A Hakone Getaway
Interlude: In a Minute, There is Time
"In a minute there is time / for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
I'm sitting on my first-ever shinkansen train in Japan, frantically finishing my first blog post since arriving, when I hear the phone of my next-row neighbor give out a telltale rapid-fire shutter sound, followed by a child's excited whisper. Instinctively, I look up to see what's worth photographing and there's notoriously elusive Mt. Fuji, its proud summit ringed with clouds but nonetheless defiantly visible... unlike the on the two previous train trips I had just taken to and from Hakone, desperately Fujispotting all the way. I don't even have time to snap a photo before the peak disappears behind clouds and, soon enough, mountains.
It strikes me in this moment how easy it would have been for me not to hear the shutter, not to look out the window at that exact moment and see this sight I'd flown 6000 miles for.
Ichigyo zanmai. It's a concept associated frequently with Japanese Zen Buddhism and the high art tea ceremonies conducted by enthusiasts. Literally, it means "complete concentration" (zanmai/orig. samadhi) on a "single task" (ichigyo). In other words,
Ichigyo zanmai is embedded in so many parts of life in Japan, big and small. Take food and drink alone: it's part of the reason people don't eat while walking (you can hardly appreciate the act of eating when you're doing something else at the same time). In Japan, you cleanse your hands with a small cloth before eating, and you typically don't touch things that aren't part of the process of eating (like phones) until the meal is over. Traditional tea ceremonies - even the variety that can take over four hours! - are conducted in complete silence to enhance participants' ability to appreciate each small detail of the ceremony, from the tiny sound of water boiling, to the measuring implements being put back in place after use, to the scrape of a matcha brush against the bowl. Everything is designed to facilitate complete concentration.
In that moment, I put away my computer and decided to spend the rest of the ride just looking out the window, watching the countryside fly by as I sped towards Kyoto at 185 miles per hour, trying to appreciate each fleeting glimpse. Since then, I've tried to be a little more mindful in everything - take pictures less and instead really look in the moment; finish one bite of food before collecting the next from the plate; listen, especially in those moments when I'm tired and want to tune out.
It's also meant I haven't been journaling or blogging or taking photos as regularly as I usually do because I'm not spending each stolen moment or transit ride frantically trying to digitally document my experience, for which I apologize... but I also don't apologize, because hey - ichigyo zanmai. So let's take a journey together, if you will - let us enter into another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop: almost five days ago...
I'm Trying Really Hard Not to Make the Pun "Hakone Matata," But I'm Failing
Hakone, my next destination, is a collection of mountainside resort towns all boasting renowned onsen (natural hot springs). Its character fluctuates wildly between completely serene and unbelievably Bacchanalian; while the towns themselves tend to be quiet affairs filled with stressed Tokyoites trying to soak the burnout away, certain parts come alive at night, such as Lake Ashi, famous for its unparalleled views of Mt. Fuji... and the wild drunken parties that tend to take place on its three resident sightseeing pirate ships (yes, you read that right) once the sun goes down.
Getting to Hakone from Tokyo is, relatively speaking, a cinch -- a trip on the Odakyu "Romancecar" (so named, not for its Romantic countryside and mountain views or the middling speed of its conveyance between that of commuter trains and shinkansen, but simply because the cars have only two seats on either side of the aisle) will take a little over an hour, making it a popular day trip from the capitol. But somehow, that hour largely thrusts you back in time; historic wooden ryokan (traditional Japanese inns, typically with onsen attached) line the winding roads that climb towards the summits of the smaller hills and, eventually, Fuji itself.
As I step off the Romancecar and start trying to decipher the local transit map (which, in my defense, looks like this and is strangely resistant to Google Translate's otherwise fairly reliable point-and-translate service), I determine that the one shuttle I need to reach my accommodations is the one shuttle in the whole system not running today, for... reasons. As my feet begin to bake in the sun and sweat pours down my back, I shoulder my backpack and start the fifteen-minute uphill trek that is my only recourse. In the spirit of ichigyo zanmai, I try really hard to appreciate the beautiful views of the river and the roadside that my trek allows me to see... counterpoint: it's 97 degrees with 100% humidity and even my lightest-ever backpack feels like lead.
