My friend and I decided to stay in the bohemian area of Cartagena to bookend our week long cruise in the Southern Carribean. The area of Getsemani is peaking towards gentrification, and will surpass gentrification as a Four Seasons is being built there. I love that one tiny hotel refused to sell their property, so they will exist as the Four Seasons is being built around it. Per my walking tour guide, whose name was Legacy, the area in the past was filled with drugs and prostitution. The city wanted to change this and began hiring street artists to paint murals in this side of town to change it’s vibe. Murals exist of their version of Mother Earth, or an homage to an elderly man who fell asleep in the same spot daily and died there, and even of three children bandits who are raising their fists in a power symbol to stop gentrification.
There is a vibrant authentic bohemian energy still that still exists, with local restaurants that have tables on the street next to parked taxis and motorbikes. Celebratory umbrellas or colorful banners line the streets of makeshift bars in alleys. There are locals selling art to tourists, and local souvenirs. Rappers and swindlers follow you and start rapping about what you are wearing, and if you engage with them (for a fee) your story. A musician plays No Woman No Cry in the background. I hear accents from different countries walk the streets, whose mouths are open in wonder of what they are witnessing.
Multiple blocks away there are chains that exist, which include Starbucks, McDonalds, and KFC. But in this little area, only local shop owners, or tiny hotels and bed and breakfasts exist. As I checked into my bed and breakfast early at Les Lizards, I was greeted with kindness and a second breakfast of a fresh fruit drink, arepas, coffee, and local fruit. I was told “this is your home,” I could visit the jacuzzi, hang out in the lounge area. I would only be there for one night, but was offered so much generosity. Later in the evening, I stood in front of the door and debated to go inside or grab dinner, but I wanted a suggestion. The staff member/owner saw me as he walked down the street and said “you’re right here,” as the door appeared hidden. I queried about dining recommendations, and he escorted me down the street, and talked to the staff. I sat in the outdoor table on the street and took in the moment.
It was as if I stepped back in time. This was bohemian Cartagena, but it could be a bohemian town anywhere in the world at one point. Isn’t this the essence of what directors strive to capture on film? I imagined this was what the East Village was like in the 50’s or Brooklyn back in the day? Tourists long to linger here, it’s as if you are stepping onto a set that we want to inhale into our memories.
There’s a dichotomy here of chaos and chill vibe. Horns are honked on the street by cars taking their time to let people out, and one way streets are blocked. Music is playing at one restaurant, while rappers are scheming with their boombox down the street. There is a cat begging me for food as I eat. And yet I am finding a sense of pause as I drink my coconut lemonade, which tastes like a pina colada. The soft bulbs that line the streets which appear to be pedestrian, make my eyes hazy as if I am in a dream.
I was here in Cartagena for a short time, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I come back. Who knows if this place will remain the same? Will the authentic vibe outlast the tourism that seems to be booming here and the Four Seasons to premiere in Spring 2026? Not sure, but for a moment todo es tranquilo.
Have you ever visited Cartagena, or a place so bohemian you stepped back in time? If so where? What was it like?
It’s that time of year, when people have accumulated vacation time to visit friends and family throughout the world. Highways are crowded, trains are booked, and flights are delayed. Generally it’s not my favorite time to travel, as the world is temporarily filled with chaos as people are trying to reach their destination.
I can’t help but observe fellow travellers around me. As I write this, I finished my second flight to Panama and awaiting my third to head to Colombia, for a week long cruise. The first flight was two hours late, from the tiny airport in SLO. I kept my cool, because my layover of four hours had space. But others didn’t. As we landed in Terminal 7 in LAX, some of us walked towards Bradley International terminal. The shuttle was closed temporarily for 30 minutes. We had the option of waiting or leaving the airport, walking 10-15 minutes, going back through TSA to head to our gates. One family was worried, they didn’t know if they would make it in time. Another man in his 60s decided to walk, I walked with him. As we walked we shared stories. “I have to make this flight to Tahiti, I haven’t spent Christmas with my family in 30 years.” He had travelled from Denver, a delayed flight, made it to another flight, and was determined to make this particular flight on Air France. He was meeting his family in Tahiti as his sister and her partner have been sailing the world for six months and the family decided why not meet in Tahiti. I said I was headed to Colombia. He reminisced while briskly walking. “I lived there for a month when I was 17, with two other expats. Someone let us rent their place for $8 for the whole month. “ He proceeded to share how he spent six months hitchhiking South America. What an adventurer. We parted ways, wished each other luck. I didn’t know his name, but I will remember his story.
