Wow Place #348: Mount Fugen-dake, Japan

 

By and large, I’m a “moderate” guy.  Moderate height. Moderate weight. Some might say moderate looks and intelligence.  😊

 

I like moderate portions in my food.  The spice level of my curry? Moderate!

 

So when I found a hike in Unzen-Amakusa National Park described in the guidebook as “moderately challenging,” I figured this was the trail for me.  3.9 miles.  One hour out, one hour back. How hard could it be?

 

As it turns out, remarkably hard!

 

You have to understand, for all its subtle, gentile art forms – ikebana (flower arranging), origami (paper folding), chanoyu (tea ceremony) and the like – Japan is a rather hearty country.   Nine times out of ten, your train station won’t have an elevator or escalator.   You want to catch a train…climb three sets of stairs first.

 

Hiking trails in Japan are at another level completely.   Expect long, uphill trails and rocky flights of steep steps, often covered in slippery, green moss.

 

In a volcanic park like Unzen-Amakusa, the name of the game is lava rock.  Or in Fugen-dake’s case, huge, toe-catching, knee-scraping, ankle-busting boulders – straight up, for miles and miles.

 

Do not take the guide book at its word.  Especially in the late May heat and humidity, this is a brutally-challenging hike.  Nothing moderate about it.

 

And yet, I can’t deny that the trail is breathtakingly lovely.  Southern Kyushu boasts a host of scenery like this: tropical flora, dense green forests, and in the springtime, ever-present pink azaleas that are a feast for the eyes.  The gorgeous views along my hike almost take my mind off the exhausting, often-perilous climb up the mountain.  Almost.

 

On more than one occasion I think about giving up and turning back.  But how can I when, upon rounding a turn, I come upon a group of ten Japanese elementary school students on a class excursion with their teachers.  To be precise, this precocious group of agile ten-year-olds are scurrying up the mountain like the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys.   What a hearty country Japan is, sending school groups out on a killer hike like this as if it was an ordinary walk in the park!

 

I can’t give up now and let these kiddos beat me to the summit!

 

In the end, I make it up the mountain, hot and sweaty—and am rewarded with panoramic views of the coast and the active Heisei Shinzan volcano.  It’s a spectacular sight –well worth the effort.

 

The intrepid school kids arrive a few minutes later and quickly take a celebratory photo, followed by a lively picnic of artfully-packed school lunches.  Unlike me, clearly none of the students are thinking about the bone-crushing descent to follow.   It’s party time at the top of Fugen-dake.

 

After all, if you’re a Japanese, this is just a moderate hike on a moderate volcano.

 

Myself, I’ll be jumping into a moderately-hot bath that night for sure!

 

(The Buddhists frequently recommend taking the “middle path.”   Equanimity.  Mindfulness. Avoiding extremes.   It sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it? Not too high, not too low.  Moderate!   But can we achieve “great things” in our lives if we don’t occasionally go to an extreme?   Name any Olympic medalist you can think of and chances are that person was a bit obsessed with their exercise and training regime, at the expense of everything else. Same for great artists, great writers, great scientists.  Is “moderate” always the best way to go?   It’s a choice we all must make throughout out our lives.  Is this my season for doing great things?  Or my season of living a steady, balanced, domestic life?  It definitely merits a modest period of thought, wouldn’t you say?)

There’s a scene in the movie Kill Bill: Vol. 2, where the Bride (played by Uma Thurman) wakes up in a coffin, buried alive by her evil nemesis, Bill.  Luckily, she has trained for situations like this, able to break through wooden containers via the sharp, focused, rap of her knuckles.

 

I have no such ninja tricks up my sleeve as I find myself lying down in a shallow trough, an attendant shoveling hot sand onto my arms, legs, and torso – literally burying me alive.

 

Kill Bill: Vol. 3, you ask?

 

Nope. Just a typical visit to the Saraku Sand Bath Hall in Ibusuki, Japan.

