Pathway to Japanese Literature

Journey to Izu

The train arrived at Ōni.
The carriages bound for Shuzenji were waiting there for travelers.
When we left the station, our group of four was immediately beset by carriage drivers.
That day, we had been riding trains since morning and were already weary of vehicles; moreover, as this was the start of our journey, setting foot on Izu soil felt like a rare experience.
Using the money we had each prepared, we wanted to enjoy this journey to the fullest.
K, A, and M all set out together.
I found a small shop with a tobacco sign, bought two Shikishima packs, and then caught up with my friends.

“I’m getting quite hungry now.”

K looked at me and said with a laugh.
At the edge of Ōni town, the carriage drivers came chasing after us again, but in the end, we did not ride.
“Ah, walking will keep us warmer anyway.”
Even as he said this, in truth we regretted not having taken that carriage.
We had never experienced such cold before.
It made us wonder if snow would soon descend upon the mountains.
Tears streamed ceaselessly from my eyes.
When encountering the stinging wind’s bite, I am invariably like this.
Before long, we came to a place where an incongruously large building stood visible among the mountains.
It was Shuzenji.
The second-floor shutters of most houses were closed.
There were few people out walking.
When we finally arrived at the hot spring inn, shivering uncontrollably, all we could think of was quickly immersing ourselves in a soothing bath to warm our frozen bodies.
Fire.
Before entering the bath, we attended to that first.

There were also many guests who had come for the hot spring cure.
Disliking our room, we moved to one on the second floor above the reception desk, but even there we had to ask the assigned maid to pile charcoal generously into the long brazier before huddling around it to warm ourselves.
Somehow our mood refused to settle.

Before going to bathe, a maid entered and inquired what we wished prepared for dinner.
"Shall I bring sake as well?"
she added.

“Ah, bring some heated rice gruel,” answered K.
“Miss, and make sure the sake’s top-shelf.”

Though our bodies were chilled, the bathwater proved scalding.
We sank shoulder-deep into the hot spring bubbling between valley stones, each stretching limbs with reckless abandon.
Exchanging glances, we recalled the journey’s bitter cold.

That day, our minds had been filled since morning with all manner of people we had encountered.
Fleeting shadows, breaths of strangers, the scent of hair—when we recalled our time on the train, the urban atmosphere still clung to us.
We had come through withered mulberry fields and wheat patches showing their first sprouts, only to find the people gathered around this spacious bathhouse were exactly the sort we might meet in Tokyo or Yokohama.
Bathers of both sexes came and went in large numbers.
Among them were women with faces utterly indifferent to men—those who seemed to have come for the hot spring cure together.
Through the steam, their aged, shriveled breasts appeared dimly visible.
We never felt we had entered a world of total strangers.

We got out of the bath and returned to the room where Western clothes and Inverness coats lay scattered about. A discussion arose about where we would go next. K and A brought out a map. At that time, we discussed the gratuity.

“Wherever I’ve stayed, I’ve never given a tip in advance,” said K.
“I always leave it when departing.
If the treatment is good, I leave more; if it’s bad, I do the same.”

"I'm the same way," said A.

In any case, at this bustling inn, we decided to leave it for now.
From the time we bought sandwiches in Ofuna, M had taken charge of keeping the accounts for us.

It was said many of the maids here too came from the Tokyo-Yokohama area.
Dinner brought clear soup, sashimi, seasoned shredded chicken, rolled omelet, and such accompaniments.
The maid stretched forth her sturdy hands and poured sake into everyone’s cups.

“There was a woman on the train who showed you the Inazuma Kozō newspaper, you know.”
“That woman was rather amusing.”
“I’ve been thinking that way all along—she must’ve been quite proud of herself, you know.”

K looked at me and said, as if he had just remembered.
We ate, laughing joyfully all the while.

The guest register was filled out by A.
A asked everyone’s ages and wrote them down.
K was thirty-nine, A thirty-five, M thirty, and I thirty-eight.
Before long, K stretched out like a great serpent.
It was K’s habit to lie down and sleep in apparent comfort whenever he got drunk.
The remaining three continued talking while listening to K’s snores.

