In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.

Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays”

湯治 (touji): “hot spring cure” in Japanese. Basically, staying at an onsen facility for a long time, for therapeutic goals. A traditional and vital aspect of Japanese life, it has been declining in modern times, due to its rising reputation as an indulgence.

“Do anything; do nothing at all” is the unofficial slogan here. Soaking in hot springs, enjoying delicious meals, and resting in-between.

Free yourself from the need to accomplish something. In fact, some insist that the modern version of touji is to let go of the need to do anything in particular. Aim to live a simple life rather than an extravagant one, enjoying occasional walks in nature and chats with friends. Doing so is sure to bring you new perspectives. For the people of today, living in a stressful society, touji can provide needed time for self-reflection.

Sukayu Onsen visitor center

16 August 2023

• 8:30-9:30 breakfast at my host’s
• 10:30-12:00 Sakata station to Akita station limited express train, 12:15-13:50 transfer to bullet train to Morioka station
• Lunch and work at Morioka station
• 16:25-16:37 Morioka station to Yahaba station local train (Tohoku line)
• Morioka Funekko Nagashi festival (1.5h)
• Ride to tonight’s homestay

Morioka Funekko Nagashi Festival

My host dropped me off at Sakata station, where I met a German journalist who’d been visiting Japan annually for 25 years. That explained the presence of another foreigner in Sakata.

I returned to Morioka and passed the time until afternoon, eating and working on my computer. During my bullet train ride here, the Morioka woman had texted me to contact tonight’s homestay host ASAP. Having had no Wi-Fi, I’d seen the message after an hour and a half; only then had I done so.

In the afternoon, we met for tonight’s festival.

She lived in front of Yahaba station. I stored my luggage in her car; we took the train to Sembokucho. A few minutes’ walk in the river was Morioka Funekko Nagashi festival.

Men carried decorated, dragon-shaped boats into the water, lit them on fire, and waded with them down Kitakami River, to send off ancestral spirits.

We ate usuyaki (a thin crepe filled with vegetables – my first time seeing one) and Takoyaki (my first one in forever), both traditional festival food.

Then a friend of the Morioka woman joined us, a 34yo Toono native wearing a beautiful kimono. She filmed me for YouTube or something the entire time. How embarrassing. It felt a bit uncomfortable to have a camera always on near my face.

I felt even more awkward once I began to suspect the meaning behind this introduction. Just like in our first meeting, the Morioka woman kept bringing up the subject of marriage.

“Marriage could help you live in Japan.”

“Lots of Japanese girls are interested in foreign men.”

“Morioka is easier to live in, compared to other cities in Japan. There are more job opportunities, and the rent is cheaper.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

She also talked a lot about working as an English teacher in Japan, and gave me the number of another friend of hers, a British man married to a Japanese woman, who’d been living in Sapporo for a decade, teaching English.

We watched a bunch of kids swing balls of fire into the air, in an attempt to light a tall heap of hay on fire. While standing on a lawn.  

And here I thought all Japanese people were overly prudent.

An ojiisan extinguished the fiery grass in between the kids’ throws. After many attempts, the hay was lit on fire.

Then it was time for fireworks. No summer celebration in Japan could be complete without them.

At night, the Morioka woman and I took the train back to Yahaba. I devoured a plastic-y matcha ice cream cone from a vending machine. How I’d missed matcha.

Homestay

After returning to Yahaba, she drove me to my homestay for the next three nights. A rural village north of Morioka, outside the “city”, deep in the countryside. After spending three days in Sakata, I expected friends her age or older, and got someone else entirely.

Her 39-year-old physical therapist and his 32-year-old wife. They lived in a two-storey house straight out of an otaku documentary.

It was full of video games, action figures, and mess. A large TV; a gaming couch; an iguana and a snake. Video game merch, such as a Splatoon cup and soap dispenser.

It was my first time meeting the famed “otaku” type of Japanese person. He had dyed hair, a beard shaved into a framing line without a moustache, and a tendency to vape. Also, he created his own Japanese rap. She was a shy cosplayer, with short hair and prominent gums. They both wore thick, black glasses. He commented that he’d never seen the likes of mine (see-through yellow frame) in Japan.

They’d invited me to their home after the Morioka woman, who’d met me for ten brief minutes in Narita airport in May, had told them about me.