As I made it to my gate, I sat and wait. There were 2 Copa Airlines headed to Panama within several minutes of each other. I asked the agent why, if it was overbooked. She said “we always have two flights.” I later learned Panama and Copa Airlines is the gateway to the rest of South America. I listened as people shared their final destination. One American man said he was headed to Brazil. The staff member asked for his visa, he didn’t know he needed one and panicked. Could he get one virtually? No, it would take five days. He wanted to still take the plane and just hang out in Panama, she wouldn’t allow it. I recall my aunt and husband went to Brazil for their wedding, not knowing they too needed visas, until being turned away at the airport. They headed to NYC for an emergency embassy visit and made the most of their honeymoon. Noted for future me, check for visas for Brazil.
I felt bad for this man, he probably organized everything for this trip. In my head, I hypothesized he paid for his parking, coordinated vacation days, paid for a pet sitter, hotels, excursions, and this ticket. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to go to Brazil and will be redirected to go on a journey somewhere else or have a staycation.
Holiday travels don’t always go as planned, and we need to leave space for this. It definitely is a time of stress. I noticed I craved Asian fast food and headed to Panda Express after running to my gate. A staff member ate Cheetos as she looked at her list of to dos. People scrolled on their phones to distract themselves from time spent waiting. Another passenger on the second flight to Panama came to my gate and requested to get on that flight. The other flight was delayed and he would miss his layover, could he switch? The gate agent said no and would not help him. I thanked the stars that my plane was not late and I could make my layover. But this could have been me too. Yet in the midst of this, I noticed two Nordic travellers having a beer, as I wolfed down my Chinese food. They appeared as they were in total chill mode, as if they were just having pints at a local bar. These two seemed to be enjoying the travel moment, something many of us were missing. During the holidays we all have the potential to be stressed. Give yourself some grace during this season, and also compassion to your fellow travellers and humans. You don’t know what they are going through. Notice the little things that make you smile, however ridiculous. At this café in Panama as I write this my Almond Cappaccino was $8, the same price as that fellow traveller’s month in Colombia. The duty free shop was filled with holiday carolers and Mr. and Mrs. Claus available for photo ops. One bathroom cleaner played Reggaeton as she cleaned the sinks. In another bathroom, a cleaner wore a holiday reindeer headband. Somehow they were making the most of the busy work day. Take in the joy where you can, and spread some if possible. Notice what’s going on around you, how other people are engaging with the day, observe the moment versus totally distracting yourself from the world. Find gratitude for what is working. We’re all just trying to make it to our next de
Today, I opted to walk towards the beach for my morning journaling. This is a practice I’ve been doing on my days off, while living a five minute stroll downhill from Avila Beach. The sun was just about to rise over the cliffs. As I walked in the distance, I saw something large moving. It takes practice and a keen eye to watch areas for movement, and it’s easy to be fooled. It could be simply a larger bird bathing, yesterday I was at a loss, and thought I saw an animal playing with a ball in the distance. It was a human swimming with a bright orange vest. But today, my eyes stared into the horizon. As I walked closer, I saw in the water a dolphin, swimming solo towards the sunrise. I watched with awe and wonder. How grateful I was to witness it. Another passerby noted, “it’s beautiful isn’t it?” I pointed out the dolphin I just saw, he informed me he had a seen a group of 20-30 seals that just swam by.
