XO type of dream. 3rd bottle

 

プリント3：城崎 (Print 3: Kinosaki)

Before I dive into the tale of our high-temperature adventures, I need to start from afar — and from a few different angles. You see, one of the cornerstones of my dream about Japan was staying in a ryokan, a traditional inn where you sleep on futons laid out directly on the tatami floor, stroll around in a light robe called a yukata, and soak to your heart’s content in the nearby hot springs — the onsen. I had mentioned this wish so many times while talking about my dream trip that it started to sound like a memorized mantra.

The second point touches upon, let’s say, my life choices — namely, tattoos. Japan’s relationship with tattoos these days is rather double-edged. On one hand, most Japanese people are perfectly calm about tattoos becoming a mainstream form of self-expression, rarely carrying any meaning beyond aesthetics. On the other hand, the shadow of the yakuza still lingers, and if someone decorates their body in a traditional Japanese style, the average local might — just a little — raise an eyebrow.

The connection between tattoos and onsen has its own special dynamic. Across Japan, the policy of any given hot spring usually falls into one of three categories:

1.     The strictest kind. No tattoos, under any circumstances. Even if it’s a tiny butterfly on your ankle or a microscopic infinity symbol on your wrist — no exceptions. Why such symbols could possibly offend anyone remains a mystery, but rules are rules. If you’ve got so much as a drop of ink, the staff will politely but firmly ask you to refrain from entering. If you’re lucky, the place might have private baths, and if you’re willing to splurge on one, you’re free to soak away — even if your entire back is covered with a fire-breathing demon.

2.     The moderately tolerant kind. These onsen allow people with small tattoos, as long as they can be covered with special skin-colored patches. Such patches are often sold right on site, and sometimes they’re even free. So, if your body carries a few “mistakes of youth,” you can discreetly cover them up and bathe with everyone else. Again, if the onsen offers private baths, you can forget the patches altogether.

3.     And lastly — my favorite kind. Here, nobody cares how covered in ink you are. The staff take a cosmopolitan view and only ask that you follow basic etiquette: no photos or videos, no splashing, no food or drinks, and no loud conversations. Even if you’re tattooed up to your nostrils — nobody gives a damn.

Despite the fact that Kinosaki was over three hours away by train, we chose it precisely because it belonged to that third category of tolerance. Nastya — who doesn’t have a single mark on her skin — could’ve felt perfectly at home in the onsen near Kyoto, but I had to play by stricter rules. Besides, Kinosaki is a true hot spring village. It offers the most authentic experience imaginable — both in terms of staying in a ryokan and enjoying the baths themselves.

As the train carried us onward, Nastya dozed off to the rhythm of the steady tu-dukh, tu-dukh, while I sat there grinning like an idiot, already savoring the fulfillment of yet another dream. At some point, my brain — already quite seasoned by exposure to Japanese text — noticed a curious banner hanging from the ceiling of our carriage. It showed crowds of cheerful people, flowers, and… manhole covers. Above them was a date, 9月10日, and the inscription 下水道の日.

Driven by pure linguistic curiosity, I tried to figure out what it meant. The thing about Japanese is that it has ideographic roots — it uses graphic symbols to represent words and ideas. Some have changed over time, but others still allow for a rough guess at their meaning.

So, here’s what we’ve got: 日 means “day.” The particle の indicates possession — “the day of something.” So, we’re talking about a kind of commemorative day. Interesting. Let’s go further. 下 means “below” or “under.” 水 means “water.” 道 usually stands for “road” or “path.” Combine all three and you get “the road for water below.” What could that possibly mean?

Then, with a sudden flash of realization, it hit me: “Wait… could it be sewage?” Knowing the Japanese love for the most peculiar of holidays, perhaps what we were looking at was — the Day of the Sewer System?

Apparently, my linguistic enlightenment woke Nastya. She opened her eyes, gave me a puzzled look, and asked why I was grinning like a madman. I briefly summarized my etymological detective work and asked her to confirm it with an online translator. Ta-da! Turns out I was right — it was indeed Sewerage Day. It was established way back in 1961, celebrated annually on September 10th, and intended to remind every Japanese citizen about the importance of their sewer systems: both in preventing floods during typhoons and in everyday life.

