Staying in a Traditional Ryokan Brings Quiet
There are no honking cars, rushing trains, or beeping garbage trucks. No drunken yelling at 2 AM; only the quiet air conditioning unit humming in the background. This is the first contrast I noticed coming from Midtown Manhattan to Mount View Hakone, a traditional onsen ryokan located in the hills of Hakone about two hours outside of Tokyo.
More than the physical quiet, though, is the peace. Everything here is done slowly and with deliberate care. Neither guest nor worker rushes anything. The woman who showed us to our room waited patiently and silently as the front desk checked us in. She then took care to introduce us to our room, showing us where to remove our shoes, what to wear to dinner, and how to use the electronics. The man coming to clean a room down the hall gracefully tiptoed his way into the bedroom in socks; no one wears shoes inside, so even the click-clack of heels has disappeared.
My cousin and I are on our first international trip together and will be spending the next week in Japan. Our destinations include Hakone, Tokyo, and Kyoto. We arrived yesterday afternoon, jetlagged and tired from a 10-hour flight from LA. (I had come from New York the day prior, so my body is currently rejecting three different time zones.) Once we landed in Haneda Airport, we zigzagged our way through various airport sales counters to pick up a subway card, wifi hotspot, and train ticket to Hakone. Rather than settling into Tokyo first, we decided to soak away our first day of mind-numbing exhaustion in an onsen. Now that we are clean, refreshed, and rested we can journey back to Tokyo for dinner.
There are multiple onsen options here at the ryokan. Last night we opted to pay extra for a private onsen, consisting of two of the deepest tubs I've ever seen. From under a thatched roof, we stared into the bamboo forest just beyond our hotel. There was a small rustling of shrubbery from the breeze and a few birds lazily chirping; other than that, it was quiet. My cousin and I were quiet, too.
Each portion of the meal sat in its own unique dish. A few fat slices of sashimi sat front and center and two distinct noodle dishes flanked the sides--one a plain noodle dish meant to be doused in broth, the other a simmering fish soup with clear glass noodles. Atop a long, thin tray sat several small ceramics containing tofu, custard, vegetables, and seafood. We sat peacefully in the quiet room, slowly nibbling on each offering. We filled our bellies and then shuffled back upstairs to sleep.
More than the physical quiet, though, is the peace. Everything here is done slowly and with deliberate care. Neither guest nor worker rushes anything. The woman who showed us to our room waited patiently and silently as the front desk checked us in. She then took care to introduce us to our room, showing us where to remove our shoes, what to wear to dinner, and how to use the electronics. The man coming to clean a room down the hall gracefully tiptoed his way into the bedroom in socks; no one wears shoes inside, so even the click-clack of heels has disappeared.
My cousin and I are on our first international trip together and will be spending the next week in Japan. Our destinations include Hakone, Tokyo, and Kyoto. We arrived yesterday afternoon, jetlagged and tired from a 10-hour flight from LA. (I had come from New York the day prior, so my body is currently rejecting three different time zones.) Once we landed in Haneda Airport, we zigzagged our way through various airport sales counters to pick up a subway card, wifi hotspot, and train ticket to Hakone. Rather than settling into Tokyo first, we decided to soak away our first day of mind-numbing exhaustion in an onsen. Now that we are clean, refreshed, and rested we can journey back to Tokyo for dinner.
There are multiple onsen options here at the ryokan. Last night we opted to pay extra for a private onsen, consisting of two of the deepest tubs I've ever seen. From under a thatched roof, we stared into the bamboo forest just beyond our hotel. There was a small rustling of shrubbery from the breeze and a few birds lazily chirping; other than that, it was quiet. My cousin and I were quiet, too.
After our allotted 45 minutes, we rinsed off and rested for 20 minutes, donned our yukata, and shuffled downstairs for dinner in our slippers. A large wooden door slid across to reveal a wide dining area with our table for two already set in the corner. I beamed, barely able to digest the shocks of color and intricacy from each of the finely crafted portions comprising the kaiseki meal.
Each portion of the meal sat in its own unique dish. A few fat slices of sashimi sat front and center and two distinct noodle dishes flanked the sides--one a plain noodle dish meant to be doused in broth, the other a simmering fish soup with clear glass noodles. Atop a long, thin tray sat several small ceramics containing tofu, custard, vegetables, and seafood. We sat peacefully in the quiet room, slowly nibbling on each offering. We filled our bellies and then shuffled back upstairs to sleep.
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