So I loved Takayama. It was small, quaint and hardly anyone spoke English. That's because its where the locals vacation. And you always want to find where the locals vacation.
The scenery...
I stayed in a little Japanese onsen – a hot springs – one I’d had to book on the fly when I discovered that the one I’d reserved online was 1 hour’s drive away. I’d gone to the tourism desk at the train station – looking peeked and weary from the train travel. A little Japanese girl accepted her mission and set out to find me a “hot springs”, “authentic experience”, “near town”. She called, booked the stay AND had them come to pick me - and the turkey – up. Luckily the onsen I’d booked hadn’t taken my credit card. I felt slightly guilty. But I let it go.
The driver was very nice. He bowed to me when he approached. “Konichi-wa,” I said. It was indeed afternoon – the train had taken much longer than I’d anticipated – even with the rigid, regular Japanese service. When we got to the onsen, which was on a little street in the heart of Takayama, I was ready to sit. Sit & be. Just for a bit. I needed some R&R. A vacation from my vacation. I gave the clerk a little slip of paper the tourism girl had handed me – in Japanese. She gestured to a man who was standing by the elevator, bowing. I took that to mean I should walk into the elevator. So I did. And the doors started closing. With just me in the elevator – keyless, room number-less. And then I noticed a little Japanese woman in the elevator with me. She wasn’t there – and then she was. And she smiled up at me and showed me the key. I smiled back. Tag team. Three on one. Now, that’s service.
She held up 4 fingers. “Four floor,” she said.
Yes, I said.
Hai.
When we got to the door of my room and she gestured to the number. I nodded. Then she gestured to the door next to it and said something in Japanese. I didn’t understand. She could tell. She gestured and talked and gestured. And finally I understood – this was the fire escape.
OK, I said. Yes. I understand.
She smiled.
Hai.
She let me into the room and I walked in, up a little embankment and towards the room.
Oh! She said. OH, oh.
I turned around.
She gestured to my shoes.
Oh, crap. Totally forgot about the shoes. I’d been staying in Western-style hotels. Crud.
I took them off – she was bending down. Nodding. Hai. Hai.
Then I put on the flip flops and started to walk into the room.
OH, she said. Oh, oh.
I wasn’t supposed to be wearing the flip flops.
So I took them off and understood that I was to go barefoot. So I did.
Typically, I’m used to coming into a hotel room or a B&B or whatever and being left alone. They drop your bags and quickly scurry out. Letting you have a moment to decompress. Not in Japan. In Japan, they sit with you. On their knees. Hands folded in their lap. Ready to help. Not in a subservient way. But in a “you are so great, how can I help you, I just want to spend time with you and be with you and make you comfortable” sort of way.
She was so cute. She had a little kimono on and she gestured for me to sit down at the little table that was set up in the middle of the room over tatami matting. Tatami mats are traditional style flooring in Japan. They cover the entire floor.
She gestured toward a basket that had some linens in it. She showed me that they were kimono-like robes – the kind you walk around the house in.
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” she said, looking into the basket, concerned. “Small,” she said, and she ran out of the room. She brought me back another one.
Then she gestured to a little basket with an array of colorful plastic packages and smiled and nodded, asking with her eyes, “Do you want this?”
I didn’t know what this was, so I turned my head, asking with my eyes, “What is it?”
She said, “Ohhhh,” now realizing I didn’t know what I was doing (if she hadn’t already realized).
She brought the basket over and let me select a color. I selected the pink whatsits. Turns out they were socks. And they looked like mittens for your feet.
Gosh, I love mittens.
They’re so romantic. Mittens. The word is even good.
I digress.
She gestured towards my feet. I had planned on going out to see the town for a bit. Rest and then go explore. But this was part of the experience. I had to put on the socks. So I did. Wedging my big toe into the first mitten and the other toes into the other. It felt weird.
But I felt settled all the sudden. At home.
She came over and sat beside me on her knees, wiping the kimono to the side, hands folded. She started talking – slowly – in Japanese.