I was just about to sit on the cement steps looking onto the pier, when I saw something moving beyond me. A woman was looking through a telescope at this little being, and as she walked by me she smiled and was wearing an “awe of god” shirt. The universe was definitely speaking to me. I walked onto the pier and saw a little otter down below, cleaning himself, having fun rolling in circles in the water. The sun glistened like golden flecks in the water as I stared at him with joy. He seemed to notice me and I’d like to think he was putting on a show. On the other end of the pier, I saw something move at the corner of my eye, but did not stay above water for too long. I caught a glimpse of a seal.
And although I went to the beach to journal, I spent an hour being mesmerized by what was in my presence… The morning sunrise served as the backdrop for the dolphin, seal, and otter, and the variety of birds that were greeting my morning. Sometimes life redirects us to just be and witness the magic that lies before us. But we have to be present to observe this.
During the Thanksgiving season, my family and I were in Mexico City. Every year we opt to use this as an opportunity to travel and connect, as it aligns with my mother’s birthday. It’s become an annual way to honor her, as we explore another city or country. This was the case for Mexico City and the Museo Frida Kahlo, or as many know it as Casa Azul.
Casa Azul, known to English speakers as the Blue House, is where Frida resided with Diego Rivera. It was where Frida created, recovered, and lived in inspiration. Because she did not always leave her home during periods of illness, she surrounded her residence with inspirational pieces from indigenous cultures of Mexico and throughout the world. We were uber prepared for this journey, as my mother had made us blinged out Frida denim jackets to wear for the week and ensured to get our tickets weeks in advance, aware that it sells out on a frequent basis. The day came for our journey to Coyoacan, the artsy borough where the museum exists, and we were early. We didn’t want to miss a moment of the day. As we stood in front of the museum, two hours before it opened, we begun to wonder how would we spend the day. We could wander the streets taking in the culture, and opted to walk towards a local market. A woman stopped us on the street, “Frida,” she said with a smile.
My mother and I both turned around. She asked me in Spanish, if we were going to Casa Azul, and I agreed. Luckily my Spanish is good enough to have basic conversations with the locals. She then asked if I was aware of Casa Roja? Another Frida museum several blocks away. This was the house Frida grew up in with her family. How had I not heard about this? I was a Frida fanatic, and thought I was aware of all things Frida in the area. But the museum opened two months prior and we didn’t need reservations for it. It was closed Monday and Tuesday, we were in luck, as it was Wednesday. She tried to recount images from her sister’s recent trip and the exact address, but informed me it was only two blocks down this direction, turn and walk two more blocks. I thanked her quickly for her Frida tip, and we proceeded to head towards the museum. To ensure I didn’t miss anything in translation, I looked it up on my phone and she was right. Four blocks away, we arrived at the museum in luck, an English tour was just beginning.
It was a day full of Frida, stepping into the rooms she lounged in, walking the path between the family home and her married home, observing her belongings, and impressed by her clothes. I had visited Casa Azul twenty years ago when doing a short study abroad program, but knew little about Frida. This time was different. She had emerged as an artist and strong female that has served as a guiding force in times of difficulty, and it was a pure pilgrimage. The final room had the urn that held her remains, which I missed initially and had to return to ensure I paid homage to her.
Several days later, we were in the Modern Art Museum in Mexico City. I stood for several minutes in front of the Two Fridas painting, reflecting on what lay in front of me. I overheard two Americans talking about Frida and her sister. They were talking about the horror of her sister Cristina having an affair with Diego. I made sure to correct them, as I had the same thought while at Casa Roja, but when I brought it up to the tour guide. She cautioned me that this was a solely a rumor that began with the film that was produced about her life. There was no proof. I ensured to pass this intel onto these American tourists, and gave them a tip of Museo Kahlo that had recently opened and would be a perfect addition to their trip. They were appreciative and said they would add it to their itinerary. It was after my trip was made to Coyoacan that I began getting notifications from friends and social media travel updates that this museum was opened, but I had the inside scoop from a local. Yet what made it more special, and serendipitous, was how we found out.
