On the Scent
I’m pretty sure my eyes bug out slightly. And I’ve been told my nostrils gently flare.
One thing is for sure, when I’m travelling my senses are on total overdrive. It’s a condition that some (you know who you are) might label as an inability to relax. I don’t see it that way. Or, more accurately, I don’t feel it that way. Not at all. To saddle up my curiosity and see where it leads me is the whole reason I travel. It’s my kick.
What’s so enticing and, at times, wildly frustrating is that you can’t be sure what you’ll find—or when. The good news is that there’s always something to be found. Always. Yesterday morning I snuck out early and alone for a morning of exploring in the Noto Peninsula, a remote rural region on Japan’s western edge. The day started brilliantly as I cruised spectacular narrow roads deep in the hilly, forested interior. Every twist in the road seemed to reveal another spectacular micro view, another amazing traditional house to dream about renovating.
By late morning, however, the hunt was feeling a little out of gas. I was on the eastern coast of the peninsula, zig zagging around the town of Suzu. It wasn’t as pretty. I wasn’t finding anything. I wasn’t sure where to go next. Feeling a bout of early onset exploritis emptyhanditis sneak up on me, I eased the car into a nearly vacant parking lot on the edge of the road. Swoop around and take a coastal road home (and ask being way late for a planned late lunch)? Or shoot back on a ho-hum express road? As I sized up the odds of returning home empty-handed I stared across the road at a pile of neatly stacked wood.
Hmm, what’s that all about? Wait, there’s a diminutive sign that says ‘OPEN’. Compelled to check it out, I turned off the car and walked over to have a peek.
Slowly sliding the entrance door open it was quickly clear I’d stumbled on something special—a sweet little cafe called Rin Rin Dou. It’s totally possible that it’s very normal for this place to exist where it does. But it sure felt like an incongruous one in a zillion to me. Warm plywood floors, walls and ceiling. Bits of old wood and utilitarian bric brac hung here and there. A speckle of plants. And the sort of mellow, glowy ambiance that Japan seems able to nail without even trying (the point being, of course, that they do nothing but try).
I ordered a coffee, parked myself at a table in the nearly empty room, and let me eyes soak in the detail. Like wine, coffee is very contextual. The right cup in the right place at the right time is revelatory. And so it was at Rin Rin Dou. At the suggestion of the owner (who’s name my memory simply cannot muster), I pushed the milk and sugar to the side—opting to enjoy the cup of hand-picked-carefully-roasted blackness unadorned.
My god. Heaven.
Before leaving I thanked the owners profusely with improvised gestures that I hoped would convey my appreciation. They smiled, bowed, and spoke a single word of English—“Pony”. “Come again?”, my face must have said. “Pony,” they repeated, this time pointing to the back of the cafe. Unsure what they meant I made my way to the door and walked around to the rear of the small brown building. Sure enough, Rin Rin Dou has a pair of ponies in the back. Proof again that you never know what you’ll find when you follow your nose.
