Day 7 Tuesday June 1

We were up at 6, just lying on our soft mats and listening to the bird song. We checked out at ten, discovering to our delight that the hotel would send our bags on ahead to the bus station. We were free to explore. We took the tiny, slow railcar up the mountain first, then hopped aboard the Ropeway, soaring over the treest toward Odikuwara in a gondola. Odi was just a pile of scree on the side of the volcano, where the earth was red and raw. The workers had built winding steps out of logs in the dirt. At every juncture a pipe jutted from the earth, issuing forth white steam. The smell was more powerful than in the onsen last night, and piles of powdery yellow sulphur lay here and there. The pipes, we learned, harnass the hot spring water and divert it to spas all over the region.


We climbed past lots of little shops and washed our hands at the shrine, now experts at this ritual of purification. The water pours from the mouth of a dragon or a crocodile or a lizard or a lion, and runs over the edge of a stone trough. You take the dipper in your right hand and wash your left, then use your left to wash the right. Women often take a little water in their mouths, then spit it out over the stones surrounding the fountain. Sometimes you pour some water from the dipper over a statue nearby, in this case, a seated stone Buddha.




Now we were on a windy mountain trail, the sulphur smell getting stronger. Rivulets of steaming water rushed by us on all sides. At the top a sign in English reminded us that we were now perched on a cone volcano. As we watched, a man wearing gloves and tall boots stepped into a pool of boiling water and drew out, one after the other, three big crates full of black eggs. By the side of the pool, a skinny cat sat meowing. People were lining up at the single wooden stand to buy 5 eggs for 500 yen, in a little brown paper packet. Boiled black in the waters of the mountain, each egg is supposed to add five years to your life. We cracked our eggs on the tables provided, beside dozens of other tourists doing the same thing, and ate. The peeled eggs had a slight yellowy tinge, but they tasted exactly like boiled eggs. We even had a little packet of salt. The ground and paths were all littered with eggshells, some black, others washed yellow by rain. I wondered if the cat survives on black eggs. It could be thousands of years old.



We headed back to the gondolas and continued on to Lake Ashto, arriving just in time to board the pirate ship, a colorful ferry made out to look like a square rigger. The lake was a lovely silver under the green trees, and dotted here and there by a bright red Torii gate. We disembarked at Hakone-machi and bought lunch from a vendor, a few sticks of chicken teriyaki for me and an entire squid on a stick for D.




We wandered to the north along the coast. Most of the signs were in Japanese, but we were pretty convinced we were going the right way once we entered a narrow gravel avenue lined with cedars. This lane was the original Hakone highway, dating back to 1618. Of the original cedar trees, 412 remained. The Shogun had built the highway as a military post in case his feudal lords rebelled.

The pirate ferry!



We walked around the lake as far as the Peace Torii, climbed about three hundred steps to the Shrine out of a sense of why-not, and finally returned to the bus stop.

The peace torii.



From here, it was a blurring series of bus, train, and then the 2 hour shinkansen express to Kyoto. I bought us each a soft cream on the platform, which turned out to be lucky, because our next quest for food would be a long one. We arrived in Kyoto in the dark, with a few drops of rain falling. We took the bus to our ryokan and approached the building with relief. It was only 7:30 and we were ready for a quick dinner followed by bed.

Alas, it was not to be. A map on the door of the ryokan informed us that this was just the sleeping building—to check in, we had to walk another 400 metres up the street to a different building, and we had to get there before 9, when concierge closed. D set off, leaving me with the bags. After a minute of standing there I noticed another sign, which directed us to call when we arrived in order to be let in. I picked up the telephone and called, and the man at concierge let me in. I left our bags in the lobby, shoved a copy of the map into my pocket and hurried up the street after D.

Luckily I found him about three blocks away—not three straight blocks, mind you, three windy turns away. Out little neighborhood was a maze of dark streets and D was just asking directions from a lady who was delighted to chat, but obviously had no idea where to go. I gave D the map and we continued up the street. Thankfully it was a warm night, but we were steaming with sweat and tension by the time, about forty minutes later, we found the second building back in a narrow alley near one of Kyoto’s thousands of temples. Our host was very nice, sitting us down and explaining the house rules. Then he informed us that the ryokan only accepted cash, so we handed over all of our money except for 700 Y—less than ten dollars.

We still needed dinner. All the banks, of course, closed at 9 and it was now after 8. For the next hour, we walked up and down the streets searching for an ATM that served international cards, hurrying from bank to convenience store to pachinko parlor, our cards rejected again and again. We gave up at last, knowing we had to save 440 Y for a bus to the train station in the morning, where we would certainly find an ATM. Then, we got lucky—the second restaurant we passed, Daichiri, which had a big picture of a chicken out front, accepted credit cards—with the added bonuses of an English menu and a charming waitress. We ate pork and chicken and relaxed with a beer for D and an apple cider vinegar for me. Finally, penniless and filthy, we stumbled back to our ryokan and bed.

Thank God for money and food!