Sometimes it pays to wear loud clothing and talking to strangers. If we had not worn the Frida jackets and had a willingness to engage in my elementary Spanish with a stranger, we would have missed this golden opportunity to explore Museo Kahlo.
“Nobody can discover the world for somebody else. Only when we discover it for ourselves does it become common ground and a common bond and we cease to be alone.” -Wendell Berry
Yesterday, I opted to end my 10 days in Costa Rica with a walking tour of San Jose. It’s an easy way to squeeze in history, exercise, and tourism in a short amount of time. There were six of us tourists, all solo travellers. The interesting thing when you travel solo is you are out of your comfort zone, no familiar friends or family to converse with, and you have the opportunity to have conversations with people around the world.
On the tour, my only fellow American spent the past week clowning around Costa Rica. She literally was clowning, through an organization run by the infamous Patch Adams. They spread smiles around the world through comedic performance. We were an international group from Ecuador, Colombia, Netherlands, and Scotland. One was brought here for work, another has moved here temporarily as a digital nomad, and most for pure pleasure.
The day unfolded without much plans, we walked the laid out path our guide had set for us. But then we inquired about the restaurant he recommended La Esquinita de la Abuela (Grandma’s corner), an awe inspiring place with a cheap menu and local cuisine, decorated as one’s grandmother’s home would be. Our guide stated “you know how minimalism is popular, but Central America is not that. Minimalism is boring, we are maximalists. And this is decorated with maximalism.” In the corner of the restaurant, where chicken soup was being served, was an homage to St. Martin de Porres with brooms next to him. Upon exploration of who this Saint was and why was he here, he was a mixed race friar from Peru. He’s the saint for social justice, racial harmony, and mixed race people. The broom served as a symbol that all work was sacred, regardless of how small the task. I felt that in this restaurant that served authentic Costa Rican cuisine in it’s kitchy plates and glasses. The love was offered to all who entered.
We listened to local stories our guide shared with us over lunch, such as who was author Jose Leon Sanchez. He allegedly stole La Negrita (the beloved Black Madonna) and condemned to jail for years, and upon release fleeing Costa Rica, and found fame in Mexico City. We heard about a tradition of people wearing folk masks in small towns, who look like pinata heads but the opposite occurs. Instead of this pinata like figure being hit, you are hit with a stick, “you know what you may happen if you are too close.”
It was as if some of us didn’t want it to end. We enjoyed wandering (flaneuring) the streets taking in the recommended restaurants, cafes, and markets. The 2 ½ hour tour extended to over 8 hours, as we shared our professions, travel history, political views of our countries, and dreams over coffee and shared desserts. We stumbled to one of the top 100 cafes in the world, and also one of the most beautiful in the local theater. Our guide told us, if we couldn’t make it to a show, we could get a peak of the theater while walking to the restroom.
As we walked the streets, I was reminded of the film Before Sunrise, without the romance, and instead of two main characters, there were four. Who knows if we will see each other again, I made sure to share our contacts. Life has a funny way of working out, “we may end up meeting in another country” I told a fellow traveller as I gave her a hug goodbye.
As we meet strangers, when we travel solo, we have the opportunity to pause and reflect on who we are in this moment, where we’ve come from, and where we opt to go. What are the stories you choose to share? Where are the destinations you hope to go? What type of life are you stepping into when you return home? Where is home, and will home change? All of this occurs within the backdrop of an unfamiliar country, which adds to the allure of the fleeting moment. I can’t help but notice the nomadic wanderluster arises in me at times like this. The 25 year old backpacker who visited 15 countries in one summer, and so many hopes before landing my first full time job. Do I forever want to wander? Will I ever find one home? At moments like this, I don’t just meet new friends, but meet that old version of myself who still longs for adventure, wonder, and feels ephemeral.
When’s the last time you’ve met that version of yourself?
