(If you have not read the prologue, start here)
Sometimes even I am surprised by how little I know about what I am looking for when I travel.
My friend wanted to try the local grilled salmon before we left this salmon-loving town, so after talking it over, we decided to have breakfast at the hotel. It would mean a later start, but we had fewer stops planned today, and judging by yesterday, we should still reach our destination comfortably before sunset. I was more than happy with the prospect of the hotel’s lavish breakfast buffet myself.
Still, this trip had turned me into an absurdly early riser, and I woke early anyway. I soaked in the outdoor bath, gazing idly at the brightening sky. Beneath its beautiful morning colors, a fishing boat glided across the vast sea. Yes, it mattered to take my time. To quiet the part of my mind always hurrying on to the next thing, and sink into this moment. And yet I overheat so easily that I can never stay in a bath for long. How frustrating.
As you might expect from such a large hotel, breakfast was an impressive spread of both Japanese and Western food. There were no fewer than three kinds of sashimi, and with my weakness for raw fish, I went back again and again. At the next table, I overheard a young woman say to her companion across from her, “I don’t know about sashimi in the morning, do you?” I nearly burst out laughing. People’s tastes really are all different.
There was also white rice in a huge commercial rice cooker, filled to the brim—a proper breakfast quantity. For the first time in a while, I could help myself to as many refills as I liked without a second thought. Raw eggs, too.
Always quick about everything, my friend finished eating in all of fifteen minutes, leisurely enjoyed his coffee and dessert, and even went ahead and settled the hotel bill. During the first few days I had felt a little guilty about all this. By now, I was feeling rather grand, as though I had a personal secretary.
For the next forty kilometers or so, as far as the prefectural border, we followed a wonderful route winding through the narrow gap between mountains and sea, leaving the main highway to turn inland. One stretch in particular, a coast of rocky headlands and sea-carved outcrops, offered one breathtaking view after another of sheer rocks rising from the water.
Tunnels, bridges, climbs and descents: the scene kept changing. Pines on rocky outcrops. Reefs in every shape and size. Caves carved by the sea. Small villages here and there on our right. A fishing boat heading back to port passed beneath the bridge we were riding across. In places, vines and trees entwined wooden houses, slowly returning the work of human hands to nature. On an otherwise empty shore, a couple had spread out a blue tarp and were eating rice balls, looking out to sea. The image stayed with me.
How many headlands had we rounded, how many tunnels had we passed through? Suddenly, a great volcano stood clear in the distance: Mount Chokai. Still sixty kilometers away, and yet what a presence. I was thrilled. Tonight we would be staying near its foot. It seemed close and far away at once. Bringing the distance my legs feel into alignment with the distance my eyes see lets me picture distances beyond what I can see. Eventually, even the extent of the Japanese archipelago becomes something I can grasp physically, in my body. That is a privilege peculiar to traveling by bicycle.
Absorbed in the beautiful scenery, I hardly noticed the eighty kilometers go by before we reached a town where we decided to stop for lunch. As usual, we searched Google Maps for somewhere nearby. Today I was drawn to a place describing itself as a restaurant serving local sake and wine. I had no intention of drinking, so I cannot quite explain why I chose it. I simply had a feeling: this was the place.
And sure enough, there at the entrance was a mountain of boxes piled on top of a cupboard: kits for building the robots from Gundam, the Japanese anime series. The owner came out and explained that he had a large group in, so there would be a bit of a wait. But having seen those boxes, how could I possibly go anywhere else? I happily took a seat.
The more I peered around, the more I realized that the entire restaurant was decorated with countless things the owner loved. Freshly painted model parts left out to dry. A poster for the manga series JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, with a replica of its stone mask on the wall. Framed certificates qualifying him as a wine sommelier, a beer adviser, and a bartender. Posters and presentation boxes from one of Bordeaux’s five great wine estates, Château Mouton Rothschild.
When I commented on the model kits, the owner said he had models he had built on display in the back, and I eagerly went to have a look. In a dim room, empty wine bottles stood packed together, with countless carefully built robots and figures beyond them. Some, he told me, were the work of his modeling sensei.
Here was a man with an extraordinary devotion to his hobbies, who had built a restaurant that put them front and center. I loved the breadth of his curiosity and the energy with which he acted on it. His life was written into this place. And the place was full of customers. How many of them knew much about manga, robot models, or wine? Even those who did not share his interests could clearly appreciate what made it special. It was almost as though everyone was celebrating his individuality. I told him how wonderful it was to be surrounded by so many things he loved, and to make a business of it as well. “It has its challenges,” he said, looking a little bashful, but pleased.
I am quite a hobbyist myself. My devotion to cycling is plain enough, and I love photography, model building, watercolors, beer, wine, and travel. I have always felt that curiosity and the things we love make our world larger. And here before me, working in his flat cap, was a man whose life had been so enriched by exactly those things. What could be more heartening?
That restaurant gave me such a lift that my legs felt as though they had sprouted wings. We rode through the dunes, did a little sightseeing in the next port town, and pressed on through the light of the magic hour toward the mountain, growing larger all the while. My friend, by contrast, seemed to be finding this stretch hard going; it amused me that our roles from yesterday had reversed. He jokingly told me to go climb that volcano. I was so buoyant that I actually wondered for a moment whether I could drop off my luggage and head a little way up.
Another 120-kilometer day. We even picked up some local craft beer at a nearby roadside rest stop before making it safely to our hotel, which was attached to a public bathhouse.
My friend went to bathe first, and after hearing his account of both the public bathhouse and the hotel’s own communal bath, I chose the bathhouse. I undressed and rattled open the sliding door to find the bathing area packed. All eight taps at the washing stations were occupied, with men washing almost shoulder to shoulder. Using a shower would inevitably splash the person beside me. I hesitated.
I found an open spot in the tub, settled into the water, and took a breath. Just in front of me, a little boy brought over a stool and began carefully rinsing it with hot water, presumably wanting to sit down. His father called from behind to stop him, worried that he might splash me. I liked the boy’s careful, conscientious manner, and thought of replying, “A child who takes such care with his work—wow, can’t wait to see what he grows up to be.”
The warm light of a bathhouse. The softness of steam. The hard clack of a bucket against tile. The sound of water. It was a soothing space, but the sheer density of people made me feel a little hemmed in. I tried the outdoor bath instead, only to find men sitting in a circle, deep in animated conversation. Unable to find even a corner to squeeze into, I retreated sheepishly.
I could not shake the feeling that, had there been room, I might have listened for a while and found my way into their conversation. I enjoy that sort of thing, and am reasonably good at it. There was a small sadness in a connection that might have formed but never did. This bathhouse really did seem to be a place where people came together. Seeing those ties between people also made me happy.
In the end, I gave up on washing there and went to the hotel’s communal bath. This time I made the most of all that space. But it was pitch-black outside the windows, with nothing to see, and there was nobody to talk to. A little amused by my own habit of wanting whatever I did not have, I went back to the room.
Dinner was a lavish boat-shaped platter of sashimi and shabu-shabu, thin slices of meat swished through hot broth. To think we could have a meal like this for so little! The sake went down all too easily, and between us we ended up drinking about 720 milliliters.
Unfortunately, the forecast was for rain, and it looked as though we would not be able to ride tomorrow. Anticipating that possibility, I had chosen a route that would let us switch to the railway, and that planning had paid off. As it turned out, our cycling ended today. But that made me all the more glad that this route, and these encounters, had been our last. It had been that memorable a day.