The carriage we had requested arrived the next morning.
We were busy preparing for the journey.
When our preparations were done, we immediately settled the inn’s bill.

“K, I’ll handle the payment,” I said.
“No need—I’ll take care of it,” K replied, producing his wallet from his breast pocket.

“Oh, that’s quite a sum,” said A, peering in.

“We ate quite a lot, after all,” K laughed.
Promptly, M took out his notebook.

The inn provided hand towels.
A’s cloth-wrapped bundle had suddenly grown large with maps, postcards, brain pills, and Shuzenji souvenirs.
We were seen off by the landlady and manager of the inn and set out by rickety carriage from the garden entrance.

Though the weather was fine, the wind cut through us like a knife.
K, A, and M—all three covered their ears with hand towels and pulled hats down over them.
Tears began to flow once more from my eyes.
To relieve the boredom in the carriage, we borrowed the coachman’s horn and playfully tried blowing it—through such antics even this coachman warmed to us, telling us the names of roadside trees and villages along our route.
Thus when we followed Kanogawa River valley upstream, we gradually felt ourselves advancing deeper into the mountains.
As we approached a certain village, from our carriage we encountered a woman of about forty who appeared travel-worn.
The woman was carrying a monkey on her back.
The carriage drove past.

We arrived at Yugashima. Before long, it was nearing noon. When we reached where the hot spring inn stood, the coachman stopped his horses there. Whether we would cross Mount Amagi in this carriage or stay here overnight remained undecided. Fearing the mountain's bitter cold, everyone leaned toward lodging at Yugashima.

The inn we were guided to lay hidden among oak trees at the valley's bottom. That day held no other guests, letting us freely choose a second-floor room facing the mountain stream. "Summer must be lovely here," we said to each other. "We ought to stay a month in such a place." True to Mount Amagi's foothills, the cold bit deep. Fierce mountain air poured through the room—we couldn't leave the shoji open even had we tried. M and I, clad in Western clothes, borrowed cotton-padded kimonos over yukata robes, layering another kimono atop them all, yet still our bodies shuddered.

When we came here, we were now completely among strangers.
What makes Northern Izu quintessentially Northern Izu was not found in bustling Shuzenji but in this Yugashima, abundant in rustic charm.
Everything was utterly detached from our lives.
The bathwater was warm but left us pleasantly aglow afterward.
For lunch, we had them prepare a whole chicken.
The meat was tough like game.
The bones had been chopped so roughly that everyone hurt their teeth.
Yet it was sweet.

“Miss,” I asked the maid, who had the air of a mountain dweller.
“This place is run entirely by family members... You’re part of the household too, Miss?”

“No, I don’t belong to this household,” the maid replied.

After the girl left, A remarked, “The maids here are different from those in Shuzenji. They grow nervous whenever they approach us.”
He spoke with a contemplative expression.

A, who had always taken particular interest in oak trees, was quickest to notice the vivid freshness of the lush green leaves thriving beneath the eaves.
Beyond these valley oaks, we sometimes fancied rain had begun falling—only to realize our mistake.
When we listened carefully, it proved to be the mountain stream’s murmur.
The mingled sensations born of this sound transported us to another world.
We felt we had wandered far from home.

“We’ve truly left the world behind.”

K said this emphatically.

K and I had this inn’s postcards sent for and wrote them.
I recommended it to A as well.

“I’ve never sent anything from a trip before,” said A.
“Hmm… Maybe I should send one to my house.”

“M, how about you send one to your mother too?” I suggested.

M laughed while looking at the postcards.
“What a rare occurrence—if I were to say I must’ve been told by someone to send it, what would they think?”

We talked together on this second floor about people in Tokyo, times when we were still young together, and friends who had passed away.
K looked at me and began to say such things.

“I feel as though a dark shadow has been drawing near to my life—this vague, dreadful shadow. Don’t you ever think such things?”
“Though in my case, I have a brother who’s died.”
“So that might be why I feel that way all the more.”

“If you die, I’ll hold a memorial service for you,” I said half-jokingly.