“Is this your first time at Esalen,” the gatekeeper asked, as I was checking in.
“No, it’s my fourth, but first time volunteering.” I responded.
The gatekeeper proceeded to describe property rules and protocol for my day at Esalen. I’ve attended three retreats at this Big Sur property in the past 15 months, nourishing my soul at times of change. I had the urge to return, but didn’t have the time to allot to a full retreat, therefore a day dose would have to suffice. Volunteers get nearly 12 hours to use the facility.
I kept this in mind as I left my home at 6am, but with traffic, and a stop to fill my car, I didn’t make it to Esalen until after 10:00. I put positive thoughts in the universe my desire for leftover breakfast and a spot to charge my car, and surprisingly both were available to me on arrival. I was lucky for scraps, as breakfast ended at 930. I needed food in my body, because my shift started when lunch would be served.
Retreats sell out at Esalen, and as I checked the website, so do volunteer slots. Available slots are posted two weeks early, and are quickly nabbed up. Everyone wants an opportunity to experience the land, the thermal baths, and the healing space Esalen has to offer. So I felt relieved when I landed a spot. I had hopes to share this with my partner, but he cancelled the week prior due to a conflict in schedule, and we broke up yesterday. So, here I was ready to volunteer solo on what I thought would be a joint venture.
My two hours of free time before check in included writing as I looked out the cliffs of the Pacific Ocean, laying in the gardens, and glancing at the available books in the bookstore. Time passed quickly, I moved my car, parked far away as requested and went to check in for my volunteer shift to begin.
“I want you to get lunch first, then start your shift for me.” My shoulders and nervous system relaxed. The volunteer attendant wanted to ensure I was nourished before I prepared food for others. What a beautiful thing. My body needed nourishment, after a break up, and long solo road trip.
My three hours in the kitchen served as a meditation, as I cut up zucchini with repetition. Everyone was in their zone of allotted tasks to do. Another staff member, asked how I was doing and if I needed water. She grabbed water for me in a large plastic container. Once again another stranger was nourishing me. Time passed as I swept the kitchen with a broom, peeled off stickers from plums, and washed these fruits for others. And just like that, my shift was over.
For the next 75 minutes I relaxed in the thermal baths, naked as everyone else was. We watched otters play in the water, one even shared her binocolars with the collective. Each time I go to the thermal baths, I cant help but think we stepped outside of Big Sur California and into ancient Greek times. Perhaps we are our own gods and goddesses who deserve a break from daily modern life.
This is my first time I volunteered at Esalen, and I know it won’t be my last. Perhaps in the future it may be more than cutting vegetables, perhaps a sound bath I will lead or a workshop. But for now this is good, I appreciate the mutual nourishment in what this place offers me. I have gratitude to the land, and the ancestors and protectors of the land the Esselen tribe. Thank you for holding me, nourishing me, and I hope in some way I can serve you.
I’m curious how there is reciprocal nourishment in your life? Whether that is through people, pets, or places?
I woke up this morning having a dream that my mother and I had an argument about time. I felt she was wasting it, being slow in her movements, when we had a long road trip to get to. She is retired and luxuriates in time, I felt I didn’t have enough of it. In the dream, I wanted to rush her to and make the most of it.
This dream made sense at this particular moment, it was the evening the clocks sprung forward.
I woke up earlier than my roommates and was not clear of time. We were at a retreat center with limited cell service and wifi in the cabins. It was completely dark outside, I looked at my phone and wondered was it really 545 am? Would my cell phone change without service? Could I trust time, feeling as if I didn’t have enough?
But the truth is (at least for me on retreats) time stretches and expands while one is away from her everyday demands. And so what is time?
Time’s been on my mind, as I have clients in other countries at the moment, where the time does not change. The past week trying to coordinate schedules blew my mind, what time tomorrow would it be for them when we spoke today for me? As I reflect on time, I want a different job so I can have more time off, because as a full time salaried employee someone controls the amount of time I can use leisurely and who determines how my sick time shall be used, even if I want to focus more on wellness. I long for time abundance rather than time scarcity.