 

Called “Sunamushi” in Japanese, sand baths have a long tradition in the country — and Saraku, on the far-southwest tip of Kyushu, is Japan’s most famous public “sand steam onsen.”  Visitors have been coming here fromas far back as the 16^th century, recognizing the unique healing and detoxification properties of the naturally warm coastal sand, made extra toasty by the local, geothermally-heated ground water.

 

Like everything in Japan, there’s a correct process for getting yourself buried alive.

 

Stowing my clothes in a locker, I grab a small hand towel, wrap it around my neck, and don a cotton yukata robe.  As I make my way out to the beach, an attendant hands me an umbrella because, on this rainy morning in May, I wouldn’t want to get my head and body wet before my hot sand burial.

 

At last I arrive at the “bathing” area, a series of clearly-delineated sand pits, numbered 1-10 and covered with a tarp.  There, an attendant in a light-blue jersey, a towel wrapped around his head, points to my trough.

 

“Lie down in #4!”

 

No problemo.

 

But that’s when things gets kind of weird.  It’s not the sensation of having warm sand piled on me –akin to being covered in weighted blankets – that’s upsetting.  It’s the sound!

 

You see, sound travels very efficiently in the medium of sand.  So not only do I hear my own bath attendant driving his shovel into the ground.  I hear ALL the shovels biting into the sand pit.  “Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk.”  It’s like taking part in a mass burial in a mass grave, accompanied by a shovel symphony.

 

Even stranger, everyone around me appears to be laughing and chatting, like this is the most normal thing in the world – being communally buried in a very HOT SAND PIT!

 

“Oh, the breakfast at our hotel was so delicious this morning, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was!”

“I’d love to have that miso soup again.”

 

And all the while, I’m getting hotter and hotter in my burial trough, sweating more and more profusely.

 

“Keep an eye on that clock and get out after ten minutes!” my attendant warns me.

 

“Or what?” I wonder.  Loss of consciousness?  Over-detoxification?  Brain hemorrhage?

 

After my ten minutes have elapsed, there’s the final question of how to un-bury myself.   You see, the sand is very heavy!

 

In the end, I summon up the requisite energy, push upward and burst through the earth like a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.  Grabbing my umbrella (which I’ve become quite attached to at this point), I lumber, zombie-like, back to the main building, where I shower off all the sand, throw my towel and yukata in a chute, and plunge into a final, communal hot spring.   Ahhhhh!

 

Is it all worth it?  The heat, the sweating, the sound assault?  Medical research certainly supports the practice.  Apparently the combination of the weight of the sand and the geothermal heat increases cardiac output and core body temperature. It’s said to be 3-4 times more effective than a traditional hot spring at improving blood circulation, delivering oxygen to tissues, and flushing waste materials from the body.

 

And for a mere $15, who am I to complain.  Why not “take the plunge”?

 

After all, friends who are buried together must surely stay together!

 

(In case you’re wondering why I did the “sunamushi” alone, my traveling partner, Cenzo, declined the experience, citing tiredness.  And to be honest, I almost joined him.  At 8:30am on a rainy morning, it would have been sooo easy to just stay in my comfy, climate-controlled hotel room, enjoying a cup of coffee and reading through my guidebook.   Arriving at the sand bath facility at that hour required an effort:  getting dressed, sprinting to our car, setting the GPS, driving ten minutes in the pouring rain, finding a parking spot, sprinting to the building and then figuring out the bathing process (in Japanese).   In other words, it required what my Mom would’ve called “a production.”   And yet, isn’t it also true that we enjoy what is easy but we remember what is hard?

 

The difficulty is part of what made the experience memorable.

 

What “production” are you putting off today because of inertia?  What potential stories are you missing by taking the comfortable rout    What kind of life do you want to live – one of forgettable luxury or memorable challenges?)

Some time back, I wrote about my visit to Upenji Temple (Wow Place #77), a memorable stop on the Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage Trail.  I was reminded of Upenji recently while watching the fascinating new documentary, “The Hikikomori Pilgrimage (2026),” produced by NHK WORLD-JAPAN documentary.

 

The documentary details the journey of five young men, all social recluses (“Hikikomori”), who embark on a 1,200-kilometer pilgrimage around the island of Shikoku on a journey of self-discovery.