Nevertheless, I persist, and when at last I step into the lobby of my chosen ryokan, Fukuzumiro, the staff member who is to become my keeper during my stay rushes out to meet me with a cold cloth and asks if I've come by foot. Panting, I look up at him, blinking through the trails of sweat I can feel running across my eyelids.
"Hai," is all I can manage.
Finally, Fukuzumiro
Fukuzumiro is a place out of time. Established in 1890, it's one of the top 20 historic ryokan in Japan, carefully preserved in facilities and service as closely to its state in the fin-de-siecle as possible. The structures as they currently exist date back to 1910, when the inn had to be rebuilt after a catastrophic prefecture-wide flood.
After that flood, the inn adopted as its guardian spirit the bat, an emblem which you can see carved into every fence and doorway; bat spirits are meant to bring five different kinds of good fortune.
[Or summon the Dark Knight. Either way, you're probably protected.]
Fukuzumiro in particular has a reputation for being popular among the artistic set; literary figures, painters, actors, and more have sought out inspiration at Fukuzumiro, some even producing great works right here on the spot. The painting in the alcove of my room - a staple of traditional Japanese architecture which hosts a hanging scroll meant to focus and encourage contemplation during visits and tea ceremonies - is by Kotei Fukui, among whose many artistic achievements is that he supposedly "painted a picture for each one of 1224 guests at a summer party," which the British Museum calls "a remarkable feat of dexterity" but, to me, has strong "hold my beer" and "dude made a shaky bet" energy.
Other staple features of a ryokan room are tatami mat floors - naturally antimicrobial and anti-odor, but terribly vulnerable to stains and open flame - and futon-style sleeping on a relatively thin mat stretched out over the tatami that is then folded up and stowed away in a closet during the day to make room for other activities. My room, the "Plum Suite," also boasts an absolutely unbelievable view of the river.
After a whirlwind tour that leaves me even more sweaty than before, my keeper not-so-subtly suggests I sign up for a bath right away, and somehow, within 20 minutes of arrival, I'm descending into my very first onsen. A first set of stairs leads into a changing area, while the second descends into the bath area itself, complete not just with the hot spring bath, but also an adjustable temperature tap and a detachable showerhead. Onsen baths are not so much a "soak the dirt of a hard day's work away" kind of affair; instead, to preserve the purity of the onsen water, you first thoroughly wash yourself as if you were taking a normal shower (much more than the quick, unenforced rinse requested by public pools in the US). The onsen is purely for relaxing once the work of cleaning yourself up is done.
Though the property spends a lot of time cleaning and maintaining the baths, they emphasize profusely that the water itself is completely natural and unadulterated, pumped up from the tapped spring 100 feet underground and run directly into the bath - no filtering, no heating, no treatment with chemicals, just a tiny bit of cold spring water added to make them bearable for human inhabitation and hey presto, you've got yourself an onsen supposedly capable of curing a whole host of ailments - for now, all I need is some relief for the aching feet and blisters Tokyo has left me with.
This particular onsen bath is completely open to the air - I can hear the river flowing by just beyond the far wall - but my only audience are the precocious trees clinging to the sheer rock face that makes up the opposite bank and the cicadas and summer peepers that perch within them. After all the trials and tribulations of Tokyo - I think I used the phrase "sensory overload" about five times in my recap, and I meant it - not to mention my bum right knee still stiff from the train ride and the hike up the hill, that first stinging slide into the whipcrack heat of the water gives way to... well, the pleasure of giving way, of ceding attention to this and this alone. Ichigyo zannmai.
I spend the next forty minutes cycling my attention between my own beating heart, my weightlessnness in the water, the river below, the birds above, and the occasional cry of pain morphing into ecstasy as I hear (but don't see) my neighbor in the onsen next door brave the sudden onslaught of heat as he dumps crisp, near-boiling onsen water over his head in curtains with a small wooden pail. For possibly the first time since I arrived in Japan, I feel truly relaxed.
