Travel and Verse

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Tag: Looking Glass

Looking Glass Series, part 4

January 16, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Of Public Bathing and Barriers Unbroken

Travel Journal, 47

The watch on my wrist said 11:40 p.m. They lock the hotel doors at midnight.

“I have time,” I thought as I hurried off the Keikyu train at Heiwajima station in Tokyo, Japan. The hour was so late that the Tokyo Monorail was no longer running. The commuter train got me to my station, but barely in time. It was late and I was tired. The only thing that I wanted was to wash away some of the travel funk and flop ungracefully onto bed.

The bed I procured for my one-night stay in Japan was located in a Capsule Hotel. Japan captured my heart upon my first visit. It’s everything you think of and more. Between the iconic aspects of traditional countryside and the energetic throes of downtown Tokyo, Japan leaves the traveler wanting more. One iconic hotel experience is the Capsule Hotel.

And it is what it sounds like.

A capsule. A friend describes it as a coffin. Rows and rows of coffin-like spaces are built into the wall. Each has its own TV, air controls, and privacy curtain. And at around 2700 yen per night ($26), it makes for a great option traveling on the cheap.

I weaved in and out of smallish alleys and under neon glow promising pachinko and ramen. Finally, I stepped into the doorway with five minutes to spare. Immediately, I knew that I may have a bit of trouble. The hotel was clearly not ideal for English-speaking travelers. Everything here oozed Japanese. It was clearly a place for the Japanese salaryman.

I took my shoes off and put on a pair of sandals at the door. The man at the counter was very gracious and patient, though he spoke no English. I placed my shoes in a locker in the entryway and collected my complementary PJs, which made me look like a really disheveled, poorly trained, and pasty-white ninja.

The elevator took me to the fifth floor and I found capsule 2027. Exhausted, all I wanted was shower and sleep. The facilities were on the next floor up. So, I collected my things and made the journey.

But as I walked up to what I thought was the shower room, my attention was drawn to a sign that said, “大浴場.”

Enter Google translate.

I actually knew one of the characters, and I was worried. And my memory was right. In essence, it was a bath. Then it hit me.

This hotel has no shower.

It has an Onsen.

A public bath.

“Well, it’s late,” I told myself, “who could possibly be up and using the public bath.”

I entered the room to find a minimum of seven naked, sprawling Japanese men soaking in all the luxury of a quiet bath.

Japan is famous for public baths. It’s a part of the culture that will never go away. The locals swear by soaking in the natural hot springs that bubble forth from the ground. I’m told that once you start using an Onsen, you just can’t stop. But something like this suddenly makes the traveler feel very foreign. Public bathing are two words Americans never use together.

But I’m a pro, right?

I can do this.

I took a big gulp, trying to swallow my midwestern pride.

Heads began to turn my direction.

I felt my heart thump.

Then I turned and walked away.

“Chicken,” I said to my prudish self.

Not every wall easily falls. I still have a few barriers of my own. And one day, I will step into the looking glass and conquer each of them. And the reward will be great.

Maybe one day when I’m on another jaunt into Japan with a group of friends, we’ll brace ourselves with camaraderie and gently slip into a hot Onsen. And perhaps all of our concerns and preconceptions will float away.

But until then, I bathe by myself, thank you very much.

anthony forrest

For those of you interested in exploring a crazy website, here is the link to the hotel. Try using your browser’s translate feature. http://www.mizho.net/

Other Looking Glass Stories:

Part 1, Of Blood and Barriers 

Part 2, Of Strong Hands and Reservations 

Part 3, Of Cats and Coffee

Looking Glass Series, part 3

January 9, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Of Cats and Coffee

Travel Journal, 46

Terengganu, Malaysia

Early morning

 I rubbed the bleary look out of my eyes and walked into the living area. My flight back to the States was in a couple of hours. Chris entered the room, cup of coffee in his hand.

“Here you go.”

I took a sip. Neurons fired, senses awoke, and life slowly entered my body.

“This,” I muttered, “Is probably the best cup of coffee I have ever had.”

A few moments later, Chris produced a bag and I gleefully stuffed it into my backpack. I finished that cup of coffee in the car ride to Sultan Mahmud Airport. I jotted these words into my journal as the rain hit the car window.

Malaysia ends in monsoon rains

Another flight

Another cup

Another road traveled

Golden riches gained

For the soul

Poetry-inducing coffee: the best kind of coffee.

Two days later

“Any food with you today?”

Well, I thought, you don’t eat coffee.

“Nope.”

The US Customs agent handed back my passport. I walked over to the connecting flights TSA checkpoint and threw my bag on the counter.

The beat-up backpack gently rolled into the scanner. The red and black bag smelled of curry and too many nights away. It’s been with me for nearly 15 years. It’s carried me through a spectrum of circumstances, each crazier than the last. And half the time, it’s covered in mud, blood, ramen, or coffee. In fact, I was a little worried about the coffee buried in the bottom of my bag. As the rollers paused, I guessed in my mind what would happen next. Sure enough, the TSA agent pulled me aside. I made it easy for him and pulled out a one-pound bag of coffee. I had already been a little less than truthful with the Border Patrol and Customs agent. But I doubted the coffee would be an issue with TSA.

“Just a bag of coffee,” I said.

“Oh yeah? Is it any good?”

“The best in the world,” I said slowly, hoping not to sound snobbish or condescending.

