Reflections on Life in Japan
by Pauline Hager
(Excerpted, edited, and adapted from “Memoirs of an American Housewife in Japan”)
HOTEL SANGETSU
Hotel Sangetsu is a real, honest-to-goodness Japanese Inn, commonly
referred to in Japan as a ryokan. I remember the name because I still
have the small matchbox with its name embedded on top. I will never
forget this particular ryokan. As soon as my husband Randy and I walked
into the lobby, the first order of business was to remove our shoes
and slip into slippers provided by the inn. This occurs before we even
walk over to the reception desk. A woman, who looked to be in her early
fifties, greeted us with a sweet smile. She spoke very little English.
Our Japanese interpreter Yuiko from JAERI made the reservations. The
receptionist was expecting us, and after we signed in, she summoned
a bellhop to take us upstairs to our room. A young woman of about twenty-five
years of age was waiting for us. For such a young person, she was very
stern looking. No smile on her face. There was the usual genkan to
store our lobby slippers before entering the room, a private bathroom,
and the bedroom. Tatami mats covered the wooden floor. I made the mistake
of stepping up into the bedroom with my lobby slippers still on. The
woman immediately motioned me back to the genkan and pointed to my
slippers. I had to remove them and put on a pair of tabis, white open-toed
socks. Since we wore these slippers in the lobby, we were not allowed
to wear them in the room and soil the mats. The room was empty of furniture,
except for a low table in the middle of the floor and two zabutons
with stiff backs. A white, electric lantern hung from the middle of
the ceiling. Shoji screens covered the window. On one side of the wall
was a long closet door. Inside the closet were bed clothing and several
kimonos. I wondered why so many kimonos. In front of the closet was
a pay television set. We did not bother to turn it on. The woman motioned
to us to sit down on the cushions around the highly polished wooden
table. She served us tea and Japanese sweets made of bean paste, and
then left the room.
Since it was too early
for dinner, we decided to use the onsen. We had never been in one before and
thought it was time we did. We took our showers and went downstairs to the onsen.
Randy disappeared into the room for men and I stepped into the women’s
washroom. An older woman with a disapproving look on her face followed me inside
and instructed me on how to take a shower. It’s simple. You lather your
body with soap, take a bucket from a large sink with running water, and pour
the water over your body. I tried to explain to her that I had already taken
a shower, but she was unmoved. I had to take off my clothes and wash myself again.
This seemed to satisfy her. She gave me a towel the size of a hand towel and
left the room. I opened the door to the spa and peeked in. A woman with her young
daughter was sitting in the steaming hot water. The room was not very big. Somehow,
I could not make myself go inside the room. I hesitated and then decided that
I did not need this, and left. I got dressed and went back into the lobby to
wait for Randy. By this time, several people had arrived and were milling around
the lobby in their kimonos and slippers. Apparently, Randy enjoyed his bath.
There were two other men in the onsen, and they did not bother to acknowledge
him.
As we started toward the elevator, a young man
came over to us. In broken English, he told us that dinner is served at 6
o’clock. He attempted to tell us that our table was number seven, but
his English was so bad and he became so confused that we were not sure if
our table was number six and dinner was at seven, or vice versa. I told him
we did not know where the dining room was located. He informed us that someone
would knock on our door and escort us downstairs to the room. I reminded him
we were in room 2005. He gave me a long hard look, nodded his head, and said, “Yes,
yes, we all know.” When we returned to our room, the low table and
cushions were gone. We dressed for dinner. I put on my new skirt and a dressy
sweater. Randy wore a jacket and tie. At 6 o’clock sharp came a light
tap on the door. We knew what that meant. We opened the door and followed
the man to the dining room. We walked in and sensed that something was wrong.
By now, we were accustomed to having the Japanese looking at us, but this
look was different. It was not a curious look, but one of surprise. We surveyed
the room and knew immediately that we were not properly dressed for dinner.
Everyone had on a long kimono, except for us. We were dressed in street clothes.
They all starred at us and began snickering. I felt like a monkey in a cage.
I would have gladly jumped into a hole in the floor had there been one. We
were seated at table number seven, which was assigned to us for both dinner
and breakfast. We sat down on cushions on the floor around a low table. Dinner
was served.
