By Jodi Becker

From the moment I arrive on the island of Miyajima, things go like clockwork. And with all the morning’s frustrations quickly fading away, I remind myself that today is another gift. After all, I am so lucky to have such a wonderful friend, one who delights in hosting a silly gal like me in this new and strangely fantastic land. Dustin has been nothing short of amazing and I want to express my immense gratitude by celebrating every moment here.

At the station, with a new silver-lined outlook, I ask an associate to call my ryokan for a pickup. It will be a few minutes, so I indulge my inner tourist in the meantime and sneak a few quick pictures. I can’t seem to line up a shot of me with the famous floating torii in the distance. That’s the one tiny inconvenience about traveling the world alone. You are either constantly asking strangers to take your picture or bound to look the fool in front of them as you photograph yourself. Thankfully, I’ve never had a problem with appearing foolish in public. A saving grace when gallivanting in another land, for sure. Teenagers are taunting a deer nearby. These ones are supposed to be wild and there are signs of warning everywhere indicating they may eat your baby. I resist the urge to giggle, but only barely.

The shuttle bus arrives before long and it is a delightful ride along the coastline to what will be my paradise island home, Miyajima Seaside Ryokan. I can tell immediately that this one has all the bells and whistles. Our driver welcomes us warmly in English. Another attendant then greets us with slippers and neatly tucks our shoes away in nearby cabinets. Our group then proceeds to the check-in desk, where the staff is very courteous and helpful. They strongly encourage the use of their public bath facilities. Much less shocked by the invitation now, I can’t help but grin. Dusty’s playful, yet constant urgings that Japan’s shared bathing customs are not to be missed are echoed loud and clear here. Ok! I get it! I’ll get naked, sheesh… just not right now.

I quiz the staff for a restaurant recommendation and –of course- they know just the place. In less time than it takes to fish out my phrasebook, they have already booked my reservation and shuttle. I ask for my room key (since it appears they have taken care of everything else) and am then directed to another attendant who has been waiting patiently to escort me to my room. It’s obvious I’m not accustomed to being pampered like this, and, once in the elevator, I struggle to remember whether or not I’m supposed to tip in hotels here. Alas, I was unable to decide in time, and opted to leave a gratuity neatly folded in paper at the end of my stay (as follow-up research had recommended).

In my room, I am overwhelmed by quiet. This is a place of tranquil stillness and I embrace it like one who has hungered for peace of mind for lifetimes. There is comfort in every cup of green tea and I gulp it down gratefully. From my window, overfull clouds spill down from dark gray skies, into the sea below. Like sitting fireside with a cup of cocoa in winter, it feels like home even worlds away.

My trusty travel clock and stomach soon agree that it’s nearing time for dinner. Downstairs, the lobby attendant seems to have memorized what shoes are mine and smiles in reply to my open surprise at his knowing. Tomorrow I promise to accept it all without question as part of the experience.

The door-to-door service is a blessing in this weather and my driver is kind enough to enter the restaurant ahead of me to assure I’m seated promptly. Another gracious welcome, though I feel the tiniest pinch of disappointment at being led to a table that permits me to keep my shoes on. The server and I get along famously. He speaks to me in his best English. I respond in as much Japanese as I can muster, requesting both a cocktail and his recommendation. “Chu-hai o kudasai. Ichiban skii desu ka?” Ah, tempura! “Hai, Hai! Excellent! Kore wa o kudasai. Arigato gozaimasu.” The meal was totemo oyshi and I was sure to impart my highest compliments to the server despite getting a little tongue-tied. “Gochiso sama deshita!”

After dinner and wishing oyasuminasai to all, I skip outside to go exploring. My inner thrill-seeker having seized control, I slush my way through empty streets and puddled, gravel pathways. The rain comes down harder, but that only serves to quicken my step and heighten the mood. The tide has come in, as Dusty had said to look for. A thick mist has swept over the island and has given the giant torii an eerie glow, like something out of a Robert Jordan novel. I’m sure the camera’s flash has distorted the effect, but I capture the moment in memory as best I can.

More rain makes it difficult to get good pictures, so after a little more splashing around, I start to make my way back to the station for the shuttle. A drowned sidewalk winds me through dozens of quiet deer hidden in shadow and following my every step. Now with signs the island over cautioning to protect your babies and having seen a swarm of them stampede toward an elderly woman carrying groceries earlier today, I am a little curious to see how they’ll respond. Forcing a little courage and reminding the scaredy cat in me to breathe, I sneak past and continue on without incident.

