How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Calm

Friday, February 21 and Saturday, February 22

In the months that I spent planning this trip, agonizing over how best to order the many stops we would make, I tried to make sure that each stop was followed by a place with a different "flavor." Cities preceded by rural areas, nightlife destinations bookended by spiritual sites. I certainly achieved this in following up our stint in Tokyo and Tokyo Disney with a trip to Hakone, though I had no way of knowing just how incongruous this sequence of travel would be.

From the Tokyo Disney Resort, we took a local train back to our old friend, Tokyo Station, where we attempted to transfer to the first shinkansen (bullet train) of our stay in Japan. As we purchased the tickets for the bullet train, so young and ignorant back then, we decided to choose the next available train, which was scheduled to depart in 15 minutes.

Ah, what efficient travelers we are, we thought to ourselves, nodding smugly to each other. Only complete rubes would spend more time than they needed to in a train station, languishing between transfers. All we had to do was identify the correct platform, park ourselves there, and wait to be whisked off to Hakone.

Like how any unfamiliar kitchen seems to be organized by a mad man before cooking a few meals in it, like how someone seems a stranger before becoming a friend, even the most simple things are foreign on first attempt. We look back on our panicked transfer and can only reach the conclusion that we must have been trying to get lost.

Though we apparently missed it at the time, most things in the station are designed in such a way that seem to dare commuters to try to find something to be confused about. Color-coded signs with markers and arrows are placed every few dozen meters, and the only way to avoid having one in your line of sight would be to close your eyes.

Heck, even if you were unwilling to look up at the incessant string of signs, painted lines on the ground, color-coded and labelled with their corresponding train lines, corral all but the most clueless passengers to their correct platform.

And yet, there we stood in the middle of the station, big and bumbling and bemused, somehow in someone's way no matter where we pulled off to the side to reorient ourselves, apparently blind to the many arrows that would have pointed us in the right direction, seemingly illiterate of the many signs (in English, no less) that would have gotten us to the correct track.

All of this was quite amusing upon our return to Tokyo Station a few days later: we saw the many signs, arrows, information desks, and employees waiting to be asked for help that must have teleported there since our original transfer, and we chuckled at our ignorance.

It's one of those things that ages well, like a fine wine that develops more complexity with maturation, or like memories of a backpacking trip that dull the details of aching legs and gruesome blisters.

At the time, however, we did not find it so amusing. It's not that missing this train would have been the end of the world, or meant anything more than an inconvenience and the loss of the cost of the tickets. I think it is some sort of sick hubris that compels me to need to get it right on the first attempt, perhaps sprinkled with flashbacks of spending a sleepless night in a train station in Paris after missing an overnight train on my first overseas trip (an incident that drove my then 9-year-old sister, a pint-sized WWE star fueled by exhaustion and rage, to take a running start and attempt to ram herself headfirst into my mom's abdomen—another example of a travel mishap that gets funnier in retrospect).

I have no doubt that the very act of choosing the soonest available train signaled to some deity or the universe itself that we had grown too confident. We alternated between rushing about the station in search of the correct track and tucking ourselves into corners where we wouldn't impede the flow of foot traffic to blink in confusion, watching the minutes before our departure time tick away.

We finally did find the correct collection of tracks. (So you're telling me that the Shinkansen Tokaido Line entrance is located under the giant, illuminated sign labelled "Shinkansen Tokaido Line"? What a strange place to put it.)

We frantically fed our tickets into the designated slots, only for the turnstiles to lock closed and flash with an ominous red 'X.'

Maybe we fed the tickets in upside down? That wasn't it.

Maybe we needed to feed in each of our three tickets one at a time? No one else was doing that.

We extracted ourselves from the line of other passengers beginning to pile up behind us to seek help from the station attendant who had been watching our two-man circus. He, very kindly, pointed to the type on one of our three tickets that read (clearly, and again in English), "receipt." Aha.

Sheepishly removing the receipts from our stacks of tickets and entering them again, we were, finally, let onto the correct track. Our train was there, waiting for us, already filled with our fellow, more sensible travelers. With only a minute, maybe seconds left until departure, we lunged through the first open door we found and made the wobbly walk through the train to our correct car and collapsed into our seats.

The rush of the ordeal quickly faded. The train, like everything we had seen so far in Japan, was spotless, organized, and quiet. The seats are comfortable and recline liberally, with leg room ample even for Thomas. Free wifi is available. Hooks and seat pouches and generous overhead compartments keep everything contained and easily accessible. It's almost silent, both as a result of the careful engineering and the courteous passengers on board.

