Here I was, out in the suburbs of Imabari, not quite sure when the owner was planning to go to the hostel and I was kind of dependent on her schedule. I could hear some rumblings downstairs and poked my head out the door and looked down the steep staircase, just in time to see her wet and naked coming out from the bath room into the toilet room. Oops.
The smell of cooking wafted up and I grumbled to myself, wondering if she would give me breakfast. She had arrived home very late, so didn’t want to impose myself too early. I snuck down and used the toilet room. It seemed cleaner, this poor woman must have got back home last night and cleaned the toilet. Sounds like something I might do.
Sure enough, she came up shortly to the room with her little translating pocket device and asked if I would like some curry and rice and coffee.
An amazing thing, isn’t it, how food changes everything? We were best buddies now. Yusan bustled around the small kitchen, periodically answering the phone, as if there were numerous crises to resolve at whatever other businesses she might be running in addition to the hostel.
Yusan said both her and her husband ran the “hotel.” I raised my eyebrows and gestured to the adjacent room where her husband was sprawled out on the floor watching television. She kind of gave a snort and we had a good chuckle over that.
Later I realized, her house was a kind of ad hoc minshuku, a type of family-run bed and breakfast common in Japan, probably for overflow guests at the hostel, only it seemed their home hadn’t been used much for that purpose lately.
On the kitchen table, which was obscured by a mound of clutter, much like our kitchen table, there was a souvenir from Vancouver. Yusan’s daughter had a visited there, and, it seemed, stayed for a month. Having heard a dog bark after arriving the night before I asked if I could see her dog. “Sleeping”, she said, “sixteen years old”. Same age as our beloved Simka.
Yusan’s daughter has four children. That was encouraging news, since a major theme usually reported about Japan is the low fertility rate.
After breakfast, I went for walk around the neighbourhood, some big box stores, rice fields and a diverse style of residential houses. Eventually, we both piled into the car and made our way to the hostel, though Yusan’s constant attention to the phone made me a little nervous driving with her.
At breakfast, and in the car, Yusan kept mentioning a towel event. As well as being a major shipbuilding centre, Imabari is famous for the production of towel products. When we got to the hostel, her helper also mentioned the towel event. It seemed important so I finally managed to track down where it was being held. Both Yusan and her helper were running around so much I forgot to get a photo with them.
It was a relief to have my bike back close at hand but even more so, to have had such a change of heart from my feelings the night before. The hostel itself was immaculate, total opposite of Yusan’s home.
So, a day in Imabari, a visit to the towel exhibition, which was more a type of flash sale for towels, ranging from luxurious plush towels to factory cast offs or left overs. I liked the one supporting a union campaign for Aeon (a shopping mall company) workers. Well, I liked so many of the towels I bought some to add to all the stuff in the bike panniers.
I liked this town a lot, very quiet and relaxed. By the hostel, there was a striking old building which escaped the bombing during the war. It was a large sento, public bath house and you could read on the internet how this must have once been a bustling area, where the sento was a central part of the community. Now it looks like there are plans to preserve it as a heritage building. Ah, regret my visit wasn’t years earlier before it closed.
From a clear blue sky
When bombs are falling like rain
Where do you run to?
