HAKONE JAPAN - OPEN AIR BATHING AND ART
Tokyo is amazing. Culture shock as a descriptor doesn’t do it justice. In four days on the ground in Tokyo I overdose on cherry blossom, temples, and shrines; jostle with the crowds in Takeshita Street; lunch in Harajuku on chicken kebab cooked by a Kurd from Afghanistan; join five chain smoking Japanese businessmen drinking sake in an izakaya just off Sunshine Street in Ikebukuro; eat chicken gizzards and ‘parsons nose’ at a tachinomi (standing only bar) and gaze at the ‘school girls’ in costume in Akihabara.
On the fifth day respite was urgently needed. The train south west from Tokyo to Odawara takes under two hours. A further 45-minute bus ride around Mount Asama to the shores of Lake Ashinoko, drops me in Hakone. It was worth the journey. Water, forests, clean air, and almost empty streets were a balm for my soul.
Hakone is renowned for its ryokan, traditional accommodation with tatami rooms, and onsen - hot springs open air bathing. I was taking my first stab at sleeping on the floor and communal bathing. The yukata robe is gold brocade. The obi (sash) red, stiff, and rather long. One size fits all. Wraps around two or three times on the petite Japanese women, maybe just once on my voluptuous body. The scuffs a perfect fit if your shoe size is no larger than a six.
Naked underneath, clutching the obi tightly my shuffle to the lift then across the lobby to the onsen was embarrassing to say the least. Unfortunately for me the lobby is a very popular place due to the availability of free wi-fi. I pray the red haired long-legged woman and the family of three Germans won’t look up from their phones. I keep my head down trying to be invisible as possible while making sure I choose the women’s door behind the red flag.
My lobby walk was a mere moment of mortification, when after stowing the slippers and dropping the yukata, I enter the onsen to sit on a stool not much bigger than Miss Muffet’s tuffet. On a shelf in front of me are large pump action bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. A shower attachment on a hose allows me to sit on the stool, lather up thoroughly with the body wash, rinse and repeat continuously, ensuring I don’t miss any bodily nooks and crannies. I fill a small bucket placed by the stool with water from the shower tipping it over my head for the final rinse.
Scrubbed and clean to within an inch of my life I cautiously tread the wet stone tiles to the edge of the hot springs pool and gently lower myself into warm bliss. No splashing, no swimming, simply lazy suspension in calm almost hot water in the open air. When I tire of lolling around in the water, I lightly splash water on the stone edge, gently easing myself out of the pool onto the stones, mimicking the actions of the Japanese women in the bath.
The crisp mountain air on my warm body is refreshing. Once I cool down, again I follow suit and slip back into the warm waters. Repeat as many times as I like. Rinse once more on the little stool before heading to the dressing room. Towels, hair dryer, and body lotion are available for use after the onsen. However, I still have to wrap myself in the yukata and obi to do the soft shoe shuffle back across the lobby.
Bathing is effectively available 24 hours a day. My room does not have an ensuite. Early next morning instead of a shower in the privacy of my own bathroom I return to the onsen. This time I bath inside. No sitting on rocks in the chill morning air. It was simply a case of a speedy scrupulous scrub on the stool, quick plunge into the hot spring waters then good to go.
A coffee from the ubiquitous vending machine before jumping into the white lace antimacassar-adorned taxi for the drive to the Hakone Open Air Museum - an eclectic collection of massive sculptures and art work, including over 20 Henri Moore pieces, set on seven hectares of undulating mountain side.
While open air bathing is available almost everywhere in Hakone weirdly at the Museum I could bathe my feet in a curved concrete trench, pebble lined bottom, bubbling with natural hot spring water. Sitting under an umbrella with my legs dangling in water bobbing with citrus fruit, was too bizarre for me. I left that to the tourists. I was here on my last day to admire the artwork, study the sculptures, then head to Narita for my flight home.
Carol Saffer is an award-winning freelance journalist who loves a deadline and harbours a life-long obsession to write for The Economist. She is a CDU Alumni.