And these passengers do it up right: the businessman seated across the aisle from us was chowing down on a platter of sushi (one of many, high-quality food options available for purchase in the train stations) and washing it down with a canned whisky highball, tallboy-sized.

We were glued to our window, watching Japan whiz past us at 278 km/h, marveling as city started to fade and rolling hills began to burst between the clusters of buildings. After arriving at our (thankfully correct) stop, we transferred to a bus that snaked its way between these hills, following the path cut by a river raging in the gorge below, finally depositing us in Hakone.

Hakone is nestled in the foothills that climb towards Mt. Fuji. It is a region lush with vegetation and bubbling over with hot springs, making it a popular weekend getaway for Tokyoites in search of respite from the bustle of the city. Though only about 60km from the center of Tokyo, it couldn't be more different. We didn't encounter a single person on our trek from the bus stop to our accommodation, Yama no Chaya.

Yama no Chaya is a ryokan, a type of traditional Japanese inn that is distinguished by tatami floors, futon bedding, communal bathing facilities, and local, seasonal kaiseki cuisine. While budget versions can be found, many ryokan are billed as luxury accommodations as much as they are cultural experiences. Yama no Chaya was far and away our biggest splurge for accommodation on our trip, so we were excited, if a bit trepidatious, to try this style of stay for the first time.

Yama no Chaya is situated on a steep incline that plunges down to the river, accessible only by crossing a wooden bridge atop the rapids. We paused to admire the view and snap a few photos. Crossing the bridge and turning up a hill shielded by thick groves of bamboo, we found two employees descending towards us to check us in (or perhaps tell us to get the hell out of there if we had not been registered guests, which must have seemed more likely to them).

We again had cause to laugh at ourselves, realizing that they had probably been watching as we posed for pictures, did a little happy dance to have made it to our hotel, and lightly tested the flexibility of the bridge with a few jumps. I'm sure we at least provided them with entertainment, if not the expected elegance of their typical guests.

Upon checking our names against their ledger, the two young women gestured for us to hand over our bags so they could bring them up to the main property. We tried to charade that they were quite heavy, but their insistence won out, and they were kind enough to only buckle a little bit under the weight. The four of us made the climb up to the lobby, us in our wrinkled travel clothes and them in silken, belted kimono.

These two women were the first of many staff-members who would be charged with making sure that our every need was seen to over the next two nights. Upon entering the lobby, we were directed to remove our shoes before stepping onto the tatami floors, which we did in front of our new legion of attendants. The surprise of the young woman who took Thomas's size 15 shoes for storage prompted a wave of giggles to emanate from the women in the room. This would be the last time we would see our shoes until check out.

The lengthy check in process started in the lobby, and included a tour of the common areas, a confirmation of our allergies, a visit to the bar and review of the happy hour menu, and an explanation of the four different bathing facilities across the property and their schedules. We followed our room attendant, Tsurusa (I know for a fact that this spelled incorrectly) to our room, as she periodically turned to warn us to duck our heads for incoming doorways and exposed wooden beams.

Entry into our room prompted the second segment of our check in process, with an in-depth tour of our room and its amenities. Tsurusa instructed us to try on the provided yukata (traditional Japanese loungeware) to check for fit, as she explained how to put them on and where they should be worn (hint: it's everywhere). She guided us to take a seat at the low table in the center of the room, swinging our legs into a recessed area below the table heated gently from below.

Having apparently moved on to the snacking portion of check in, Tsurusa served us amazake (a fermented, non-alcoholic rice beverage that was just barely thin enough to justify the label of "beverage," rather than "porridge"), green tea, and neatly-wrapped sweets.

We are still learning to love Japanese sweets, which tend to be not-so-sweet to our American palettes. This particular treat featured whole red beans suspended in clear gelatin and tasted remarkably like whole red beans suspended in clear gelatin. We clumsily slurped down our treats, unsuccessfully navigating them with the provided chopsticks, thankful that Tsurusa had left the room at this point to gather the requisite materials for the next segment of our check in process.

Upon her return, we were asked to set the schedule for our next two nights. Dinners and breakfasts are provided, served in room and in multiple courses. We chose our desired start times and again confirmed Thomas's tree nut allergy. We also chose a time on each day for our private bath, which would give us sole access to one of the many baths on the property.