I woke up with a sore throat and thought to make better use of my morning. Instead of worrying about time, I would do something with it.
I opted to walk to the lounge area and have some tea, another retreat attendee noted how early I was up, and he was the same. He continued to compare this time, to time back home. Another woman asked for the time, and a man stated the time was near sunset. He didn’t know because he had pre-coffee brain. Time was on all of our minds.
At the moment, I could luxuriate in it. And I did
Initially as I walked towards the baths at 6ish I saw tiny paw prints on the staircase. I wasn’t sure what animal may be joining me in the open baths, would it just be me and a racoon? A human couple left the baths, I saw no racoons, and felt at ease as I slid into the thermal baths. At Esalen, the baths are clothing optional. In the darkness of the early day or evening, I do not mind being nude alone in the healing waters, listening to the ocean hit the rocks below. And here time felt expansive.
I sit in front of a tree overlooking a mountain, facing the direction of where the sun will be rising from, having a warm cup of coffee before yoga class begins. At another point of my busy life, I may say that I beat time. I was so productive before the sun said hello. But time is not a thing to be beat. It’s something to be in partnership with, flow with.
There’s a patter on the roof, I witness two racoons scoping out the landscape during their last moments of nocturnal activities. Slowly they creep and disappear into the tree that I am observing. Perhaps these were the racoons whose footprints I observed in the baths. Perhaps we are on the same schedule. They do not adhere to clocks and watches, but the movement of the sun and moon. Yet, here we are together making the most of the time we have today.
‘The overriding sense of Tokyo is that it is a city devoted to the new, sped up in a subtle but profound way: a postmodern science-fiction story set ten minutes in the future.’ ― David Rakoff
I am someone who yearns for a contemplative life. Last year I made a vow with a friend to not buy clothes or shoes for the entire year, and for the most part I kept to it. I was intentional with all I brought into my world.
And now Tokyo. Being here is overstimulation for all the senses. Shopping the streets of Harajuku, my inner 7 year old comes out. She’s longing for all things cute (here known as Kawaii) that she didn’t get. This includes Hello Kitty characters for my hair and feet. Jackets and shoes that have dainty ruffles on them, shoes that increase my height and look they are made out of bubble gum, and rainbow colored snacks that give you a sugar high simply looking at them. Cafes are filled with animals to cuddle with either to further feed the stimulation, or perhaps calm it down. I’ve seen not only puppy and cat cafes, but micropigs and hedgehog ones.
Last year’s restraint has been temporarily erased, as somehow I found myself purchasing four pairs of shoes in one day in Harajuku. I’m not sure what happened. I was under the spell of bright happy cotton candy colors that clouded my vision. The river of people were moving at an incessant speed. Instead of fighting the stream, we went with it.
It makes sense there are pockets of serenity intentionally placed throughout the city. Nostalgic jazz by the likes of Ella Fitzgerald softly plays as the backdrop in multiple cafes. It seems as if shrines have strategically been placed within parks to soften the volume Tokyo. All of these are necessary as one walks through the crowded streets of tourists and locals. It blows my mind that this city has 4 times the amount of people living in it than New York City does. And as I write this in a high rise hotel overlooking the streets and waterways of Tokyo, I’m appreciative of the current calm moment that is existing before another day begins.
My word of the year is “savor.” What I realize that to savor is not just the quiet moments that exist within nature and silence. Savor also is to take in the vibrancy of colors, joy, cuisine, curiosity, the fast pulse of city that vibrates at a different pace to one’s own. Savor the chaos, find stillness when one can, and know you have a choice how you want to flow when you return home. What will be integrated after the travels you’ve processed?