“You’re talking so carefree now—” K laughed while shaking his large frame.
“I wonder what you’ll say when that time comes—‘He said such things back then,’ or something like that.”

In the end, we settled on staying in Yugashima.
As dusk neared, we went out for a walk.
When passing through the gate, I met the inn's landlady.
"Do you have any mountain yams around here?" I inquired of the landlady.

“Yes, I’ll go take a look.”
“Unfortunately, this is a time when we have nothing at all—no vegetables, and no river fish to be caught,” the landlady said apologetically.

“If taro stew could be prepared, would you be so kind as to serve it to us?”

Having made this request, we then took a stroll around the valley.
The child who had gone to buy sake for us came down from above the valley just as we returned from our walk.

From evening onward, villagers gathered at the hot spring.
It was said these people came to bathe for free.
When we went to warm ourselves before dinner, adults and children around the bath showed some reserve toward us.
We rather enjoyed bathing with these mountain villagers.
The bath remained warm as ever.
We found it hard to leave.
Our eyes took in all manner of things—hands roughened by labor, coarse brown hair, the faint swell of maidenly breasts, a man's lips twisted by painful sores……

For dinner, our requested yam stew never materialized. The meal consisted of leftover fowl meat, a dubious-looking chawanmushi egg custard, and vegetables. Someone remarked that the tea’s peculiar odor must stem from the water quality—a comment that somehow made the rice taste similarly off when mentioned. When the maid brought over the guest register containing a painter’s name familiar to us, our casual conversation sparked up again around that topic. The valley stream’s murmurings that had lain quiet through daylight hours now swelled into turbulent clamor. Before retiring, we took one final soak in the bath.

We departed Yugashima early in the morning.
The carriage that had been waiting for us was the same one that had brought us from Shuzenji, and the driver too had a familiar face.
Fifty sen per person up to the top of Mount Amagi.

It seemed hail had fallen during the night, for the road we traveled was white.

"A," I said, gazing at the face of my friend seated knee to knee with me.
"Crossing Mount Amagi like this—I doubt we'll have many such occasions in our lifetimes."

"Right—at best we might come once more, huh?
Well, anyway—we'd better take a good look while we can, you know."

Thus A answered.
That day, I recognized through his forceful manner of speaking that A was in an excited mental state.
The morning sun came shining into the shadow of the cold mountain.
A let out a high, resounding laugh.

The driver got down from the carriage and walked while holding the horse’s bit.
To reach the mountain’s summit, one had to follow along with the horse like this.
He treated the horse with great care—as one would protect their own property, or at times rely on a single friend.
The horse, heeding his words, put strength into its legs and pulled the heavy carriage bearing us as it advanced along the mountain path through the imperial forest.

At the entrance to Chino, a mountain village, we encountered about three rough-looking women.

“Hey, there’s a fire bell here! There’s even an inn in a place like this—next time I come, I’ll make sure they put me up there, you know,” A said playfully.
At the edge of this village lay parched fields, and in the distance could be seen low-roofed huts.
A man who appeared to be a woodcutter passed by.
Our carriage then advanced deeper into the mountains.

For about half the way, we encountered no one. Large trunks of standing trees, withered as they were, lay exposed ash-gray in the valleys ahead. When we asked the driver, he said they were fir trees withered after being overwhelmed by cedars. Through this awe-inspiring graveyard of trees, a single figure came walking toward us. “It’s a man—no, a woman,” we argued in the carriage. When we drew closer, perhaps she was a woodcutter’s wife—walking calmly along the cold mountain path with straw sandals on her bare shins. That area was a place lush with water plants and deep marshes. The fern leaves bathed in the faint sunlight also appeared large and eerie. After that, we no longer encountered anyone. Gradually, we began to feel an intense cold. K and M paired up, while A and I paired up; in pairs we tightly pressed our knees together, letting our body heat pass between us as we warmed one another. The carriage ascended along the valley of Mount Amagi for about a league. The people in the carriage exchanged fewer words. Everyone fell silent.

“K, this is an eerie valley,” I said, looking at my friend seated crosswise from me.
“To think we passed through what they call scenic spots only to end up in this fearsome gorge.”