Schedule: created. Yukata: donned. Red bean gelatin: gobbled. It was time to settle in for our stay.

I'm not sure it's possible to overstate how nice our room and the rest of the property was. Sheets of tatami lined the floors, pristine from sock-footed guests creeping about gently. Dark, gleaming beams of local woods outlined doorways and jutted through the middle of rooms with soaring ceilings. Delicate sliding doors of paper separated our common room from the entry way, sunroom, and bathroom. Everything oh so graceful and elegant, all carved wood and handwoven textiles and hewn-stone and sunlight.

Our main room was almost completely empty, save for the table in the middle and a recessed portion of the wall highlighting a vase of flowers, a painted wall hanging, and, unnecessarily, a TV. This room could be opened or closed off to the sunroom, which featured a wall of sliding glass doors out to the deck and views of the bamboo grove stretching upwards, filtering light between the many shoots.

On the other side of our main room was the bathroom. And I mean that in the most literal sense, as the sink and toilet occupied their own small rooms, with the largest footprint dedicated to the bathing area. The large bath looked out to its own set of glass doors and deck, with the ideal vantage point for gazing up through the bamboo to the sky and clouds and moon above.

Our bath, like the other bathing facilities to choose from around the property, was fed by a spring bubbling up from beneath Yama no Chaya. I had chosen this room because of a picture of this bath, but the photos online, and those that we captured during our stay, fail to do it justice.

There is a reason I refer to these as baths, rather than hot tubs. These are not the hot springs of the U.S., where relaxation is the primary goal and cleansing a distant (or optional) secondary.

During our marathon of a check in, Tsurusa had provided us with a guide on bathing etiquette, which we attempted to commit to memory before our first foray into the shared baths on the property. This was more difficult than anticipated. The illustrated and annotated guide consisted of 23 steps that, when adequately adhered to, should prevent even the grimiest tourist from looking a fool.

Bathing facilities were to be entered in the standard uniform of yukata, toe socks, and slippers (a visit to one of the outdoor baths would necessitate a succession of three different pairs of slippers: one to walk through the hallways of the ryokan, exchanged for a separate pair upon stepping onto the outdoor walkways, which were replaced by a final pair at the entrance to the bathing facility). Thomas and I chose to, probably inappropriately, layer the traditional garb over our pajama pants, worried about the slightly-too-small sizing and wanting to spare our fellow guests from unintended glimpses of cooch or sack.

Clothes are doffed in dressing rooms, which included a sink and vanity, one of the magical bidets found across Japan, a host of toiletries from toothbrushes and toothpaste to hairbrushes and razors, a foot massager, and an iced carafe of mugicha (roasted barley) tea.

Once undressed, we could then step out of the dressing room into the shower area. These bare only passing similarity to the showers we are used to. They are intended to be used while seated on the small, wooden stools placed in front of the spigot and shower head.

Only six inches or so off the ground, these stools function with a positive correlation between the height of the user and the ridiculousness of their appearance when seated on them: the sight of Thomas contorted into something resembling a sitting position, knees brushing his chin, made me giggle hard enough to be grateful that there was no one else present to disturb with my laughter.

Before entering the baths, bathers are to thoroughly rinse off. (This is a rule, not a suggestion as is made at hot springs back home. Or maybe I'm telling on myself—am I the only person who often skips over the dinky, ice-cold showers prior to swimming at home? Sometimes being so conscientious about following rules in a new country makes me consider more critically the rules that I choose to disregard at home.)

After an initial soak in the baths, bathers return to the shower area for a full cleansing, making use of the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, jugs of body soap, and pots of exfoliating salt scrub. After rinsing off the suds by either running the shower head over oneself or filling and dumping the wooden pails set at each station, bathers slip back into the baths for a final soak before drying off.

Towels are to remain in the dressing rooms, though bathers can bring with them a small washcloth. Before entry into the bath, the washcloth can be used to conserve a modicum of modesty, and after stepping into the baths, it is kept out of the water and placed on the head to dab off steam and perspiration from the face.

While the general layout was similar across the bathing facilities at the property, including the one in our room, each bath offered something unique.

The women’s bath was situated a short trek from the main building through thick bamboo groves. Half-indoor and half-outdoor, it was partitioned from the rest of the property with cedar-clad walls, which held like a jewelry box the sparkling, lotus-shaped bath. A small water feature sent reflections dancing across the walls and partial ceiling. On each of my visits, I was the only person there.