Be Our Guest
Nearly boneless in relaxation, I stumble back to my room and am just settling in to journal when there's a knock at the door. It's my keeper, here to bring me tea and ask me when I'd like my dinner served. This is another vital part of the ryokan experience - a multi-course meal known as kaiseki. The character combines those of "stone" and "stomach," harkening back to the habit of monks withstanding long fasts (which, absent calories, often left them unbearably cold) by placing warm stones in their pocket. A kaiseki meal is meant to be like that - a slow, gradual, warming experience of many small dishes savored over a long time period. Each small dish is highly ritualized, with a true kaiseki meal requiring multiple courses consisting of up to ten dishes each, each of a different very specific type - for example, a cold soup, a hot soup, a hotpot dish, pickles, vinegared fish, a grilled fish, sashimi, fruit, etc. My host takes the time to describe each to me in detail, though I'll admit that (ichigyo zanmai) I didn't stop to write anything down before digging in.
Perhaps my favorite, aside from the delectable sashimi, is a hotpot dish consisting of white fish, scallions, onions, mushrooms, and a rich miso-fish broth. The dish initially arrives cold, but is placed over a small brazier lit by a single bright-burning tea candle; when the candle burns out, my host instructs me, the soup will be ready. As I eat the other dishes in the course, I hear the water boiling, see hot steam peeking out from beneath the cover. When I lift it, the ingredients have been transformed.
As is traditional, the final dish to be served is white rice. Why serve this absolute staple only at the end? In older times, rice was literally used as money, and was one of a household's major expenses; offering it first was tantamount to feeding your guests gold bullion. In modern times, it's more the reverse, a balance of foodieness and hospitality - you want to encourage your guest to enjoy the other, more bespoke and seasonal foods before filling up on rice, but your guest should never leave hungry. Typically, a small bowl of rice is dished out by the host, and then a larger pot of it left with a paddle for the guest to help themselves to as much of it as they need to feel satisfied. But be careful - it's rude to leave even a single grain uneaten in your bowl, so only take what you can handle which, after a 20-dish meal, is probably not a lot unless you're some mukbang star.
Between the sleep deprivation and what felt like a 3000 calorie meal, it's all I can do to stay vertical long enough for the staff to clear the dishes away, push the table to the side of the room, and set up the futon I'll be passing out on just as soon as the door shuts. My third-grade teacher, who had us memorize a song about how to say "goodnight" in about 20 different languages, would no doubt be so proud to hear me finally get to use "oyasuminasai."
...but 3am finds me awake again (thanks jetlag) and I'm up wandering the halls, trying not to make the "nightingale floors" sing as I creep around admiring the deserted facilities, which are somehow even more beautiful by moonlight.
On a whim, I also sign up for an additional bath in the morning; although I'm already slated for one at 9am, right before checkout, I am sticky and still pretty Tokyo-weary, and there's one more private onsen for me to explore. (There are, it should be noted, other gender-segregated group onsen here was well, and indeed, that is the traditional way people enjoy onsen, but as a prudish Westerner whose last experience in an East Asian public bath didn't exactly go swimmingly, I wasn't up for trying that this time).
I drift back to sleep but I'm up again by 5:30, watching the moonlight glow disappear and the sun rise over the river. 6:30am finds me in an onsen known as "the sleeping bath" because - you guessed it - it's designed for people to safely take a nap in while they soak. (I elected not to test this feature, but it was nice to lounge in.)
Breakfast is another kaiseki smorgasbord, complete with whole grilled fish.
[From left to right: white rice, pickled mushrooms and radish, tiny sardines, green onion, tofu topped with cucumber and tomato, grilled fish, soy sauce, fish cakes, beans, wasabi, seaweed, tuna tartare, a small egg omelet, more soy sauce, green tea, miso soup.]
9:00 arrives and, with it, the final private onsen - this one built largely out of hot rocks. It's more of a cursory soak than the others - after all, my checkout time is calling, and so are the sights of Hakone proper..