K nodded and gazed intently.

“It’s just like winter,” A said, shivering.

“Perhaps it’s precisely because it’s now that we can see into the depths all the more clearly.”

At that moment, M, from atop the carriage, pointed to the valley floor and asked the driver the name of the leafless tree.

“What you can see over there are beeches and zelkovas,” A conveyed.

“Ah, those black ones are beech and the white ones are zelkova.”
Thus A said.

We invoked Sesshū's paintings and such, talking as we gazed out, but before long one fell silent, then two, and soon we had all fallen silent again.

As we neared the pass, the carriage passed by a hut where ice was made.
There we encountered two or three men working.

At long last, we arrived at the mountain-top hut.
We got down from the carriage.
First and foremost, we were allowed to warm ourselves at the bonfire, then discussed whether to ride to Yugano from here or walk down.
There was a talkative old woman who volubly told us that the mail was exchanged daily here and that her husband was the one manufacturing that ice.
We decided to ride to Yugano.
The driver fed the horse, then boarded it himself, and set out toward the dark tunnel hung with icicles.

Upon exiting the tunnel, the descent soon began.
The carriage briskly passed by the frost-eroded cliff's edge.
At times, large clods of earth lay before us.
Each time, the driver would get down from the carriage, push aside the clods of earth, and then urge the horse onward.
The mountains studded with those familiar gray dead trees had receded behind us before we knew it.
We passed through a green cedar forest.
The color wasn't the dark green seen around Kiso Valley but a bright green.
We had descended about half a league.
It had grown somewhat warmer.
On the road, the sleet had already begun to vanish.

Joyous laughter arose within the carriage.

“It is indeed a bit warmer,” A remarked.

“Look here,” I said, intending it as a jest, “before long, the rapeseed flowers will be blooming.”

“Ah, the sea-scented air is coming!” A said playfully.

There was no one who didn’t laugh at this “sea-scented air is coming.”

We descended about half a league more.
Warm sunlight came streaming into the carriage.
We vied to raise the windbreak cloth.
We had been craving sunlight so intensely.

"Can the south and north really differ this much?" K said as he took out the map to examine it.

"K, what were those young trees planted by the roadside called again?" I asked.

"Who knows?" K replied.
"I burned it into my memory like a demon so I wouldn’t forget."

At that moment, M brought up rumors about Shimoda, where we were all planning to go.

“What manner of port might this be?”
“According to H’s account, it’s apparently an incredibly licentious place—today’s iteration spans from Sesshū to Utamaro, eh?”
When he said this, those in the carriage could not help but laugh.

Then we descended about one league.
There appeared a village.
The wheat in the fields had grown slightly taller.
We descended another league.
What had been spoken in jest was becoming reality.
Indeed, rapeseed flowers were blooming.
Green grass was raising its heads from the earth.

We arrived at Yugano just around lunchtime.
There, the driver bid us farewell.
During our two-day journey, we had grown familiar with this driver, and he had taught us various things about the unfamiliar land.
From this driver, we were told even about the old woman—a former Western concubine—who had supposedly erected a stone monument for some handsome man.
We passed by and saw from our carriage the red windows of the mansion said to be inhabited by that healthy and wealthy old woman.

In Yugano, we took it easy.
There was a hot spring here as well.
Because taking off my Western clothes seemed bothersome, I had no intention of entering, but being persuaded by everyone else, I went to wash away the journey's fatigue.
From this inn, the Kawaizu River was visible.
We finished our lunch while gazing at Chinese poems written on karakami paper in the second-floor room.
There were delicious green onions here.

We boarded another carriage and soon set out toward Shimoda.
We passed through the shade where camellias were blooming.
The fertile Kawazu Valley spread out before our eyes.
The slope had been cultivated into several layers of fields.
Up to the higher parts of the mountain, many mulberry trees had been planted.
The mandarin oranges were growing yellow.
"Heroes must have been born from here, I suppose," said A, gazing at the many villages scattered along the riverbank.

When we reached the top of a certain slope, we could see Kawazu Port.
The sea shone in the distance.

