Back in Japan, I met my sister-in-law’s folks at Omiya Station where they handed off my nine-year-old nephew.
Hiromi handed me an envelope “for emergencies.” Did it contain cash? One-way tickets back to Tokyo? An inspirational saying?
At the last moment, Fred pulled out a route map and suggested we take a different route to Shimoda than the one Google recommended; the one that had made me cry in exasperation the night before. I could almost hear my blood pressure spiking. Getting lost on my own was stressful enough. The prospect of getting lost with my nephew was unbearable.
Fred handed me a pack of postcard prints of his paintings, which I tucked into a backpack pocket along with the emergency envelope.
“Bye!” we all waved farewell. “Listen to Anne san!” Fred called after Charlie as we dove through the turnstiles and on toward the platforms.
“Are we gonna take grandpa’s way, or the way we talked about last night?” Charlie asked as he trudged along behind me with his roller bag and gigantic backpack.
“We’re gonna stick with the plan,” I replied.
And we did. I had a moment of indecision in Yokohama but after a quick consultation with Charlie found the platform for the Super Okidoro train. It’s not a shinkansen but it’s very nice, with windows that arched over our heads so we got panoramic views.
I was thrilled that Charlie appreciated the scenery. “Look, Auntie Anne! The ocean!” he exclaimed. I had expected him to be jaded, now that he was almost 10.
In a couple hours we reached Shimoda, on the tip of the Izu peninsula. This had not been mentioned in any tourist books or websites; I was only here because the in-laws recommended it. From the station, we caught a local bus to our hotel. It was a bit frantic because we had to have exact change and Charlie was slow getting his together. Not for the first time, I checked myself from grabbing his money and saying, “Here, let me do it!”
As I wrote previously, our hotel room was a lovely traditional Japanese room.
And fantastic views.
As I’ve also whined about previously, it only had internet in the lobby and near the elevators.
This turned out to be okay because we might have otherwise spent a lot more time in the room, especially since it rained almost the whole time.
We wandered around the hotel to check out the features. It appeared we were the only guests.
There were male and female onsens and a family one, also with beautiful views.
I would have loved to have partaken but I wasn’t going to leave my nephew alone in a male onsen, and I wasn’t going to bathe naked with my nephew in the family onsen. It turned out that the hotel charged 2000 yen per person (about $18) to use them, so that wasn’t going to happen anyway.
There was an entire floor of weird Korean saunas. These were large rooms with wall-to-wall layers of gravel on the floors and wooden benches lining the walls. The lights were off so I couldn’t take a picture, and I can’t find any photos online so I wonder if I imagined them.
Back in the room, I felt the need for a hot shower. I ran the water. And ran it, and ran it … then went down to the lobby to say our room had no hot water. They explained that it took at least 15 minutes for hot water to reach us on the second floor.
While I waited I puzzled over the crotch-level mirror. My sister-in-law later enlightened me, “This is for when you are seated on the stool to wash yourself before you get into the tub.”
And the retractable cover over the tub? That’s so you can keep the water warm for the next person. It reminds me of the pioneer days in America when the whole family used the same bath water. Ick. But in Japan, no one gets into a tub until they’ve scrubbed and rinsed from head to toe. The tub is not for cleaning, only relaxing.
I still want to go first.