 

It’s a fascinating story, both externally as well as internally.   The movie follows the five participants as they walk from temple to temple over the period of several months, dressed in the pilgrim’s (“henro’s”) “uniform” of straw hats, white shirts, and white pants.

 

For the young men, this is one of the hardest tasks they’ll take on in their entire lives.  Just completing the physical walk, itself, is an enormous test of grit and stamina.   But for the participants, it’s the social challenge that proves to be the greater challenge.  For the first time in years, the men need to leave behind their prolonged isolation and reconnect with the world — at their own pace, one step at a time.

 

It’s a fascinating and moving journey of self-discovery and mental fortitude, as the “pilgrims” re-learn how to interact with locals along the way and form bonds with each other.  During their walk, they watch how they re-examine their life choices and consider how things might be different when they return back home upon completion of the trek.

 

I strongly recommend watching this documentary as wells as visiting, in person, as many of the 88 Shikoku Temples as you can.   Although I only stopped in at about 3 of the sites on my Shikoku trip, I found all the temples I visited to be serene, almost magical, locations.  More often than not, the temples were situated at the top of a hill or mountain, enveloped in soft pines and graceful firs.   At every location, I met a variety of welcoming “henro” eager to say hello and share the details of their journeys.

 

Best of all, along the pilgrimage you won’t likely run into another tourist during the duration of your visit.   This is Japan “off-the-beaten-track,” a worthy pilgrimage indeed.

 

(Due to the confluence of social media, video games, video conferencing and Covid, we’ve all become considerably more reclusive than we used to be.  I mean, why go to a movie theater when you can just stream the film at home, saving time, gas and popcorn money?   Why join an organization or club when you can get all your social and community needs met on line?  Why go out at all?!!!   Well, you know why.   We humans need in-person connection. We need eye contact with others. We need touch.  Since our caveman days, we’ve been wired to be in the same physical space with other people.  So whadya say?   When you’re done reading this article, go outside!  Go to the mall!  Have a coffee in a café.  Join a club!  Be around people!  At least for one day, put your Hikikomori tendencies behind you—you’ll be glad you did.)

There’s an old expression in Japanese that I find quite intriguing:  “Ataru mo hakke, ataranu mo hakke.”  It literally means “fortune-telling misses as often as it hits.”

 

The phrase suggests several things:  1) fortune-telling is a serious practice  2) Sometimes its predictions actually come true  3)  Sometimes they don’t.

 

Implied, as well, in the expression is: fortune-telling (and religion in general) can both hit and miss simultaneously.  In other words, although you shouldn’t dismiss spirituality out of hand as a fake practice, nor should you necessarily reject it.  The two opposing beliefs can be true at the same time.  Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not. Why choose?

 

I have this heady, almost quantum concept in mind as I approach Wat Phra Si Rattana Mahathat in Phitsanulok, Thailand.   Referred colloquially as Wat Yai or Wat-Phra-Sri, the “Temple of the Great Jeweled Reliquary” is located on the east bank of the Nan River, about 200 miles from Bangkok.

 

It is quite simply one of the most-lovely temples I’ve ever seen.

 

Founded in 1357 by King Lithai of Sukkothai and remarkably elegant, Wat Yai is most famous for its amazing, golden Buddha image (“Phra Phuttah Chinnarat” – “King of Victory”), considered by many Thais as the most beautiful Buddha image in the country.

 

Approaching Phra Phuttah Chinnarat is a dazzling experience. The reflective floor-tiling of the temple picks up the rich, golden hue from the Buddha’s flanking columns and sends it bouncing all around the temple, up, up, up to the ornate ceiling, glowing in yellow and red.  The Buddha, itself, is a tranquil dream, an oasis of ornate, shimmering gold designed both to be admired and worshipped.

 

And worshipped it is.  At all times of day, local Thai people dressed in colorful saris kneel and pray before the Buddha… hands clasped and bowing…applying gold leaf… burning incense. The statue is at once a holy pilgrimage site and a tourist attraction.

