Salon Wanderlust | Passages: Hotel Paradis-o

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R E C E N T L Y
Encounter in Samarkand
By Karl Taro Greenfeld
A young traveler defies Russian troops to save the honor of the woman he loves
(04/29/98)
The Mystical High Church of Luck
By Rolf Potts
How I went to Las Vegas with $5 and ended up losing $100
(04/28/98)
Naples in a new light
By Deb Fellner
An island encounter transforms a wanderer's impressions
(04/27/98)
Mondo Weirdo
Toilet tricks in Asia; aircraft flambé in Toronto
(04/24/98)
Africa Solo
By Kevin Kertscher
A filmmaker learns a lesson about giving from three small children in the heart of West Africa
(04/23/98)

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Passages archives

hotel paradis-o_
On a honeymoon journey in Japan, an American couple ______
discovers the perfect place to stay: Love hotels.

[Book Cover]

[ E X C E R P T ]
LOVE & ROMANCE
EDITED BY JUDITH BABCOCK WYLIE
TRAVELERS' TALES GUIDES
302 PAGES

BY ROBERT STRAUSS | It was late. Too late to go back to Tokyo. Our guidebook had no information at all about Shin-Fuji, a small town between Osaka and Tokyo. From the railway station platform there was only one obvious place to stay, a five-story building a few blocks away. The sign on top advertised "Hotel, 6000 Yen."
When we arrived, there was no one at the front desk. There was no front desk -- just photos of the rooms along one wall. Two were illuminated, the rest were dark. We didn't know what to do. There was no one to ask. After four months of honeymoon travel on the road in Asia we were weary. We didn't have the energy to figure out another baffling cross-cultural situation.
A side door opened and an older man and a younger woman came in, all smiles and giddy. Unlike us, they had no luggage and seemed to know the routine. The man quickly withdrew a key from a cubby hole. The adjacent photo instantly went dark. Tittering, the couple disappeared into the elevator.
"What do we do?" my wife said. "There's only one room left."
Before I could answer she was over at the wall. Gingerly, as though extracting the detonator from a bomb, she drew the last key from its slot. Tiny lights embedded in the floor began to flicker, outlining a path down the corridor. From around a corner the glow of a larger light pulsed. We moved cautiously ahead, as though caught in a tractor beam. We looked around. There was no one.
I had no idea what to expect. Even on our budget of $200 a day the astounding cost of everything in Japan had limited us to sex-segregated guest houses and youth hostels. Now, without having checked in, without having spoken to anyone, without having left an imprint of our Visa card, we were about to enter a hotel room. I opened the door.
"Look at this!" Nina said. This room was huge, as big as a typical American hotel room and much bigger than any other place we had stayed in Japan. We exchanged our street shoes for the "house" slippers that waited on the threshold. The larger pair had a groom in a tuxedo embossed on the rubber toe piece. Nina's had a bride in white.
"They must know we're newlyweds," she said, leaping onto the bed. She held up the condoms and the origami lovebirds that had been left on the pillow. "They've thought of everything."
I opened the room service menu. There was no sushi on this menu. But there were a lot of things that looked like sushi. The most outlandish was adorned with small nubs and a collar that resembled an anemone from a Jacques Cousteau special. Apparently it cost 13,000 yen, batteries not included. I reflected on what had happened so far. The May-December couple with no luggage, no front desk, condoms on the pillow, and the very special room service menu. I knew we had stumbled onto something truly unusual. We had checked into our first Japanese love hotel.
We had heard about love hotels. Abec hoteru, our guidebook called them -- discreet, fantasy getaways the Japanese use for afternoon and evening assignations. We had even looked for some, but, assuming they would resemble the tawdry, no-tell motels that line America's secondary thoroughfares, we were unable to find any. Now, without speaking to a person, without seeing a single employee, we were in one.
