By Lynn Cullivan
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7/8/2023
A Trip to the Onsen The last few days have been consistently not-raining but not-not-raining, which is hard on notebook paper and necessitates occasional compositional breaks. But the weather (60° Fahrenheit with sputtering, ink-smearing drops) has otherwise been pleasant, if a little humid. Right now I'm on the fifth floor of the Kitahiroshima City Hall, at the Ishiya Cafe, sitting at an Ikea-ish blonde wooden table next to a wall of windows overlooking an elevated train track and the new Fighter's baseball stadium (the biggest thing that's happened around here in decades, or maybe ever). The room's 2-foot-round columns are wrapped in Fighter's Village advertising, but otherwise it feels remarkably like any other City Hall public space. There's a one-cashier snack counter against the wall and some well-dressed patrons scattered around other tables. The black suits look (and act) like minor City functionaries; the rest might be here to file taxes or dispute an assessment. The suits exchange hail-fellow-well-mets and the others converse quickly and seriously in low tones. There's a big screen TV, a few informational displays, and a cheap-looking, temporary historical exhibit hung on a series of wheeled room dividers. But yesterday my spouse and I were riding on a free, onsen-sponsored shuttle from the Chitose train station toward Shikotsu-Toya National Park. From our seats directly behind/over the driver (on the right side of the bus) we watched him traverse Chitose City traffic, then tunnel relentlessly through a high corridor of lush vegetation: fluttering trees, waving ferns, and muddy dirt side-roads that quickly disappeared into a damp, leafy-green maze. Route 16 roughly parallels a paved bike path and the Chitose River, but both are rarely visible through the trees. The road needs fixing — our driver often straddled the center line to avoid broken pavement, and several times signalmen with lit, red plastic batons waved us to a stop so that traffic could take turns passing around lane-closing patch work. Our destination, caldera Lake Shikotsu, is surrounded by hills and guarded by Mt. Tarumae, a still-smoking volcano sporting an overturned pudding cup of a dome. There is a shallow, underwater shelf along the shoreline that disappears after only a few yards. The center of the lake is so deep that, according to local lore, if a person drowns in Lake Shikotsu their body never rises to the surface. I don't know if this has been scientifically proven, but it sounds like the basis for a pretty good alibi. In addition to our onsen there is a complex for day visitors and a tiny, fenced-in wooden shrine (with a smattering of bad luck omikuji tied on horizontal strings). An attraction for locals is a species of lake fish called kokanee (oncorhynchus nerka), a sort of thin red salmon that live in landlocked fresh water. (Later that evening we added a couple to our set dinner: 7-8 inches from stern to snout and presented two-to-a-plate in a faux swimming configuration, like a stacked pair of salt-encrusted tilde. Very tasty.) After about 45 minutes our driver expertly backed into an over-sized parking space and retrieved our suitcase from the belly of his bus. We entered Resort Spa MISU NO UTA (“Song of Water”) past a 20-foot square water garden with an 8-foot wooden sculpture of a horned owl grabbing a giant, maze-patterned ball with its feet. There was no drifting mist, but otherwise the slender, irregular-height timbers surrounding the bird deftly evoked a spooky mountain pond with lichen-draped, rotting trunks looming up from its foreboding depths. Before checking-in we checked our street shoes at the door, and they were whisked away and replaced by generic onsen sandals. In front of us, a gleaming, egg-shaped metal fireplace perched in a horseshoe of raised, plush cushions. The room’s lighting was soft, indirect, and complimented by smooth, instrumental jazz; its thick-planked, dark wood floor was waxed, shiny, and completely nightingale-free. After a clerk confirmed our reservation he slipped some paperwork into a folder and led us to our third floor room, where we sat around a little table near the windows and filled out forms. After showing us the coffee/tea maker and opening all of the cabinets to reveal yukatas, two extra futons, and non-slip tabi socks, he handed over our keys — on long chains with wooden lozenges bearing our room number (which operate like the words "tenno gyuji" carved on an imperial seal; showing this disk gets you in anywhere and charges everything to your room). The first big decision of our stay was: to lounge around on the tatami room floor like slugs until the buffet opened, or kill time by strolling around the grounds. We decided to retrieve our shoes (they recognized us without seeing the key, probably by the size of my feet) and we made generally for the lake. Most of Lake Shikotsu is unspoiled, but our shore is a touristy, park in-holding with a couple of onsens, private houses on the hillside across the road, a visitor center, and a little village of boxy, thin-walled trinket and food shops: tonkatsu and curry, potato and cheese korokke, Hokkaido fried chicken, yakitori sticks, and lots (and lots) of soft serve ice cream (drizzled with sweet beans or dipped in chocolate, matcha-swirled or plain or layered