XO type of dream. One for the road

 

プリント4：沖縄 (Print 4: Okinawa)

It’s tempting to begin this tale with something like “as we rattled along in the bus,” but that would be a shameless lie. Our comfortable silver zeppelin-on-wheels hummed rhythmically with its air conditioners and even had onboard Wi-Fi — weak, yes, but respectable. Any “rattling” could only happen when our caring driver, with all the tenderness of a man transporting newborn kittens, rolled over a railroad crossing.

We reached the airport without a single adventure. The only hiccup: we almost got off in the center of Kobe, surrendering to the herd instinct, because literally the entire bus spilled out there. But the driver saved us from embarrassment. He sprinted toward us, blocked the exit, and announced we hadn’t reached the airport yet.
His eyes and Google Maps both clearly said: “Sit down, impatient gaijins, we’ve still got 25–30 minutes to go.”

While we sat in the airport, we witnessed a curious contrast among the passengers boarding our gate. Two flights were departing back-to-back from it: first to Tokyo, second to Okinawa. As the hall filled with people headed to the capital, everything around us gradually took on a black-and-white palette. Apparently, a solid battalion of salarymen had decided to hop a plane to get to work faster and continue their relentless sprint towards burnout in the name of the golden calf.

Once they all boarded — waddling off like extremely busy penguins with carry-ons — the hall began to fill with completely different humans: flip-flops, Hawaiian shirts with loud prints, neon shorts, tattoos of every imaginable shape and style, and a general aura of blissful relaxation. Even the most hardcore efficiency manager would have understood instantly: these people were going to relax, relax, and — at worst — relax.

From the very first steps inside the airport it became obvious: we were in the real tropics. The heat and humidity immediately evoked memories of Cuba, and I grew worried for my wife. Would she feel just as faint as she did on the Island of Freedom? But either Naha wasn’t quite as brutal, or Nastya had seriously leveled up her endurance. We were both sweating like crazy, but fainting definitely wasn’t on the menu — which was a relief.

The transport card we bought back in Tokyo — Suica — meant nothing here. So we bought its Okinawan counterpart, the Okica, and headed to the hotel on the local monorail, which basically served as Okinawa’s version of a subway.

The omnipresent heat drained our energy fast, and after checking into our room we only had enough strength left to crawl up to the top floor, where the hotel’s onsen was hiding. It probably didn’t have any special magical water. Most likely just regular water, heated up. But we weren’t in a position to complain. And that’s also where I ended up committing a rather brutal violation of local rules.

Completely steamed, relaxed, and already half-dressed to head back to the room, my wandering eyes landed on a sign with the onsen rules. Out of sheer boredom I skimmed through it. At the last line, I stopped — and something suspiciously like “oh dear!” escaped my mouth involuntarily. A highly understandable pictogram informed the reader that guests with tattoos were not welcome. To avoid misunderstandings, a line below the image declared in bold italic English: “NO TATTOOS!”
Casting furtive glances around me, I wrapped my robe tighter and snuck toward the exit. Thankfully, at that late hour there was no one around to catch and shame me.

The crime was committed on the top floor

One of the most common symbols you see all over Okinawa is a pair of lion-dragon statues. They’re called Shisa, and they always come in twos. One has its mouth closed, the other wide open. Their legend, by the way, is pretty entertaining.

A Chinese emissary once brought the king of Okinawa a necklace with a Shisa figurine. The king loved the gift so much he practically never took it off. As fate would have it, an especially ill-mannered sea dragon had developed a habit of visiting Naha — the Okinawan capital. Its behavior was atrocious: smashing buildings, eating residents, and scribbling offensive graffiti on seaside rocks.

The local spiritual leaders told the king there was a way to get rid of the scaly bastard. All he had to do was stand on the shore the next time the dragon appeared and show it the Shisa figurine. Apparently, this theatrical moment was supposed to permanently scare the monster off Okinawan shores.

I don’t know about you, but this plan seems slightly… unreliable. Looks more like a clumsy attempt at a coup d’état orchestrated by the clergy.