The room was replete with electronic gadgets straight out of Hugh Hefner's bedroom. There were remotes for everything: the lights, the 440 channels of music, the air-conditioning, the television, the bed.
"What are you doing?" Nina said. She had changed into a yukata, one of the razor-crisp robes that came with the room.
"Hang on a second," I told her. "I've got to check this stuff out. I mean come on, I'm a guy."
"If you don't stop right now," she said, "I'm taking a shower."
I could feel the tension rising between us, but I couldn't help myself. The room was like mission control in Houston. Given what the menu had to offer, I had to find out what was on cable.
"I'll be there in a second," I told her.
"Some love hotel," she muttered and stalked out.
I toyed with everything. The fridge was a little automat, stocked with sushi and sandwiches just waiting for my 100-yen coins. There was a karaoke machine with dual mikes. The accompanying songbook was the size of the Manhattan directory and had every song of Elton John and Andrew Lloyd Webber, plus thousands of Japanese favorites. In one corner there was a small weight-lifting machine.
"What exactly do the Japanese do in these places?" I wondered.
A curious pneumatic tube system, the kind once used for billing in old-fashioned department stores, snaked out of the wall. I turned on the television. A man was binding up a woman in Saran Wrap. Clearly this was no Motel 6.
"C'mere, c'mere, c'mere," Nina cried from the bathroom. "Read these." She handed me a basket full of complimentary toiletries. On the tiny bag that held a "Hair Band," I read the caption. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it: "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag."
"'I've got some real estate here in my bag.' What is that supposed to mean?" I said.
Nina raced back to the bed. "Oh my God," she said, "that's from 'America.' Simon and Garfunkel were here."
I followed her back to bed, ready to resume the romance that had dwindled over the last few days as we pinched pennies on everything.
"What's that?" she said.
"What's what?"
"That," she said, pointing to the far wall where a red digital clock was pulsing with the seconds. It read "0:42." We looked at each other. The clock changed to "0:41." It was ticking down.
Suddenly the playfulness that had been building between us was gone. "What do you think this room cost?" Nina said.
"I don't know. The sign said 6,000 yen."
"Right," she said, "but do you think that's for an hour or all night?" I felt my chest constrict, and it wasn't from what I'd seen on the television.
We had already seen a $70 cantaloupe and a $100 mushroom for sale and had heard about bars where beer costs $300 a bottle. Before I could complete the thought Nina said, "What if it's 6,000 yen an hour?!" It was a great room, but we didn't have $600 to spend for one night. I began to panic. I picked up the phone. A woman answered.
"Hello, do you speak English?" I asked. At first I thought she said, "What do you think of our sushi?" but then I realized she was speaking Japanese. "How much does this room cost?" I asked anyway, wondering how one counts above 1,000 in Japanese.
Nina handed me a brochure from the Japan National Tourist Organization. It had all the standard questions and answers needed by tourists written in both English and Japanese. The tourist, me, is supposed to point to the questions and the happy-to-assist Japanese person is supposed to point to the correct answer. It works less well on the telephone.
I opened to the hotel section and said, "Kono heya wa ikura desu ka?" which, according to the book, means, "How much is this room?" This unleashed an immediate answer I didn't understand at all, except that it sounded like "$1,200 or whatever you have left -- whichever is more." Sweat began beading on my forehead.
By now my bride was laughing hysterically. My mind strayed from the raison d'être of love hotels and began to focus on the Japanese penal system. "Maybe we should leave now," I suggested.
"Are you crazy?" Nina said. "It's after midnight. We're going to sleep. I don't care what it costs."
"Right," I thought. "This is why the groom's family pays for the honeymoon." As I put my head down, I saw traveler's checks flying out of my wallet. The digital clock clicked down to "0:08."
N E X T+P A G E+| Check-out-o?


