Writing is therapeutic.
This past weekend was the annual Board of Education trip to the onsen- a hot spring resort/public bathhouse. Every person I know that I have to address in honorific, superformal "I am scum, but please listen to my humble request honored master... may I drink this tea you've brought me? I am content to let it sit there and grow cold rather than commit the rudeness of sullying your eyesight with my horrific table manners" style speech piled onto a bus early Saturday morning and headed north, to Fukui Prefecture. The bus trundled all the way up to the Sea of Japan, made a right, and kept going for a few hours before we actually got there- and from the moment we stepped onto the bus, cans of beer were handed around and consumed at an alarming (to my ethnocentric eyes... if you drink before 11:00am in Michigan, you're an alchoholic) rate. Bear in mind, these are the BOSSES. The big shots. They are the top players in the local educational/political game. Japan has never had Prohibition- there are no social impediments to drunkenness. It shows.
Shortly after leaving, my magic cellphone/camera/email client ran out of batteries and became a pretty blue paperweight- I am disappointed beyond belief that I have no pictures of the AMAZING shoreline of the Sea of Japan. Rock spires leap out of the water with a jaggedness and immediacy that suggests that just before you arrived, these things fell from the mountains that loom over the shoreline, and you're going to be a lucky man if you're not struck by the latest boulder to aspire to islandhood. These mini-islands are topped, inconceivably, by scrub trees and moss- despite the fact that their sheer sides reach no less than ten meters up from the waterline. It's amazing country up there- I've got to go back when it's warmer.
\nAfter a terrifying ride through tunnels, mountain passes and general geologic insanity, we arrived first at a little roadside restaurant (whose name escapes me) for a lunch break. The town where this restaurant sits is famous for it\'s bamboo- everything in the restaurant (and attached gift shop!) is made of the stuff. Bamboo cups are awesome- just cut a chunk out of the stalk and slap a bottom in there. It looks almost too easy.
Lunch at the Bamboo restaurant was tasty, but our ultimate destination was still about an hour away, up the coastline to Awarase City, and the Grandia Awarase Onsen. Awarase is a fairly small town- smaller than Ritto, from the looks of it- but in the middle of the town there's a giant thirteen-story hotel in which I spent the rest of Saturday and the morning of Sunday. We did not leave to eat. We did not leave to shop. And about half the time, we did not wear clothes.
When you arrive at one of these things, you are led to your room and pick up a cotton kimono (yukata) that you wear at all times in the non-bath area of the hotel. The moment I entered, one of the workers (a charming lady in her late fifties with a beautiful set of gold teeth that certainly served as a model for the gangsta-rap gold fronts) pressed a special "large size" yukata into my hands, explaining quickly in Japanese that it was the biggest they had. It wasn't too terribly small- just... um... short-sleeved- and the hem, which ideally brushes the tops of your ankles, would be described on a woman as "provocative". On my hairy legs, it was just plain small. The robes were color-coded: Blue for boys, red for girls.
The hotel was entirely traditionally-styled. We slept ten to a room, rolling out futons at night on the fresh-cut bamboo floor (the room still smelled of green bamboo- it was great), and our sleep space at night was converted into a lounge during the day by folding up the futons, stuffing them in closets, and setting out low tables and big fluffy cushions. The moment we all changed into our robes and got settled, it was time for a trip to the baths. The baths, like the clothes, are segregated into a men's section and a women's section- which is good, as you are expected to take your bath au naturale.
These things are like steamy, silent, naked churches. Nobody talks. Everyone shuffles around in the mist, murmuring in low voices and holding tiny hand towels in front of them to avoid complete embarassment. The process is as follows: First, you go sit in the sauna and sweat for twenty minutes. Then, you wash off all the dirt from the outside world, and go sit in the sulfrous waters of the hotspring. After you're done there, you rinse. The smell of brimstone never comes out- between that, and the constant cigarette smoke, by the end of the trip I smelled like a creature from the Pit.
The outdoor bath is, in character, the diametric opposite of the indoor bath. It is not steamy. It is in no way churchlike. This one was on the fifth floor of the hotel, on a balcony with a waist-high (by Japanese standards- adjust your mental pictures accordingly) glass wall dividing you from the elements and from onlookers. Clear glass- not frosted, not bubbled, not in any way diverting the onlookers below from your naked form. I recieved more than one enthusiastic wave from a ground-level passerby. Before this trip, I could count the number of people who have seen me in my unfettered glory on one hand- including family members and medical professionals. This is no longer the case, and I feel like I've lost something.
We had dinner after the first soak in the baths, everyone sitting around a large u-shaped arrangement of low tables in their cotton kimono, wolfing down fresh crab from the Sea of Japan and an array of raw fish. Like every party, the wine flowed freely. I took up a bottle of sake and toured the room with it, pouring cups for my betters, and as such, got to avoid the hordes of people looking to pour for me. It's like a little game we play here in Japan, where peer pressure is a positive social force.
After the impressive dinner (punctuated by speeches and speeches regarding the exploits of the two retirees who were the guests of honor, spiced with deep bows and empty cups) we retired, en masse, to the in-hotel Karaoke house. I was, of course, pressed to perform. Their English selection spanned the breadth of all musical genres, as long as you wanted to sing Tom Jones or Ray Charles. I'll spare you the ugly details, but suffice it to say that Ray is a whole lot more fun to sing.
After Karaoke, it was time for a quick trip to the Ramen shop (also in the building- they just charge your room for all of this). Just before ducking out of the karaoke bar, I was approached by three young gas station attendants from Fukui who demanded to know my country and area of origin, and proceeded to keep me up to date with the exploits of my hometown sports teams. Evidently, the Pistons are strong this year, and they have international popularity. Even in a tiny town on the Sea of Japan, they are pop culture gods. The American Olympic Soccer team looks good enough that one of the gas-stand guys tells me he's going to root for them against Japan. Kids these days- no sense of national pride.