Be that as it may, the king turned out to be neither timid nor overly prone to introspection. As soon as the dragon resumed its criminal activities, the monarch did everything exactly as advised: he stood on the shore, dramatically tore the necklace off, and held up the figurine in his raised hand.

To the mutual shock of both the king and the dragon, an ear-splitting roar erupted from the sky. Immediately after, a gigantic burning boulder came crashing down and pinned the dragon’s tail to the ground. Pinned it so thoroughly, in fact, that the mythical reptile couldn’t budge it — and eventually died from frustration and a profound internalization of guilt.

Since then, Shisa figures have been everywhere. For locals, they’re something between a protective charm and a mascot. The most popular theory says that the left Shisa is the girl, always depicted with a closed mouth — not out of some archaic chauvinism, but because her crucial job is to keep luck, prosperity, and good fortune from escaping the place she guards.

The right Shisa, mouth open, is the boy. He’s busy too: yelling at evil spirits, telling them to stay far, far away from wherever he and his silent partner sit.

Speaking of curious gender observations — since our main Okinawa plan was swimming and sunbathing, one day we scouted out the local city beach. The sandy spit of land was impressively large, but swimming was allowed only in a designated fenced-off kiddie pool area under the watchful gaze of the lifeguards.

At first we were puzzled by this conservative approach to ocean access. But having already internalized much of the local worldview, we figured: “If the barriers are there — someone must need them.” And indeed — a gloriously illustrated sign nearby offered a very clear explanation for the restriction.

While Nastya was changing, I examined the slightly sun-bleached pictures, read the captions, and later entered the water feeling mildly anxious. The sign said:

“Dear ladies and gentlemen!
On our wonderful tropical islands, blessed by gentle seas and beloved by the caring sun, around 100 tourists die each year in excruciating agony.
These poor lost souls ignored the information on the very sign you are reading now — and paid the price.
Since our local coast guard has far more important things to do than fish your convulsing bodies out of the water, the administration kindly asks that you do not swim outside the designated areas.
To all who heed our warnings — maximum respect, a warm hug, and one (1) kiss.
And to thrill-seeking daredevils living life on the edge — please review the impressive list of sea creatures below, any meeting with whom will, in all likelihood, be your last.”

What followed looked like an illustration plate from a poison-training manual. There was the Portuguese man-o’-war — an encounter with its tentacles is something you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Next to it glared the stonefish, also known as the warty grim reaper of the shallows. Apparently, as compensation for its unattractive appearance and unfortunate name, nature had gifted it a dorsal fin packed with such a murderous cocktail of neurotoxins that, once inside a human body, they trigger unbearable pain, paralysis, and tissue necrosis at the entry site.

And if fate really hates you and the venomous spine pierces a major blood vessel — without extremely specialized medical help (and sometimes even with it) — within a couple of hours you’ll be personally explaining to Saint Peter why exactly you hold a grudge against tropical fish.

Whatcha you looking at, punk?

As if that duo weren’t enough, the next images featured an assortment of water snakes and cone snails. The recommended response to their bites was to mutter a short farewell prayer and attempt to crawl ashore — so the rescuers wouldn’t have to swim out to fetch your corpse. Sure, there was always a chance the creature would only nip the very tip of a finger or toe — rescuers would then load you into a helicopter and rush you to a hospital. There, a team of professionals would wrestle with the Grim Reaper for your doomed soul — and eventually win. After which you’d begin a long rehabilitation and have a wild story to tell at family gatherings.

Compared to all that horror, stepping on a sea urchin — which merely stabs you in the foot and leaves a spine as a souvenir — felt like a trivial inconvenience.

Strangely enough, our swim went smoothly. And although we did witness some curious incidents, they were entirely anthropogenic. As Nastya and I dried off after yet another dip, we observed the beachgoers. The majority were Japanese, with a sprinkle of one American family and a few robust Spanish (or possibly Mexican) ladies who could probably drown out a departing airplane with their laughter. And that’s not an exaggeration — the Naha city beach sits right next to the airport. Every five minutes, if not more often, you can admire the colorful bellies of both ascending Boeings and light aircraft.

