The day began with a rather nauseating bus ride up a winding mountain road to a Japanese winery. And when I say winding, I mean winding. Hairpin turns, steep hillsides, and enough twists to make one reconsider the wisdom of having breakfast.
The winery itself was lovely. We enjoyed a short but interesting tour, followed by a very pleasant lunch. Of course, no group outing would be complete without a little organizational chaos.
There was considerable confusion about the wine. Were we ordering from a wine list? Purchasing bottles? Who was pouring? And why, exactly, did the wine seem to cost nearly twice as much when served upstairs as it did in the gift shop two floors below?
One of our fellow travelers decided to take matters into his own hands and pour wine for the table. The woman working there was distinctly unimpressed. He poured anyway.
A minor international incident involving a wine bottle.
Despite the confusion, the wine was enjoyable, the lunch was lovely, and the visit was well worth the stomach-churning journey.
From Wine to Wasabi
Back down the winding, vomitous mountain road we went, this time bound for a small family-run wasabi farm.
Unlike the larger, more commercialized wasabi farm I’d visited near Matsumoto, this operation was decidedly rustic. And I mean rustic.
We gathered in a rather rickety seating area for an introduction to wasabi cultivation before making our way toward the terraced growing beds. The walk was a little precarious in places, and the terraces themselves were quite small. Calling them fields might be a generous use of the word.
Unfortunately, the language barrier made it difficult to get into the technical details of production, yields, or cultivation methods. But what the visit lacked in agricultural statistics, it more than made up for in hospitality.
The family was gracious, welcoming, and clearly proud of their work. We saw freshly harvested wasabi rhizomes and the traditional graters used to turn them into that wonderfully pungent green paste.
And the setting was beautiful. Clear mountain water rushing over rocks, dense forest climbing the hillsides, and little terraces of wasabi tucked into the landscape.
It was a fascinating contrast to the more polished experience in Matsumoto.
Back Up the Mountain
Then, because apparently we hadn’t had quite enough winding roads for one day, we headed back uphill toward our ryokan.
By the time we arrived, darkness had fallen, so I couldn’t yet say much about the surroundings. What I could see looked beautiful.
There was, naturally, another round of confusion about who was staying in which room. Eventually, everyone was dispatched in approximately the correct direction.
My room is traditional Japanese in style, with tatami flooring, a low table, enormous red floor cushions, and a private onsen.
The onsen was particularly lovely. No concerns about tattoos, no negotiating communal bathing etiquette, just a wonderfully hot bath all to myself.
The lighting, however, was another matter entirely.
Everything was labeled in Japanese, and I had absolutely no idea which switch controls which light. I pressed buttons with increasing determination. Things happened . Just not necessarily the things I intended.
A Room with a View—and a Challenge
Those enormous red floor cushions in my private room apparently serve as chairs. They’re quite striking, but as a somewhat out-of-shape 60-year-old, I have to wonder how gracefully I’m expected to get down into one of these things, let alone get back up.
It’s given me an entirely new appreciation for generations of elderly Japanese people who have spent their lives sitting, kneeling, and rising from the floor. Those folks stayed fit!
As for tonight’s traditional Japanese dinner, I have absolutely no idea what the seating arrangements will be.
I’m really hoping for chairs. Actual chairs. With legs. Because ten minutes on the floor is about my limit.
We shall see.
