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.

Live from Yudanaka

We made the hour long train journey from Nagano to Yudanaka, and along the way did a few chants, a few dances, and prayed like the bejezus that it would snow.

It's not that it could possibly snow enough for them to open up the ski resorts up here and for me to carve a few pristine runs of powder. I'm not that delusional about my new Buddhist chanting abilities to conjur weather phenomena. It's just that I wanted to gloat to all my friends back home who aren't seeing any damn snow in Tahoe. That and, hey, we're where the '98 Winter Olympics were held. It's only appropriate to see it with at least a dusting of snow.

And that dusting is what we got shortly after arrival. And that's about all we got.

We arrived at the ryokan we'd booked - that's a traditional, home-style Japanese accommodation if I haven't mentioned that before. Uotoshi Ryokan was one of two recommended by my guidebook, or any English-language web site for that matter, and since this leg of the trip is mine, I had to go with what I know. That and this one is way cheaper than the other.

Anyway, back to the point: We got here and there's no Uotoshi. Yes, there's the ryokan, but Uotoshi-san himself is nowhere to be found. In fact, there's no one at the place. Luckily, the hotel a couple of doors down said they'd be glad to hold our stuff until Uotoshi shows up, and if he doesn't, that we could have a room there.

In the meantime, the snow started to fall some more, which meant everything was falling into place. Because I plan the awesomest shit. And believe me, this shit is about as awesome as it gets:

Nightcap

After a couple of days of travel, only one thing would fit the bill after that amazing view of Mt. Fuji: A bath. We went to the local onsen where, as we soaked up some warmth in the outdoor rotemburo full of more of that awesome thermal spring water, Ken told me how each city was given about $1 million to spend on some sort of public works. Shibakawa decided to build this onsen. Well worth every penny.

The most fascinating part of this conversation is that it happened in broken Japanese, English, and even Portuguese. Where I couldn't understand a word in Japanese, and Ken didn't know it in English, he'd fill in with Portuguese. Luckily, it was close enough to Spanish that I could understand.

It's at times like this when I can really appreciate what a small world it is.

It's also the first time I saw Ken relax. For people who you would imagine to be slow, methodical, and precise, this monk moves in a blur - often in a hamfisted manner - rushing through just about everything. My mom said after 25 years, he's more Brazilian now than Japanese. I replied to her, "Well then, what does that make you?" We've been living in the States for over 25 years now, after all.

As soon as relaxation time was over, it was back to the rush. It was 6:20 when we left the onsen, we had dinner reservations for 6:30, and it was a 15 minute drive. We were whisked through pitch black, windy mountain roads to a small, traditional looking house seemingly in the middle of butt-ass nowhere.

We entered and immediately there was a cat theme. In the entryway, there was every permutation of the stereotypically Japanese "good luck" cat, including one dressed as a burglar. The door to the main room slid open and I was overcome by the scent of roasting fish... and the reason revealed itself in the middle of the room. There, in a small charcoal pit around which we were seated, three spits of whole fish were smoking over the coals.

We were each served a tray holding a variety of food. Rice infused with kibi (I have no idea what that is), some amazing tofu-type dealie, lightly pickled mackerel, pickled ferns, two types of fish, various plants from the mountains and the trees that I've never seen before in my life, and a crazy soft mushroom in its own consommé that was like heaven on earth. This was followed by platters of unusual tempura (okra, myoga, candied yam - you name it), and of course, the whole fish that had been roasting before us. We were instructed to eat the entire fish - called an ayu - head first, working our way to the end.

Normally I don't mind eating tiny fish in their entirety, but a regular-sized (eight inches or so) full fish? Head and all? I followed our host and my mom's lead and bit in.

De-fucking-licious.

The next bite was even better than the previous, which is why I guess we were told to eat from the head. Then I looked and noticed that the fish had not been gutted. I looked up at Mom and Ken and they kept going, so I shrugged and kept going myself Now normally I wouldn't recommend eating fish innards. They taste, umm, earthy at best. But I'll venture to say that these were the best fish guts I've ever had. In fact, by the time I got to the crispy little tail, I wanted to ask them to roast up some more.

We were soon joined by the chef and his wife - who had been serving us - a highly eccentric couple who run this restaurant serving up ages-old, nearly-lost cuisine one party at a time. The menu varies depending on what they get and what they feel like making. Had we come the next day, it would've been a hot pot of sukiyaki hung over the charcoal pit for all to share.

I would come back if they were only serving white rice and seaweed. The combination of quality, atmosphere, and excellent hosts made me wish we had something like this at home. Serving the perfect dinner to cap off what ended up being a nearly perfect day, it may well be my favorite restaurant at which I've ever eaten. It's called Konjaku. I don't know if it's in any guide book or any web site, but if you're ever in the Mt. Fuji area of Japan, find this place. Go there. You will love it.