 

How it can be both of these things at once is the epitome of “Ataru mo hakke, ataranu mo hakke.”

 

What’s fascinating about Buddhism in general is how it holds a space for ambiguity, encompassing both prayer and personal meditation as paths to enlightenment.  At Wat Yai, thousands come every year to pray to a Buddha image for healing and good fortune, then go home to sit in their private meditation practices.

 

So, is Buddhism a practice or a religion?  Is the historic Buddha a teacher to learn from or a god to worship?   Can praying to a statue actually fulfill your hopes and wishes?

 

Like fortune telling, Buddhism seems to be a quantum state, simultaneously a practice and a religion.  Practitioners can both pray to gods AND follow a meditative path to enlightenment.   There’s no need to be absolutist about it.

 

And who knows? Perhaps praying to a statue will hit. Perhaps it will miss.  It never hurts to hedge your bets.

 

(If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that people don’t necessarily argue from a place of logic.  And I’m not just talking about religion or politics.   It seems like when it comes to just about everything, people argue from gut, instinct, and values.  How frustrating!   What has become of Socratic thinking?  In a perfect world, we could persuade people to think “correctly” (ie. OUR way) through the strength of our superior, logical arguments!   But that’s not how it works, is it?   People debate from their fear…they argue from their hurt and trauma…they dispute from a need for community (and the terror of being kicked out of the tribe).

The next time you’re in a heated discussion that just isn’t moving towards a resolution, stop debating and start listening.  Show your partner that you’re not the villain—you’re a friend who cares enough to hear their anger, hear their fear, hear their needs.  By listening, you demonstrate that you’re interested in their viewpoint, even if you don’t necessarily share it.  You’re not the enemy, because enemies don’t listen!

 

If only our religious and political leaders would shut up and listen—even occasionally—what a more peaceful world it would be.)

 

Over the years, I’ve been continually bothered by a key contradiction of travel:  Is tourism “good” or “bad’ for a place?   On the one hand, visitors bring much-needed tourism dollars to cities and towns that might struggle to support themselves otherwise.  On the other hand, along with the tourist hordes often comes overcrowding, disrespectful behavior and “corruption” of the local culture.

 

If you’re praying to your personal deity at a church, mosque, shrine or temple and a group of loud, 20-somethings from Decatur, Georgia stomp up and snap a selfie with you—without asking—is this okay?  Is this what you bargained for when you said yes to tourism?

 

Although I always try to be respectful wherever I go, I, too, sometimes fall into the trap of “exoticism hunting.”  It all started when I was 10 years old and viewed the slides my grandparents took on their journey to China and Hong Kong.  Slide after slide presented a magical world I had never dreamed existed – colorful lanterns, majestic dragon boats, elegant temples gleaming in red and gold.

 

I yearned to visit those place, snap photos, and exult in the rush of exoticism.  Just imagine the stories I could one day share with my friends and family!   By visiting such special places, I hoped I would become special too.   The magic dust would somehow rub off on me.

 

And to be honest, that kind of magical transmutation DOES happen sometimes, especially at a strikingly foreign place like Boudhanath, Nepal.

 

One of the world’s largest spherical stupas and a premier UNESCO World Heritage site, Boudhanath sits just a few miles outside of Kathmandu.  A central hub for Tibetan Buddhism, this classic, whitewashed monument (the holiest Tibetan Buddhist site outside of Tibet) is renowned for its massive mandala design, all-seeing Buddha eyes and surrounding monasteries.

 

An active spiritual site, Boudhanath draws droves of pilgrims practicing “kora” (clockwise circumambulation around the stupa), lighting butter lamps and spinning prayer wheels.   The monument stands on a massive, nine-level base representing Mount Meru, the center of the cosmos, and is crowned by the watchful eyes of the Buddha.

 

While the original structure dates back to the 5^th century, the current building only became a major refuge for Tibetan practitioners in the 1950s.  The site is particularly beautiful in the evening, when hundreds of lamps illuminate its dome.

 

What traveler wouldn’t want to experience an exotic place like that!

