Shikoku

Day 8

We sleep in and walk to a nearby bakery. It has a cafeteria setup—grab a tray and pick pastries, both savory and sweet. One of the breads has a distinctive top-hat shape, supposedly from the chef accidentally using the wrong yeast.

We wander along the river and come across a preserved samurai house. It feels slightly off the main path and very quiet. Later, we find a modern coffee shop (ahem, "laboratory") on the second floor of a residential-looking building. I order a black latte with bamboo charcoal. It looks dramatic but tastes the same. I am not a discerning enough to be drinking caffeinated beverages from such an establishment, in any country.

We grab the bikes (riding them unloaded feels amazing!) and pedal along the river to the art museum. The permanent collection is small, but there's an exhibit by Kiyoshi Hamada — large works built from dense repetition of simple marks and. Viewed from a distance, they resolve into clouds, smoke, or swarms of birds or insects. The work is both chaotic and geometric. I love it.

Leisha has made it to Kochi, and we meet up at the castle. Like Matsuyama, it's built in tiers, with terraces that once held buildings leading up to a smaller central keep. This one feels more like a museum, with displays of armor, artifacts, and dioramas.

At the top, there's a small balcony with 360-degree views—cherry blossoms below, city beyond, mountains in the distance.

We rest back at the hotel, then head to Hirome Market. It's packed. Most vendors serve seared bonito, the local specialty. We figure out the ordering system—find a seat first, then order—and get some.

Day 9

The cherry blossoms are starting to fall, drifting through the air like snow as we ride up the valley north of Kochi.

The day starts with a long climb. We stop for lunch behind a grocery store near Otoyo, then continue climbing. Along the way, we pass rest stops and small attractions. It's convenient, but also slightly jarring—like the experience is supposed to feel rugged and remote, but the surroundings keep reminding you otherwise. Like running a marathon through a mall.

At the top, there's a long tunnel, followed by a fast descent into the Iya Valley.

We stop near the vine bridge and walk around the river and market area. There's a surprisingly large parking lot and several structures built out over the valley.

We ride a few miles up the river to our guesthouse. It's run by an older woman and is very comfortable. There's a private in-bathroom "onsen", with a rock formation and everything in one corner of the room. Literally, a recreated natural hot spring inside a bathroom. Our host tells us that dinner and breakfast can be prepared whatever time we'd we want. The food is hearty, plentiful, and most excellent.

Day 10

We ride up the Iya Valley. It's magnificent. A sign warns that the road is partially closed due to a rock slide, which has us a little concerned, but it turns out to just be a short one-lane section, maybe 25 feet total. Whew.

The road stays high above the river, climbing gradually without ever really leaving the valley. Steep hills, deep water below, and every structure perched right at the edge. We pass a fancy hotel and a "pissing boy" statue that is very famous. Yep.

Eventually we crest and descend into Miyoshi, then wind through back roads for a few miles before climbing again. It's slower than expected, but not as long as it looked based on the elevation profile on our phones.

We drop down to the flats and work our way across the outskirts of town, dealing with the usual frustration of navigating around larger roads.

Lunch is at a tiny mom-and-pop place. Maybe just pop and grandma? There's a single set meal for the day, so ordering is foolproof. The owner is very friendly and kindly gives us extra inari to take with us, gesturing that it's for us to eat later if we get hungry on the bikes.

We stop at Motoyamaji Temple, one of the henro pilgrimage sites. It feels notably simpler than others, with fewer shrines, flat terrain, a quieter atmosphere.

A few more miles on a riverside bike path drop us right behind our Airbnb. It's a snazzy, modern house.

We walk toward the water and stop at a hip coffee shop/grocery hybrid. The barista has strong 1950's greaser vibes with a leather jacket and slick hair. In addition to looking cool, he is very friendly and makes great coffee.

It starts to rain as we head toward a massive sand sculpture. It is in the shape of a coin, and was made as a gift for a visiting lord hundreds of years ago. Somehow it has been maintained, being continuously rebuilt ever since. We climb a hill to get a better view. A few cats are hiding under rocks along the way, waiting out the rain. They are completely uninterested in me.

From there we continue to Kanonji Temple. It has lots of steps, and lots of ornamentation. On the way down, we notice more cats tucked into the stone lanterns lining the stairs. Loaf guardians.

We wander into a hotel lobby while looking for dinner, only to find an empty restaurant. Someone eventually gets the chef, who tells us it's reservation-only (maybe just for guests?). He's confused but enthusiastic and helps us anyway, pointing us to the place we were actually looking for — right next door. Everyone gets a laugh out of it.