After Kamakura and Nara, my wife and I thought we had a pretty good sense of the Japanese countryside. Oh, how wrong we were. Kinosaki turned out to be the very embodiment of an anime-style rural town — so picturesque it was almost comical. A neat canal split the village in two, both sides easily walkable in 30–40 leisurely minutes. The streets were impossibly charming, the willows bowed their green heads so gracefully over the water that it took serious self-control not to stop every few meters for another photo. But we resisted — for now — and made our way straight to the ryokan.

When we finally reached our reserved Kinosaki Yamamotoya and stepped inside, we were greeted with polite bows from the staff and, after a quick check-in, escorted to our room. Inside — everything just as you’d expect in a traditional Japanese inn: the floor covered with tatami, sliding doors everywhere, and in the center of the room a low table surrounded by legless chairs. Sitting on them, you’re technically sitting on the floor. But also on a chair. But still on the floor.

We barely managed to sip our complimentary tea and nibble the cookie when there was a delicate knock at the door. A sweet-looking elderly lady entered, carrying the very same yukatas we were meant to wear for the full immersion experience. Without knowing a single word of English — let alone Russian — she gave us a wonderfully expressive pantomime demonstration of how to wrap the robe properly: right side first, then the left. The opposite order, she gestured sternly, is reserved only for the deceased!

Next came the obi belt. Without saying a word, our kind grandmotherly guide made it perfectly clear that men should tie theirs in a simple knot and wear it low on the hips, while women wear the belt around the waist, often tying a more elaborate bow and shifting the whole decorative construction to the side or even the back.

Properly dressed and thoroughly impressed, we took a few pictures in the room and decided that, since there was still some time left before the announced kaiseki dinner, we could take a short stroll around the neighborhood. At the exit, to crank up the authenticity even further, we swapped our travel shoes for traditional Japanese footwear. I went for geta — wooden sandals that look a bit like a tiny bench thanks to two crossbars underneath the sole.

Their special feature is that those bars can vary in height, raising the whole construction — and the wearer — accordingly. In rainy weather, they say, it’s the best choice. These geta originally came from China and were first worn mostly by monks and peasants. Later, the nobility decided that, actually, they were quite convenient too. I don’t know which social class my lacquered pair once belonged to, but mastering how to walk in them was a whole art form. Imagine wearing platform sandals with uneven soles that constantly try to tip you forward and drag you along for the ride. Nastya took one look at my unsteady gait and sensibly chose simpler wooden slippers. Less theatrical, perhaps, but much more stable.

Clacking cheerfully along the asphalt and cobblestones, we wandered through the streets to see what was around. At the reception, we’d been given small badges with QR codes and informed — with fatherly smiles — that since we were staying overnight at a ryokan, we had unlimited and free access to all seven public onsens in Kinosaki. Now that’s the kind of bonus I like.

We snapped a few photos against the backdrop of the local scenery, devoured a few snacks we’d bought at a nearby shop, and were about to head back when Nastya fell in love with one of the small bridges and decided we absolutely had to take a photo there. Next to the bridge stood a tiny souvenir shop, and at its entrance — a bored-looking shopkeeper.

Seeing our awkward attempts at balancing over the water, afraid to drop the phone, she smiled, came over, and offered to take the photo for us. Our good-hearted Japanese Samaritan approached the task with full dedication, confidently directing us on how to pose for the best possible shot. The solemnity of the moment was only slightly spoiled by Nastya’s phone — which, either offended that someone other than its owner was touching it or overwhelmed by all the beauty, began to heat up like a blast furnace. Between takes, the lady gasped and exclaimed, “Atsui! Atsui!” — “Hot!”

I, of course, chose to take it as a compliment to how hot our pictures were turning out.

Back at the ryokan, it was finally time for the kaiseki dinner. For those unfamiliar, kaiseki is a kind of multi-course meal once reserved for special occasions — a festive parade of dishes designed to impress both the stomach and the soul. Which is fairly ironic when you learn that the word itself literally means “a stone in the bosom” — a reference to the Buddhist monks’ habit of placing a heated stone against their stomachs to dull the pain of hunger.

Originally, the concept involved just three side dishes and a bowl of miso soup. But — much like with KitKat flavors — the Japanese spirit of innovation couldn’t stop there. These days, an average kaiseki dinner boasts around fourteen courses. Imagine this: first, you’re presented with a delicate appetizer or what they poetically call “the first dish.” Then come sushi or a seasonal side. After that — sashimi. Also seasonal, of course. Then a serving of vegetables paired with meat, fish, or tofu. Following closely is the so-called “lidded dish” — usually some kind of soup.

