5-Star 500-year-old Onsen

Last weekend was Julie's 23rd birthday, and so a few of us embarked on a celebratory trip to Shikoku, the smaller island south of Honshu. Matsuyama is a rather famous city in Shikoku, partly because it holds the oldest onsen in Japan, and also because it's a college town, thus full of the young people who are surprisingly hard to find in places like Kure. So off we sailed, the wind in our hair atop the deck of the ferry.

Actually, Tomo and I went later than the rest of the group. I spent that morning with some of the families from his company, sort-of fishing in the most disgusting sea I have ever seen (seriously, trash washing up all over the shore), and thank goodness we didn't catch a thing. Then we went to one of the employees houses and grilled meat all afternoon. I was persuaded to try "white meat," which turned out to be intestines, a favorite of Japanese men when they drink beer and BBQ. It was actually incapable of being chewed through, so I threw up in my mouth a little as I gummed it around and around, then spit it back into my bowl when no one was looking. The whole event was rather awkward, regardless of the white meat. It was the first time I've been in a group of Japanese people who haven't harassed me with questions about my life, prying me open and forcing conversation, however strained. These people just kind of did their thing, not ignoring me, but certainly not badgering me for my life story, and so I ended up retreating into confused nervous observance, playing with the neurotic cocker spaniel and conversing only with a 7-year-old boy, Tetuski, who belonged to one of the company couples, about sports, animals, and cartoons. He was quite the conversationalist.

At long last, we escaped the smell of grilled beef and made it to the port. We got there 2 minutes before the ferry was scheduled to leave (once every hour and a half) and were told that Tomo couldn't park his car at the port, so we ended up just driving it onto the ferry. A few hours and a beautiful sunset later, we arrived and found the rest of the crew (Jules, Brian and Kaori) at a little restaurant with a door the size of a Japanese person pre-occupation enforced milk and meat consumption era. We ate avocado tenpura, brilliant, and a few other goodies before heading off in search of dancing and/or drama. Long story short, we never found the dancing nor the drama, but rather spent the evening wandering from spot to spot, eventually just three of us after Brian and Kaori slipped out, Julie asking random strangers where the hip places were, them responding with the same place we had just left or just confused looks and giggles, and Tomo occasionally laughing or leading her away from shady characters.


Sunday the group awoke to a free breakfast that promised freshly baked bread, but provided only toast from a bag and mayonnaise based salads. We headed off to the oldest onsen in Japan, sure to be rustic and full of stories from hundreds of years past. Dogo onsen is not just one onsen, however; it consists of maybe 10 or 15 scattered about the same area where natural waters flow from the ground. Dogo-kan had been specifically recommended to Julie by one of the teachers at her school, so we headed there. The entrance looked more like a 5-star hotel than a 500-year-old onsen, and I was immediately skeptical. Kaori, Jules, and I went one way, Tomo and Brian the other, our group the first people in after the opened the doors. The place was really nice, therefore fundamentally disappointing and decidedly not centuries old. There was virtually no air of old Japan, though they did supply some lovely orange shampoo and hair treatment. An hour later after some serious quality girl talk, the ladies and I were scorched red and ready to return to the world of the fully clothed. We found the boys in the lobby, took advantage of a few free massage chairs, then left.

(below: the free foot onsen outside the real onsen)

Brian and Kaori had to head back early so Kaori could catch the train to Kobe, but Tomo, Jules and I stayed a bit longer. Not much happened after that. There was Indian food accompanied by people watching from the second-story window of the restaurant, some shopping, and at last the ferry ride home eating the cookies I made for Julie's birthday because the food vendor had already closed. When we got back to Kure, we stopped for udon and sashimi at the local equivalent to Denny's, Sunday Sun, and Julie realized she'd left her cell phone on the boat. The weekend was complete.