We approached Shimoda.
The woman was working intensely.

We encountered a group of young men and maidens passing along the highway from our carriage. Just seeing the hue of their cheeks made us feel we had truly arrived in southern Izu.

In the evening, we arrived at Shimoda. We strolled around the town and bought picture postcards as mementos, then took lodgings near the port. From the back second floor looking out, earthen storehouses built with Izu stone, namako-patterned walls, and old-fashioned tiled roofs were visible across the view. The calls of loach vendors arose from among them. Even though it was evening, nothing could be heard but the voices of these crouching loach vendors. The smoke from evening meals rose into the tranquil town's sky.

The inn's mistress was plump and spoke with polite mannerisms. For dinner, they had prepared abalone for us, marinated in vinegar and served on a large platter. We had damaged our teeth on bird bones in Yugashima, so savoring this fresh abalone took considerable time. M lost a tooth. The maid here too, just like the mistress, spoke kindly and laid out warm, comfortable bedding for us. We all lay down exhausted.

“Ah, paradise!”
“Paradise!”

With a voice like he was casting something aside, K burrowed into the futon.

“Another fine day we’ve got here.”
“The weather conditions are truly perfect, I must say.”

A said, gazing at the Shimoda sky from the second floor of the inn.

That morning, we all decided to set out wearing straw sandals to reach the southern tip of Izu. We eagerly began our preparations for departure. At that moment, M took out his notebook. In any case, he would settle the accounts once and for all here—what needed to be paid out would be paid out, and what needed to be received would be received.

“If I give you two yen and some odd sen from my side, that should suffice, right?” said A.

M placed the silver coins before me.
“This is your portion to receive.”

“Am I also getting a share?” I said.

“Because you had yours given out in Yugashima,” A explained from beside us.

The four pairs of new white tabi socks we had ordered arrived.
They were all ten mon each.
The tabi were slightly too big for A’s feet, making them baggy.
A borrowed leg wraps from the inn and fastened them.
Travel-hardened K came to his side and tied the left cord while A adjusted the right.

“A’s looking rather skinny,” K said with a laugh, glancing my way.

“Look at these tabi—exactly like those worn by a corpse.”

“You can use that as material for quips all you like.”
With a wry smile, A walked about the room in oversized tabi socks that hung loosely on his slender feet.

“I’ve never worn white tabi socks before now. I’ve always worn navy ones,” said A musingly. “For a man to wear white tabi socks—that’s effeminate. I was often told that by my grandfather. My grandfather was strict, I tell you. One time, he complained that someone in the family’s sleeves were too long—not that they were particularly long, mind you, for a woman they were rather short—and went snip-snip cutting them with scissors…”

I gazed at A’s face.
“Was your father that strict as well?”

“Yes, yes,” A said, as if only now recalling his deceased father.
“But thanks to that upbringing, I learned something worthwhile—now I can wear cotton clothes anywhere without feeling any shame.”

Anticipating warmth along the path, K decided to leave his Inverness coat behind.
A shed one layer of clothing.
After leaving a gratuity at the inn, we donned new straw sandals and set out.

It took us precisely until noon to reach Nagatsuro fishing village.
From there we climbed a narrow trail between cliffs.
Upon reaching the top, we emerged into a pine forest.
Our burning desire to reach the peninsula’s farthest point pushed us forward, making us forget all fatigue and oppressive heat endured until then.
“I do enjoy walking these kinds of paths,” K remarked, glancing back at me.
“So do I,” I replied.
Soon blue light began glowing between the pines.
The Tōtōmi-nada sea stretched before us.
When we arrived at Ishishirozaki with its white lighthouse, there marked Izu’s end.
A watchtower stood nearby.
We met a uniformed watchtower official.
The man gazed at us with lifeless eyes, as though numbed by years of solitary duty.

“A, come and look,” called M from atop the cliff near the lighthouse.

A and K went ahead, followed by me joining M.
We looked down at the deep sea and inadvertently exchanged glances.
At that moment, a sudden, strange shudder passed through my body.
I felt I could not remain standing there long.

