I have to say, there’s something rather cozy about a warm toilet seat. Definitely got used to that in Japan. I came to expect the full panel of services, too, from waterfall or babbling brook sound effects to various water-jet options. I was a little taken aback the first time I entered and the lid saluted me, opening on its own. And I was just plain amused by a toilet with a lit bowl. Maybe even a little horrified.
Oh, and yes. They flush and close by themselves, too. Any more questions?
I stay in a lot of hotels, some of which are the best or most unique in the world. This one in Hong Kong—not so hot.
Why was there a bucket under the sink? And in the bucket, a smaller bucket.
Fill it up to flush the toilet? Bail out the bathtub? Store up drinking water? I don’t think I want to know…
Despite the focus on negative experiences compiled on this site, it is possible to travel without being ripped off. It bothers Bob and me that our blog, as well as our lectures, present travel as a minefield of risk and theft. Because we discuss and relate mostly the catastrophes, the sadnesses, and the evils of travel, our audience gets a scary mass of horror stories compressed into an unfair perspective.
Bob and I have just completed a totally theftless traipse across Asia, and I’m in the mood to write about the joys of travel—the foreign experiences we seek, as well as the serendipitous discoveries.
I’ll begin with a simple little story here and, unless I interrupt myself for something time-sensitive, I plan to post several more Asian vignettes.
As a child, I had school shoes and play shoes. I have quite a few more now, but no dedicated “toilet shoes.” There are no communal shoes in my house, either.
Last month, I had the great fortune to stay in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn. Upon arrival, we leave our street shoes at the entry, and slide into flat black leather slippers.
These are used only to get to our rooms because once there, proper woven sandals await—but they require special socks. We change into multi-layered and belted yukatas, and tabi socks, which have a split toe. The split toe allows us to wear the thonged sandals. But not in the room! On tatami mats, we pad around in just the tabi socks. (Fresh ones provided every day.)
For stepping down into the stone-floor garden room next to the glass doors, two pairs of white leather clogs are strategically positioned. Slide open the glass doors to enjoy the bamboo, mosses, koi pond, and hot soaking pool. Step out, and thick wooden garden shoes await.
One pair of woven toilet slippers are always arranged toes-forward just inside the bathroom door. They are not to leave the bathroom! One must back out when exiting, so the shoes are ready to be stepped into next time. We found toilet slippers in many restaurant bathrooms outside the inn. You wouldn’t want to get close to the toilet in just your socks, would you?
At the same time, you wouldn’t want to wear your toilet shoes outside of the toilet room. Yet we find it’s easy to forget to take them off. We repeatedly looked down in horror to see toilet slippers on our feet in the bathing room. Gross!
We wear the woven-straw thonged sandals when leaving our rooms, but leave them at the door of any tatami room—toes pointed out, of course. Everybody’s are the same, so it doesn’t matter which you step into when you leave.
At the tatami dining room, most of us leave our sandals helter-skelter. When we come out, they’re neatly arranged, toes-out, for step-in-and-go convenience.
Want to go for a walk in the woods? At the inn’s entry, grab a pair of wooden outdoor shoes, the wider ones for men. These are particularly tricky to walk in, sized to fit no one. But—no Western shoes until check out!
Some of us have considerable difficulty with the one-size format. My nephew’s size 12 tootsies hang off the backs of his shoes, while my tiny sister developes a sliding shuffle to avoid inadvertently stepping out of her slippers. Our men, considerably larger than the Japanese, unanimously cry pain.
We visit a martial arts studio across the road to watch the ryokan’s chef demonstrate his sword skills. We wear the outdoor wooden shoes to get to the studio. On entering, we’re given sandals to cross a stone floor—three or four steps across—then ditch them and wear only tabi socks when stepping onto the tatami mat.
Have you lost count? That’s eight separate single-function footwares to use (and learn the rules of) while staying at a ryokan. Mistakes were made, of course.
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Read also: Japanese Kaiseki Dinner.
How it felt to be in Japan’s 9.0 earthquake.
The Wellington in Madrid is a lovely, old hotel full of charm, the official temporary residence of visiting bullfighters. Our room was large and faultless.
I was puzzled by the sliding glass door in the bathroom, which separated the toilet from the sinks. It was even lockable. Why clear glass? What is the purpose of a transparent door? Isn’t the point of a toilet stall… privacy?
The back wall of the bathroom is all mirror, making the photo confusing but also reflecting the fact that the bathroom does have an ordinary solid door.