An Open-Air Affair
Hakone's major attractions are a buffet of ways to appreciate its natural beauty - hop on / hop off sightseeing buses, ziplines high above the trees, hiking trails, lake cruises, and so forth. You could easily spend an entire weekend here.
Upon checkout, I have three hours before my train back to Tokyo.
Casting around, I set my sights on the Hakone Open-Air Museum, which is what it says on the tin - a world-class sculpture garden featuring works from artists around the world, nestled in (and enhanced by) the natural beauty of Hakone's mountaintops.
The trick, it turns out, is in getting there.
Having overcome my transit curse with the help of the staff of Fukuzumiro, who helpfully pointed me to the right bus stop upon my departure while encouraging me not to go on foot to the top this time (ha ha), I hopped a bus which would take me up into the mountains. It was crowded - not a single seat available, and the middle aisle almost completely packed with people - but I manage to secure the last standing room.
There's a turn on the Mt. Washington Auto Road that is lovingly dubbed "Oh My God" Turn, in honor of it being a switchback curve immediately adjacent to a sheer cliff face and a drop of hundreds of feet into a crevasse far below, all of which is so clearly visible from a passenger's car window as to make it seem like your car's tires have already slipped over the edge and you are perched, precariously, on the see-saw between life and death.
Riding this bus up to Hakone proper is like taking "Oh My God" Turn over and over while trapped in a plastic hamster ball. More and more people pack onto the bus with each stop, pressing me and my massive backpack backwards into the face of an increasingly grumpy Frenchwoman. Stuck in the middle aisle with only a couple handholds, each turn threatens to throw me across the bus; in a desperate effort not to club my seated neighbors in the head with my elbows, I grasp the handholds so tightly and strain against them as if my life depends on it. The cuticles of the my right hand start to shear off the nails and bleed. All the while, as if to taunt me, a voiceover announcement warns passengers in a cheerful voice that this is a "meandering road." "Meandering" my ass. By the time I reach the museum, I have about an hour to appreciate art and am in no mood to do so... but the museum enchants me, despite the quite literal uphill battle required to do so.
Among my favorite pieces are a harrowing, skull-strewn meditation on the pressures of modern life and a series of five female figurines, each embodying a virtue. My absolute favorite? Lady Liberté. How American of me.
After all-too-short a stay, it's back down the mountain (admittedly a less harrowing ride sitting in an actual seat - the biggest obstacle to my descent turns out to be a clueless American couple who happily waves on a bus they don't need, but I do, costing me a half hour wait for the next one). And one short Romancecar later, it's right back to Shinjuku, then to the mother of all Tokyo transit - Tokyo Station - for my very first shinkansen.
Interlude: On Ekiben
The bullet train experience offers many small pleasures - the convenience, the speed, the comfort and quiet - but chief among these pleasures is the opportunity to enjoy ekiben - "eki" (station) + "bento" (boxed meal). Ekiben come in a wide variety, but typically involve a meat-based main, rice, a vegetable side dish, and pickles. Some sweeten the deal with little desserts; others cater to children or collectors of novelty ekiben containers, such as the one offered in a miniature version of a shinkansen train. Typically, each station offers its take on local cuisine through a locally-themed ekiben, complete with a collectible illustration on the packaging (gotta catch 'em all!) Given the variety, ekiben compete with each other not just in content, but in looks.
For a first-timer, choosing one was a classic case of analysis paralysis, but I eventually opt for something local with a little bit of everything, and nab a gourmet egg custard pot for dessert. I have no regrets, and after all my struggles with finding places to eat in public in Tokyo, the widespread social acceptance of eating ekiben on the train feels like a special sort of indulgence.
...and that's it for Hakone! I'm currently sitting in my hotel room in Hiroshima waiting out a typhoon. Bad news: it's a pretty big, nasty typhoon. Silver lining: I should have time this evening to pen the better part of my Kyoto recap, and be just about caught up on blogging. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed this vicarious little look into this rapid-fire spa-town sojourn. Stay tuned for Kyoto!