“If I must die somewhere, this would do.”

I had meant it as a jest to distract from my dizziness, yet felt myself being drawn toward some unfathomable depth.

At the wall by the lighthouse entrance hung a framed picture.
Under that frame stood a girl who appeared to be the lighthouse keeper’s child, leaning against it.
As I tried to get a better look, a steamship came advancing from the direction of Suruga Bay.

“That’s the ship,” said K.
“If we’re returning by ship, we can’t afford to dawdle here.”
“Seems like it’s no good,” said A.
“By the time we reach Nagatsuro, that ship will have departed.”
We had all said as much but none actually wanted to walk back if it came to that.
Therefore we abandoned our lighthouse viewing then and there and decided to turn back toward Nagatsuro.

There was no need to hurry back like that.
What we saw at the cape was a different steamship.
The ship that was to take us back to Shimoda had not yet arrived.
When we inquired at the steamship inn, they said we would have to wait over an hour.
Guided there, we went to a newly opened inn and requested lunch preparations from a young, inexperienced landlady.

We spent about an hour among simple people leading lives entirely unfamiliar to us.
Still wearing our straw sandals, we sat down in the spacious garden to eat.
The landlady of this inn, who still retained a maidenly air, toasted seaweed for us by the hearth.
The maid poured hot water into a copper tool resembling an oil lamp and brought it out.
The tofu broth here was delicious.

To wait for the steamship, we went to where the barge was. At that time, we found ourselves among fishermen in their prime and a boatman with his son. They said the area would be packed with people during bonito season, but that day lay hushed, with shrimp nets drying here and there while a few retirees mended their nets in good spirits. Soon the barge departed. The boatman rowed along beneath the cliffs toward the sea where the lighthouse stood visible to the right. The water appeared mottled, transparently blue only where no seaweed grew. Though one might call them strong and young, the women rowing vigorously past us were bewitchingly beautiful, their red leggings fastened about their shins. This was the boat returning from gathering turban shells. Just then a steamship advancing from Suruga Bay came heading for a flag fluttering atop a high rock to the left, stopping near where a single sailing ship lay anchored. We boarded this steamship together with the fishermen who had joined us. A hated ships. They all worried, thinking it would be fine if he didn't get seasick.

Before long, the ship left Ishishirozaki Lighthouse.
In the beginning, even being on deck felt novel.
We listened to explanations about the islands from the fishermen who had joined us.
We became able to distinguish the shapes of Mikomotojima, Kouzushima, Oshima, and other islands.
We wandered about the wind-chilled deck once more, observed the ship’s structure, and imagined the gallant-seeming lives of sailors.
However, that was only in the beginning; gradually, we began to feel a listless unease.
The ship stopped at various ports to load fish, but at some places, considerable time was taken.
We waited through that interval in vain and discomfort.
The land seen from the sea held no more variation than the sea seen from the land.

When we passed through a place called Koine, there was a cave that boats traversed from the sea.
A man who came here to see the sights left his wife behind and fell from the boat with five hundred yen still in his pocket, they say.
This was a story we had heard on our way here.
Unlike that old woman who rose from being a Western-style concubine, he appeared to be a man with money but no longevity.
We passed by the cave where this unfortunate husband was said to have sunk.

As dusk approached, we entered Shimoda’s harbor.
Fortunately, A had not gotten drunk.
We took a long time waiting for the barge.
The man who appeared to be the steamship’s accountant opened the door to his cabin, carefully smoothed his hair before a desk adorned with small potted plants and such, tucked his briefcase under his arm, then transferred to another barge.
On the deck, sailors in soiled uniforms had gathered, wearing expressions that suggested their only joy aboard was perhaps buying snacks—bored looks tinged with envy as they watched the disembarking passengers.
At last, the barge arrived.
We too hurried ashore.

At the Shimoda inn, they had prepared dinner and were waiting for our return. That evening, we wrote commemorative postcards to relatives and friends. To Y, who had told us to send them once we crossed Mount Amagi, and to T in Shinshu, K and I wrote jointly. In the idleness of our journey, we requested a local masseur. The sound of warm rain falling began to be heard.

