Japan, Day 13/14 – Mount Fuji, Tokyo, Nagano: A tale of snow, solitude, and slurping in stereo
Japan is a country of extreme contrasts. One minute you’re sweating through your underwear on a mountain hike in 25-degree heat, the next you’re at the base of Mount Fuji, allegedly, staring into a white void of betrayal and existential dread. Somewhere beyond the blizzard is the famous mountain, but I might as well have been looking at a blank piece of printer paper.
But let’s back up.
The day began with multiple trains, busses, and poor planning decisions. In Japan, you don’t just show up and expect a ride—you pre-book everything, because this is a nation that respects order and efficiency, unlike my travel habits. Upon reaching Mishima Station, I learned I had missed this crucial step. The bus to Kawaguchiko was sold out. But, by some act of divine intervention (or maybe just a particularly punctual Japanese cancellation), there was exactly ONE seat left. I am that lucky idiot.
On the way, I sustained myself with egg salad sandwiches and Japan’s infamous strawberry sandwich. Yes, a sandwich where someone looked at fresh strawberries and thought, this belongs between two slices of white bread, surrounded by whipped cream. It’s a crime against bread, but a miracle for taste buds.
Upon arrival at Mount Fuji—at least, that’s what the map said—I found myself in a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. A foot of fresh snow had mercilessly buried the roads, sidewalks, and my expectations. No plows, no salt, just me and a winter apocalypse. Fuji? Never heard of it.
Checked into Wafu Guesthouse Kashiwaya. Charming. Showers: gloriously hot. Most importantly, a 7-Eleven around the corner. In Japan, this is Michelin-star news. Forget five-star dining—give me a convenience store with pork katsu and a boss selection of rice balls, and I’m set.
Lunch: A one-woman misophonia horror show
Lunch took me to Famous Hoto Fudo Kawakuchiko, home of Houtou noodles—thick, rich, warming. Served communal-style, because in Japan, you may eat alone, but you will never dine in silence.
And dear reader, I must tell you: this was not just a meal—it was an assault on my eardrums.
Slurping. Wet, aggressive, unapologetic slurping. Loud chewing. Gargantuan bites, gulped down like it was the last meal before the asteroid hit. The entire restaurant sounded like an ASMR video gone terribly wrong.
Misophonia sufferers, this is your personal hell.
That said, the soup was fantastic. But something was missing. Meat. My body demanded protein. So, naturally, I made the only rational decision: a 7-Eleven pork katsu curry chaser. The great equaliser. Hot, crispy, satisfying. God bless Japanese convenience stores.
Tokyo detour: The quest for a Sukojan
The next morning, another 7-Eleven breakfast (egg salad sandwich and onigiri, obviously), and then a 5+ hour journey to Nagano. But first, an insanely expensive and time-consuming detour to Tokyo to fulfill my motherly duty: retrieving an authentic sukojan jacket for my son Ethan.
A 2.5-hour detour and £350 later, I left the store with a jacket and the soul of a broken woman. But hey, motherhood is a series of costly side quests with little to no reward other than the vague satisfaction of not disappointing your kid.
Nagano: The solitude of a communal dining hall
After another train, I arrived in Nagano, home of snow monkeys that live better than I do (watch this space). Checked into my hotel, which had its own onsen. Let me tell you—this thing was hot enough to sterilise medical instruments. I climbed in and immediately questioned my life choices. Then, I leaned into the pain. Perfection.
Dinner, however, took a sad turn.
I was led into a huge, empty dining room and seated dead center, like I was about to be interrogated for war crimes. The only diner in a massive hall, sitting in silence, picking at my pork hot pot, wondering if this is how Bond villains feel before their plans are foiled.
But then—plot twist.
A young Swiss traveler, equally alone, asked if I could take his picture. A desperate, lonely traveler recognises another. Naturally, I suggested the obvious: “Dude, just move your food over here.”
Instant international dinner party.
We put on cheesy Japanese dinner music, toasted our unexpected friendship, and feasted.
Pork hot pot. Tempura. Sashimi. Sushi. Japanese pickles I pretended to enjoy because culture. Dessert? Mochi and cheesecake, because life is about balance.
And just like that, a depressing solo meal turned into one of the best dinners of the trip. Because at the end of the day, travel isn’t about landmarks or food or even avoiding slurping noises—it’s about the people you share it with.
Well, that and 7-Eleven pork katsu curry.