Natalie is a tour sales manager for one of the major cruise lines. She’s an experienced world traveler and accustomed to advising others on travel dos and don’ts. She and a girlfriend, both Australian, took a trip to Bali, Indonesia. A wide range of hotel options exists there, from luxury six-star resorts to shacks on the beach that rent for two dollars a night. Natalie and Linda booked a “decent” hotel; one with a lobby, private bathroom, rooms that lock, and a sense of organization. In America and Europe, it would fall into the three-star range.
At check-in, the two women were each given a manila envelope in which to put their valuables. They sealed and signed the envelopes themselves and gave them to the reception clerk, who put them in the hotel front desk safe.
Admittedly, they had a splendid holiday on the exotic isle, carefree and uneventful.
At check-out, the two were given their envelopes and they turned to get a taxi. But as they were leaving, they overheard another guest complaining at the front desk. Cash was missing from her envelope.
Natalie and Linda tore into their envelopes and also found cash to be missing. Yet, their envelopes did not appear to be tampered with in any way. The hotel denied any responsibility and, after a brief argument, Natalie and her friend chose to leave in order not to miss their flight home. Later, Natalie wrote to the hotel, but never received a reply. She didn’t take the issue any further.
Did the hotel make a system of this nasty theft? If so, it’s particularly underhanded with its intentional implication of security. As in the “pigeon drop” scam, the villain suggests and the victim voluntarily complies with the transference of valuables to the bad guy. A con if ever there were one.
The timing, too, is strategic. Most guests, like Natalie and Linda, will have a plane to catch. They’ll often plan to fight the matter later, but rarely follow through.
So how was the envelope opened? Could it have been a magician’s trick?
In my former career as a graphic designer, I occasionally used wax to fix a graphic element to a page. Rarely, because most page design was completely electronic. The wax I used was in stick form. It looked and acted exactly like a glue stick, except that it never dried.
If hotel guests were handed a wax stick with which to seal their envelopes (I don’t know that they were), they’d likely never realize the temporary condition of the closure. A duplicitous staff member could later open a supposedly sealed envelope, then glue it shut properly. Who’d know? Who’d even notice?
Alternatively, the bottom flap of the envelope could have been lightly glued, then later opened and resealed.
There are just too many people in this world who cannot be trusted, and it’s best to avoid the necessity at all, if possible. Then what to do?
Travel with hard-sided luggage and use your largest as your safe. True, the entire suitcase can be stolen, but we feel that would be highly unlikely in most situations, while a small tempting object might, on occasion, “get legs.”
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Four: Hotels—Have a Nice Stay
Okay, this is priced in Canadian dollars, but still. $6.49 for a bottle of water? No matter how elegant it looks on the nightstand, I’ll drink sink water first. Who would open this? What’s the point?
Hotel hypocrisy. This is certainly not unique to the Delta hotel in Newfoundland, but that is where I was struck by the pretense and posturing of those righteous signs in bathrooms about saving water and saving the planet. What the hotel industry really wants is to save on labor costs.
I’m all for living lightly on our Earth, taking only what’s needed. I believe in the conservation of resources. But some hotels, the Delta St. John’s included, make it impossible to save water. The shower has no flow regulator.
To get hot water, you must run full volume. And in my room, the water pressure was fierce. Far more water than I need or enjoy. Much more than necessary down the drain. Certainly enough to wash an extra towel or two.
Very bad news on the travel front. Seems bedbugs are here to stay. The Wall Street Journal reports on a comprehensive genetic study of bedbugs that shows how they’ve evolved defenses against today’s pesticides. The more poison we throw at them, the more weapons they develop to fight it. Thicker shells, detoxifying enzymes, and adapted nerve cells, all of which are passed along to succeeding generations.
And if this news isn’t disturbing enough, WSJ kindly provides visuals enough to give a frequent hotel guest like me nightmares between the 600-thread-count sheets.
Though I’ve written how a cautious entomologist deals with hotel stays, I must admit that I simply throw caution to the wind and bury my head in the sand. I don’t want to look. I can’t look. I slip into hotel beds some 200-250 nights a year—I can’t afford to be obsessed. Yet… ick. I get the creeps just thinking of them.
By the way, if cooties give you the shivers, don’t watch the WSJ slideshow, either.
3/11/17: Edited to add a great resource, more than you ever wanted to know about bedbugs, on the site of nonprofit org Tuck, which is devoted to sleep.
“Burning condition salmon” on the breakfast buffet in our Tokyo hotel. I guess we might call it “blackened.” Good for an early morning smile.
Pasted onto our Reykjavik hotel bathroom tiles:
Yes, we came out of the shower quite rancid-smelling—and the fragrance lasts. I imagine the locals: “You stink—just took a shower?”