Thomas reported that the men’s bath was sleek with dark stones and panoramic views of the forrest. The men’s bath was more popular, with other occupants sharing the space for much of Thomas's visit.

The private outdoor bath, which we had reserved for an hour on each of the days of our stay, was lined with jewel-toned tiles, ripples sent across its surface from water cascading down stacks of stones.

The spring water gurgling into the baths was purported to have healing qualities. While I can’t say that I noticed its effect on any physical ailments, I can’t argue with the restorative properties it had on the mind. The water temperature landed just short of “too hot”: a level of heat that left us pink, steaming, and feeling not just clean, but sanitized. A level of heat that started to give us a slight head-high when we stayed submerged for too long without conducting a periodic beached-whale maneuver on the edge of the pool.

There's something ritualistic about this kind of bathing. Even for us newcomers to shared baths, and as foreigners who generally catch the attention of other bathers more than a local would, this was a far more comfortable experience than I had expected. The defined order of operations and the uniform layout of spaces, aided by our newly-memorized novel of instructions, took much of the cultural guesswork out of an experience that is so absent from our practices in the United States.

I found myself becoming more critical of the treatment of nudity in the U.S. I remember feeling this way after my first trip Europe, my preteen self shocked and fascinated at beaches by the women with bare, sagging breasts and unshaved armpits, and the men of all shapes and sized stuffed into tiny Speedos. What was more shocking to me was that no one seemed to be looking but me—that the near-nakedness was simply not a big deal.

I won't argue that exposure to others' nakedness is some sort of cure for or protection against body image issues, as it is clear that idealized beauty standards hold just as much, if not more, force in Japan as they do in the United States.

But I will argue that the rather puritanical treatment of nudity in the U.S. has created a system in which exposure to nakedness is almost completely limited to contexts that uphold unrealistic beauty standards through film, T.V., and pornography. Engaging in public nudity like through shared bathing, if nothing else, adds more data points to one's conception of human bodies, creating a more representative bell curve of the diversity of the human form. As a woman, I felt more seen and more worthy of being seen through the act of seeing others.

While planning this trip, I thought that our experiences with shared bathing would be something that I would uncomfortably work through and move on: happy to have done it, but happier to have it over with. Instead, I find myself genuinely mourning the absence of this at home.

I'll step off the soapbox for now, fully clothed.

The kaiseki meals included in a ryokan stay are just as an important piece of the experience as the baths are, and for us, they were just as much of a learning experience.

Kaiseki cuisine is a style of multi-course, traditional Japanese dining. It focuses on seasonality, in terms of the ingredients used, the methods of preparation chosen, and the ceramics, tablescaping, and garnishes that present each dish. Chefs aim to showcase a suite of ingredients that capture the season, yielding a meal comprised of dozens of small dishes, each only a few bites or a singular bite worth of food.

We knew that we loved Japanese food, and this was one of the main factors that had made us land on Japan as the destination for this trip. We also knew that the foods we were familiar with as being Japanese were those that have been filtered through the funnel of what is appealing to American tastebuds: sushi, ramen, basic yakitori, curry, and katsu.

Very few things up to this point had challenged our palettes. We loved just about everything we had eaten so far, and had generally been blown away by the quality of the food and the freshness of the ingredients.

We were excited to try foods less familiar to us. I think this is one of the best parts of travel: digging into a dish without expectations or previous experiences to color my judgement. It's a game of roulette where the outcome could be either an entry onto my list of favorite foods—something that I'll attempt to recreate at home with middling success —or an entry onto the list of dishes that I remember fondly but have no desire to try again, laughing at how I contorted my face, made panicked eye contact with Thomas, and choked it down with a glug of water.

The meals at Yama no Chaya were served to us in our room, by the room attendant we had assigned to us on each day of our stay (Tsurusa for our first dinner and breakfast, and Rebecca for our second). At our designated meal times, our room attendant would knock quietly at the door and ask for permission to prepare the table for the meal.

The first time she did this, I scurried to the door of our room to answer and let her in. This was obviously an unexpected choice to our room attendant, as even her practiced professionalism didn't quite hide her surprise and laugh.

After awkwardly summoning her in and closing the door behind her, something else that probably lands firmly in the camp of "not my job" as a guest, we flitted uncertainly about the room as she prepared the table, feeling that ignoring her presence would be rude, but hesitant to sit down and get in the way of her work.

