Onsen

The snow fell heavily – big, powdery snowflakes that fluttered in the grey mist before melting on the freshly cleared road. Despite the near-blizzard conditions, the two-carriage Tadami line train pulled in on schedule, carving its way through the snow like a child pushing a spade in the sand. We climbed aboard and warmed ourselves on the heated seats. I gazed out of the window at fir boughs caked with two-inch snow like butter icing, and frozen orange persimmons left to hang on the trees.

We got off at the next stop and made ten-inch footprints in the unbroken snow on the platform. We walked through a road tunnel and then down a winding, icy track to the gunbarrel-grey river. I felt a ripple of excitement.

‘This is an adventure!’ I said.

Kim wrapped her mitted hands around my waist. ‘It’s good to see you smiling,’ she said.

Once inside the onsen, Kim and I sat at a chabudai and ate a breakfast of rice crackers, mandarins and green tea. Then we went to our separate bathing areas. Australian changing rooms make me feel very uncomfortable but there was something about the neatly folded clothes, the scrupulously clean floor and the meticulous pre-bathing ritual of wooden stool and bowl, shampoo and shower that put me at ease. Every man is equal at the onsen: stripped of our clothes and pretensions, we have only our bodies and our dignity. No one is comparing or competing. I slowly immersed, naked, in the silky, hot water – 41 degrees in the middle, 42 degrees where the hot spring fed into the bath. I leaned over the edge and tried to catch the snowflakes with my mouth to feel the cold feathery ice dissolve on my tongue. I felt blessed. I nearly hadn’t made it.

 *

I slept badly, thanks to the chugging snowploughs and plastic shovels scraping on the bitumen at four am. The half-litre of saké the night before hadn’t helped. When I opened my eyes, a wan light filtered through the shoji screens. I could see my breath. I pulled up the blankets to my chin and clutched a kairo sachet in my left hand, trying to squeeze out the last of its chemical heat. The trauma of Tokyo still swirled in my blood. We had come to the mountains hoping that a change of scenery would lift my mood. The city had been too crowded, too bright. Too capitalist. I turned onto my front and held the kairo to my chest like a teddy bear.

Max Richter’s Tartu Piano cut short a strange little dream in which I received lavish wedding presents from former friends. I snoozed the alarm and turned over. Kim’s big, brown eyes smiled back at me.

‘Ohayo gozaimasu Paul-san,’ she said. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Not great.’ I said. ‘Too noisy.’

‘Yeah.’ She paused. ‘Maybe wear your ear plugs tonight?’ She said it kindly, but it felt like an insult. I turned away and buried my head in the rice pillow. Kim gently placed her hand on my shoulder. I let it slide off. ‘We should go soon,’ she said.

I pulled on my thermals underneath the doona and crept out in my slippers to the toilet. The thermometer on the basin read six degrees inside, minus two out, and 80 per cent humidity. On my way back, I looked in on our 73-year-old obaa-chan and saw her curled up like a baby, next to the fire. I wondered if I could ever feel such contentment.

 *

Kim came out of the changing room and found me practicing Japanese phrases. The mountains were framed with blue sky and the river had turned a bottle-green.

‘You look so happy!’ Kim said. ‘Hurrah for onsens!’

I laughed. ‘Yes, the onsen was great.’ I told her about my experience in the changing room.

Kim smiled. ‘Welcome to Japan!’ she said. ‘It’s not all neon, money and plastic.’