 

And yet—I have to ask myself, doesn’t my secular visit to this site disrupt the faithful who have traveled miles to quietly pray and make religious offerings?   Even if my tourist dollars fund maintenance of the stupa and support the local businesses?

 

There’s no easy answer to my cognitive dissonance except to draw on the expression “hanshin hangi,” the Japanese belief in “half belief, half disbelief.”  In other words, sometimes you just have to embrace paradox—the notion that contradictions can coexist side by side.  Left/right, up/down, correct/incorrect – life throws a lot of paradoxes at us;  we don’t have to stress when we confronted with conflicting opinions about something.  We can hold differing perceptions and still be a-okay.

 

Tourism is bad. Tourism is good.  It’s something in between.  It’s all of that!  Hanshin-hangi!

 

(There’s a pivotal scene near the end of Les Miserables where the inspector, Javert, is saved from certain death by Jean Valjean, the criminal turned businessman/philanthropist who Javert has been chasing throughout the story.  Unable to hold conflicting notions that a “bad” man can also be “good,” Javert throws himself into a river and perishes.

 

I hope that a paradox never drives you to such a state of consternation!   The next time you’re faced with diametrically-opposed judgments about someone or something, remember Hanshin-hangi!  Contradictions can co-exist.  No need to stress.  No need to throw yourself off a bridge.  Embrace the paradox!)

For every big, famous city you pin on your itinerary — teeming with tourist sites — there’s always a quaint, little-discussed town nearby that preserves the local culture as a living time capsule.   In Italy, it’s possibly Verona.   In Spain, it’s most likely Ronda.  In France, my vote is for Bologna.

 

In Nepal, it’s gotta be Tukuche.

 

Also spelled Tukche, the village is situated in the Mustang District of northern Nepal. With a population of just 652 individuals residing in 166 households, this is a fly speck of a settlement—a two-street town known for its Thakkali culture, catering mostly to trekkers making their way around the Annapurna Circuit hiking route.

 

Along with food and a few places to stay, Tukuche is all about the vibe.

 

Set in the dry and dusty Kali Gandaki Gorge, with several 20,000-foot peaks towering overhead, Tukuche feels like a land lost in time.   Upon stepping into town, you notice the white-plastered wooden houses, the orange prayer wheels, and the waving, multi-colored prayer flags so popular in the Himalayas (and Berkeley import/export shops).   Donkeys laden with bags of goods wander freely in the street, seeking stray bits of grass growing out of cracks in the walls.

 

In Tukuche, you know you’re in Nepal, alleged home of the fabled Shangri-La…at the top of the world.  The people living here are not cosplaying Eastern spirituality—they’re the real thing.

 

During my day in Tukuche, I don’t see a single temple.  I don’t visit a single museum.  I don’t get a tourist booklet stamped.   All I do there is wander around –slowly— soaking up the Himalayan vibe and hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll run into a yak (or a yeti).

 

It’s not a flashy place, but Tukuche sure is atmospheric.  And that is more than enough.

 

(What if, the next time you planned a trip, you skipped every single big-name sight in the guidebook? You just skip them!   Instead, you choose an area at random in your country of choice and just drive—or better yet, bike or walk.   No itineraries, no agendas, no recommendations from Facebook forums and Reddit.   Literally, you just let yourself get lost. Soak up the atmosphere of traditional towns that have nothing to see but their architecture.  Have a drink in a local bar and try to communicate with your bar-stool mates.  Get off the beaten track and let yourself imagine all the people who have lived and died in this placed, all the stories they must have to tell.

 

Traveling in this way is the only functioning time machine yet proven to exist—and it’s yours to access — if only you have the courage to take the road less traveled.)

When you think about Japan, a few stereotypical experiences come to mind, like:   taking part in a tea ceremony, attending a sumo match, catching sight of a geisha, walking under cherry blossoms or eating excellent raw fish at a sushi bar.

 

Myself, I’m always hoping in Japan to run into ninjas or photograph a kaiju (a giant monster like Godzilla) in action.  But that’s just me.

