Chapter 4 (Episode 2) – Tomioka: Dinosaurs, Art, and a Bowl of Happiness
I wandered into the Tomioka City Museum.
Quiet white rooms.
Abstract paintings.
The kind of silence that makes you lower your voice even when you’re alone. I tried to feel what the artists might have felt — solitude, discipline, maybe the same calm that seems to settle over small Japanese towns.
Every canvas seemed to whisper shizuka… shizuka (静か — quiet), gently asking me to turn down the volume inside my own head.
Then came a very nihon-teki discovery.
No photos allowed.
My hand automatically reached for my phone — pure muscle memory — only to be stopped by a polite staff member bowing and pointing to a small sign with a crossed-out camera. The universal symbol for “Please experience this with your actual eyes.”
At first, it felt strange. Then… oddly freeing.
Without a camera, I was forced — encouraged — to actually look. I found myself nodding thoughtfully at paintings, tilting my head like a serious art person, pretending I understood abstract shapes that looked suspiciously like eraser crumbs glued to a canvas.
But it was peaceful.
No documenting.
No proving I was there.
Just being there.
Time, however, had other plans.
I hurried back toward the station, suddenly aware that trains to Takasaki were not particularly forgiving. My walk turned brisk, the air colder. I briefly wondered if, should I miss the train, someone might let me stay overnight — sumimasen, perhaps? — in a tatami room with sliding doors and no questions asked.
I made the train.
Back in Takasaki, I caught a bus to Shorinzan Daruma-ji, the famous temple of Daruma dolls. Rows of bright red faces stared back at me, each with only one eye painted — wishes waiting patiently to come true. When they do, the second eye is added. At the end of the year, old Darumas are burned together, wishes and smoke rising into the sky.
The walk from the bus stop was another 1.6 kilometers, but this time I didn’t mind. The air was kirei (clean), the sunlight warm, my thoughts slow and unbothered.
At the temple, I bought a tiny fortune tucked inside a miniature Daruma — an omikuji. I opened it with great seriousness… and understood absolutely nothing. Even Google Translate hesitated, offering interpretations that felt more like guesses than destiny.
So I tied it onto the shiawase-musubi — the happiness line — along with hundreds of other unread fortunes. I figured the kami-sama would appreciate the effort, even if I clearly had no idea what my future held.
Some mysteries, I decided, are better left untranslated.
I kept the Daruma, though. A small red reminder that luck doesn’t always need explaining.
Back in Takasaki, hunger returned with impressive timing. I circled the streets before surrendering to a lively little restaurant. Ordering was mercifully simple: a kenbaiki ticket machine by the door printed my dinner with mechanical confidence.
Rice. Ginger pork. Miso soup.
The first bite was dangerous — salty, sweet, deeply comforting. The kind of food that quietly convinces you to stay longer than planned.
Outside, Christmas lights flickered on. Merii Kurisumasu signs glowed above the shops. Soft music drifted through the streets. I stood there for a moment, feeling strangely at home among strangers.
Tomorrow, I would head north toward Kusatsu — steam, snow, and onsen awaited.
But for tonight,
Takasaki was enough.
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