But back to the people. My wife and I couldn’t help but marvel at how fundamentally similar humans are, no matter where in the world they live. Children everywhere shriek with joy while swimming and fling handfuls of water at each other. Girls from Iceland to Indonesia always enter the water with regal composure and shush their hyperactive boyfriends, who prefer to charge into the sea like a mischievous pink Godzilla.

But the girls may not realize this is entirely intentional: the guys need to pretend to be harmless seaweed as fast as possible, so that once the girl they like is in the water, they can dart toward her like a swift megalodon and try to nibble her on the butt. Or, at the very least, invite her on a date. My classmate used the exact same strategy during our trip to the Lipetsk beach.

Another signature symbol of Okinawa is, oddly enough, the sweet potato. The purple variety arrived here in the early 17th century from Chile and Peru. Ever since, the locals have been cultivating it with admirable dedication and — let’s be honest — stuffing it into absolutely every dish imaginable. On the main pedestrian street, Nastya and I even stumbled across a couple of shops selling nothing but treats made from this unusually purple potato.

But Okinawa is not powered by sweet potato alone, as the saying goes.
The backstreets of Naha gifted me a flashback so powerful it hurled me nearly 20 years into the past. Here’s what happened: when I visited the U.S. back in 2008, I developed a fondness for a peculiar soda called root beer. For the uninitiated, its flavor can best be described as “an arthouse blend of cola and Tiger Balm.” As you might guess, not everyone is eager to drink such a thing. But I absolutely adored it — even though it’s not exactly easy to find.

Now imagine my skeptical astonishment when, in some random Japanese alley, I spotted a vending machine with a small bottle of enticing brown liquid shimmering invitingly behind the glass — with that very name printed on it. Naturally, I had no choice but to investigate. And — miracle of miracles! — after the first greedy gulps, the aggressive carbonation hit my nose, and my taste buds were assaulted by a whirlwind of spicy-sweet madness. It was the very same root beer I’d first tried in the States. I think I even teared up a bit and asked my wife to immortalize this incredible moment, to which Nastya agreed with a knowing smile.

Bottoms up!

The next day, through sheer dumb luck, we ended up on the neighboring island of Tokashiki. Normally, ferry tickets to the islands are snatched up within minutes. Smart tourists and locals plan their trip a week in advance — better yet, two — and then camp in front of the booking site waiting for ticket sales to open.

We, however, strolled in completely clueless, on the very day of departure, going:
“Ooh, hello kind sir at the ticket counter, do you maybe have a couple of tickets to the islands?”
Lady Luck herself must have been stunned speechless by our naivety and lack of preparation. And yet — tickets appeared! Someone had canceled their reservation at the last moment. And not just any tickets — the premium ones. The ferry was a high-speed one, promising to zip us to the island in a ridiculous 40 minutes. We reached the pier early in the morning, with our return scheduled only at 17:00. That meant we had the entire day to indulge in pure bliss and repeatedly wonder how nature even managed to create something so beautiful.

Tokashiki couldn’t boast any sophisticated infrastructure. Instead, it offered the ideal bare minimum — beyond which you honestly don’t need anything at all: shuttle vans to the most picturesque beaches, sunbeds with umbrellas, snorkeling gear, and a couple of modest snack bars stocked with an unlimited supply of ice-cold beer. I don’t know about others, but in my value system, this is luxury at its finest.

On the local beaches, I finally understood why swimmers sometimes need special shoes.
The sand here was absolutely delightful — with one prickly exception: it was generously sprinkled with coral fragments, all of them eagerly waiting for a chance to stab you in the foot, gently nudging you toward exploring ancient Eastern practices like standing on nails. But once you crossed that short, unfriendly stretch and reached the water, you immediately realized — it was worth it. The glasslike clarity and intoxicating azure made you forget everything else and luxuriate in the warm sea with all your heart.

The underwater world added its own magic. Beneath the surface sprawled a sizeable coral reef, buzzing with marine life. Most were fish in the most extravagant shades, but at one point a wave of excited shouting swept through the swimmers and snorkelers. After a moment of confusion, the reason became clear — a large sea turtle had glided up to the reef and was industriously picking something out from the coral thickets.