‘For those with restless, curious minds, fascinated by layer upon layer of things, flavours, tastes and customs, which we will never fully be able to understand, Tokyo is deliciously unknowable. I’m sure I could spend the rest of my life there, learn the language, and still die happily ignorant.’ – Anthony Bourdain
The other day as I sat for breakfast at my Okinawan hotel, I opted to wear my Strawberry Shortcake sweater. One of the staff members freaked out. She loved Strawberry Shortcake, remembering from her childhood. She spent half of it in Okinawa and half in America (specifically North Carolina), she recalled other favorite cartoons from that era: My Little Pony and Care Bears. I asked how old she was, she didn’t want to say, but admitted to be 46. “I am 45, we are the same.” I further went on to try to connect with other beloved animated characters from that era, which included He-man and his sister She-ra, and Jem.
What was interesting is I had just recently bought this sweater prior to coming to Japan. She showed me her water bottle, also Strawberry Shortcake, and an I phone case she made with the same image. She admitted as she got older, and her children aged, this was her time to embrace what she loved in her youth. It was interesting, because earlier in the week, I just purchased a Hello Kitty keychain and was debating to go into town to get a Hello Kitty hat and a Monchhichi purse, both paraphernalia for us 80s kids. But now I had validation, it was totally ok to get this. A kindred spirit was doing the same thing on the other side of the world. She deeply connected with Strawberry Shortcake, as it was not easily found in stores in Japan and was special to her experience. She had to search this out. Although Hello Kitty was universal, Monchhichi wasn’t. I was doing the same thing in Okinawa.
I opted to share with her the California Strawberry Festival which occurs annually near my current residence. The irony is one of her co-workers had a similar growing up experience. He was born in Okinawa, but moved to California when his mother remarried. He lived in nearby town to me for 15 years. I told her that her colleague was from the same area, and I showed her pictures of the strawberry attire people wore, the strawberry desserts that were served, and the cute crocheted Strawberry hat I bought. She immediately wrote it down to research later, and vowed she would go one day. I have no doubt in my mind that one day she will pilgrimage to this festival wearing Strawberry Shortcake attire. Travelling reminds us of diversity, but it also reminds us of the similarities we hold. And this week was evidence of that.
It didn’t start off as a pilgrimage. Initially I was going to have a relaxing day in town, and opt for the local spa. I heard there was an onsen (Japanese spa) that allowed one to have tattoos. I asked the front desk of my hotel to confirm this and if there was availability. The staff member queried how many tattoos I had. “Six” I replied, when really it was closer to 8. He asked the question, then shook his head, I was informed tattoos were allowed, but the cap was 2. I had been warned about hiding my tattoos in Japan, as it may be assumed I was part of a gang. I nodded my head, admitting slight frustration. Out of my mouth, the next question that arose “are there any bicycles left to borrow?” Yes, there were three currently for hotel guests to use. I had to go somewhere on my day off. I was going on an unexpected pilgrimage.
In recent days I had explored what was reasonably close to the hotel, and had noted within 2.5 miles was Futenma Shrine. This was a shrine built in the 1450s during the Ryuku era, and a US military base is located right next to it and a sacred cave underneath it. My knowledge about the shrine was limited, but I was determined to see shrine while in Okinawa. To walk to the Futenma Shrine would take nearly an hour, but one could reach it by bicycle in less than 20 minutes. Although I had a tiny cold, I opted for the bicycle route. How bad could 20 minutes be?
What I discovered was some of this route would be uphill, and the bike was a beach cruiser. There were no gears, and I am not a bicycle afficionado. And so the trek began. Once I got outside of the main streets of Chatan, nobody was riding bicycles and there were few pedestrians, as I bicycled and escorted by bicycle around the perimeter of Camp Foster. I gave myself verbal pep talks, that I could do this. I did the Camino, I got this, only one more mile to go. The projected 20 minute journey was closer to 40 minutes, as I followed google map’s route. It encouraged me to get off my bike and walk uphill on a side road, which was blocked off by flags. I circumvented this, and when I reached the top the plastic barrier was larger. I crawled under this with my bike.