Once our table was outfitted with the requisite placemats, chopsticks, chopstick holders, warm towels, cups, and teapot, she motioned for us to take a seat at the low table, likely out of keen awareness of our uncertainty. After she served us tea and we had moistened our hands with the towels (one practice we had gotten down by now), she left the room bring in the meal.

We used this time to hurriedly search how we should be letting our room attendant into our room, landing on a soft "douzo" (a versatile phrase that can mean anything from "please" to "go ahead" to "here you are" to "come in," depending on the context) on her next knock, which prompted a knowing smile and nod of approval from Tsurusa upon re-entering.

Balanced in her hands was a tray arranged neatly with dozens of small dishes, bowls, and platters, some concealing their contents from our greedy view with fitted lids. Each dish came in multiples of two, which she placed in front of the two of us, mirrored across each of our table settings. She did this silently, which, due to the complexity of the meal, resulted in what was going to be a somewhat extended period of awkward quiet.

In these moments, both at home and when traveling, Thomas and I enter into what I am terming "white noise dialogue": conversation that is functionally meaningless other than to prevent silence. It generally involves rehashing pieces of our day, thinking aloud the things we are looking forward to in upcoming plans, or asking questions to which we both know that we already know the answers.

We do this with a mutual understanding of what is happening, wordlessly agreeing that the purpose of our words is less about the meaning and more about making noise. It's one of the perks of being in a longterm relationship: understanding each other to the extent that allow two people to communicate without speaking, to act as one for the sake of shared social goals.

Though silly, this clearly made our room attendant become more relaxed, and she started to ask questions about us, where we were from, where else we would be visiting, and what we had thought of Japan so far, her chatter and small laughs at our responses transforming our initially-fake relaxation into real ease.

Having set the table with our smorgasbord, she sat on her shins at the head of our table and served us a conservative pour of sake, desposited into a vessle more closely resembling a saucer than a cu[. After our sake was sipped, she launched into an explanation of each of the dishes presented before us. She bowed deeply, nose nearly touching the floor (an act that seemed impossible/unnecessary to return in like formality, so we stuck with arigatou gozaimasu's and bows of our heads), and left us to navigate our meal.

An assortment of pickled goods: plums, ginger, vegetables, and, uh, pickles, which we ate straight up, realizing only later that these were probably intended to be eaten between dishes as palette cleansers. Oh well, nothing wrong with starting the meal off with a thoroughly-cleansed palette and fully-evacuated sinuses.

Soft cod roe, stewed with lily bulbs and leeks, in a silky dashi broth. Specialty sesame tofu, dressed in ponzu sauce: a lovely balance of creamy and nutty against the bright acidity of the sauce. Dried mullet roe wrapped in chewy mochi, somehow at once gelatinous and cartilaginous, a combination that had both of us taking swift swigs of sake to help them on their journey down our throats. Wanmori, a clear broth piled with a singular turnip and dried segments of sea cucumber, which we found far more pleasant than the explanation of the ingredients had us anticipating. A pot of chopped kelp brightened with grated yuzu, its velveteen pushing up against sliminess at times.

We had made it about two-thirds of the way through our series of dishes when Tsurusa knocked once again on our door, and after our more confident "douzo," brought in yet another tray towering with vessels. She remarked that she appreciated how we were savoring the dishes, and we nodded in agreement (choosing to ignore the time that we had spent laughing at each other's tentative reaches for new dishes and occasional grimaces at some of the more foreign ingredients to us, alongside the true savoring that we had done).

She squeezed the next few dozen dishes between our remaining ones, clearing the empties from our table, and again retreated with a deep bow.

Onwards.

A small platter set with a few types of sashimi—local tuna, sea bream, mackerel—some pleasantly tender and other pleasantly toothsome. Raw salmon wrapped in a delicate sheath of egg. Vibrant prawns served alongside chunks of taro rolled in kelp. Burdock, a root vegetable unfamiliar to us with a dense, chewy texture that suggests it is not intended to be eaten, wrapped in conger eel. A thick block of egg, savory and sweet, topped with a single gingko nut and an unrecognizable bean. A gelatinous cube of something that had only been described as "congealed food made of puffer fish," which was just as enjoyable as we had suspected it would be. Chicken topped with mustard seeds: succulent, juicy, and served at a level of doneness well below what would fly in the U.S..