Hmmm… I thought we’d established this. I do not speak Japanese. In the slightest.
I shook my head and smiled.
She took out a book and some papers and started pointing. I made out by the pictures that the women’s baths were on the 7th floor. And the men’s baths were on the 2nd floor.
Got. That. That would be a bad thing to misunderstand.
I made out that she was trying to tell me when to use the robe. After a lot of shaking of heads, nodding of heads, gesturing, smiling and giggling, I determined that I did not have to wear it to breakfast – but I did have to wear it to the baths.
OK, I said.
OK? She said?
OK.
Hai. She smiled and nodded – triumphant.
Then she brought out another piece of paper. It had little naked Japanese men all over it (cartoons, that is) with crosses in different places. Ah, Pictionary. Gotta love charades and Pictionary.
I could see that you were supposed to take off all your clothes to go into the bath.
You were supposed to wash yourself before you went into the bath.
You had to sit on a stool in order to shower before going into the bath.
You were not allowed to run in the bath.
You were not allowed to take your towel into the bath.
And you could not wash your underwear in the bath.
Good to know. I was so going to wash my underwear in the bath.
OK, so I got it. Breakfast is on the 2nd floor, dinner is in my room, but I’m not having it tonight because I’m here late. I’m not allowed to wear shoes and I’m supposed to wear this robe when I go to the baths and optionally when I eat.
Whew.
I’m feeling educated.
Then she gave me a piece of paper detailing how to put on the robe. Right over left. The sash. The other sash. Where to tie the knot. The fact that blue robes were for men and floral robes were for women bothered me as my robe – appeared – to be blue.
Oh, now I really feel big.
Thank you, Japan. Thank you for that.
But - I had another feeling – I was also feeling cared for. Through this language barrier. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with gestures, dropping your propositions and your verb tenses and nodding or shaking your head. Just amazing. And something else was apparent to me. Kindness isn’t spoken. It’s felt. My heart was warmed. Like it had been dipped in warm milk chocolate.
She finally gestured to the kimono again and smiled/nodded/said with her eyes, “Do you want to put this on now?”
Now? I thought. Hmmm… OK. I guess we’re going “whole hog” here.
She left again, squatting, sliding the door.
I got up from the floor where I was sitting in my legless chair, and put on the robe. Following her instructions carefully. It fit perfectly well. I pretended it was pink. With dahlias all over it.
When she came back in, she sat down, smiling. Looking at me in my robe. Approving. Glad I’d figured it out. Happy I was happy. She gestured to the table, asking again with her eyes, “Would you like some of this?”
This time I knew what it was. Tea.
Yes, I said. I’ll have some tea.
Asking for decaf wasn’t in the cards, so she brought me some green tea. And green tea is so different in Japan. It’s actually green. tea. I had no idea I’d been drinking fake green tea all these years. It’s like using dried basil instead of fresh basil. A completely different level of tea.
Must. Get. Some. Real. Green. Tea. When. I. Get. Home.
Then she left me in my room. To drink my tea. To be. My warm little heart still bubbling.
I didn’t want to leave the room. I didn’t want to lose this feeling. It could be so easily interrupted. So I closed my eyes. And sat.
The balcony to my left was overlooking a canal. And I could hear the water gushing down below. It was so calming – and serene. Amazing how something so simple can be so enjoyable. I think the Japanese are giving me an unsolicited lesson in zen.
I’ll take it.
After about an hour or so, I took off the robe and wandered down to the reception desk, handing them my key as I left. They only had one key and you couldn’t take it with you outside of the onsen. Quaint.
It was raining and although I had two umbrellas with me, I decided to buy a little see-through plastic purple umbrella for $3. It was right there. And the others were stuffed in the turkey. So I walked around – it had gotten dark – snapping pictures with a purple hue. Finding the alleys with the private homes. To peer into. Looking at daily life. It was what I wanted.
An authentic experience.
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