A staff member said in Japanese to park my bike where I was. He probably also yelled at me for taking the side road that was covered with flags, discouraging entrance. I smiled wiped off the sweat, bowed, hoping he would forgive this unknowing American. My Japanese is minimal, but through motions we communicated. I began to walk towards the parking lot further uphill but was encouraged to go downhill to the entrance. I followed the crowd. This was a proper one day pilgrimage. Sweat and effort to go to a holy place, not knowing what to expect, reliance on others, and oftentimes language barriers.
Behold the beauty of the Shrine in front of me, but there was a separate area to the side where people were standing in line to purchase items. Was there an entrance fee? Was it souvenirs or offerings? I noticed people cleaning their hands with water in a beautiful trough. I followed what I saw. I opted to go into a room where people were waiting, everything was in Japanese. I was the only English speaker there. I asked a staff member if she spoke English, she did not but brought out another staff member. I knew there was a cave below, I queried how to get to this. “Write your name over there, wait, you will be escorted.” I followed orders, and within a minute was escorted in Japanese with three other people to the cave downstairs.
No photos were allowed in this sacred space. Although I longed to document this part of the journey, I didn’t want to disrespect the rules. Prior to entering in a single file line, the staff member bowed deeply. We each took our turns bowing to this sacred symbol, we walked further and then bowed to the cave. The staff member left us, and from what I understood we each had free time to wander the cave, pray, and be in this sacred space before the next scheduled group to arrive in 20 minutes. There were small coin offerings in little nooks, and a small mini shrine in the front. I always felt comfortable in caves, after living in Spain, and being able to visit them quite frequently. Caves with stalagmites seem to offer a living breathing holy space, where silence is encouraged in the midst of the dark corners. I admit I don’t know much about Shintoism. I noticed one woman kneeling and praying to the small altar. When she was complete, I followed suit. Internally I automatically I said the Hail Mary. I didn’t know how to worship in the confines of this religion, and therefore I thanked the world and universe for having this opportunity to visit, for who is in my life, and for life.
As my allotted time in the cave was ending, I explored what was upstairs. There was an area to pay 100 yen (less than $1) and receive a fortune, and one stash were in English. I paid the 100 yen and received an interesting fortune. As I peaked into the shrine, individual groups of families entered and had time with a staff member, who played the drums and repeated prayers for them. It seemed to be some type of honoring or blessing. As the other visitors stood outside, we each took turns giving an offering. One gives a small amount of money, bows and claps twice, then prays. I was familiar with this, as the week prior when going to the Cherry Blossom festival and climbing and visiting a small shrine in the mountain, we were taught to do this. One seemed to do this individually, with one’s partner, or as a family. Throughout the shrine, there were fortunes hung and left behind. If one doesn’t like the fortune you paid to receive, you could leave it there. I kept mine. It was too intriguing to leave behind.
I spent an hour at this shrine, and as I left there was a tiny drizzle. I mounted my bike and walked it down the blocked off side road (like a rebel), and headed back. Now the path was downhill, and the ride lasted 20 minutes. As I sat on my beach cruiser in the rain, I was pleased I pushed myself to visit this site. I smiled as I rod the path, and it was an interesting feeling this unexpected pilgrimage I took by myself. I barely spoke to anyone, as I do not speak Japanese, and had no friends or family with me. This was a memory that only I could recall in the future, as it was experienced only by me. Mental note made to remember this moment.
*I had researched afterwards the stories linked to this cave, to find out more check on the link below. The following paragraph is taken from the accompanying website:
Megami.
Initially, the first deity is a female by the name Megami. The legend goes that two sisters used to reside in the Syuri area, one being of immeasurable beauty. This was Megami, but she was also pious and devout, locking herself away and dedicating her time to spiritual pursuits. Her younger sister married, and the husband became curious of the legendary beauty. One day, he decided to sneak a peak at Megami, who caught him. She was horrified, and fled from the house in hysterics, disappearing into the caves of Futenma, never to be seen again. Since then, she has become a divine being of the cave.
It Only Takes A Smile 