After the ramen shop, back to the bath. It was largely the same. Over the course of the weekend, I lost two kilograms- I think I might be a bit dehydrated.
Then, finally, it was time for bed. In one of the rooms, the party continued until the wee hours, drinking and carousing like the secret to brewing beer had been lost to the ages, and these guys found the last case.
I, however, stumbled back to my futon to collapse. We slept side-by-side, nine people lined up on futons with one-foot walking spaces between them. Custom dictated we sleep while wearing the cotton kimono; as a result, the next morning I wandered the hotel a wrinkled mess.
After one more dip in the baths (so very relaxing, but the brimstone smell really gets to you after awhile), there was time for a quick breakfast and then back on the road. Culture Moment! They serve soft-boiled eggs at the onsen- calling them "Onsen Eggs"- I'm not sure whether or not they actually boil the eggs in the water or it just seems that way, as they do IN FACT smell like a hot spring. Mmmm... eggs that smell like rotten eggs....
The trip home was more astounding scenery, with two notable stops: One, the Sea of Japan Daffodil Museum (a two-tiered establishment built at the bottom and top of a huge cliff- access to the top half of the museum is via a dangerous, steep, snowy, slippery, adjective-laden set of steps), and a fishmarket in Fukui. Almost everyone on the bus went home with a crab in a box- and these crabs are about the size of a deep-dish pizza. They're huge. The fishmarket was a huge indoor bazaar, hawking every kind of seafood I know about and quite a few I don't- again, my camera's lack of battery is a hated coincidence.
So that's Fukui- fish, naked men, and sulfur.
The outdoor bath is, in character, the diametric opposite of the indoor bath. It is not steamy. It is in no way churchlike. This one was on the fifth floor of the hotel, on a balcony with a waist-high (by Japanese standards- adjust your mental pictures accordingly) glass wall dividing you from the elements and from onlookers. Clear glass- not frosted, not bubbled, not in any way diverting the onlookers below from your naked form. I recieved more than one enthusiastic wave from a ground-level passerby. Before this trip, I could count the number of people who have seen me in my unfettered glory on one hand- including family members and medical professionals. This is no longer the case, and I feel like I've lost something.
We had dinner after the first soak in the baths, everyone sitting around a large u-shaped arrangement of low tables in their cotton kimono, wolfing down fresh crab from the Sea of Japan and an array of raw fish. Like every party, the wine flowed freely. I took up a bottle of sake and toured the room with it, pouring cups for my betters, and as such, got to avoid the hordes of people looking to pour for me. It's like a little game we play here in Japan, where peer pressure is a positive social force.
After the impressive dinner (punctuated by speeches and speeches regarding the exploits of the two retirees who were the guests of honor, spiced with deep bows and empty cups) we retired, en masse, to the in-hotel Karaoke house. I was, of course, pressed to perform. Their English selection spanned the breadth of all musical genres, as long as you wanted to sing Tom Jones or Ray Charles. I'll spare you the ugly details, but suffice it to say that Ray is a whole lot more fun to sing.
After Karaoke, it was time for a quick trip to the Ramen shop (also in the building- they just charge your room for all of this). Just before ducking out of the karaoke bar, I was approached by three young gas station attendants from Fukui who demanded to know my country and area of origin, and proceeded to keep me up to date with the exploits of my hometown sports teams. Evidently, the Pistons are strong this year, and they have international popularity. Even in a tiny town on the Sea of Japan, they are pop culture gods. The American Olympic Soccer team looks good enough that one of the gas-stand guys tells me he's going to root for them against Japan. Kids these days- no sense of national pride.
After the ramen shop, back to the bath. It was largely the same. Over the course of the weekend, I lost two kilograms- I think I might be a bit dehydrated.
Then, finally, it was time for bed. In one of the rooms, the party continued until the wee hours, drinking and carousing like the secret to brewing beer had been lost to the ages, and these guys found the last case.
I, however, stumbled back to my futon to collapse. We slept side-by-side, nine people lined up on futons with one-foot walking spaces between them. Custom dictated we sleep while wearing the cotton kimono; as a result, the next morning I wandered the hotel a wrinkled mess.
After one more dip in the baths (so very relaxing, but the brimstone smell really gets to you after awhile), there was time for a quick breakfast and then back on the road. Culture Moment! They serve soft-boiled eggs at the onsen- calling them "Onsen Eggs"- I'm not sure whether or not they actually boil the eggs in the water or it just seems that way, as they do IN FACT smell like a hot spring. Mmmm... eggs that smell like rotten eggs....
The trip home was more astounding scenery, with two notable stops: One, the Sea of Japan Daffodil Museum (a two-tiered establishment built at the bottom and top of a huge cliff- access to the top half of the museum is via a dangerous, steep, snowy, slippery, adjective-laden set of steps), and a fishmarket in Fukui. Almost everyone on the bus went home with a crab in a box- and these crabs are about the size of a deep-dish pizza. They're huge. The fishmarket was a huge indoor bazaar, hawking every kind of seafood I know about and quite a few I don't- again, my camera's lack of battery is a hated coincidence.
So that's Fukui- fish, naked men, and sulfur.
1 comment:
I want to make sure I understand something. I know that Japan is very much about pecking order in business, but are you saying that the rigid structure kind of breaks down a little on a venture such as this?
Also, I'm just curious if there's anything from home that you've been missing.
Post a Comment