This is a continuation of a previous post about my two day trip to Miyajima and Hiroshima.

We awoke to a beautiful, sunny morning, with nary a cloud in the sky. The sound of birds filtered in through the walls of our room. After an early breakfast in Iwaso’s dining room, we checked out of our room and headed our separate ways for the morning. While my friends went omiyage shopping, I made the brief trek up from the inn to the station for the Miyajima Ropeway (宮島ロープウエー). I’d heard that the ropeway, which whisks riders almost to the top of Mt. Misen (弥山) in about twenty minutes, provided great views of the island and the Seto Sea on a clear day. Along the way, an amusing sign written in both Japanese and English informed me: “10 Minute Walk (7 if Run a Little) to Ropeway Station”

At the station, I bought my somewhat pricey ticket and climbed into one of the tiny cars that made the first segment of the two-part journey to the top. The Miyajima Ropeway has both revolving (cars move in a clockwise circle up and down) and linear (cars move back and forth) sections of ropeway, and reaching the top of Mt. Misen requires riding both. As the car I was in left the station and I realized that I was dangling hundreds of feet above the ground, I became momentarily terrified. But my fright was soon forgotten and replaced with awe as I looked out over the primeval forest below me and the ocean and town in the distance. The view was stunningly beautiful. The only sounds to be heard were the chirping of birds perched in the trees below and the quiet hum of the ropeway’s motor. It was amazingly peaceful.

About 3/4 of the way to the top, I transferred from the revolving ropeway to the linear ropeway. I was again overwhelmed by the view, which now faced out over the Seto Sea. Small islands dotted the water, and there was just enough mist to give the landscape a mystical, otherworldly feel. It was easy to understand why the island was considered holy. All too quickly, it was over, and the car pulled into the station at the top of Mt. Misen.

I was told that it was about a thirty minute hike from the ropeway station to the actual summit of Mt. Misen, where a handful of temples and other attractions were located. Since I had to meet my friends later in the morning, though, I decided I didn’t have the time to make the trek. I did, however, spend a few minutes walking around the area directly outside the station. Signs were posted in both English and Japanese warning of possible trouble from resident monkeys that frequented the spot, but unfortunately, none were present. “They are out eating in the forest,” I was told, when I asked someone where they had gone. The one form of wildlife that did show itself, though, was a flock of giant, flying insects. My first instinct when seeing a bug is always that it is either a wasp/bee/hornet or mosquito, but these were so large, however - at least as big as my thumb - that I was soon certain they must be some sort of moth. I therefore stood calmly soaking up the sunshine and snapping pictures while they happily buzzed around my head. I later learned that, for once, my initial assessment was accurate: my Japanese friends assured me that the bugs I had seen were, in fact, a very dangerous type of wasp native to the mountains of Japan. “Flying rattlesnakes,” someone told me. If I had known at the time, I strongly suspect I would have never left the safety of the ropeway station’s glass walls.

A bit later, I met back up with my friends. We said goodbye to Miyajima, and hopped back on the ferry to the mainland for lunch. We had decided to try Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki (お好み焼き), so we took one of Hiroshima’s streetcars to the Okonomiyaki Village, or okonomimura (お好み村). A map we picked up at Hiroshima Station’s tourist information center indicated that there were well over fifty okonomiyaki restaurants or stalls in the area, though most were concentrated on four stories of one building. It was to that building that we headed. For no particular reason, we rode the elevator to the fourth floor, looked around for a few moments, and sat down at the restaurant that had stared us directly in the face when we stepped out.

It turned out to be a good choice, as the okonomiyaki at Kyuu-chan (久ちゃん) was very tasty. Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki is cooked somewhat differently from the more common Osaka style. Usually constructed in layers, it begins with a very thin layer of batter on which sliced cabbage is cooked. In addition, yakisoba noodles are often added. In Osaka-style okonomiyaki, the cabbage, batter, and other components are usually mixed together rather than layered. The fun thing about okonomiyaki, whichever style it is, is that you select the ingredients and toppings you want included. I ordered mine topped very typically with pork and shrimp; one member of our group, though, decided to try one of the stand’s specials, “American-style” okonomiyaki. It came topped with sweet corn, green onions, egg, canned tuna, and more, and was, I am told, quite good.

After lunch, my Japanese friends returned home to Kobe, but I headed to Hiroshima’s must-see attractions, the Peace Park (平和公園) and Peace Memorial Musuem (平和記念資料館). The star attraction of the park itself is, of course, the A-Bomb Dome (原爆ドーム). Before the war, the complex, now registered as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was the city’s Industrial Promotion Hall. Now, the building serves as a haunting reminder of the destruction war brings. The dome is the only bomb-damaged building remaining in Hiroshima, and was recently reinforced to ensure that it remains standing as a monument to the destruction caused by the atomic bomb.