 

For the more spiritually minded, however, the ultimate Japan experience would no doubt be meditating in an authentic Zen rock garden. Nowhere captures that Zen vibe more than Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto, perhaps the best, classical Buddhist rock garden in the country—and the most touristed.

 

Originally an aristocrat’s villa during Japan’s Heian Period, the site was converted into a Zen temple in 1450.  Interestingly, the garden’s exact date of construction is unknown and speculation abounds regarding its designer.

 

The “garden” consists of a rectangular plot of pebbles surrounded by low earthen walls, with 15 rocks laid out in small groups on patches of moss. By design, at least one of the rocks is always hidden from the viewer.

 

Ryoanji is a special place to visit. Even after hundreds of years, the rock garden is perfectly maintained, landscaped and manicured—an act of devotion. The placement of the rocks gives a sense of islands floating in a wide ocean. Or if you prefer, cliffs poking out from a carpet of fog.

 

Some believe that the garden represents a tiger carrying cubs across a pond.  Others claim that the garden represents an abstract concept like infinity. Because the garden’s meaning has not been made explicit, it is up to you to find the meaning for yourself.

 

Ryoanji is a calm and spiritual place, a spot to sit, watch your breath and contemplate the impermanence of life.

 

It’s also a wildly touristy site, on everyone’s list of “must-see-in-Kyoto” locations. Loudspeakers (with an emphasis on LOUD) blare incessantly, directing you where to sit, how to behave and when to leave.  To appreciate Ryoanji, you need to arrive early in the morning, right when the garden opens, before the tourist hordes descend.

 

I like Ryoanji and think everyone should visit it.  I also think there are other Zen rock gardens in Japan that are just as nice and a whole lot less touristy.

 

Little-known gardens where you might just see a ninja – or a kaiju.

 

(Ryoanji is a bit like a Rorschach test, where you receive a series of ink blots and ascribe your own meaning to them.  What does Ryoanji mean? It’s up to you to determine, and don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.  Isn’t this true in all aspects of our lives, particularly in this online age where experts, pundits and influencers are incessantly telling us how to think.   I’m reminded of the lessons of the Indian spiritual teacher Krishnamurti, who essentially taught, “Don’t let any guru tell you the meaning of life.  Find it for yourself through meditation.”  Ryoanji might well be islands, tigers or infinity itself.   Go early, center yourself, and make your own judgment, in this as in all things.)

When it comes to travel, there are two kinds of sights:  1) planned & 2) unplanned.

 

Planned sights include landmarks you find in a guidebook as well as ones you hear about from friends, family and online forums.  You “plan” to visit these kind of locations because, more often than not, they’re pretty darn great!   Why would anyone travel all the way to India and skip the Taj Mahal?  Why would you miss the Roman Colosseum? The Great Wall of China?  The Parthenon?  These are all sites you definitely must plan to visit.

 

The Pig Memorial of Bangkok, Thailand is definitely not in this category.

 

Located in Bangkok’s inner city, its historic area, the Pig Memorial was built in 1913—the year of Queen Saovabha Phongsri’s 50^th birthday.   Its official name is “Sahachart Memorial,” in celebration of all people born in the same year—the year of the pig.  Made of gilded cast metal, the sculpture initially rested on large stone pillars, since replaced by a higher, mountain-shaped concrete base.  Nearby is the “Saphan Mu” bridge, built in 1911. Its name refers to “The Bridge of the Year of the Pig.”  Interestingly, the bridge has four decorative posts symbolizing birthday candles.

 

Although I’m telling you about it today, I wouldn’t necessarily advise you to “plan” your next Bangkok trip around the Pig Memorial.  But if you do somehow stumble upon it (as I did), it’s pretty great in its own right.

 

My friend Ted and I happened upon the Pig Memorial during a fairly-pedestrian stroll in the Thai capital. Or maybe we were trying to reach somewhere else. I can’t recall.  But then, suddenly, there he was:  The king of pigs, towering over us majestically, with smaller, porcine-shaped offerings scattered around his base.  Think pig pinatas.

 

“Hey Dave, is that a giant pig?”

