So although I was traveling solo to visit cousins in Hong Kong, I didn't consider adding an excursion to Japan. Then a friend, Jan, suggested joining me there for a week. Perfect!
Well, not exactly.
I had always traveled with people I knew well (mostly husbands, whom I was out of at the moment). Although Jan and I went way back, we hadn't lived in the same city in more than 20 years. Within days of arriving in Japan, we discovered our differences on just about everything. Our friendship exploded, and Jan announced she was going home. "Fine," I said tersely.
Two hours later, I was by myself in Kyoto, terrified. I sat in the hotel room trying not to panic. I thought about leaving, but—get all the way to Japan and not see it? I knew I had to conquer my acute shyness, which a shrink had told me years ago was "a luxury I could no longer afford." I'd worried that I wouldn't be able to think of anything to say to strangers. Here, all I could say was arigatou ("thank you") and hai (which means "yes," and a lot of other things I never quite figured out). How wrong could I go?
My first adventure was visiting a ryokan, a traditional inn. When I arrived, a lovely woman in a kimono bowed to me, letting me know she was my maid. My maid. "Your stay at a ryokan will be determined by how well you get along with your maid," the guidebook informed me.
She led me to an enchanting room: shoji screens, a single purple blossom in a turquoise vase, a low wooden table. She gestured that I was to sit down on the floor as she served tea and sweets. She also brought a menu (in English!) for the next morning's breakfast: orange juice, bacon, and eggs. At a ryokan? I consulted my phrase book: Wafuu—"Japanese style." "Japanese morning?" she asked, astonished. "Hai," I answered. She seemed pleased. I was succeeding with the maid. She showed me where my kimono was, pointed to a large wooden tub in the bathroom, and left.
I had expected from my reading to be guided through the bath, which was supposed to be communal, but apparently this ryokan worked on a privacy principle. Well, at least I wouldn't have to smile at naked people I couldn't talk to. I decided to do as the book instructed: I took a cold shower (to purify) and then soaked in the large cypress tub filled with scalding water ("to make the cares of the day melt away into a stupor"). Later the maid came back with an exquisite dinner. There were ten dishes of various shapes and sizes, not counting dipping sauces. The food was sensual as a still life. I recognized only a few things: One dish, I swear, contained mashed potatoes, but these were mashed potatoes for the gods. As I ate, I began to feel my fear melt away.
Next: Conquering her shyness once and for all