Nastya was torn between wanting to take photos, explore the beach, watch the fish, or — better yet — film the fish using the newly-purchased waterproof iPhone case. Naturally, with so many impressions bombarding us, we were destined to get sunburned. I sensed trouble the moment I stepped out from under the umbrella and my shoulders and back began to ache. Knowing my body well, I immediately understood that SPF — despite our careful application — had surrendered in the face of Okinawa’s concentrated vitamin D. My wife tried to keep her spirits high, insisting she’d go swim “one more time” and look at more fishy fish, but the increasingly intense shade of her shoulders, back, and… ahem… Southern Hemisphere clearly indicated that it was time to seek denser shade.

As we waited for the shuttle back to the ferry, the two of us — cooked as thoroughly as boiled lobsters — chatted about how we would absolutely come back here again tomorrow.
Ah… naïve fools.

The next morning, we realized the full depth of our delusions and overly ambitious plans.
Every inch of skin that hadn’t been covered by clothing the day before was blazing. Sitting hurt, lying down was impossible, and living — frankly — felt offensive. In desperation, we stormed into the nearest pharmacy with a pre-prepared Japanese phrase:

「ひどい日焼けをしてしまった。助けて！」
Which roughly translates to: “We got horrifically sunburned yesterday! Please help us!”

The elderly pharmacist immediately understood the situation, nodded sympathetically, and led us to the shelf containing remedies for hapless fools like us. In the end, we grabbed two tubes: one turned out to be a thick medicinal ointment, and the other — something aloe-based to soothe and feed the tortured skin.

Naturally, there was no talk of island trips that day. We twitched at the slightest touch of direct sunlight and, for the next 24 hours, transformed into exclusive nocturnal creatures. We stayed in the hotel room until the merciful dusk — Okinawa grows dark quite early — then set out on a walk, wincing whenever clothing brushed our injured areas and radiating around us a lethal pharmacological aroma.

During our wanderings, we somehow ended up once again at the ferry ticket booth. Only now did the full scale of yesterday’s luck truly reveal itself: the high-speed ferry was sold out for an entire week in advance! Every time slot, in every possible combination, was plastered with a blood-red SOLD OUT sticker.

We feverishly started searching for alternatives. Turned out, only one option remained: another island, a slow ferry, and a tiny there-and-back time window. We’d have only a couple of hours to explore the beach and its underwater world. Reasoning that any amount of time on Zamami (our new island of choice) was infinitely better than none, we quickly booked two seats for the next day.

Sure, the plan was ambitious given how thoroughly roasted we both were. But we were categorically unwilling to settle for just one island visit in Okinawa. We figured that if we covered the damaged skin as much as humanly possible and slathered ourselves in SPF thick enough to withstand nuclear fallout, we could easily survive a couple of hours in the sun. Worst-case scenario — we’d die tan on our homeland.

After settling our plans, all that remained was to wander leisurely through the night streets of Naha, absorbing the relaxed, unhurried local rhythm of life. Honestly, arranging Japan in exactly this order turned out to be a stroke of genius: first the maximal chaos, shopping, and sightseeing — then the gradual slowdown and blissful unwind. Souvenirs for family and friends were already purchased and packed. Everything worth seeing had been seen. The great and terrible FOMO — that plague of modern tourists — had absolutely no power over us.

We drifted through the atmospheric streets with no clear destination, except for occasionally dropping into a pharmacy to replenish our aloe supplies. Somehow, our chaotic walking route kept leading us back to the same pharmacy. The same elderly pharmacist, upon seeing us appear in the doorway yet again, simply nodded sympathetically and wordlessly handed us another tube.

The next morning, as we boarded the ferry, the difference between this vessel and the one we took to Tokashiki was impossible to miss. Our first boat had been like an oversized catamaran — hopping joyfully over the waves like a happy dolphin. This one, however, was a stately whale, slicing slowly through the sea’s glassy surface. It held far more passengers, and its lower deck was essentially a mini-parking lot for those wanting to explore the islands in their own cars or on motorbikes.