We woke up early.
The rain had stopped during the night, and from the wet roofs of houses, the white smoke of breakfast was seen rising.
There was not a single sound.
It was as quiet as sleep.

“The gap between imagining it and coming here in person is this vast, huh?” said K as he gazed at Shimoda’s morning.
“Well, from what I know, it’s close to Sakata—or maybe a bit more orderly than Sakata.”
“I wouldn’t call it particularly decadent either,” I remarked while surveying the scene, “a port town that values outsiders and clings to its traditions—beyond that, I can’t grasp it.”
“You can’t figure out a place like this through lodgings alone,” K laughed.
“Unless you go eat and drink at a tavern or such—that’s how you really see a locale’s true colors, I always say.”

While we two were talking like this, A and M soon joined us there.
We compared this Shimoda to various other cities.

“Saikyo is the representative of such towns,” said M.

“Since it’s conservative, there’s no wildness here.”

"And again M said."
M would not consent unless the conversation was pushed that far.

After breakfast, we departed this inn heading toward Ito.
We definitely wanted to come back again.
"The next time we come, we want to go all the way to Oshima," we said to each other.

The mistress and daughter came out to see us off.
The maid carried the hand luggage and followed us to where the barge was departing.

Before long, we were aboard the steamship bound for Ito.
This vessel matched the type we had boarded earlier from Nagisaro to Shimoda.
Sailing ships large and small, cargo boats, dinghies, old vessels under repair, other miscellaneous craft—some anchored, some moving—all gradually faded from view.
With March's festival approaching, the ship called at various ports to load straw bales stuffed with turban shells.
Fish too came aboard.
Each time sailors hurled these loads into the hold with full force, the impacts resonated through to our cabin.
A compelled himself to lie down.
Though lunchboxes were sold aboard, none found buyers.
Thus we rode the waves until afternoon.

We arrived in Ito.
That day too, A showed no particular signs of having gotten seasick during the voyage.

We came to a place that was a jumble of contrasts—a town redolent of hot springs, old and seemingly decayed, yet lined with shops selling postcards, billiard halls, and newly constructed buildings. This was no longer purely countryside. In that sense, it also felt as if we had drawn closer to Atami and Odawara.

We found something to praise at each destination—at least, we wanted to discover the local merits and lose ourselves in the day-to-day hardships of travel. The waters at Shuzenji were too hot, those at Yugashima too lukewarm, and while Yugano’s were not bad either, the most comfortable were here. This was our assessment when we gathered in the corner room on the second floor facing the town’s thoroughfare at the Ito inn and drank tea together.

"If we had the hot spring here, the inn in Shimoda, and Yugashima’s mountain stream all together, it’d be perfect, wouldn’t it?" I said tentatively.

“The mistress at Nagisaro—”

K added with a laugh.

Since we hadn’t eaten lunch that day, we asked the inn to prepare dinner early.
We were all hungry.
For a time, we could think of nothing but eating and drinking.
Perhaps from having been jostled by the detested boat, A seemed somehow listless.
When I asked about it, he replied, “Oh, it’s nothing—just feeling dispirited.”
He answered thus.

After nightfall, A went out and bought postcards here.
“There was nothing suitable to bring back as souvenirs to Tokyo,” he said, showing us the postcards.
Among them were scenes of Oshima.
Since we had observed Oshima so thoroughly—from the island’s shape to the plumes of smoke from Mount Mihara right before our eyes—this woman’s attire caught our attention.
Some were positioned on the right, others on the left.
“The one on the left looks just like someone I know,” someone said amid laughter.
They were photographed in formal attire and work clothes.
K had two set aside for him.

That was the night before we were to return to Tokyo.
We felt an intense yet pleasant fatigue.
For what had been a short journey, we also felt as though we had seen quite a variety of places.
The matter of the houses we had left unattended began to weigh on our minds.
At the same time, we came to recall the factory whistles, the clamor of vehicles, the groaning trams—all those vibrations trembling through the city sky darkened by soot, smoke, and dust—which we had momentarily forgotten.
Its monotonous, tedious…………