“You know, Ted, I think it is.”

 

What a delightful, unplanned monument to stumble upon.  You won’t find it in most guidebooks.  I’d be hard pressed to find it again, to be honest.   But I’m sure glad I did.

 

If only there had been a BBQ place nearby, the magic would’ve been complete.

 

(Although you can’t, necessarily, plan to stumble on little-known treasures, you CAN plan to have no plan.  In other words, you can leave time in your schedule for unstructured wandering, for getting lost.  One of my best travel days was when my wife and I roamed the streets of Osaka, Japan, in search of pastries.  (Spoiler alert:  we found a LOT of it!)  The next time you discover yourself on the road in an interesting city, why not designate one day for “random walking?”   You can even choose a famous landmark to walk towards—but take your time!   Give yourself a whole afternoon or, better yet, a whole day to get there—and if an amazing café, or bench, or river view presents itself, be willing to skip the final destination completely.  The same kind of “plan” can apply to this upcoming weekend in your own hometown.  Go find a neighborhood and get lost!  You can thank me later.)

 

As long as there’s been a Japan, there’s been sake.  At least that’s the message I receive as I wander through the three-story history museum at Otokoyama Sake Brewery near Arashiyama, Hokkaido.

 

If ever there was a cathedral to the production and consumption of Japanese rice wine, this is it.

 

Here you find room after room of sake utensils, sake tools, and sake barrels, along with Ukiyo-e woodblock prints depicting samurais and geishas from days long past, getting sloshed on the local brew.  Video displays and dioramas abound, introducing the ancient sake-making process that dates from the Edo-era (1603 – 1868).

 

Although exceedingly informative and interesting, the museum displays are but a prelude to what we visitors have all been waiting for:  the sake tasting!   Because that’s what breweries are all about, right?

 

To access the tasting room, I first need to leave the museum building, cross the circular Ochoko Plaza (said to be shaped like a sake cup), and pass the 12-meter-long children’s slide in the shape of a sake bottle.  Although innocent enough, the metaphor doesn’t escape me:   Japanese children tumbling in delight out of the most-fun place in the world – a container of alcohol.

 

Japanese Sake—generational fun for the whole family!

 

Sticking with the family-friendly theme, the tasting area is more entertainment complex and gift shop than saloon.  For example, there’s a section where you can take selfies dressed in a traditional sake-making jacket.  There’s a café where the drinks are all made from water used for brewing sake.  You can even purchase a “rice latte” or a “rice latte soft-serve ice cream.”  I opt for a hot coffee laced with “Otokoyama’s special super sweet syrup made only from rice.”  When in Hokkaido…

 

At last, I arrive at the tasting area, both staffed and self-serve.  I opt for the latter option, paying a few bucks for a handful of drink tokens which I promptly insert into one of three sake dispensers: essentially dry sake, drier sake, and drier sake still.  It’s all pretty delicious, I must say, and mighty strong!   I force myself to stop as I feel my tipsiness rising.

 

Not to worry. This is safety-conscious Japan!  The drinkers in your group are prohibited from driving afterwards.   Upon paying for my drink tokens, a stern staffer asks point blank: “Who is your driver? I need to see his license. It cannot be you!”

 

Strict admonitions aside, the Otokoyama Sake Brewery is a fun place to visit.  I learned a lot about the sake-making process.  I tasted their local specialty.  I enjoyed some “grainy” coffee.  Next time, I’ll have to try the slide.

 

(The Otokoyama Sake Brewery wasn’t a planned stop on our trip.  Before setting out, we had made a list of all our “must-visits” in the area.   Sake breweries weren’t on our itinerary.  Nevertheless, as we drove by, I said to my friend, “Hey, that looks like an interesting experience. Whadya say we stop?”

 

How often do we get caught up in our plans and agendas, failing to leave room for serendipity and happenstance?  As John Lennon said, “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” A good reminder the next time you’re sitting with your friends or family, talking about the schedule for the day, when perhaps you should be noticing what’s going on in the room, what’s going on with your relationships, what’s going on in your own heart.)