As we rocked gently on the waves, faces turned toward the salty spray and briny wind, one burning question remained: which beach should we go to?
One was called “Turtle Beach,” which — unsurprisingly — meant you could watch turtles in their natural habitat.
The other proudly claimed to have two Michelin stars, and — as it modestly noted — was the only beach in all of Japan with such a distinction. Yes, apparently beaches can get Michelin stars too. Who knew?

The choice was tough, but we decided — with heavy hearts — to go for the second one. After all, we had already seen a turtle, but never a beach boasting a culinary-level award.

The beach itself didn’t spark any particularly special emotions. Just your typical paradise on Earth.
Turns out, Michelin stars for beaches have nothing to do with unreal cuisine in the vicinity, but everything to do with water clarity, marine biodiversity, and the quality of local amenities.

Being seasoned veterans by then, we immediately rented sunbeds, an umbrella, snorkeling gear, and life vests, then settled on the shore with a sigh of pure bliss. Even though our stay was short, euthymia embraced us warmly. Even while chasing after brightly colored, overly curious fish, the sense of peace and zen never left us.

By the way, credit where credit is due: the local snorkeling equipment rental offered prescription diving masks — something I had never seen before. Thanks to Japanese foresight, I was able to admire the neon-colored fish and a fast, socially-awkward octopus who darted between corals like a shy brown glove.

I probably don’t even need to say it, but the time allotted to us evaporated in seconds. The shuttle was already honking, gathering passengers. A quick raid on the souvenir shop, and beneath the thunderous blasts of the ferry horn, we were heading back to Naha’s port.

Standing on the bow of our Flying Dutchman of Japan, each lost in our thoughts, Nastya and I listened to the gentle rustle of waves and pondered how to spend our final evening — both in Okinawa and in Japan overall. We had long since agreed that the emotions and impressions we had collected were far beyond the limit. We had no strength left to marvel or be amazed. We simply wanted to sit somewhere quiet and let our poor brains process and digest the enormous volume of data that had been force-fed into them over the past two weeks.

This simple intention of “just sitting somewhere quietly” morphed into an evening at a local izakaya called Umi no Chimbora, which Nastya discovered literally a couple of steps from our hotel. It boasted a 4.2 rating — which, by Japanese standards (legendarily stingy with praise), was nothing short of extraordinary. Although, it’s entirely possible that overly enthusiastic foreign tourists were the ones handing out all those “fives.”

No sooner had we stepped inside than we were intercepted by an enterprising host. He immediately asked whether we had a reservation. When it turned out we didn’t, he bowed apologetically and told us we’d have to wait about twenty minutes. We were in no rush, and to be honest, we had no energy left to go searching for alternatives. So we settled onto a special bench for those unwilling to wait outdoors and amused ourselves by watching the local crowd — which, as far as we could tell, consisted entirely of Japanese patrons.

The wait flew by surprisingly quickly, and soon enough we were seated, pondering what to order. In the end, we each went for a set of ten sushi. Nastya wanted to try the local cocktails, while I remained loyal to sake. And, by the way, raw squid turned out to be exactly as disgusting the second time as it had been during our first encounter back in Kinosaki. Everything else, though, the izakaya served with a lively and welcoming atmosphere.

The chefs kept shouting things now and then, to the delight of the customers. An elderly chef, whose workstation was closest to the guests, rolled an endless stream of sushi and maki with samurai precision and dedication. And the same host who greeted us was darting around the place with enviable energy — delivering orders, greeting newcomers, never quiet for even a second, adding an extra dose of cheerful chaos to the room.

All in all, as is proper for any self-respecting izakaya, the place was loud, crowded, and cozy. Nastya and I were laughing in a pleasantly tipsy haze, and neither of us felt like leaving. But to avoid sleeping through our early-morning flight — and the even earlier taxi — we had to muster what little willpower we had left, pay the bill, and wobble our way back to the hotel. Thankfully, it was just around the corner.

At the airport it became clear that Okinawa wasn’t planning to let us go that easily.
Here’s the deal: back in Tokyo, I’d bought myself a Warhammer 40K–themed bottle opener shaped like a pistol. And, as a gift for someone else, another opener shaped like a knife.
You feel the tension building, don’t you?