I was immediately served a can of Lemon Sour. During Morioka Sansa Odori festival, the Morioka woman had treated me to a cup of Lemon Sour. I’d said it was good, even though I hated carbonated drinks. She’d told this to my hosts, and they’d bought an enormous box of Lemon Sour cans specifically for me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I wasn’t a fan.

Everything went smoothly after she left, especially once it became clear that my hosts and I were all huge Nintendo fans. Yet there was a small moment when he’d brought up my belated text from earlier today.

“If you want to live in Japan, when someone asks you to contact them ASAP, you must do so,” he said sternly.

Having never been scolded by a Japanese person before, I was a bit taken aback.

Once this passed, I marvelled at their endless collection of Switch games. We might have time for that later on. Tonight was getting late, and I decided at the last minute to plan a day trip for tomorrow, to take advantage of the last day of my JR pass.

Interestingly enough, today neither the Morioka woman nor my hosts had added “san” to my name. Evidently, they’d all felt comfortable enough to drop it when referring to me – an omission Japanese people do only with close friends and family. Even my hosts, who’d just met me.

Curious. Apart from my Tokyo friend, with my other Japanese friends, we were still on “san” terms.

Today’s highlights: usuyaki and takoyaki; the flaming boats in the river; the plastic-y matcha cone.

17 August 2023

• 7:30-8:20 ride to Iwate Ioka station, 8:30-8:40 Iwate Ioka station to Morioka station local train, 8:50-9:20 Morioka station to Tazawako station bullet train, 9:30-10:45 Tazawako station to Tamagawa Onsen bus
• Tamagawa onsen – exploring the volcanic area (1h)
• Tamagawa onsen – the hot spring (1h)
• 15:55-17:10 Tamagawa Onsen to Tazawako station bus, 18:10-18:50 Tazawako station to Morioka station bullet train, 19:20-19:30 local train to Iwate Ioka station

Tamagawa Onsen

I woke at 7:00, growing more fatigued with each passing day. My left foot was hurting. This always happened when I’d exhausted myself beyond sane measures.

My host left at 7:30 for work. He dropped me off at Iwate Ioka station, from where I embarked on my trip to Japan’s most acidic onsen.

Tamagawa Onsen lay on Mount Yakeyama, a factory for poisonous gas, such as hydrogen sulfide, carbon dioxide, and sulfur dioxide, north of Nyuto Onsen.

A place only accessible in summer, due to heavy snowfall (otherwise I would’ve visited it in February). People came from all over for its healing properties; basically, Japan’s version of Dead Sea.

There were barely any other visitors today, and they were all Japanese, middle-aged or older.

I started with the volcanic area outside the onsen: the amped-up version of Osore-zan. Gray stones tinged with neon yellow; sulfuric steams. Yet not even in Osore-zan had I seen water this neon. It was stinky and mesmerizing.

Soon I reached Obuke (“great gusher”), Japan’s most productive source of onsen, splashed 8,400 litres of 98 degrees, pH1.2 water per minute. Water bubbling, poisonous gas abound – good thing today was windy, because poison was heavier than air.

Approaching the forceful geyser filled my nostrils with gas and my glasses with fumes. I was engulfed by steam. People were lying down next to it, having brought mats and umbrellas.

Tamagawa Onsen was famous for its alleged healing qualities. It was the site of Hokutolite, a rare mineral ore, extremely radioactive, found only in two hot springs in the world: one in Taiwan, the other here. 

Japanese people lay for hours in the volcanic area for this reason alone. There was even a section with tents where more visitors were napping. I entered one of the tents; it started pouring all of a sudden. Nice excuse to bask in radioactive stones and poisonous gas.

I wished words could transmute temperature and smell. Touch became the most important sense on this mountain. As a matter of fact, one didn’t need to touch anything to feel the heat. The ground was so blazing, that even when squatting, my butt grew warm.

It was impossible to stand on the earth without shoes for more than five seconds.

I touched it with a finger. My skin was on fire. My bag grew hot as well, and I was a bit worried for my electronics.

So I decided to put on my mask again, after removing it following the bus ride.

I wasn’t sure if I was harming myself, spending time inside that tent, or luxuriating in rare, healthy conditions. Japanese people believed Tamagawa Onsen could cure cancer. I wondered if it could also trigger it.

