than he does in Japan. Standing at about five and a half feet or maybe a little under, I told him his concern is unwarranted. Especially on the coasts of our country, one will find such a diverse collection of people that no one will find his appearance to be out of place. I told him that my wife is from the Philippines and is just over five feet tall and to my knowledge, no one has offered her a job in the circus. This seemed to put his mind at ease.
The next stop was my lodging for the next three days and nights: Mount Ichibata Cottages. Arguably my most unique and serene accommodations, it commands an impressive southward view of Lake Shinji. Even more interesting, my cottage is on the grounds of a Buddhist temple with a history of over 1,100 years. The temple is Rinzai Zen temple that is known to help with vision health (including vision of the heart).
One of staff members named Mazako met me at my cottage for an introduction. She had just dropped off my shabu-shabu meal that I would be cooking myself. When I woke the next morning, I stepped outside and could hear the monks chanting through an impressive collection of giant cedar trees. I went back inside and soon heard a knock at the door. It was Mazako again who was delivering an adorable and fulfilling breakfast. Again she was wearing a black samue for clothing like the evening before. The other thing I noticed was that her vehicle was also black causing me to hope that her automobile was Buddhist as well.
Mazako said I was free to chant with the monks every morning if I wished. I thanked her graciously. Since they started their chanting around 7:30AM and I knew few to no Bhuddist chants, I think the experience would have to wait until a subsequent lifetime. If she had told me that they chanted after sundown, opened up a bottle of decent single malt, and fired up a chant karoake machine, they would have had my business.
I visited the Izumo Temple today and afterwards, strolled down the usual street of shops and restaurants that always seems to precede any temple of note. Pam had requested I purchase some high-quality chopsticks. For the past few days, I have been looking in every store and done Google maps searches but nothing was bearing fruit. Literally a stone’s throw from the entrance to the temple grounds was a shop that sold nothing but chopsticks. I didn’t know such things existed. In my mind, that’s like a shop that only sells forks. The crazy thing was that it took me about 30 minutes to decide on which chopsticks to purchase. I have probably used this analogy before but I definitely felt like Indy in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when he is initially overwhelmed by the hundreds of choices before him when making the critical choice on which chalice is the Holy Grail. If he chooses the wrong one, he dies. If he chooses the right one, he lives forever. Finally, a pair of chopsticks called out to me. “Those are the chopsticks of a scientist,” I said to myself (Pam is a scientist).
If Pam approves of my chopstick selection, I guess that will mean I’ll live forever, or at least another week.
The usual knock on my door came around 6 PM for my dinner delivery. When I opened the door, there was a young woman I had not yet met that accompanied Mazako. She introduced herself as Sara and navigated the language of English with some comfort and ease. When I asked Sara where she learned her English, she told me that she spent a year in Yukon, Canada. I have never been there but from what experience has told me, if there is a certain place that is the namesake of a pick up truck or SUV, it’s probably not a great place to live. To visit, absolutely. But probably not to live. This seemed to be Sara‘s conclusion as well.
My next question for Sara was how she fit into the whole Mount Ichibata equation. Was she a layperson working her way to spiritual greatness? No, she said. She then made the wonderful revelation that she is Mazako’s daughter. My eyes opened wide and I told Mazako that I thought she was also a layperson or nun. Sara translated and she laughed. Sara then turned up the volume on this hour of revelation and also informed me that she is the daughter of the head priest, Daiko Iizuka. So what we had on our hands here was one big happy Buddhist family.
The next morning, the knock was again followed by the appearance of Sara and her mother. After handing off my breakfast, they told me that Daiko Iizuka would like to meet me. I was more than deeply honored by this invitation so after eating and tidying up my belongings, I went up to the office and had a wonderful conversation with this humble, genuine, and down to earth man who was balder than me and although he did not look it, was in his mid 60s. I asked him if he was from Izumo and he said he was born at the temple. Not only that, his father and grandfather were both head priests of this illustrious temple. This fascinated me and I remarked that his grandfather was probably the head priest when their beautiful bell was confiscated by the Japanese military in 1944. At that point in the war, they were so desperate for metal that they thought it was acceptable to remove this sacred bell with a history of hundreds of years and melt it down to make bullets. The bell was taken to a factory but every time one of the workers tried to melt the bell down, something tragic or unfortunate would happen that prevented the bell from being destroyed. The war ended and the bell remained in a factory. A few years later, workers in the factory returned the bell to the temple and is still in use to this day. I’m happy to say I got to hear it ring yesterday and it sounds beautiful.