Just when you’ve recovered from that, in marches the grilled course, most often fish. Then a vinegar-based appetizer made of vegetables to reset your taste buds. If it’s summer, expect a detour into the realm of seafood delights, only to be followed by yet another palate cleanser — because why not?

And then comes the “strong dish” — the heavyweight of the whole show, the one meant to satisfy your appetite. It could be meat, poultry, or fish — the chef decides your fate. If you can still breathe after that, rice with seasonal toppings makes an appearance, served alongside pickled vegetables.

Should you still be conscious and capable of coherent thought, you must prepare yourself for the “stopping bowl.” This role almost always belongs to miso soup, often dressed up with various additions. And to wrap up this entire culinary marathon — mizumono, or “the dish of water”: seasonal fruit and ice cream, the final whisper of sweetness before you roll away in blissful defeat.

Our meal, however, was a modest nine-course affair — but don’t be fooled by the number. Since each portion was designed for a single bite, we managed to sample every dish without bursting. For courage, we each ordered a drink — a precaution in case something truly alien appeared on the table.

All in all, we made it through the feast quite successfully, though not without a few… discoveries. We learned, almost in perfect sync, that raw squid possesses an almost unbearable combination of flavor and texture. And abalone, despite its elegant pearly shell and the adorable nickname “sea ear,” turned out to be a tough, cynical chunk of protein with absolutely no taste to redeem it.

After a truly cyclopean feast, it was time to move on to the next item on our Kinosaki agenda — an activity widely known in certain circles as the “Onsen Rally.” The idea is simple: you hop from one hot spring to another, blissfully soaking yourself into oblivion at each stop. True onsen hardliners organize whole-day rallies across multiple prefectures. But for us humble beginners, the cluster around our ryokan was more than enough to dive in — figuratively speaking.

Dig a little deeper into the legends surrounding this steamy village, and you’ll find two main origin stories: one about a monk, and another about a stork. Take your pick — whichever fits your temperament better.

For those who side with the stork theory: locals noticed that sick or injured storks — who, by principle, never bothered with health insurance — would come to the marshes of Kinosaki and bathe in certain mud pools. Miraculously, they would recover and continue their feathery affairs. The first hot springs were allegedly built right where those miraculous baths once were.

As for the monk enthusiasts: legend has it that some 1,300 years ago, the Buddhist monk Dōchi Shōnin stared at the ground so intensely during meditation that the earth itself cracked open, and the very first hot spring burst forth. Supposedly, he practiced right where the modern-day Mandara Onsen stands.

Nastya and I never decided which theory we liked better, so we simply set out to visit as many hot springs as humanly possible. That night, we managed five. Each one had its own special charm — one featured a resonant stone cave, another had a view of a tiny man-made waterfall, and one didn’t even require stepping outdoors.

If you’ve never been to an onsen before, here are a few survival tips. The most fundamental — and the one that terrifies most first-timers — is that you go in completely naked. Yup, zero wardrobe. In some remote parts of Japan, mixed-gender baths still exist, but nowadays most are politely divided into “M” and “W.” Once you conquer your shyness, you store your clothes in a locker and enter the bathing area.

First comes the cleansing ritual. You sit on a tiny stool and wash yourself thoroughly, because entering a communal bath dirty is unthinkable. Even if it’s your fifth onsen of the evening, a symbolic rinse is mandatory — both for hygiene and for social signaling: “See, I know the drill.”

Once you’re squeaky clean, you can choose whichever pool calls to your soul — and drift between them at will. Just not literally jump, of course. This is Japan. Splashing your fellow bathers is as frowned upon as eating ramen with a fork. And believe me, the warning “Don’t jump into unfamiliar waters” has very real scientific support here: some springs are so scorching that one dip can send you into thermal shock.

This danger manifested itself most dramatically at Mandara Onsen — yes, the very one the monk allegedly “opened with his gaze.” Both of its pools were steaming so furiously that the air itself seemed to whisper the phrase “boiled eggs” in multiple metaphysical shades.

By that point, Nastya and I had already survived three springs, so driven by pure bravado, I decided to test myself. I eased into one pool, then the other, feeling my body rapidly approach kinship with boiled lobsters and freshly forged steel plates. Discretion triumphed over valor — I retreated under a cool shower, grateful to still have a pulse.

While I sat there rejoicing in my continued existence, three young Japanese guys entered. Judging by their behavior, two veterans had brought along a rookie for a baptism by fire — or rather, by boiling water. Already submerged to their chests, the experienced duo were clearly egging him on, using the universal language of peer pressure: “What, you scared?” “Come on, just do it already!”