After squatting for a while, I let my butt brush the ground, and burn, and burn, and burn.

I rested a palm on the earth as well. Would I ever get to feel such a scorching terrain again? What a unique place – a one-of-a-kind wonder. If Osore-zan was Hell Mountain, this ought to be Death Mountain.

Osore-zan; Tamagawa Onsen; Akita Kanto festival; Okama crater, Yudono-san shrine, and my favourite ryokan. Tohoku was fast rivalling Hokkaido as my favourite region in Japan.

After half an hour in this kiln, I left. I was starting to sweat under my mask.

Further down the trail, I came face to face with fumaroles, the most poisonous stones around. Raucous with volcanic spew – steam, hydrogen sulfide, sulfur dioxide, and other compounds. Their gas was so poisonous and hot (over 100 degrees), that standing there was risky. But the yellow crystals around them were gorgeous.

The volcanic trail took thirty minutes on average. I took one hour, spending half an hour inside the tent.

I had visited forty or more onsens in Japan thus far. Some of them were top notch. Tokachidake Onsen, Lake Akan, Noboribetsu, the Kawagukicho rotenburo with a direct view of Mount Fuji, Hakone, the rooftop rotenburo in Ise, Yunomine Onsen, Iya Onsen, and Hida Onsen from Round One were all spectacular. Osore-zan and Nyuto Onsen from Round Two as well. But none of them resembled Tamagawa Onsen in the slightest.

With that thought, I entered the onsen building.

I started off at the indoor rock bathing room, which was empty. Grabbed a mat and lied on the highest temperature bed for 10 minutes, my back beginning to sweat, until a staff member came and told me this was a staying-guest-area only. Oops.

Then I entered the actual onsen, thinking it would instantly become my favourite one in Japan. What happened inside was quite the opposite.

My Most Intense Soaking in an Onsen

It was a giant, wooden hall with six baths, ranging in temperature, acidity (50% / 100%), and style (one bubbling like a hot tub; my first encounter of a standing bath; and my first encounter of an enjoyable lying bath, complete with a headrest).

There was a sauna, and even a sauna-like steam chair straight out of a medieval torture chamber. Basically, one could sit inside a kiln-like structure with an opening only for the head. Inside, it felt like it had been designed to burn people alive.

I started off with the 50% baths. The Morioka woman had warned me last night that Tamagawa Onsen might hurt. She’d asked if I’d had any open wounds. I said no.

(Entering TMI territory)

Lately, I’d been bitten all over my torso by bed bugs. No idea when or where. My safest guess would be the Seoraksan mountain shelter, where I was the only one without a sleeping bag and a blanket. Still, the bites had appeared long after my return to Seoul. Maybe they’d taken time to emerge.

Anyway, since then, my excessive, daily sweating while sightseeing Korea and Japan had done my bites no favours. I’d come to Tamagawa Onsen today hopeful that some acidity would help.

The 50% baths did not hurt. Yet I could barely last five minutes in each. Less than that. It was the shortest and hottest soaking I’d experienced, and the closest I’d come to fainting. I cursed this onsen for not building an open-air bath as well.

After resting for a while on a bench, I ventured into the 100% bath.

Mistake.

In an instant, my bites began to itch like chickenpox. I could not resist scratching them.

And I’d thought the sauna chair and scalding 50% baths were torture.

A lot of inflammation ensued. Maybe a little puss, too. After resting again and venturing into a different 100% bath, something else began to itch, to hurt, in addition to my torso. I couldn’t understand why, since nothing medical was going on there, and I might be better off not going into specifics – but that was a skin whose pain I had not experienced.

(Later, I found two deep cuts there, which might have been caused by the onsen.)

I was squirming in agony at this point, moaning, and, of course, dizzy and lightheaded. A fuming hall, dimly lit, with more heat and acidity than lamps. A minimal number of visitors, all Japanese, all taking it well. Only I was writhing like a worm in an oven.

I lasted a little over an hour inside that torture facility. It was my most intense soaking in Japan.

(Leaving TMI territory)

I was alone during the entire bus ride down the mountain. After a long while, my host picked me up from Iwate Ioka station.