“This is coffee from Sumatra,” I glowed, “It’s 50% Kopi Luwak, 25% red wine cured, and 25% natural bean. It’s open. You can smell it if you’d like.”

The agent popped open the seal and took a sniff. He seemed pleased. But then he said the sentence that I hoped he wouldn’t say; a sentence I hear a couple times a year.

“Luwak? Isn’t that the cat-poop coffee?

I hung my head and sighed.

“Yeah”

Whenever I hear this sentence, the entire conversation become unredeemable. I could explain that the Asian Palm Civet is not a cat, but a cute little mammal called a viverrid. I could also explain that it eats the coffee cherry, in which resides the green coffee bean. The cherry passes through the civet because it cannot break it down. I could then conclude in saying that farmers retrieve the cherry, clean it, and harvest the bean, and use it to make the world’s most expensive and delicious coffee.

But it’s no use. He’s still hung up on poop.

And it’s true. Kopi Luwak may forever be the butt of jokes (apologies for the pun). However, most coffee drinkers may never have the opportunity to try it. Kopi Luwak is far too expensive and unavailable in the States, though prevalent in southeast Asia.

“Cat-poop” coffee may be a barrier that many people never cross. But what about other strange food items. Nobody thinks twice about eating an egg, produced directly from the back end of a chicken. And don’t get me started on hot dogs.

A good cup of coffee can vitalize your day, bring a smile to your face, warm you up, and bring friends together. And if a good cup of coffee can do that, what happens when you try the world’s best coffee?

You’ll just have to break down the “cat-poop” barrier to find out.

anthony forrest

 

Other Looking Glass Stories:

Part 1, Of Blood and Barriers 

Part 2, Of Strong Hands and Reservations 

Looking Glass Series, part 2

January 2, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Of Strong Hands and Reservations

Travel Journal, 45

Would you like to hear a confession?

I had never had a massage. I’ve heard tell of two-hour-long massages. A complete stranger touching a rubbing my body in a calculated and meticulous way just hasn’t ever attracted me. And then when they’re done…you pay them. Paying for a massage seems a little, shall we say, illegally scandalous?

But this story is not about preconceptions. It’s about stepping into and through the looking glass, breaking down barriers. It’s about trying strange dishes and going strange places.

It’s about strong hands.

I walked into the house and found my dear friends from college (eons ago) speaking with their language tutor. As they chatted, I disappeared to shower away the travel-blues and airplane funk. Even more than sleep, I find that a cup of coffee and a hot shower cures most ailments and alleviates most travel woes. But if I was asked to nail down one negative aspect of travel, I would immediately reply with, “back pain.” Sitting knees-to-chest on a plane and sleeping in all manners of positions wreaks havoc on my body. And though the hot shower helped, it had been nearly 8,500 miles of airplane travel to get here.

After cleaning up, I joined in on the English side of the conversation.

“You okay?” I was asked, upon sitting. I must have winced.

“Oh yeah,” I lied.

“Are you sure?” My poker face could use some work.

“I’ll be alright,” I confessed, “my back just gets sore when I travel.”

Translations ensued and bilingual discussion commenced. It was decided (for me?) that I should get a massage. But I have never had a massage, said I.

No matter, said they. I needed a massage—but not just any massage.

No.

The only hands with power enough to lift the dark discomfort from my body were the hands of the great Pak Omar. Who, you might ask?

“His hands are like magic,” said the local language teacher. But finding him could be difficult. And for the next several days, we tried getting in contact with him, to no avail.

I was not sure if he even existed—this magical remover of back pain. Was he a legend? A name whispered in the wind? Was he a story fathers with aching backs believed in, like a pain soothing Santa Clause?

But finally, one day, we received news of his whereabouts and an appointment was set.

We pulled up to the small home to find Pak Omar waiting for us. We removed our shoes and he led us into the house. A couple of wooden benches lined the wall and two children watch a television on the floor. Omar disappeared and reappeared wearing what looked like a nicer, new shirt. I took his hand and noticed the sheer strength in this elderly Malaysian man (who, by the way, is greatly respected in his community).  My friend communicated my back-pain. He led me into a small room with a little wooden table, a pillow on one end.

Face-down, I laid on the cold wood and Pak Omar went to work. With those powerful hands he poked and prodded and whittled away the knots. Sometimes it felt like a waterfall of relief. And sometimes it felt like he was running me over with a large truck. But after twenty minutes, I knew I was a different man. Not only did I find relief from my back pain, but I now understood massage. But then he sat me up and looked at my shoulders.

With grunting, we tried communicating. He told me to turn my head from side to side. I did. Then I told me to reach and touch my toes. I did that, too. But he was not pleased with my performance.

Soon he put me on the floor. And before I knew what was going on, he sat behind me, wrapped his legs around and under mine and used an English word that frightened me.

“Relax” 

And with little notice, he started cracking my back and shoulder like twigs and branches. I stood up in a daze and Pak Omar went to work on my shoulders and neck.

I must have gotten the premier package, thought I.

But when all was done, I felt like a little Lego man who had been disassembled and then put back together. And boy did I feel great.

We shared a cup of tea and, without any language skills, talked about nothing. We just smiled and grunted back and forth.

Both my friend and I got massages that day. And it cost us 12 US dollars, for both of us. If I lived there, in the beauty and wonder of Malaysia, Pak Omar would have a steady client in this weary traveler.

 

anthony forrest

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