The Peace Park’s other attractions include the Cenotaph for the A-Bomb Victims and the Statue of the A-Bomb Children. The cenotaph (empty tomb) is a memorial containing the names of those who died in or as a result of the bombing and a flame which will not be extinguished until the last nuclear weapon is disabled. The Statue of the A-Bomb Children is associated with one of Hiroshima’s most moving stories. While in the hospital dying of leukemia in 1954, twelve-year-old Sasaki Sadako heard an old legend which claimed that a wish could be made to come true if one folded 1,000 paper cranes. The Statue of the A-Bomb Children was built by her classmates to honor her and the countless other children who died from the bombing and is now constantly draped in thousands of brightly-colored origami cranes folded by schoolchildren from throughout Japan.

The excellent, though very sad and depressing, Peace Memorial Museum is also located on the grounds of the park. First established in 1955, the museum was expanded and renovated in the 90s and is now divided into two buildings. The museum’s first exhibition area provides the context in which the city was bombed, explaining Hiroshima’s role in the war as a large military center, the forced demolition of homes and businesses by the Japanese government, and the mobilization of students as young as twelve to work in military factories and on various war-related projects. The exhibits also discuss the government’s use of Koreans and other minorities forced to work under extremely harsh conditions.

The museum proceeds to explain, using copies of original Japanese and US military documents, how Hiroshima came to be selected as the target for the atomic bomb. I found reading these letters and reports an amazing and extremely enlightening, though time-consuming, experience. I found one of these collections of documents, which discussed the Potsdam Declaration, to be particularly disturbing. The Japanese had indicated that they would be willing to surrender to the Allies on the one condition that the country’s emperor system remain in place. While those involved in writing the declaration agreed this was not an unreasonable condition, and of course did in the end allow the emperor to remain in place as a figurehead, they decided to propose only an unconditional surrender. Reading between the lines, they had written, essentially, that they did so knowing Japan would reject the proposal, allowing them an opportunity to test the atomic weapon they were developing in a real-world situation while still appearing to their own citizens to have attempted a diplomatic resolution.

Another area of the museum is devoted to explaining the basics of the technology behind the atomic bomb and tracing its proliferation around the world. Two walls are covered form floor to ceiling with copies of the letters sent by the city of Hiroshima to other countries in protest of each atomic bomb test they perform.

The rest of the museum is primarily dedicated to displaying a large collection of haunting artifacts and photographs of bomb victims. If you have a weak stomach, it may be wise to skip this portion of the museum, as it consists of nothing but room after room of horrifying pictures, personal momentos and very sad and depressing stories. Tattered school uniforms ripped apart by the bombings, broken, rusted tricycles whose riders had been vaporized, pieces of human skin, and melted bricks are just a few of the items presented.  The museum focuses especially on the fate of the children impacted by the bombing, describing where they were when the bomb was dropped and how and when they died in painstaking, gruesome detail.  The emotional impact of this portion of the museum is enormous: seeing these artifacts and pictures and reading the stories associated with them is a deeply disturbing, though very valuable, experience.

On the way out of the museum, visitors are invited to sign their names and share their impressions in a guestbook.  Also on display is a collection of guestbooks signed by world leaders and other important figures who have visited the museum.  I looked at every page, noting that the museum had been visited by an acting leader of nearly every major country on the planet save one: the United States.  Of all US presidents who held office since the museum was opened, only Jimmy Carter had ever come, and only after he was no longer president.  Seeing as we had dropped the bomb that caused all the damage being highlighted at the museum, and considering that we continually insist that Japan apologize for various wartime infractions of one sort or another, I found it quite disturbing as an American that no US president had ever bothered to show up.

After taking another look at the A-Bomb Dome, I headed returned to Hiroshima Station to catch a shinkansen back to Kobe, feeling very sad and depressed for the rest of the evening.

Miyajima (宮島) is a very popular attraction with both Japanese and foreign tourists, and with good reason. The island, said to provide one of Japan’s three best views, is home to Itsukushima Jinja (厳島神社), the famous UNESCO World Heritage Site with the ever-popular floating torii (鳥居), a number of Buddhist temples, and picturesque Momijidani Park (紅葉谷公園).

The island, officially named Itsukushima (厳島), has been considered sacred throughout much of Japanese history. Itsukushima Jinja has existed in some form since at least the sixth century, when it was dedicated to the three daughters of the Shinto sea god Susano-o-no-Mikoto (須佐之男命). It has been in its current form since 1168. Historically, average citizens were strictly forbidden from setting foot on the island; they were required to come by boat, first passing under the giant torii, if they wished to make an offering to the shrine. To this day, to preserve the purity of the island, all burials are prohibited on Itsukushima.