Dinner was grilled mackerel, miso soup, tamago, and rice. All so delicious, that I devoured them way too fast. Then じゃがバター, short for じゃがいもバター: potato with garlic butter sauce. For dessert, a golden kiwi (abroad, I’d only seen green ones?!) and a strong sake. All in all, an amazing meal, to finish off this eventful day.

Today’s highlights: the volcanic scenery of Tamagawa Onsen; a radioactive rock bath; the teishoku dinner.

Stray observations:

• When setting the table, miso soup goes to the right, while rice to the left.
• Every time someone uses 君, or worse, あなた (both mean “you”) to refer to me, I die. What an unnatural-sounding phrasing in a language whose pronouns are always omitted, and names are used instead. その人 (“that person”) is also used on a daily basis, instead of third person.

18 August 2023

• 8:30-9:00 ride to Morioka station
• Writing inside the station
• Morioka Reimen for late lunch
• Homemade Takoyaki for dinner at my hosts’
• Mario game party at night!

A Frustrating Day Off

My host made me salt onigiri for breakfast and then dropped me off at Morioka station. Today he started at a later hour, at a different office. Better for me, because I would sightsee the station area.

First order of business: use the public phone inside the station to contact tomorrow’s ryokan. They had no email address, and I needed to book their shuttle bus.

Then I texted the Morioka woman about our plans for tomorrow morning. I was not prepared for her reply.

I found out the reason I’d returned to Morioka – a live interview in one of the most popular Saturday morning shows in the country – wasn’t going to happen, after all. It was rescheduled for the 26th instead.

This set me on edge for several reasons.

On May 7^th, two days before leaving Japan, I’d booked a ryokan for August 19^th.

On May 9^th, at Narita airport, I’d met the Morioka woman.

A month ago, she’d emailed me regarding the interview for the morning of August 19^th. The iron-clad ryokan reservation was one of my main reasons for returning to Japan. So I’d asked her if the 26^th could be done instead. She’d said no.

To meet her request for me to be Morioka again for the morning of the 19^th, I’d changed my elaborate checking-in plans (the ryokan was in the middle of nowhere), and resolved to take a bullet train, a local train, and three buses, for five hours, to go from Morioka to the ryokan.

I hadn’t cared about the time – I would travel even ten hours to go back to that ryokan – but it had taken me days of emails and planning to make that day work, not to mention an expensive, JR-Pass-less bullet train. Yet now, 24 hours beforehand, I found out that the interview had been postponed to the 26^th instead. After I’d already made plans to attend Akita Omagari Fireworks, the biggest and most famous fireworks in Japan, on the 26^th.

I couldn’t afford this many bullet trains to and from Morioka. August 4^th, for the Sansa Odori festival; August 16-19^th, for Funekko Nagashi, and the morning of the 19^th; and now, August 26^th.

Unable to afford a ticket for the fireworks as well, I’d resolved to show up first thing in the morning of the 26^th, to catch a spot.

To cap it all off, I’d already agreed to return to Morioka in early September, for another interview she’d had planned for me. My original intention was to fly from Tokyo to Sapporo, like I’d done in February, being the cheapest way to travel to Hokkaido. Now, I’d have to go from Tokyo, to Morioka, to Sapporo.

It wasn’t the time I would waste on so many trips to Morioka. I was willing to do anything to stay on good terms with her and say yes to her suggestions. But I couldn’t afford to do that, financially. Morioka was the shinkansen hub of the Tohoku region.

I grew so frustrated, that I scrapped all my sightseeing plans for today, and stayed in Morioka station’s waiting room instead.

In the afternoon, I had Morioka Reimen for a late lunch. I’d been itching to eat it again ever since making it with my first Morioka host.

The restaurant was stylish, but the Reimen was a disappointment. The sauce was too mild, the noodles too thick. I did enjoy the addition of watermelon, which my host and I hadn’t bought. Reimen was still one of my favorite dishes, thanks to it unique combination of noodles, Kimchee, egg, cucumber, and watermelon. But next time, I’d make it myself. A lot cheaper, many more cucumbers and Kimchee this way.

In the evening, my host picked me up from the station. Back at his house, we threw a Takoyaki and Mario night. 

