A Post Man at Tsumago. Photo by Shigeki Kajita / The North American Post.
Our inn, Tajimaya has been in the same family for seventeen generations. The current owner, young Mr. Hara, bowed to us as we ducked into the genkan and exchanged our shoes for slippers. He and Shigeki looked happy to see each other. Shigeki has been coming here since he was a college student. We were shown to our rooms. I learned on this trip to measure the size of a room by counting its tatami mats. At Tajimaya, we had six. Hot tea and sembei (rice crackers) were waiting for us on a low table. There was a TV stand and a laundry rack, but no other furniture. We would prepare the beds ourselves later, pulling futon and linens from the oshiire.
Magome is preserved as an Edo era way station along the old Nakasendo route, before the advent of railways. Now it is a popular tourist spot. We had free time to explore the shops lining the remarkably steep cobbled main street, while some of us continued on up to scout the Nakasendo trail we would follow the next day to the neighboring way station of Tsumago. Others got photos with the mailman on his rounds, a hat shaped like an inverted salad bowl strapped under his chin, good for rain or sun. He wore black two toed jikatabi on his feet, called “ninja shoes” by young Americans.
We returned for our first truly Japanese home cooked meal. I donned the yukata and snuggly wool happi coat provided, knotted with a belt. Not required dinner dress, but it adds to the experience. There were two long tables for us in the dining room, with low stools to sit on. I was slightly disappointed we didn’t get to sit on the floor, but I’m sure some people were more comfortable. Each place setting had dishes of sushi, gyoza, chawanmushi, tsukemono, nabemono, a fish complete with head and eyeballs, and many more.
I remembered how my father would count the dishes and announce triumphantly, “Seventeen dishes!” If you asked him how his trip to Japan was, he would say, “Too many dishes!” One of our party looked at her dinner in some consternation and said, “I don’t know what anything is.” I picked up a piece of apple that had been sliced to have two red peel rabbit ears and said, “This is a rabbit.” There was plenty of sake. By the time Mr. Hara came in to invite us to a singing and dancing class that evening, the women at least were in the mood.
We and three Japanese guests gathered with Mr. Hara around the ancient blackened irori (fireplace) in the entryway. Mr. Hara sang the song “Kisobushi” in a fine baritone voice. His father before him also taught this song. It tells of the men who rode logs down the Kiso River to be loaded onto ships. The one part we all got was the “Yoi! Yoi! Yoi!” at the end of the refrain. Then we learned the dance. We tromped in a circle around the irori, arms extended like sticks but with graceful Travolta-esque hand gestures, shouting “Yoi! Yoi! Yoi!” We each got a certificate of completion. After a leisurely soak in the ofuro, it was bedtime.