I spent Sunday and and part of Monday on Itsukushima with a few friends. Since it was the first time visiting Miyajima for all of us, after riding the ferry from the mainland and soaking up the sunshine and beautiful view from the boat, we headed straight for the main attraction: Itsukushima Jinja, home of the iconic “floating” torii. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not actually floating; it only appears to be doing so during high tide, and we had luckily arrived at the right time to see the gate appear to float. The torii is built in a somewhat unusual style known as yotsu-ashi, whereby four additional “legs” are used to provide additional stability. The shrine itself is equally stunning. Though the general idea is the same as at every other Shinto shrine in Japan - clap your hands, bow, toss a coin, pray, get your fortune, and buy some lucky charms - the amazing architecture and design of Itsukushima Jinja make a visit definitely worthwhile. The way the majority of the shrine is built out into the water on a pier-like structure of covered decking is truly unique; walking through the series of airy, open porches is a wonderful experience. Of course, the view out to the sea and up into the surrounding mountains from the shrine is also stunning.

After walking through the shrine, we headed off to Miyajima’s small, quaint shopping district for lunch, but resolved to come back to the shrine again later to see what it looked like during low tide. We sampled the delicious local specialty, anago (穴子), salt-water eel, at a small restaurant. Less oily and rich than unagi (うなぎ), its freshwater cousin, it is often simmered or deep fried rather than being barbequed in a sweet sauce.

In addition to the many restaurants lining its streets, Miyajima’s shopping area is home to dozens of souvenier stalls and shops. The area is famous for its hand-made rice scoops, called shakushi (杓子), which are available in a number of varities from countless souvenier - omiyage (おみやげ) - vendors on the island. If you find the standard-sized scoops a bit boring, you can always take a look at Miyajima’s famous gigantic rice scoop, on display next to a storefront. At well over 5m long, it is claimed to be the world’s largest, and I was certainly inclined to believe this. Aside from the rice scoops, Miyajima is also famous for momiji manjuu (もみじ饅頭), small, leaf-shaped cakes filled with sweet bean paste. In many storefronts, it was possible to watch the cakes being made in specially-designed molds and then immediately buy a fresh, warm box of the delicious sweets. For the sake of a Kitty-chan-obsessed friend, I also stopped at the island’s official Sanrio shop, complete with a shrine to Kitty-chan, to buy a small trinket. In addition to the usual Hello Kitty fare, the store was home to a number of Miyajima-exclusive items that are available nowhere else in Japan or the world.

After tiring of the souveniers and shopping, we headed back toward the shrine. By the time we returned, the tide was going out, and families could be seen enjoying newly-uncovered beaches. For a moment, standing on the beach in the sunshine, looking up at the mountains, and watching the waves gently wash over the sand, I began to feel more like I was in Hawai’i or Ko Samui than Japan. A quick look over towards Itsukushima Jinja, though, and there was no mistaking the locale. It was now beginning to be possible to walk out under the giant torii, and a number of visitors to the shrine used the opportunity to place coins between cracks in the gate, a practice claimed to make one’s wishes come true.

Near the exit to the shrine was the Houmotsukan (宝物館), or Treasure House. The small but worthwhile museum contains 228 items that have been designated as either National Treasures or Important Cultural Properties. All of the items in the museum were donated to the shrine at one time or another by the victors of battles that took place on the Seto Sea or by grateful sailors. I found the full sets of beautifully-gilded armor on display to be especially interesting, but also enjoyed the ancient masks, musical instruments, and art on exhibit.

We walked around a bit more, coming across a number of the island’s non-human residents in the process. Unlike in Nara, where street vendors selling cookies for the deer can be found on practically every corner, on Miyajima, deer food is hard to come by, so the unfortunate deer are reduced to eating scraps of paper and robbing the bags of passing tourists.

Towards dinner time, we walked up into Momijidani Park, a hilly park located at the base of Mt. Misen along the Momijidani River. Famous for, as its name implies, its beautiful maple (momiji) leaves, the park is also home to Iwaso (岩惣), the ryokan where we would be spending the night. With a legacy dating back to 1854, Iwaso is considered to be the most luxurious and best accomodation on the island, and is priced to match. The experience, however, is well worth the cost. Included with the accomodations is a magnificent kaiseki dinner and either a Japanese- or Western-style breakfast and access to Iwaso’s two hot spring baths.

The suite we stayed in consisted of two Japanese-style tatami rooms, a Western-style bath and toilet, an entryway area for removing shoes, and a lovely balcony overlooking a small stream and waterfall. Just moments after we had entered the room, a woman dressed in a beautiful kimono came to serve us green tea and a plate of momiji manjuu cakes made at the inn and inquired as to what time we would like to have dinner. The room was very simply furnished, with only a low table in the center of one of the tatami rooms and a small table and chair set on the balcony. It was simply decorated as well; there was only a painted scroll hung on a wall and a beautiful ikebana flower arrangement set in front of it in the room’s tokonoma (床の間).