It was better than any other Takoyaki I’d had, because it was homemade, and I’d helped make it myself. Soon I was flipping the balls into perfectly round shapes. Soy and orange sauce. As my host said, Lemon Sour was indeed a perfect fit for Takoyaki.

I’d grown used to eating eight Takoyaki balls (always the size of a serving), and so I’d never eaten this many. Probably double the amount, if not more.

For dessert, my hosts served tiny, purple grapes. I ate one. They were surprised at my eating the skin. Apparently, one didn’t do that here. In return, I was surprised they didn’t eat the skin. But I followed suit. The peeled grape tasted sweet and weird.

The night ended with Super Mario 3D World and Mario Kart on their huge screen. I was tired from my growing lack of sleep, but it was fun nonetheless. 

Today’s highlights: watermelon in kimchee sauce; flipping Takoyaki balls; Mario games.

19 August 2023

• A drive through Goshoko lake
• A visit to a TV studio
• 13:05-13:57 Morioka station to Shin-Aomori station bullet train, 14:08-14:43 Shin-Aomori station to Hirosaki station (local train), 14:50-15:26 Hirosaki station to Kuroishi bus (actually 15:16-15:55 – the Internet is WRONG), 16:15-16:50 Kuroishi to Nijinoko bus, 17:00-17:15 ryokan’s last shuttle bus
• Staying at a ryokan for the next two days

A Visit to a TV Studio

This morning, my host drove me to meet the Morioka woman. On the way, he made a huge detour, to show me around Goshoko lake and Tsunagi Onsen.

Sunflower fields and cows grazing. Clear water. Heavy metal blaring from his car radio at 7:30 in the morning. A much-needed ice coffee from Lawson.

He’s studied in this area on a daily basis between the ages of 18-21, and seen a bear while driving on this same road. Third person in Tohoku who told me they’d seen one.

I felt slightly jealous. I’d been dying (pun unintended) to see one… from afar.

Finally, we reached his office near Iwate Ioka station, where the Morioka woman was waiting for me. She’d drove us to family restaurant for a cheap and delicious teishoku breakfast. I told her I wouldn’t be able to come back in September; we’d meet in October instead.

After breakfast, we went to the TV studio.

It was small but cool. My last time in a TV studio was senior year in high school, on a film class excursion to Israel’s national news.

She introduced me to her male producer friend as “Kesem-kun”. First time someone had added “kun” to my name.

Then a female producer and a female TV announcer approached us.

“Shalom,” the announcer said (“hello” in Hebrew).

“Eh?!” I exclaimed. 「もう一度行ってください。」(“Say that again, please.”)

“Shalom,” she repeated, pronouncing it perfectly.

We introduced ourselves. She was a beautiful TV personality, clad in a striking dress. 

“Toda,” she said at some point (“thank you” in Hebrew).

Oh god.

Then a former baseball player turned NHK announcer, originally from the same village I’d stayed in the last three days with the otaku couple, showed up. He was once Japan’s top baseball player. Also, his older brother was a classmate of Shohei.

The three of us watched the live show being taped with the female announcer and Hashimoto Ryosuke, the main singer of ABC-Z. My non-existent knowledge of Japanese music surfaced here. The Morioka woman explained that this boy group was like Japan’s BTS.

And indeed, fans were lining outside the studio to watch the singer.

The female announced kept glancing at me throughout the show, smiling and waving. At 12:00, the taping was over.

The Morioka woman and I approached the female producer. My live interview wouldn’t happen on the 26^th, either.

As we left the studio, I noticed a table with printed papers of my picture and biography from my alma mater. The female announcer handed me a complimentary black coffee (so much coffee today) and a monstrous muffin.

They all shook my hand in the end, including the Morioka woman, after dropping me off at the station and treating me to shrimp tempura soba at a small, standing restaurant inside the station. I found this a bit unexpected. Maybe it was a gesture intended to please a westerner like me.

Despite the interview falling through, I felt grateful for this experience, and looked forward to returning to Morioka in the fall.

A Tense Return to the Digital Detox Ryokan

I boarded the Shinkansen nervous and fidgeting. En route to my favourite ryokan in Japan, to disconnect from the world for two days, I’d grown quite sick. I hadn’t been this nervous in forever.

There was only one person I wanted to talk to the most before going away and risking further pain and disappointment. Yet they ignored my message. Again.

