Southwest of Tokyo, is a city in the Oita Prefecture called Beppu. And in Beppu, one finds the onsen capital of Japan. Devilishly hot springs - some smelling egg-like with their sulphuric steam - where bathers, after 5 minutes of soaking, emerge looking raw. But healthily so; for in Beppu, you would be considered a prude - an indecent prude - for not yielding and getting jiggy wit' it with the rest of the bathers at an onsen. Perhaps this is where Devilled Eggs originated.



"Before even submerging themselves in the 42ºC water, men let out a grunt as they step in, knee-deep, even before proceeding to ease themselves into the onsen," T intoned casually after several sessions there. After some ascertaining myself, I offered, "T, the women don't make a sound as they enter the water at all."

"And that's why they're women, and we're men," it is possible that at this point, T sniffed his appreciation at the apparent brutishness of his gender. I merely smiled. Demurely.



Inside our ryokan, it was cold. Perpetually. And when it was warm, it was because of the air conditioning, which then made it dry. Lip-crackingly dry. And inside our 8-tatami room, I was mindful to keep it not-too-warm, lest E, my Tokyo-ite roommate wilted or melted into a puddle from the heat. Me? All things considered, anywhere that is not musty, humid sweltering Singaporean heat is cold. Cold is the absence of heat, no?



And in Beppu? The coldness not only manifested itself in windchill, but there was also, for the first time in my life, flurries of minute snowflakes. Powdery snow on our shoulders, and with a 14-hour hand-warmer in hand, we head out to walk the streets.



Mikan season made for citrus-peel-scented rooms. We stuffed our faces with lovely honey-oranges. In general, that refers only to me; the Japanese hardly ever stuff their faces, if at all. Oh, besides Y, of course. This girl will finish up any unfinished food within a 2 metre radius at mealtimes. But me, my face was stuffed, alternately, with mikan and onigiri.



There was this old house - actually, there were these many old houses - down in Beppu. Many well-loved old houses, and many unloved plots of frozen, dying grass. And in these well-loved old houses, its inhabitants are in the habit of removing their footwear upon entry. And they enter a house backwards, so their shoes are facing the correct direction when they leave. Well, I never. Colour me amazed.

Converse high-tops didn't stand a chance; I became well-practiced in lacing up (and down) real quick. Meanwhile, the group waited patiently outside if 'real quick' turned out to be 'not quick enough'.



"Told you so," I'm certain R would've loved to crow smugly to my face while my fingers, numb with cold, clumsily did up the shoelaces.



One morning, I sat, just me with my styrofoam tray of fresh sushi, there, along the edge of the water, watching the sailing club make their way out to sea. It was a clear day, with blue skies that stretched out to forever. The kind that made the samurais believe in Justice, Benevolence and Honour. That kind of blue.

I stretched out, after my 9th sushi, under the endless sky, and took deep breaths, and grinned, and felt at peace with the world.