After we had settled into our room, we headed downstairs for a bath before dinner. Bathing in a Japanese onsen (hot spring) is a truly unique, relaxing experience. Each onsen has its own claim to fame, its own distinct list of benefits, its own list of medical conditions supposedly remedied by soaking in its waters. Iwaso’s springs are famous because they contain small amounts of radon, which is claimed to be beneficial for those with chronic skin diseases, poor circulation, hypertension, and a handful of other conditions. Of course, wanting to ensure that no one feels left out, the inn’s management notes that the water is also good simply for “the general improvement of health.” To many foreigners, the concept of sitting naked in a tub with a bunch of strangers is disconcerting. Once you get used to the idea, however, onsen are an exteremly enjoyable, relaxing, and refreshing experience, especially after a long day of traipsing around a mountainous island.

As is the case at almost all ryokan, Iwaso’s kaiseki dinner was served in our room. It consisted of over ten beautifully-presented dishes which prominently featured fresh, local, seasonal ingredients. Just the first course alone consisted of shrimp sushi, a whole crab (all of which was eaten), shellfish, and roe. After that, a seemingly neverending parade of food continued to be delivered to our room: salt-encrusted ayu, various types of sashimi, shrimp inside crispy dough pockets, more fish, bowls of rice… One of the highlights of the meal was a do-it-yourself stirfry: a plate conataining thinly-sliced beef, onions, mushrooms, baby corn, and asparagus, along with a small, lit cooking burner onto which these components were to be placed. Eventually, dessert, a melon slice, fresh fruit, and a mousse-like berry dish was served.

By the time we had finished eating the huge (and delicious) meal, it was already dark outside. Since Itsukushima Jinja is lit at night, we decided to head out for a walk down to the shrine. The night was perfectly clear, with the first stars just starting to appear in the sky as we headed towards the beach. With all the day-tripping tourists who had swarmed over the island earlier in the day gone, the area around the shrine had a very peaceful, relaxed feel. The shrine itself looked beautiful bathed in the glow of lanterns and spotlights, and the giant torii, by now again appearing to float, seemed truly magical sitting under the crescent moon and star-filled sky.

After trying in vain to get more than one or two good shots of the shrine and island at night, we headed back to Iwaso, where we found our comfy-looking (and feeling) futons waiting for us, and quickly fell asleep to the trickle of the waterfall outside our window.

All week, I had been hoping to get a glimpse of Mt. Fuji. Yet each time I was sure I would be able to see Japan’s iconic, perfectly shaped mountain, I walked away with nary a glimpse of its snow-tipped peak. While staying in Shinjuku, I had hoped to see the mountain from the observation deck at the top of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, but I saw nothing but clouds and the endless rows of buildings that make up Tokyo’s skyline stretching beyond the horizon.

Almost every tour book recommends a shinkansen ride between Tokyo and parts west as the best way to get a look at Fuji-san while in Japan, so I was excited when I traveled from Tokyo to Kyoto on a perfect, sunny spring day. The assigned seats I was given on the shinkansen for my excursion from Tokyo to Kyoto, though, were on the wrong side of the train, and I didn’t even realize I had already passed Mt. Fuji by until the train stopped at Nagoya. It appeared that Japan’s tallest mountain was going to elude my attempts to view it.

A few days later, settling into my seat aboard an ANA flight from Osaka to Tokyo, I had almost entirely forgotten about these failed attempts. It was barely eight o’clock in the morning, and I was too busy wondering how I had somehow managed to end up sitting in a business class seat for the first time in my life despite having actually purchased the cheapest ticket available. A few minutes into the flight, I ended up briefly chatting with one of the flight attendants about what I thought of Japan and where I had learned Japanese. After talking with her for a minute or so and getting my drink, she went to serve the other passengers, and I went back to playing with the confusing array of buttons on my armrest in an attempt to discover which of the seemingly infinite possibilities for arranging the seat would prove most comfortable.

A few minutes later, though, the same friendly flight attendent returned and asked if I had ever seen Mt. Fuji from the air. I replied that I had not, and she showed me to a window on the opposite side of the plane, telling me that there was a great view of Fuji that day. I looked out, and there it was, with its summit protruding from beneath the sea of clouds as if it were an island. All around was white: white clouds surrounding the snow-covered peak of Mt. Fuji. I stood, awestruck by the image - this was way better than pictures I had seen of the view from Tokyo skyscrapers or the shinkansen. If heaven was real, I thought, it must look something like this.

That day, looking down on Fuji-san from 35,000 feet, it became perfectly clear why the Japanese view the mountain as being sacred.