Good Night

Uotoshi Ryokan is nice. Uotoshi-san himself is super nice. Our room is huge but cosy, with tatami flooring at futons on the floor, wood and paper window coverings, sliding doors, a TV, heaters, tea - everything you'd expect in the quintessential Japanese residence. Plus you get a view of snow falling heavily onto the trees and ground outside - one of my favorite things in the world.

There's the added bonus that he also has the only publicly accessible internet connection in Yudanaka. The next closest would be a 15-minute cab ride to the next town, so I apparently chose the right place as far as getting work done goes. (Remember, this isn't totally a vacation...)

However, Uotoshi falls short in the bath department. This is serious onsen country, and the facilities here - as Mom and Aunt Hiroko found out - are woefully inadequate. Luckily, the hotel that held our luggage earlier is a full-on onsen as well, and I decided to brave the dumping snow to go and bathe there instead.

I say without a hint of exaggeration that this was my best bath... EVER.

Not least of all because it was free. The front desk staff remembered me from earlier and decided my admission would be on the house. That's great, but I easily would've paid double the going rate at ¥1000. Or a hell of a lot more.

The washing up part was routine, but what a good routine it is. I've written before about how the methodical and single-minded Japanese bathing method is - for some reason - a means of centering the self. Of focusing. Of working on one task so vehemently that nothing else matters.

And then there's the soaking, which is the serious payoff. Two days of climbing, walking, hiking, being crammed into trains... it all melts away as soon as you enter the geothermal baths. It goes a step beyond when you're in an outdoor rotemburo, again, as mentioned before.

But throw that rotemburo into a snowy mountain environment and it's incomparable bliss. The moment of unbelievable cold between stepping outside the shower area and into the ultra-hot spring-fed bath is so worth it.

In the mountains here, there's a slightly sulfurous smell to the water, but you get over it the moment you're immersed up to the neck and feeling its magical minerals going to work on your very soul. The snow falling above is not only visually dramatic, but soothing as it lands on your head and your face, and should you be sitting straight up, on your shoulders. The slight chills it sends down the spine are immediately met by the comforting warmth of the bath, creating a brilliant balance that's almost spiritual.

When the bath gets too hot, simply stand up and let the snow fall on your body, letting two of the more extreme forces of nature work you over in ways that are simply spectacular.

It certainly helps when there's absolutely no one else out there with you - standing up buck naked isn't exactly considered fun for most westerners. And the solitary experience of you and only you in the middle of nature (with a little help from humans) is contemplative, exhilarating, and chaotic at the same time. The hot water relaxes you. The cold air chills you and makes you more alert. Flurries of snow swirl around you in the breeze, sometimes falling upon you in clusters when the branches of the scarlet Japanese maple are shaken above.

And to think - those bastard snow monkeys get to do this all day, every day.

Little Things In Da House

I just took my EMP (TM & © 2006, Grace) and realized that I'm no longer disturbed by the heated toilet seat. What previously gave me that weird feeling of sitting down on a vinyl chair after someone else has just gotten up from it now feels pretty good. Especially on a cold morning like this.

What I'm still too scared to try out, though, is the built-in bidet in these crazy-ass toilet seat contraptions. There are a gazillion settings, more so than on any car's intermittent wipers. There's some swirly motion, on/off/on/off, high-powered jet. They all scare me. Maybe I'll work up the nerve to try it one drunken night, but for now, the only thing I allow to tickle my privates is my girlfriend. And even then, she doesn't play in the Danger Zone. Oh well, at least they're not using those hole-in-the-ground toilets anymore.

Now normally, I'd warm up with a shower after my EMP (that's early morning poo, if you haven't figured it out), but here, showers are taken at night. Presumably so you don't mess up your bedding. This is logical, but the main purpose of my showers isn't to get clean, but to wake my lazy ass up. But I guess the Japanese style of bathing is too complicated for bleary-eyed mornings. See, the shower isn't over or in the tub. It's separate from it. You generally get a little wash bucket and stool, hose yourself down with water, then lather yourself up. Scrub. Shampoo. Condition. Exfoliate. Whatever. Then rinse yourself totally clean. Then you remove the cover from the tub, where there's already a load of hot water waiting for you to take a soak. That's because you keep reusing the same bath water for days. You wash first so you enter it clean, and you simply sit in the bath to soak your aching bones. This may be a bit hard for westerners to get used to, but now that I'm in the routine, I'm digging it. It's almost ritualistic, the cleansing aspect, and then relaxing in the tub for as long as you like before going to bed is really, really, really nice. I think I've got enough of a hang of the routine to go hit up an onsen or ohuro (hot spring or public bath) in all my fat, hairy, naked glory without committing any faux pas.

Besides the bathroom, little else is all that different in Japanese homes. Most doors slide instead of swing - likely an evolution of the wood-and-paper doors of the days of yore. And of course, most traditional households have tatami (woven reed) flooring, which is more comfortable on shoe-less feet than hardwood or tile. Upon the tatami in the bedroom is a futon, often without a pillow. People have often wondered why I'm so comfortable crashing out on the floor without a pillow, well, there's your answer. It's in my blood. That and I can do anything when I'm that drunk.

There's a multitude of stuff outside of home that's well different from anything in the States. But I'll save that for another post. I hear stirring downstairs, which means I can get up and have coffee. That and I have to pack for the next leg of the trip. Shikoku is calling.