Again Tsurusa entered our room, this time baring the meat and fish course. We had each selected one of three options presented during check in. Thomas received slices of sirloin while I had settled on a cut of filet, both of which were Japanese black wagyu, charcoal grilled, and, unsurprisingly, delicious. Had we not just gone for the wagyu omakase meal only a few days before, this would have been the best beef we had eaten in our lives. This landed at a respectable second-best. For fish, we both chose the bluefish morning catch, marinated and then broiled with crispy skin and gently-flaking interiors.

Tsurusa entered with, impossibly, more food. A final course of pearly, gleaming local rice, savory and smoky miso soup, and more pickles.

The scale of this meal had us nervously glancing at each other when Tsurusa mentioned dessert. Already quite full, we were relieved to see a single orange for each of us, glistening and juicy. Washed down with a final serving of tea, this was the perfect, understated end to an absolute marathon of a meal, which took us just over two hours to complete from first sitting down.

Many of the dishes were standouts, leaving us wishing that we had more than a a few precious bites worth of them. Others were a struggle to get through even that limited amount. We didn't love everything we ate, but we didn't expect to. And we certainly liked many more of the dishes than we had expected based on the initial explanations from our room attendant (dried sea cucumber was not on my bingo card of unexpected hits).

What was consistent, however, was how impressed we were by the freshness, presentation, and thoughtfulness behind everything we tried. Tsurusa explained how each component related in some way to the transition of winter to spring, and many of the ingredients were sourced from the local valley, the nearby bay, or at farthest, from within the prefecture.

Each dish was paired with a ceramic serving vessel that complemented and enhanced its presentation without ever distracting from it, each one completely unique. Elaborate tablescaping made from natural materials evoked the seasonality, with snow somehow suspended on twigs and across leaves. The meal was just as much a feast for the eyes as it was in taste.

Our dinner on the next night followed the same formula, with the exception of shabu-shabu replacing the meat and fish courses. Delicate sheets of beef, marbled with fat, dipped into roiling pots of broth before being dunked into a pile of salt, smear of wasabi, dish of sauce, or golden egg yolk.

Breakfasts were similar, but less elaborate, consisting mainly of rice, sashimi, egg, salad, green bean tofu topped with olive oil and ponzo, miso soup, and, of course, more pickles.

We also switched to a new room attendant, Rebecca, for our second day. Rebecca was younger, outgoing, and more talkative. She admitted to us that she was still training under Tsurusa's watchful eye and had been nervous about serving us until Tsurusa mentioned how nice we were. I'm just including this detail to brag; it's not relevant to the narrative beyond that.

We enjoyed chatting with Rebecca during our meals, and she taught us a few phrases in Japanese that she thought would be useful to us across the rest of our journey. She was quite delighted when we tried one of them out ("itadakimasu," a phrase translated directly to "to humbly receive" and used to express gratitude for a meal and the work that went in to preparing and serving it) at our final breakfast.

Punctuated with our meals, our stay was spent alternating between soaking in the baths across the property, reclining in the chairs in our sunroom, and stretching out on the tatami floor of our room—choosing new places to laze the hours away. Sans aquatics, I imagine this must be similar to what a day in the life of my cat is like. 

Make no mistake: there are absolutely tourist sightseeing options in Hakone. In my planning, I had researched these and had created an itinerary we could use to organize our day. And yet, we did not step a foot off the property of Yama no Chaya over our two night stay.

Part of this was probably a result of coming off of a week of exploring Tokyo and fighting our way through crowds at Disney: the comparative stillness and solitude made it hard hard to peel ourselves away. Part of it was a result of this being our most expensive stay we had booked and maybe subconsciously feeling like we had to get our "money's worth" out of it. Part of this was plain old physics: we had stayed in motion for the last week, and once finally at rest, we stayed at rest.

No fear of missing out, no thoughts of what we "should" be doing. Just two days filled with good food, good drink, and good company. It was meditative in many ways, with a lack of distraction that encouraged mindfulness during meals, in the baths, and while gazing skywards through the shoots of the bamboo grove.

This was the kind of stay that, as a teenager longing for independence and a young adult yearning for the means to travel, I would have nebulously imagined to be the kind of vacation that "real adults" have. It's exciting and a bit funny to finally realize these moments, entirely different and entirely better than I have ever dreamt them.

Before we checked out, Rebecca told us that she hopes that she will see us again next year. It might take more than a year, but I promised that we will be returning as soon as we can, and I meant it.