The entire trip to Naha, these souvenirs traveled peacefully in our checked luggage. But now — by pure autopilot — we’d tossed them into the backpack, meaning they ended up in our carry-on.

The vigilant customs officer wasn’t the least bit interested in our power banks (which, theoretically, could spontaneously combust). No, what grabbed her attention were these decorative souvenirs. They carefully pulled them out of the backpack and began inspecting them.

Listen, I myself appreciate clear, sensible rules. I fully agree that safety protocols must be followed strictly. But come on — these poor openers were still in their factory packaging. They had price tags. And the little printed card literally said in English: “BOTTLE OPENER.”

Hands up, mate!

None of this impressed the vigilant guardian of the border. After a lightning consultation with her colleague, she told us via translator that this opener was a gun (it was just a chunk of metal shaped like one), and this opener was a knife (another chunk of metal without a single sharp edge). Therefore, she could not allow this “arsenal” on board. They had to be confiscated.

Apparently, in her fevered imagination, Nastya and I were a deeply undercover terrorist cell planning to hijack an aircraft using charisma and two bottle openers.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that less than an hour remained before departure — we hadn’t planned for surreal arguments at airport security. As we argued with the officer, reinforcements arrived and watched with interest.
Judging by their looks, they must have decided I was some kind of lunatic unnaturally attached to these specific bottle openers, and so they offered a compromise: one of the staff members (again via translator) said she could place these cursed metal trinkets into the checked luggage we had already handed over.

I happily agreed. Prematurely, as it turned out.

We returned to the check-in area. Our escort led us to the end of a gigantic queue and, again via electronic translator, explained that we had to stand through the entire line, reach the counter, they would locate our luggage, add the damned openers, and then — and only then — could we go through security all over again.

Adding spice to the situation was the fact that from Naha we were flying to Osaka, and from there, a couple of hours later, onward to Guangzhou, and from there — finally — to Moscow. Any significant delay in this chain promised enormous moral and financial losses.

This was the moment I’ll admit I briefly fell out of love with Japan.

Swelling with indignation like a South African rain frog, I began passionately explaining that we would absolutely miss our flight if things went this way. Nastya, who roughly grasped what we were being subjected to even without translation, joined in — “expressing grave concern,” as modern diplomatic language would put it.

At one point, a treacherous thought crossed my mind: maybe I should just give up these blasted openers. But the adrenaline fog had fully clouded my judgment, and I wasn’t ready to confess such cowardice — at least not for another five minutes.

At that moment, the airport staff member apparently realized that these two weren’t just “slightly touched by frost,” but fully “frozen through,” if they were seriously considering not flying without their precious openers. She led us into some kind of super-mega-VIP zone and quickly briefed a colleague on the synopsis of our farce. The colleague gave a regal nod and held out her hand — where the Tokyo metal relics, clearly not expecting such an adventure, were promptly placed.

We received another baggage claim tag and were sent sprinting back to security.

In the end, we happily reunited with the openers in Osaka and immediately buried them deep at the bottom of the suitcase. I loved Japan with all my heart again — but I definitely couldn’t survive another episode like this.

The rest of the journey went smoothly — unless you count the part where, instead of flying from Guangzhou to Moscow, we were sent to Wuhan, the homeland of the coronavirus. There we changed planes and did eventually fly to Moscow, but watching the panic among the Russian-speaking passengers — who had either not listened to or not understood the staff at check-in — was honestly quite entertaining.

But no matter how long and eventful this trip was, it, too, came to an end. It felt a little strange to see all the signs and labels around us in Russian again.

I have no idea how to end a story of this scale and personal weight.
Did I fulfill my dream? Yes.
Was it worth it? Another yes.
Would I go to this incredible country another twenty times? A thousand times yes.

Of course, it’s tempting to lament all the years I delayed this long-awaited journey. I could have gone earlier. I could have picked another route. I could have visited more places. But, as my school history teacher loved to say:

“History does not deal in subjunctive mood.”

And so it turns out that the journey of my dreams happened exactly as it did:
with my beloved wife, Tokyo views, Kamakura waves, Kyoto sweets, Nara bites, Kinosaki hot springs, Okinawa ferries—

And it was perfect.

おわり

The end