The rookie finally gave in and stepped onto the first stair leading into the pool — the water there would reach just about his knees. Judging by the way his eyes immediately widened to anime proportions, the temperature was way beyond what he expected. A cry of pain and disbelief ricocheted off the stone walls as he stumbled, lost his footing, and — to the delighted howls of his friends — fell in up to his waist.

The instant his manhood vanished beneath the water, the poor soul hit a high, crystalline note that would’ve made opera singers rise in ovation. The solemnity of the moment was slightly undercut by his desperate stream of curses. My Japanese comprehension may still be shaky, but the emotional content was crystal clear — somewhere between “Holy mother of—!” and “Sweet merciful gods of boiling hell!”

The other hallmark of onsen bathing is the blissful relaxation that floods your body right after. It clings to you long after you leave the water. Wrapped in that post-soak serenity, we returned to our ryokan, dreaming only of stretching out on our neatly laid futons and sleeping until morning.

But life — as it often does — had one more mischievous twist in store for our evening.

It all began when Nastya decided to immortalize the local smart toilet on camera.
Now, don’t be too quick to judge — you haven’t met that toilet. The thing was so tenderly polite: it lifted the lid in your honor the moment you approached and kept the seat gently warmed — an act of devotion few living souls could resist.

However, the photoshoot ended before it even began. My peaceful post-dinner daze was shattered by a scream — a full-bodied shriek of disgusted horror:
“Oh, you %@#$&*!~!!!”

I arrived on the scene in seconds — and instantly regretted it. The reason for Nastya’s vocal solo was a local cockroach who, somehow, had infiltrated our pristine room. Statistically speaking, it was bound to happen — my dream country is home to fifty-nine species of cockroaches, and the vast majority of them thrive precisely in rural areas… like the one we were in.

Our particular guest had grown fat and proud on that fresh countryside air, roughly the size of your average gas lighter. And with his magnificent cavalry mustache, he looked twice as big.

While I was still drafting a strategic plan to minimize direct contact with the intruder, Nastya decided the matter required immediate, brute-force resolution. Like every happily married woman faced with a crisis, she declared, “You deal with it!”, shoved me into the antechamber, and gracefully slipped out, locking the door behind her.

It was clear there would be no avoiding battle.
I would’ve preferred something sturdy and substantial — a weapon capable of delivering instant justice. But my arsenal consisted of a single Japanese slipper: decent heel, yes, but narrow as hell.

To make matters worse, my opponent turned out to be unusually nimble — an Evgeni Plushenko of cockroaches. He twirled, dodged, and pirouetted with alarming grace, mock-laughing in my face. I wasn’t sure whether to kill him or start scoring his performance for technical difficulty and artistry.

Fueled by frustration and adrenaline, I began accompanying each strike with an assortment of colorful profanity and heartfelt wishes for my chitinous rival’s speedy demise. Nastya, safely behind the door and channeling her inner pacifist, urged me to keep my voice down and remember the sleeping neighbors. Easy to say when you’re not in mortal combat.

At some point, both of us — man and roach — seemed to run out of breath.
Then he changed tactics.
With a menacing click, the bastard unfolded his wings.

The drama level skyrocketed — this was Boss Fight, Phase Two.
You know the type: the enemy spits blood, shakes it off, draws a terrifying secret weapon, and the soundtrack shifts into overdrive.

Given my limited faith in the slipper’s anti-air capabilities, I had to end this quickly.
And fortune finally smiled upon me.

While the winged demon was revving up his engines, I struck — a lightning-fast heel slam!
Half-stunned, he tried to retreat, dragging himself sideways like a drunken samurai, but I pursued relentlessly, sensing victory. A few precision strikes later — punctuated by a few more explicit motivational phrases — the invader was reduced to a faintly twitching corpse.

I saluted my fallen foe with the battle-scarred slipper, wrapped the remains in a paper towel, and gave him a hero’s burial in the trash can.

A heavy silence hung over the battlefield. Then, curiosity won — Nastya cracked the door open to check whether she’d been widowed.
Seeing me alive, she beamed, and we rushed into each other’s arms like war survivors.

The triumph, however, was slightly tainted by the realization that we’d be spending the night on futons — practically on the floor.
And, hypothetically speaking, the vengeful kin of that fallen samurai could be lurking right there.