Dinner is okonomiyaki, yakisoba, and yakiniku-style dishes. Leah and Leisha seem a bit over it, but okonomiyaki has become my comfort food at this point, so I'm happy. We stop at Lawson on the way back, of course. Leisha takes the living room, and Leah and I set up futons on the floor.

Day 11

We wake up to rain and linger for a while, hoping it will pass. It doesn't, so we start riding anyway. It eventually tapers off and we're dry by noon.

We stop at Kotohiragu Shrine — the big one! Approaching from a side street, it's quiet at first, then suddenly crowded with tourists and trinket shops once we hit the main stairway. We climb up and up, the complex sprawling across a huge vertical area with dozens of buildings.

At some point we decide we've seen enough. On the way down, I give up counting steps after 600.

Leaving town takes a few false starts, but Leah finds a bike path along the water that we follow most of the way into Takamatsu.

We head to the post office to retrieve the bag we mailed on Day 1. It's there, safe and intact. The clerk asks for Leah's passport, and she pulls out mine — we must have swapped them at some point. More laughs.

A few blocks away, we stop for food - yakisoba and okonomiyaki again. As we're leaving, a group of schoolgirls comes in. We exchange a few words in English and Japanese. We rely on lots of pantomime lots and pronounce things poorly. Adults are far too polite, so it feels refreshing to share some company who will laugh at us, with us.

Across the street, we get taiyaki. Mine is matcha and red bean. Really good. Better than my and Leah's attempt at home. We make a mental note: thinner batter, more filling.

We head to Ritsurin Garden. It's elegant and well-kept, but not overly manicured. The understated landscaping is a surprisingly divisive aesthetic choice amongst our crew of three.

As it gets dark, we head toward the castle, only to find it closed (we probably could have checked). We decide to get a hotel instead of camping. I'm a little disappointed at first, but it makes catching the ferry in the morning so much easier. And it's hard to argue with a shower.

Day 12

Early ride through a mostly empty, industrial-feeling Takamatsu to the ferry terminal. A man at the gate gestures us toward the bike loading area. There is a large sign, in case we can't follow his directions.

Leah gets the tickets, and within minutes we're rolling the bikes onto the ferry and securing them in racks next to heavy machinery. Very straightforward.

There's not much seating, but the top deck is nearly empty and beautiful. We sit outside in the early morning light until it gets cold, then tuck behind a low wall to block the wind. It's unexpectedly peaceful.

We stop briefly at Shodo Island. A few cyclists get off, unpack, and ride away. The terminal has giant sculptures of an astronaut car and a lizard on a disco ball-like naval mine. No explanation.

At the end of the ride, we notice that ferry staff placed a towel under one of our bikes to keep it clean, despite the industrial setting. A small detail.

We land in Kobe and ride along a wide sidewalk before stopping at a farmers market. It looks oddly similar to ones back home—kombucha, strawberries, baked goods, overalls, sandals.

A few blocks north, we break down the bikes again outside a train station. It's messy but familiar by now. Carrying everything is a different story—bike over one shoulder in a thin bag, duffel as a backpack, front bag in hand. Heavy and awkward.

Tickets seem easy enough, but while waiting, I realize I should have reserved space for the bikes. Too late.

When the train arrives, we just go for it. We squeeze on, trying not to make eye contact with anyone we're inconveniencing. No one says anything. It's only three stops to Osaka.

We transfer to a subway-style train and repeat the process.

From the station, we still have about a kilometer to the hotel. Leah is struggling with the weight, so I carry her bike and she takes the front bag. It's easily over 100 pounds. This ends up being the most physically difficult part of the entire trip. I find this funny.

We arrive and immediately take advantage of the free lobby coffee. Then completely unpack and spread everything across the room. Two nights in a hotel feels luxurious.

We head out and end up in a touristy pedestrian area, eating an omelette-rice dish. A woman insists on taking photos of us.

We stop at a camera shop. I'm looking for a weird old Fuji camera for Emerson. I show the employee a photo and he laughs: "very rare." Next door, we get very fancy coffee at NYC prices.

We wander into Dotonbori at night. It's overwhelming in a good way. Like Times Square stretched across an entire neighborhood. Neon everywhere, packed sidewalks.

At one point, we stop in a crowd of people waiting at a crosswalk on a small side street. The pedestrian light is red, so almost no one dares cross it. It seems unbelievable to me. A metro area of 19 million people and nobody will jaywalk ten feet. Weeks later, this communal act of rule-following still sticks in my memory more than the bright lights or big buildings of the megacity.

We duck into a place that turns out to be more of a dive bar than a restaurant. Heads turn when we enter, and turning around to leave would feel too awkward , so we meekly ask if they have food. The owner shrugs and brings us... some things. Chicken soup, potato salad, tofu crumble.