(next column)
I don’t remember the exact menu that evening, but I would not
be too wrong if I said we had miso soup made from a bonito fish base
and fermented soy bean paste, a bowl of steamed, white sticky rice,
tempura, consisting of seafood such as shrimp or prawns, squid or sillago.
Vegetables consisted of eggplant, shiskito pepper (a long green pepper
similar to a chili pepper) and a green shiso leaf. I remember having
sashimi , raw fish nicely cut and dipped in wasabi, and thin slices
of ginger. I specifically remember having shabu shabu, a hot bubbling
stock in a deep round pot with a hot flame underneath, and a control
to regulate the heat. A proper Japanese meal is never complete without
its pickled vegetables, usually daikon, a Japanese cucumber, burdock
root, chrysanthemum leaves, mushrooms, seaweed, or other good stuff.
There is usually either grilled or steamed tofu, and of course, a hot
pot of tea. I recall the meal was delicious, but unfortunately, we
were uncomfortable. Often I would look up and catch someone staring
at us. They would turn their eyes away when I made eye contact with
them. We finally finished our meal and returned to our room. Two futons
were spread out on the floor with two pillows and a heavy quilt over
the futon. I had never slept on a futon before, but I must admit it
was cozy. Since I had no nightstand by my “bed,” I placed
my eyeglasses on the floor next to me. At about six in the morning,
I had to get up. It was still dark. As I stood up, I heard a crunching
sound. I pulled the cord on the lantern overhead and discovered I had
stepped on my glasses and squished the frame out of shape. Luckily,
the lenses were not broken. Since we were wide-awake, we decided to
stay up, take our showers, and get dressed. In order to display our
worldly knowledge of proper Japanese dress de jour, we put on our long
kimonos for breakfast. I announced defiantly to Randy, “We’ll
show them. We’re going to do it right this time.” Promptly
at seven-thirty, there was a light tap on the door. There was no one
there, but we knew our way. We were ready to face the world. With great
confidence, we walked into the dining room. Much to our chagrin, we
found a room full of the same people from the night before, only this
time they were all wearing their happis, a short, loose jacket with
wide sleeves, similar to a kimono. “Oh shit,” I muttered
to Randy. Naturally, they were staring at us with smug smiles on their
faces, covering their mouths and lowering their heads. It was even
more embarrassing than the nigh before. Needless to say, we felt very
foolish in our long kimonos. Thinking we could not win no matter what
we wore, we sat down, ignored everyone, and attempted to eat our breakfast.
Our breakfast was somewhat similar to what we had the previous night,
minus the meat and tempura. We had soup, white sticky rice, fried fish,
pickled vegetables, and a pot of hot tea, a standard Japanese breakfast.
Instead of shabu shabu cooking in the large pot from the night before,
there was plain water inside the pot. Two eggs were next to the pot,
one egg each. The waitress hastily came over to our table and turned
up the heat, waited for the water to boil and carefully spooned the
two eggs into the pot. She timed it for ten minutes. We wanted our
eggs soft boiled, so after about three minutes, I began to scoop them
out with a large spoon. Once again, the waitress came running over
to inform me the eggs were not ready. I told her, “I want my
egg soft boiled.” She would not hear of it. I acquiesced, not
wanting to create a scene. That would be considered impolite. Since
I can’t stomach cold pickled vegetables and fried fish in the
morning, I ate very little, mainly the soup and rice, my one hard-boiled
egg, and drank my tea. We quickly finished our breakfast and returned
to our room. The futons were gone. We packed our bags and went downstairs
to the front desk to check out. I could see our shoes were still in
the genkan, where we left them yesterday afternoon. The same woman
from yesterday was still there, and she flashed her famous smile at
us. It was the only friendly smile directed to us since we arrived.
I could see from the faces of all the others on the staff, who were
lined up, that they were relieved to see us leave. I later learned
that many ryokans in Japan do not allow Westerners in their establishments.
I can understand why.
Pauline Hager's web site can be found by going to:
http://www.thehagers.org
Thanks Pauline for the story... John Wolf
