EPT![[image loading]](http://photos-b.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594137_1070.jpg)
Matsuyama.
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The chairlift.
By that point, however, it was a matter of pride. I had come this far, wandered this long. I was going to stand on the top floor of that castle, look out over the city, and declare myself triumphant over Lonely Planet, whose map of Matsuyama had led me several miles astray. I tried—unsuccessfully—to dismiss my negative thoughts. A refined woman with a pink umbrella passed me on the chairlift that ran the length of the hill. "Bitch," I muttered. I shook my head over my own idiocy, pressed my palms into my eyes, and tried again to remain upbeat. I had woken up grumpy after six hours of sleep on my hostel's granite-like mattress. The long walk was not improving my mood.
Thankfully, the castle was spectacular. I removed my shoes at the entryway and was about to struggle into a pair of tiny slippers when I saw the security guard disappear into his equally tiny office. He returned a moment later wearing a huge grin. He handed me a pair of burgundy slippers and, bowing, said, “Big, big!” I accepted his offering with both hands and returned his bows. The aged, polished wood of Japanese castle floors can be quite slick. Having slippers that were not four sizes too small was a true blessing; I would have had to commit seppuku out of sheer embarrassment had I lost my footing while descending one of the narrow staircases.
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So close.
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Yes, I put a haiku in the box.
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”Big, big!”
I took a gondola down the hill and went searching for lunch in the nearby shopping arcade. There, I found an attractive establishment advertising a set lunch menu for $12. The food was ordinary—mediocre, even—but after the waitress dropped off my main course, I stared in awe at the table. Dessert had not yet arrived, and already there were two bowls, two glasses, five plates, and six small dishes in front of me. It was a bizarre spread of food, including spaghetti with meatballs, an egg roll, a bit of steamed cod with lemon, and miso soup.
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Matsuyama.
![[image loading]](http://photos-a.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594168_1681.jpg)
Matsuyama.
![[image loading]](http://photos-d.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-snc1/v2118/35/36/64200053/n64200053_30594171_2704.jpg)
Matsuyama.
When I had finished eating, the waitress returned and held the dessert menu in front of me. It was nothing but row after row of kanji. The waitress looked at me expectantly. I tried to remember how to say “please decide for me” and pointed at the waitress while I thought. Her eyes grew wide for a moment. Then she grinned. I realized I had just implied that I would like to have her for dessert. “No, no, no, sorry,” I said, laughing. The waitress began to laugh, as well. I regained my composure long enough to use my intended expression: o-ma-ka-se shi-mas. She nodded in understanding, still covering her mouth with her hand to conceal her silent snickers.
After lunch, I strolled around Matsuyama, taking in an unremarkable art museum and a small park in the process. Cooler weather and a full stomach had improved my mood, but I was stalling; visiting Dogo Onsen was my priority for the day, an activity steeped in tradition that involved soaking in a communal bath with a large assortment of buck naked Japanese men. I needed to be sure I knew what I was getting into. I took a seat on a bench and began reading Lonely Planet's lengthy section on onsen etiquette.