I reflected upon a new, recent pattern in my life.

Last two weeks in Japan – meeting the British student – growing close – him promising to stay in touch – then ghosting me after I’d left for Korea.

Last two weeks in Korea – meeting the Korean student – growing close – him promising to stay in touch – then ghosting me after I’d left for Japan.

I was disappointed, disappointed, disappointed. So many good things within reach – and the rug being pulled at once, like Sisyphus cowering toward a lake to drink. Fantasizing about my return to the ryokan for months, I’d pictured myself disappointed at my failure to find the Miitaka guy – and ended up with even more disappointments than that.

As the bullet train rushed north, the weather turned sour. From sunny to cloudy and foggy. Raindrops splattered on the window, and the temperature dropped. I watched the window grow cold as if a dementor was touching it, like in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I felt as if one was hovering right next to me.

Making friends and growing close to people who walked out on me: this was the pattern that had dominated my social life since middle school. Over the years, whenever a new connection bloomed, I’d assumed it would break that pattern.

Something must be deeply, fundamentally wrong with me, for this to happen over and over again. I didn’t know what. But I had to find out.

Arriving at Hirosaki was a moment of relief. My favourite place in Tohoku. Half a day here in February had barely sufficed.

As I rushed outside the train station to the bus platform (only 7 minutes until the only bus came), I saw the spot where we’d taken the snowy photo of the train to Shin Aomori; the ticket machines, where he’d grown disappointed at the prospect of not taking the Shinkansen together; and the fast-food soba restaurant inside the station, where we had both eaten tempura soba for lunch.

I remembered every single moment. I could see us standing here.

He taught me the Korean index finger and thumb heart gesture. Moreover, he was the first Japanese person who had tried to teach me how to use chopsticks. Japanese people never bothered to correct my mistakes, whether cultural and lexical. He’d even instructed me to ride the escalator on the left side. The only other people who’d corrected my mistakes were my Tokyo friend, the Ashikaga woman from the ryokan, and lately, my couch-surfing host from Morioka. To me, it was a sign that they cared.

I mulled over this as I waited for the bus to arrive. It didn’t. The schedule pinned to the bus stop specified a completely different timetable than the one online.

Panic. Was I going to miss the last shuttle to the ryokan?

I dashed to the tourist information center for the full, up-to-date timetable. It was okay. I would still make it.

Both Hirosaki town and station were decorated with goldfish-shaped small neputa floats. I wondered if this was a relic from the recent Neputa festival.

Hirosaki was a place I could actually picture myself living in. The station and its tourist information center. Kuroishi bus station and its tourist information center. Those were places that warmed my heart. I remembered them as if my first time in them was yesterday. I could not imagine a trip to Japan without a return to them.

Except they were too far from Tokyo. Matsumoto was closer.

Interestingly enough, the bus to Nijinoko included a SUICA machine, but not a change machine. Surprising for the Japanese countryside. (Why was no change given? A mystery I might never unravel.)

The shuttle bus was already waiting for me in Nijinoko roadside station. Inside was a guest who’d brought a bike. Why she was bringing a bike to an old, tiny ryokan tucked inside a small valley, I couldn’t tell.

Compared to February, the shuttle ride differed wildly in summer. Lush trees replaced tall piles of snow. The road was clear.

I felt relieved that I would be isolated from the outside world for the next 48 hours. If the one person I needed to talk to wanted nothing to do with me, there was no one else I wished to interact with.

Arriving at the ryokan made me feel like Harry each time he returned from the Dursleys to Hogwarts. At long last.

If I could stay there forever, I would. Settle into an onsen-hopping, fish-catching lifestyle, and cease striving to make things happen for myself. My dream of becoming an author was already in the trash.

Today’s highlights: cheap teishoku; watching a live show recording inside a studio; returning to Hirosaki and Kuroishi stations, and to the ryokan.

21 August 2023

More than a Memory?

I chose not to share my second time at the ryokan.

My first time, I’d sat crossed-legged on my futon and leaned against the wall, at night, alone in my room. The dim, kerosene lamp; the tall piles of snow outside the window. With nothing to do, I’d listened to Gypsy by Lady Gaga on repeat, and gone to bed before 21:00.

Now, I happened to stay in the exact same room, and found myself recreating this scene with a different song, in summer.