with whipped cream and mochi chunks, and of course cones and cups of orangey Yubari King melon "soft cream”). A flock of white, graceful-necked swan boats were perched on a long floating dock. A glass-bottomed boat (for watching the kokanee swim), hauled-out, red fiberglass rental canoes, and a pod of yellow-hulled bicycle/catamaran hybrids kept them company. There was a green-railed, steel walking bridge across the mouth of the placid Chitose River, ample parking, a youth hostel, and a post office. But the important thing was that we made it back to our room in time to change clothes and beat the 5:45 dinner rush. As it turned out, I had to order an XXXL from room service because nothing on the closet shelves fit me. After it arrived we changed into our matching (except for size) dark blue yukutas and shuffled down a narrow hallway to an elevator (passing a little shop with high-end souvenirs like buttery soft leather purses and beautifully boxed sweets). We descended to the second floor and, accompanied by recorded temple bell chimes, walked through a glass tunnel (set between shallow and illuminated, rocky-bottomed pools) to the dining room in the next building. Because we were early, we scored seats on a long, narrow table facing a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooks one of the lush, grassy gardens stretching from the onsen proper to a 20-foot drop (down which guests can descent to lake level via several sets of stairs). COVID-era transparent partitions have created two-person alcoves which wait staff service by, rather ceremoniously, placing special orders (like plates of kokanee) directly in front of you. After turning over a card to show that we were still eating, we pushed back our chairs and hit the elaborate buffet. There were thimble-size tumblers with octopus tentacle chunks and doll house cups of crab bisque; salmon slices in vinegary dressing and green salads (with little tomatoes and diagonal cut, wrinkled cucumbers) in jelly jar-sized glasses; crispy flatbread pizzas that barely cover their modest plates (choice of margarita or white sauce shrimp); rows of assorted thin-sliced sashimi stretching for yards (it seemed); pots and trays of cooked fish (in broth or roasted); grilled vegetables; steaming rice; cool edamame pods; and hot or cold noodles. On a nearby column, half dollar-sized baguette slices, egg-sized dinner rolls, and miniature croissants ascended vertical shelves to a pinnacle of neatly stacked butter cups and jelly packets. Tiny cups and bowls quickly piled up around us like kaitenzushi plates, but these were simply whisked away, uncounted. By the time we left, the dining room was packed and clinking, and onsen staff were racing between tables juggling overflowing trays of empty dishes. Does a warm soak aid with digestion after 4-5 (really pretty small) desserts? Maybe/maybe not, but it sounded like a good idea. So after a slight bow to the Maître d' we re-navigated the glass tunnel and elevator-ed down to the first floor, where the baths are. The little exercise room just outside the entrance was deserted, the facial/massage/reflexology reservation desk was unmanned, any day users had already left, and our fellow onsen guests were just beginning to work the buffet. I took the corridor to the men’s section. On the right was a smallish room with two white counters of gleaming shaving/primping stations: brown padded chairs, white sinks, and large mirrors over steel faucets. Each station had a row of face lotions and creams and individually packaged razors, and there was a toaster oven-sized machine stacked with disposable, off-white plastic combs. As I grabbed a square wicker basket I noticed that no wristband keys were missing from the changing area’s wall of little metal lockers. Alone, I sat on a wooden slat bench, carefully folded up my yukata, and locked it away. Before passing through a set of steamed-up doors I grabbed a thin, rectangular towel (suitable for placement on the head or crotch) from another basket. On one side was a tile-floored, sit-down shower room with twenty washing stations: small plastic stools with upside down white plastic basins on top, faucets with handle-levered snakes, and a sitting-height shelf of shampoos, body washes, and conditioners. I lathered up, thoroughly rinsed off (carrying soap into the bath is very bad), hosed down my area, and flipped the basin back onto the stool. Employing the towel I strolled around and confirmed that I had the place to myself. There was a sauna with a deep, double-wide, cold water tub just outside. Across the room was a one-foot shallow, long and rectangular lying-down bath. Next to that a round bath was shooting strong jets of water from underneath its center ornate stonework, and next to that was the largest bath, where I tested out one of four little ramps for semi-reclined soaking. Not bad, but the air was too steamy for me so I touched open the last door and waded slowly into the outside pool. It had an unpainted, wooden roof, a surrounding garden consisting of pointy grey rocks and miniature maple trees, and a snugly-planked privacy fence. I sat on the bottom of the bath, facing the maples, back against the side, immersed to my chest, towel folded on top of my head, and thought “mind like water” as my muscles loosened and a fitful, evening breeze cooled my face. After about half an hour I still