Once out of harm’s way, my zany adventurer zeal swoops in for the save and decides that I desperately need to eat ice cream in the rain. More ridiculous self-photos and outright goofiness ensue. Twenty minutes pass and the shuttle is supposed to come every fifteen. Hmmm… Soaking wet, without so much as a newspaper to throw over my head, I wait. And start to wonder. Am I in the wrong spot? Ten more minutes tick by as I stand there dripping as if I had just jumped out of a pool. I am considering my options when an old Japanese man drives up, rolls down his window, and extends out of it a clear umbrella (a cheapie from any 100 yen shop, but I feel special because it’s the only kind you see on the streets here). That settles it! I’ll walk, and immediately begin trudging through the fog toward my ryokan.

Now the map shows this walk at about 40 minutes. Of course, it is only supposed to take 15 minutes to get everywhere else on the island, but as long as I’m back by 10 o’clock they won’t shut me out. It’s only 8:30pm, so I should be good. With big eyes and an odd grin, I spend much of the walk convincing myself that I am strolling in the dark woods of the “safest place in the world to travel”. Where deer eat babies. Doh!

A little way into my trek, a minivan stops in front of me and three children under the age of 10 hop out brandishing flashlights and wearing their eagerness like a favorite coat. I continue on my way, but we are scavengers on the same hunt for a time and I end up passing through their little group. “Konbanwa”. I greet them, smiling wide. The oldest – a boy –whispers his reply in wonder. “Konbanwa”. He doesn’t know this, but we four share a spirit in this moment and our faces are painted in identical expressions intent on adventure. We dance together where elation and curiosity spin with mischievousness and fear of the unknown in this midnight-on-Miyajima playground at 9 o’clock. I walk on, glowing. It’s that glow that guides me on through the dark night and lights the path back to my island home. The children are off exploring some distance away from me now. I catch glimpses of their flashlight beams criss-crossing in the evening mist and giggle at my own adventurer spirit cartwheeling within.

I probably would have hiked around the mountain with that giggle if not for the curfew. Soon, though, my destination comes into view, and three stunned members of the ryokan staff with it. Mouths gaping, they hustle me into the lobby, and I suspect they were only moments away from sending out a search party. A single set of slippers anticipate my drenched feet. I greet their astonishment and formality with whole-body laughter and am overjoyed when they join in. One finds his courage to ask “You walk?” “Yes,” I reply mid-laugh. “Shuttle pick-up?” I blurt out that I had waited and no one came. Maybe I was at the wrong stop. No worries though. I really enjoyed the walk. Arigato gozaimasu. Oyasuminasai.

I had laughed all the way to my room when it hit me that I must now plunge from one crazy adventure immediately into the next. Chilled to the bone, there is nothing I need more than a hot bath. And there will never be a more perfect night to take one in public! I am in my yukata and slippers, ready to head down, when Dusty calls demanding to know if I’ve gotten naked yet. I tell him to call back in an hour.
Anxious, giddy, and likely blushing from head to foot, I creep down the halls following all the “public bath” signs. The red curtain signals the first obstacle. I have no idea where the nakedness begins, so I take a deep breath and forge ahead. Rounding the corner, I see a tall, multi-colored, stained-glass screen. On the floor beneath the glass, I observe slippers. One pair. A million different thought bubbles race to develop, but most important is that there is one naked person, not 20 or 30, on the other side of the screen. I pump myself up. Deep breath. Head up. Shoulders back.

Something like a high school locker room occupies the space on the other side of the screen with several large, mirrored vanities in the corner. An older woman is sitting at one of them drying her hair. She’s wearing a bra. So, this will not be the night that I get naked in public; however, I’ve had a long day and have come too far to turn back now. Finding a basket on the wall, I deposit my room key and yukata. Towel draped over my shoulders and head high, I walk confidently past the woman drying her hair despite her giving me a notable once-over.

In the next room, two dozen small shower set-ups with stools line the right wall. Custom insists on washing yourself at the shower before entering the bath and I certainly don’t want to break with tradition. It is definitely weird showering in such a big room by yourself, but I’m grateful for my warm-up to the shared bathing experience. Instantly upon easing into the pool-sized hot tub, my anxieties begin to melt away like ice over flames.

It isn’t until my fingers and toes begin to prune that I reluctantly pull my newly-zenned self from the bath and back to my room. And because I have a personal obligation to document the evening’s bravery, I reach for the camera. A final photo shoot as I collapse into bed. Towel turban and all. It is midnight on the island of Miyajima and Dusty was right about more than the bath. You won’t want to miss this.