A New Home Away from Home — or Something More?
Yamanashi Prefecture
Every so often, my wife decides it’s time for a family vacation. This time the destination was Yamanashi, near Kōfu City. We had visited a few months earlier, and that first trip gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time — a sudden rush of wonder, awe, and serenity the moment I stepped out of the car.
Simply put, I was deeply moved.
So when my wife made the arrangements again, off we went.
Yamanashi reminds me of Hadano, but on a grander scale. The region is surrounded by wooded mountains, some towering, some gentle, forming what feels like a vast natural bowl. The interior is surprisingly spacious — far more open than I expected once we reached a vantage point.
And again, that same feeling returned. Not as intense as the first time, but still unmistakable: a sense of being grounded, relaxed, and quietly at peace.
Of Circles and Zen
I learned that neither Zen philosophy nor those iconic circular sand patterns originated in Yamanashi. Still, the region played its own part in how Zen culture spread.
And honestly, if you stood there counting and naming the hundred‑plus mountains surrounding you, you’d start spiraling too. All you’d need is a stick.
What struck me is that I felt all of this long before I knew any of the history. I’m not religious, yet something in that landscape reached me. My wife felt it as well — which doesn’t happen often. When it does, it means the moment is carrying something deeper than words.
The Prefectural Museum and a Diorama to Die for
The first thing I saw when we entered the Yamanashi Prefectural Museum was a massive stone table surrounded by sculpted mountain forms. I didn’t understand its meaning at the time, but it stopped me. It felt symbolic, almost ritualistic — a quiet map of the region carved in stone. It even reminded me of a table for the gods to feast on, the mountains around it like divine guests gathering for a banquet. Let’s hope they weren’t planning to dine while we were there.
Only later did I learn that this design was intentional: the museum uses landscape symbolism to show how Yamanashi’s mountains have shaped its people across thousands of years.
From there, we stepped into the main exhibit, an expansive display tracing the entire history of Yamanashi — not just the 1600s as I first assumed, but everything from the Jōmon period to the Edo era and beyond. Unfortunately for me, every explanation was written in Japanese, and my daughter was far too busy practicing her own reading skills to translate. So I wandered.
History in fragments — relics, placards, artifacts — rarely holds me unless I have a personal anchor. I can appreciate artistry and speculate about context, but without language to guide me, I drift into a different mode of perception. I take things in through atmosphere, texture, and intuition rather than information. Interesting, yes, but not quite connecting.
A curator noticed me and kindly attempted to help in English, but quickly realized that explaining the entire exhibit would be a monumental task. She mentioned that some displays had English access through a smartphone — which I never carry when I’m with my family. (Long story. Long history with mobile phones.) I thanked her and continued on.
Eventually, I found myself at the center of the exhibit. Only now, in hindsight, do I realize the entire layout was designed as a spiral — a slow inward pull that I didn’t consciously register at the time.
At the heart of that spiral was a series of dioramas: miniature figures depicting everyday life across Yamanashi’s long history — farmers tilling fields, mountain workers gathering resources, families celebrating festivals. Each figure was crafted with such precision that their faces seemed to hold entire stories. The craftsmanship was so alive that I half‑expected the figures to move when I wasn’t looking. Toy Story logic, but with Edo‑period villagers.
I must have stood there for an hour. The attendant who had been nearby quietly disappeared and was replaced by another. Visitors came and went. I stayed, absorbed in the miniature world, feeling something I couldn’t name at the time.
Meanwhile, my wife and daughter were still diligently reading through Yamanashi’s written history long after I drifted out of the hall. The stone table, the spiral, the craftsmanship — none of it fully registered until later, when the pieces began to align. And now, writing this, I realize how deeply it all affected me.
There was a quiet magic in that exhibit, something that lingers even now. I hope I get to experience it again someday. I wish I had pictures to show you, but perhaps it’s better this way. Some moments are meant to live in memory, not on a screen.
Spoiled and Boiled
We traveled to a handful of other places around Yamanashi — wineries, museums, even the large Aeon Mall. Impressive, yes, though we’ve experienced bigger LaLaports, so I won’t linger there or risk boring you.
What is worth lingering on is where we stayed overnight: SpaLand.
First, a confession. I don’t love hot baths. I can tolerate them on vacation, maybe even enjoy them a little, but I’m not one of those people who melts into an onsen like it’s a spiritual calling. I grew up in a shower‑only household, so baths are still more novelty than comfort.
SpaLand, as it turns out, is a place of contradictions — indulgence paired with mild suffering. We were pampered in every imaginable way… except when it came to sleeping. No beds this time. Just futons on tatami floors. My shoulders and back still haven’t forgiven me. Murder.
But the food made up for everything.
We had the best course dinner set we’ve ever eaten at a hotel. Local dishes, hoto noodles, fresh vegetables and meats from the region — all beautifully prepared and placed before us. We were in heaven. I enjoyed every bit of it and ate most of it, which is rare for me.
After dinner, I ventured into the baths. I boiled myself in grape juice (a wine bath), boiled myself again in a wooden tub that must have been 43 degrees or more — a little too hot for my liking — and tried a vibrating massage that felt like someone was electrocuting my shoulders with a laser sword. It hurt for ages. There were milk baths, herb baths, saunas — the full menu of ways to cook yourself.
My time in the baths was short. Again, novelty, not devotion.
Back in the room, I discovered there were no chairs, so I wandered into the relaxation room — rows of reclining seats with personal TV monitors. These chairs were incredible. Better than any La‑Z‑Boy I’ve ever sat in. They reclined almost to a lying‑down position. No wonder people slept there.
One elderly gentleman had done exactly that. He was actually very far away from me, but in the deep silence of the late‑night room, his snoring — and occasional farts — echoed as if amplified a thousandfold. I suspect his wife had given him an ultimatum: sleep down here, or not at all.
That was enough pampering for me. I retreated back to the room.
Despite the stiff back I still have from sleeping on the floor, SpaLand was a fun experience — and the course dinner alone was worth the stay.
A Relaxed Drive Home
As our daughter slept in the back seat, my wife and I finally had a moment to breathe and reflect on the trip — the highs, the small annoyances, the aches from sleeping on the floor. Even with all that, it had been a good vacation. A needed one.
What surprised me most was how strongly my wife felt about returning. She kept talking about the places we didn’t get to see, the corners of Yamanashi still waiting for us, the sense that we had only skimmed the surface. And somewhere along that quiet drive, we both arrived at the same conclusion: if we were ever to live somewhere other than Hadano, Yamanashi would be the next place we’d consider.
It felt like an oversized Hadano — familiar, but stretched out; peaceful, but with a wider horizon. Even in the short time we were there, we sensed there was more to it than our small trip could hold. That feeling matters. Years ago, when we first came to Hadano, we both felt something similar — a quiet certainty, a sense of rightness. Yamanashi carried that same echo.
The mountains, the space, the calm, the unexpected moments of wonder… all of it left an imprint. Enough that the idea of a second home didn’t feel far‑fetched at all. Maybe not now, maybe not soon — but not impossible either.
And as we drove back toward Hadano, with the sun lowering behind the ridgelines, it felt less like leaving a vacation spot and more like stepping away from a place we might someday return to in a different way.
Discover more from Austin Worx
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.