wasn’t Bruce Lee, but I imagined that my fellow guests were spooning out the last of their shot-glass size mousses and planning their own post-repast baths. So I exited my hydrogen carbonate spring while it was still-private, showered off, retrieved my yakuta, and slipped out through the wooden-lattice-over-glass entrance door. Because there’s nothing like a cool drink after a long, hot soak, a very large, well-stocked vending machine was stationed just outside the door. I had remembered to stash a 500yen coin in my sash/belt’s tip pocket and, although the beer selection was impressive, opted for a squat, slightly-too-sweet bottle of milk tea. Calm, relaxed, and re-hydrating, I wandered back to our room. The next morning we were still jet-lagged, and so had no problem squeezing in a second, pre-breakfast bath. It was 6am, but a couple of gentlemen (even more elderly than myself) were already soaking in the big bath when I arrived, so I headed straight for the outside pool. The air was a bit colder. The drizzle had stopped, and the clouds had pulled back. And as I watched, the brightening sky gradually lightened the finely-veined maple leaves like a photo app slider. But I was already relaxed, and getting hungry, so after just 15 minutes I hit a shaving station, hooked up with Noriko at our room, and joined the other early risers circling the breakfast buffet. We’re not gluttons, we’re just prompt, so we scored the same table as the night before. No fish was delivered this time, but an iron pot of steaming, fresh rice arrived while we were still scoping out the spread. Sashimi in the morning is a bridge too far for me, so I concentrated on a made-to-order (or in my case, made-to-point) personal-size omelette station. Back home there would have been a line, but here I had no competition, and after my second trip the chef automatically tossed a couple of cheese chunks into his little pan as soon as I walked up. There was a selection of fresh fruit (strawberries, bananas, pineapple slices, melon cubes and blueberries) on ice, many yoghurts, and at a separate table a blender barista was mixing up smoothies (which were probably delicious, but I was busy sampling the high end, self-serve coffee machine’s espresso menu: lattes, cappuccinos, single shots and americanos). During breakfast we watched a small, curiously un-incongruous mowing robot cross-crossing the lawn. After breakfast we roamed the grounds a bit, and were serenaded by a forest of full-throated cicadas. And then it was check-out time. We rolled our suitcase out to the shuttle and were greeted by the same immaculately-suited driver who had brought us here. He stopped briefly at another onsen to board more passengers, rumbled out onto Shikotsuko-dori, and then the lake was gone, vanished by a thick, green curtain of trees. 1/19/2023
On The Day of Jack’s Funeral I can’t be there because it’s half the world away, in Japan. Actually, I could have but he passed away unexpectedly and it would have meant quickly arranging an international flight and a hotel, and it would have been expensive. So, I guess the truth is that I didn’t really want to enough. The “wanting to enough” is a hard one for me. If hopping on a plane would have saved his life I would have booked the ticket without thinking. But I did think. I hope I made the right decision. Maybe the arc of our friendship was similar to other people’s. We knew of each other in junior high school but didn’t hang out. Knew more about each other in high school but didn’t like one another - until our senior year, when we suddenly became friends, and hung out through college and a few years beyond (including a stint as roommates). Then we drifted in our own ways, Jack to Japan, but trading letters (this was before the internet), late night/early morning phone calls, and brief visits every few years. We both got married, he had kids (I didn’t), got jobs that neither of us took too seriously but morphed into careers, and at some point we stopped calling each other to find out what was going on and started to just wonder - occasionally - what the other was doing. And then he got sick. Seriously, I knew, but not exactly how he was doing because we were on email now and it’s much harder to read between letters on a screen than lines of handwriting, or hear what’s unspoken on a telephone line. Minus COVID I would have visited him, seen him again, before I got a text from his oldest daughter telling me that her father had passed away an hour ago - while I was eating alone at a Vietnamese restaurant. She and I typed back and forth as my vermicelli congealed and I (pretty much) fought back tears. And today is his funeral, and I’m not there. I sent flowers, and his wife thanked me. I’ll visit Japan later this year and pay my respects to his ashes in person. But Jack is gone, and instead of a friend I have fading memories and regrets about the many things I could have, or shouldn’t have, done or said. Is there a point to all this? That’s an excellent question. Maybe someday I’ll come up with an answer. But right now, I just want my friend back. |
The third edition of the Antihumanist, which ushered in the New Year on January 1, 2022, includes the short story "Roy G. Biv." You can download a free pdf copy of the magazine at the link above. If you enjoy reading the Antihumanist, please consider supporting the magazine with a donation.