Promising my wife that the “in sickness and in health” clause of our vows also covered nocturnal insect warfare, we crawled under the cozy blankets — and, against all odds, drifted off to sleep.
Cockroach ambush or not.

By morning, it turned out that if the fallen insect warrior had any relatives, they were merciful ones. All our limbs were intact, and not a single new bite had appeared overnight.

Breakfast, while not quite as epic in scope as last night’s kaiseki odyssey, was still large enough to make us question the concept of “morning appetite.” Some dishes we bravely finished, others we merely sampled — and then decided to pay one last visit to another onsen before hitting the road: Kōno-yu.

According to legend, this was where a wounded stork once healed itself in Kinosaki’s sacred hot springs. I can’t vouch for the medicinal properties, but the view from the open-air bath was pure therapy in itself — a hillside thick with bamboo, a teasing fringe of cedar branches gracefully leaning overhead, as if urging you to slow down, breathe, and surrender to stillness.

And surrender I did — a little too much, apparently.
Somewhere between serenity and mild dehydration, I left my glasses in the shower section. When I returned, they had vanished without a trace.

Squinting like a half-blind detective, I combed through the entire bathing area, running my hands across every tiled ledge and shelf, just in case. The facts were undeniable: the glasses were gone. And, of course, I had no spare pair.

Under normal circumstances, this would have triggered a full-blown cortisol storm — panic, self-blame, and a few choice words in several languages. But then again, we were in Japan. The one country on Earth where a sense of safety and honesty accompanies you like a loyal guardian spirit — where people will help you even if they don’t share a single word of your language.

And sure enough, the sliding door suddenly opened, and in came a cheerful elderly man with the springy step of someone decades younger. Upon seeing a rather naked, squinting foreigner looking around with the expression of a confused mole, he immediately understood the situation. Through a wonderfully clear pantomime, he explained that he had already brought the glasses to the reception desk.

Then he apologized — profusely and repeatedly — for the “inconvenience,” bowed, and went to take his bath.

All I could do was retrieve my lost treasure from the front desk and wait for Nastya to finish soaking in the local healing waters. Afterwards, we made our way back to the ryokan to pack for our next destination.

When we finally stepped out of Kinosaki Yamamotoya, the entire staff lined up in front of the entrance and performed one of those deep, perfectly synchronized bows that still threw us into cultural shock every single time.

After what felt like an endless exchange of smiles and polite goodbyes, we finally crossed the threshold. And just as we were about to step onto the bridge, we turned around — only to see our hosts once again assembled in a neat line on the porch, bowing deeply, folded almost in half.

I’ll never get used to that.

On our way to the bus station, we stopped by a little local shop and became the proud owners of two utterly adorable Totoro chibis, each made out of an acorn.
Right next to every tiny figurine stood a miniature cup of coffee — so you understand, not buying them was simply not an option for me on any physical or moral level.

Even something as trivial as buying bus tickets didn’t go without its own twist. When we placed our order, the lady behind the counter didn’t rush to hand over the tickets. Instead, she bowed deeply and asked if we would be so kind as to fill out a short survey.

By this point, we were past the stage of being surprised by such things, so we nodded cheerfully. Along with the tickets, we received two neatly printed sheets — graciously in English. The survey revolved around Kinosaki and its surroundings, with questions like:
“How did you learn about Kinosaki?”
“Where did you come to Kinosaki from?”
“How much money did you joyfully spend in Kinosaki?”

We filled out every line with the enthusiasm of model citizens and handed the papers back. The woman’s face lit up with a radiant smile as she asked what kind of reward we’d prefer: a complimentary cup of coffee or a small gift set of three postcards.

I started translating the question for Nastya and — unwisely — began with the word “postcard.” The moment she heard it, she said a decisive “I want that one!” So we walked away richer by three authentic Japanese landscapes in the proud 105×148 mm format.

While we were admiring our new treasures, our bus pulled up. As it began to depart, the ticket clerk suddenly came out of the station building, waving at us with desperate enthusiasm and a bright, beaming smile.

As Nastya and I waved back, grinning ear to ear, a soft déjà vu washed over me — mixed with tenderness. Years ago, half a world away, I’d waved just like that to a bus full of Japanese tourists leaving Ryazan.

A sharp turn and a plunge into a tunnel snapped me out of my reverie. I returned to the present, crunching matcha-covered almonds with renewed vigor. Ahead of us lay the city of Kobe — or more precisely, its airport, from where we’d take off toward the final destination of our Japanese Odyssey: Okinawa.