Daiko had been to the US six times. On one trip, for some reason, his friend convinced him to rent a Mustang to drive around (please try to envision a bald Buddhist priest behind the wheel of a legendary American sports car). Not used to a powerful, rear wheel drive car, he got stuck in some mud at an intersection somehow. Suddenly, a bunch of large men emerged from their cars and approached him. At first he was quite nervous but then suddenly all of the macho men placed themselves behind his car and like a team of trained oxen, pushed his car free again. He said this was one of his first experiences in the US and put our country in a positive light for him.
Daiko has got another good friend in California and a sister that lives in New York so on another trip, he took a Greyhound bus from coast to coast. I essentially told him that only a person who has put their complete faith in God or Buddha would’ve survived such a journey. I told him that Greyhound excels at placing their bus terminals in the seediest parts of town. He concurred.
Leaving Izumo, I stopped by the Iwami Ginzan silver mine and adjoining darling mountain village just below it. From there it was to Masuda where beyond a couple temple visits, the greatest event of note was me smoking a cigar in the middle of the day out on my beautiful hotel room balcony surrounded by little olive trees. I partnered this tobacco adventure with my James Clavell novel Gai-Jin that takes place in the 1860’s in Japan. He’s the same author of Shogun which I read two years ago while I was in Japan. The word “gai-jin” means foreigner or outsider. If I had to make a wild guess, this word is muttered every once in a while by an old crusty Japanese gentleman that sees me tackling their onsen scene with uncommon bravado.
Then it was on to Nagato where I walked through the well preserved and charming Edo-era town of Hagi and then on to Motonosumiinari Shrine that allowed me to pass through the 123 red torii gates. The original shrine is from 1955 when, as the legend goes, a local fisherman was instructed by a white fox to build it. The 123 red torii gates happened about 30 years later. I’m not sure I would do something that a fox told me to do. If it was a cat however, I would be all over that like white on rice. Cats seem to exercise good judgment and more to the point, they cover up their feces when they have completed their business out in the wild which speaks volumes about their character.
Twenty minutes later, I was at my next bit of lodging: Yokikan Hotel. The hotel seems to be presenting itself primarily to Japanese tourists as a luxurious onsen resort. My room was large and definitely tired. The view out the window more or less summed up the place: mostly impressive with mountains on the left and more mountains plus an attractive bay to the right. In the middle of my view were some of the hotel’s worn out facility structures and a road lined with a couple fields of solar panels, a sad looking gas station, and a few other specs of commercial failure.
But as usual, the staff was overly courteous and nice to deal with. An energetic smiling Japanese man took my bag to my room and after a quick introduction, made a polite exit. When I entered the restaurant area, the same man pleasantly greeted me again. Thinking I was going to be sitting in a large room with tables with other hotel patrons, he showed me to my private eating chamber. He asked me to remove my shoes, slid back a shoji door and beckoned me to enter. Once inside, I found there was already a diverse offering of food waiting for me on the table. Amusingly out of place in this traditional eight foot by twelve foot dining area was a television in the corner with a remote control thoughtfully placed next to my meal.
For some reason, when I request a dinner service from any of my lodgings, the amount of food that is given convinces me they have mistaken me for a Sumo wrestler that must put on 50 pounds in the coming week. This ryokan dinner was no different. I think I counted 10 courses. Please bear in mind, some of these courses had multiple offerings within themselves.
The following day I drove over the eye-catching, screensaver-worthy, mile-long bridge to Tsunoshima Island. Highlights included 1) renting a bicycle to tour the small island in great detail and 2) seeing a cat that was obsessed with not giving a shit about me.
On my way down to my final destination, Takeo Onsen, I toured the very busy and charming Mojiko neighborhood in Kitakyushu. It was somehow reminiscent of the Boston waterfront on a glorious spring day.
I arrived at my luxurious onsen hotel a couple hours later. Like most onsen hotels, you are given an outfit (a samue in this case) to wear around the hotel. This is kind of funny to me because when you are staying at one of these hotels and most of the guests are Japanese, they really get into it. They wear their samue and slippers to breakfast in the morning, they wear the same to and from the onsen in the afternoon, and again at their $100+, 12-course meal in the opulent restaurant at night. The vibe given is one of a decadent slumber party or the villain’s secret hideout in a 1960’s or 1970’s James Bond movie where they all wear the same outfit as they go about their days in a very avant-garde structure like the hotel I’m staying in. I just realized that after writing this, the name of the hotel I am currently in is OND Hotel. Maybe they originally were going to call it BOND Hotel but sadly decided at the last moment that would be too much.
Before I knew it, I found myself in an Uber coming back from Logan airport getting wonderful Turkish restaurant recommendations from my friendly Turkish driver. It was nice to see that almost all of the snow had the decency to melt before my return.
Pam liked the chopsticks.
The End