It's not much of a meal. But the five locals there are incredibly friendly and outgoing. They talk with us, sing karaoke, and share several varieties of sake. It's one of the more uninhibited interactions of the trip. We walk back, take a cramped bath together in the molded plastic bathroom, and go to bed.

Day 13

We start the day at a narrow, slightly smoky restaurant for breakfast. It's maybe five feet wide, but it has coffee and a set menu, and it's cheap. Good enough.

Back to the hotel to pack everything up one last time.

On Leah's suggestion, we go to the Abeno Harukas observation tower on the 60th floor. The view is wild. We stand there pointing out landmarks we recognize, spotting strange rooftop scenes, odd buildings, parks. The rain and fog are rolling in, softening the distance and swallowing parts of the skyline. It actually makes it better. Very glad we did this. Good ideahhh Leah.

The tower connects directly into a massive department store—something like 14 floors, plus trains, mall, everything. We decide on sushi for lunch and find a quiet basement restaurant. It's empty, but good. The waitress is patient as we order a few things, then a few more. Unagi wa oishii de su.

Wandering through another floor with a shopping basket, we're quickly stopped by an employee who explains through urgent hand gestures that we need to pay for items in the department we picked them up from. Each floor is in fact a different store. She escorts us back to the escalator. I decide Leah had better stick to transportation planning, as her thieving skills need work.

We take the subway to Namba without much trouble and end up in what feels like a "housewares alley." Mostly mass-produced items, but I still come away with a very cute cat mug and a soy sauce pourer.

Next stop: "Melt" hot chocolate bar. It's expensive - we're back to US city prices - but very very good. Chili honey for me, ginger cinnamon for Leah.

We meet Leisha for dinner at a ramen place on the second floor of an office building, self-described as "The Most Deserted Ramen Bar in the World." It's not deserted at all - in fact it's actually pretty busy and kind of hip. A big, satisfying final meal in Japan.

We say goodbye to Leisha on a street corner, then take the subway back toward the hotel. One last konbini stop for snacks to bring home. I briefly wonder if my lack of gift-buying is intentional or just laziness.

Day 14

5 AM alarm. The night is bracketed by hallway noise — people coming in late and leaving earlier than us — but we manage some sleep. We load up the bikes and bags and haul everything back to the train station. This time I ask about reserved tickets for oversized baggage, but the attendant waves it off. It's just a subway train, not a Japan Railways train, oops.

At the airport, we use a baggage wrapping service. They cling-wrap the bikes instead of boxing them. It's more convenient, but doesn't inspire much confidence as to the protection. Doesn't matter, I tell myself - we just need to get them home.

In Seoul, we have a seven-hour layover and decide to go into the city. The airport train and subway are straightforward on the way in.

Dongdaemun Design Plaza is a subtle, illusory work of art. The spaces feel much larger on the inside than they appear from the outside. It's hard to explain, but the effect is bizarre.

We walk to Gwangjang Market, weaving through narrow aisles of food stalls with bench seating. We spend too long trying to find an ATM before giving up and just finding a place that takes cards. The food is great—thin soba noodles. A whole new set of small things to figure out: water cups in the fridge, utensils in drawers, storage under the seats.

Heading back to the airport, things start to unravel. The subway requires cash or a transit card. We try to get cash. The ATM thinks for several minutes and then fails. We're short on time. We glance around and suspiciously walk through the entry gate without paying (there's no physical barrier) and make it onto the train. At Seoul Station, we hit the same problem trying to exit. We run through the gate again without paying.

Now we need to transfer to the airport tram. Same issue. We dodge another gate as it closes. At the next gate, there's an attendant. I tell him we lost our tickets. He tells us to go back out and buy new ones. We don't. We can't.

My last-ditch idea is to try Uber instead. It works. We rush out into the rain, find the car, and promptly slow to a crawl in Seoul's rush-hour traffic. No way we're going to make it.

We arrive at the airport 22 minutes before departure and sprint through security and immigration. Luckily we enter the terminal near our gate, and miraculously are able to board with the other passengers. Ironically, Leah is randomly selected for a security check at the gate, so we end up delayed, and board dead last. Both ends of our trip involved transportation woes and sprinting through an airport to barely catch the flight in time. Time for some self-reflection.

I'm relieved when we touch down in Seattle. If anything goes wrong here, at least my own ignorance of an unfamiliar system won't compound the challenge.

We break up the long layover by leaving the airport (lesson not learned) to follow a sidewalk along a busy road to a park. It feels great to stretch our legs and get some sunshine. I enjoy some now-imported snacks. Roast beef flavored popcorn is a winner. No problems here, other than being back in a world with huge parking lots, expensive prices, and no bidets.