T A B L E_T A L K What's your favorite travel flick? Join the discussion of film and travel in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Encounter in Samarkand By Karl Taro Greenfeld A young traveler defies Russian troops to save the honor of the woman he loves (04/29/98) The Mystical High Church of Luck By Rolf Potts How I went to Las Vegas with $5 and ended up losing $100 (04/28/98) Naples in a new light By Deb Fellner An island encounter transforms a wanderer's impressions (04/27/98) Mondo Weirdo Toilet tricks in Asia; aircraft flambé in Toronto (04/24/98) Africa Solo By Kevin Kertscher A filmmaker learns a lesson about giving from three small children in the heart of West Africa (04/23/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Passages archives		hotel paradis-o_ On a honeymoon journey in Japan, an American couple ______ discovers the perfect place to stay: Love hotels. [ E X C E R P T ] LOVE & ROMANCE EDITED BY JUDITH BABCOCK WYLIE TRAVELERS' TALES GUIDES 302 PAGES BY ROBERT STRAUSS \| It was late. Too late to go back to Tokyo. Our guidebook had no information at all about Shin-Fuji, a small town between Osaka and Tokyo. From the railway station platform there was only one obvious place to stay, a five-story building a few blocks away. The sign on top advertised "Hotel, 6000 Yen." When we arrived, there was no one at the front desk. There was no front desk -- just photos of the rooms along one wall. Two were illuminated, the rest were dark. We didn't know what to do. There was no one to ask. After four months of honeymoon travel on the road in Asia we were weary. We didn't have the energy to figure out another baffling cross-cultural situation. A side door opened and an older man and a younger woman came in, all smiles and giddy. Unlike us, they had no luggage and seemed to know the routine. The man quickly withdrew a key from a cubby hole. The adjacent photo instantly went dark. Tittering, the couple disappeared into the elevator. "What do we do?" my wife said. "There's only one room left." Before I could answer she was over at the wall. Gingerly, as though extracting the detonator from a bomb, she drew the last key from its slot. Tiny lights embedded in the floor began to flicker, outlining a path down the corridor. From around a corner the glow of a larger light pulsed. We moved cautiously ahead, as though caught in a tractor beam. We looked around. There was no one. I had no idea what to expect. Even on our budget of $200 a day the astounding cost of everything in Japan had limited us to sex-segregated guest houses and youth hostels. Now, without having checked in, without having spoken to anyone, without having left an imprint of our Visa card, we were about to enter a hotel room. I opened the door. "Look at this!" Nina said. This room was huge, as big as a typical American hotel room and much bigger than any other place we had stayed in Japan. We exchanged our street shoes for the "house" slippers that waited on the threshold. The larger pair had a groom in a tuxedo embossed on the rubber toe piece. Nina's had a bride in white. "They must know we're newlyweds," she said, leaping onto the bed. She held up the condoms and the origami lovebirds that had been left on the pillow. "They've thought of everything." I opened the room service menu. There was no sushi on this menu. But there were a lot of things that looked like sushi. The most outlandish was adorned with small nubs and a collar that resembled an anemone from a Jacques Cousteau special. Apparently it cost 13,000 yen, batteries not included. I reflected on what had happened so far. The May-December couple with no luggage, no front desk, condoms on the pillow, and the very special room service menu. I knew we had stumbled onto something truly unusual. We had checked into our first Japanese love hotel. We had heard about love hotels. Abec hoteru, our guidebook called them -- discreet, fantasy getaways the Japanese use for afternoon and evening assignations. We had even looked for some, but, assuming they would resemble the tawdry, no-tell motels that line America's secondary thoroughfares, we were unable to find any. Now, without speaking to a person, without seeing a single employee, we were in one. The room was replete with electronic gadgets straight out of Hugh Hefner's bedroom. There were remotes for everything: the lights, the 440 channels of music, the air-conditioning, the television, the bed. "What are you doing?" Nina said. She had changed into a yukata, one of the razor-crisp robes that came with the room. "Hang on a second," I told her. "I've got to check this stuff out. I mean come on, I'm a guy." "If you don't stop right now," she said, "I'm taking a shower." I could feel the tension rising between us, but I couldn't help myself. The room was like mission control in Houston. Given what the menu had to offer, I had to find out what was on cable. "I'll be there in a second," I told her. "Some love hotel," she muttered and stalked out. I toyed with everything. The fridge was a little automat, stocked with sushi and sandwiches just waiting for my 100-yen coins. There was a karaoke machine with dual mikes. The accompanying songbook was the size of the Manhattan directory and had every song of Elton John and Andrew Lloyd Webber, plus thousands of Japanese favorites. In one corner there was a small weight-lifting machine. "What exactly do the Japanese do in these places?" I wondered. A curious pneumatic tube system, the kind once used for billing in old-fashioned department stores, snaked out of the wall. I turned on the television. A man was binding up a woman in Saran Wrap. Clearly this was no Motel 6. "C'mere, c'mere, c'mere," Nina cried from the bathroom. "Read these." She handed me a basket full of complimentary toiletries. On the tiny bag that held a "Hair Band," I read the caption. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it: "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag." "'I've got some real estate here in my bag.' What is that supposed to mean?" I said. Nina raced back to the bed. "Oh my God," she said, "that's from 'America.' Simon and Garfunkel were here." I followed her back to bed, ready to resume the romance that had dwindled over the last few days as we pinched pennies on everything. "What's that?" she said. "What's what?" "That," she said, pointing to the far wall where a red digital clock was pulsing with the seconds. It read "0:42." We looked at each other. The clock changed to "0:41." It was ticking down. Suddenly the playfulness that had been building between us was gone. "What do you think this room cost?" Nina said. "I don't know. The sign said 6,000 yen." "Right," she said, "but do you think that's for an hour or all night?" I felt my chest constrict, and it wasn't from what I'd seen on the television. We had already seen a $70 cantaloupe and a $100 mushroom for sale and had heard about bars where beer costs $300 a bottle. Before I could complete the thought Nina said, "What if it's 6,000 yen an hour?!" It was a great room, but we didn't have $600 to spend for one night. I began to panic. I picked up the phone. A woman answered. "Hello, do you speak English?" I asked. At first I thought she said, "What do you think of our sushi?" but then I realized she was speaking Japanese. "How much does this room cost?" I asked anyway, wondering how one counts above 1,000 in Japanese. Nina handed me a brochure from the Japan National Tourist Organization. It had all the standard questions and answers needed by tourists written in both English and Japanese. The tourist, me, is supposed to point to the questions and the happy-to-assist Japanese person is supposed to point to the correct answer. It works less well on the telephone. I opened to the hotel section and said, "Kono heya wa ikura desu ka?" which, according to the book, means, "How much is this room?" This unleashed an immediate answer I didn't understand at all, except that it sounded like "$1,200 or whatever you have left -- whichever is more." Sweat began beading on my forehead. By now my bride was laughing hysterically. My mind strayed from the raison d'être of love hotels and began to focus on the Japanese penal system. "Maybe we should leave now," I suggested. "Are you crazy?" Nina said. "It's after midnight. We're going to sleep. I don't care what it costs." "Right," I thought. "This is why the groom's family pays for the honeymoon." As I put my head down, I saw traveler's checks flying out of my wallet. The digital clock clicked down to "0:08." N E X T+P A G E+\| Check-out-o?