ROUTE 1 - ONSEN BREAK

Lake Ashinoko at daybreak. The thin mist along the shoulder does an impression of steam from a bath. The red convertible and my partner's yellow coupe run side by side. The meter's calmed down, but my in-head speed is still revving high. I look straight ahead and line up capital letters in my heart. A BATH. RIGHT NOW.

Winding roads that feel like Hakone's own particular breathing—so much fun. The two of us, my partner's car and mine, head down toward the hot spring. On a narrow lakeside approach, I spot a short pier. The edge of the mist looks like a white walkway, and I unconsciously drift the steering toward it.

My tomboy partner secures a parking spot with a spin turn. …Please, I'm begging you, not in public places.

We reach the hot spring in the latter half of the seven o'clock hour. On the way to the entrance, another mishap. This time, headed for a puddle, I take a spectacular tumble. Even out of the car, I'm a hopeless klutz through and through.

I finish the morning-bath check-in at the front desk. The stairs up to the rooftop "grand open-air bath" make an awfully nice sound. I wrap myself in a bath towel at the changing locker and, at last, out to the open-air bath.

Two steps to the edge. I check the temperature with my fingertips and sink to my shoulders. The scent of sulfur softly follows after, and a white veil slowly takes over my view. The cold in my core comes loose. This—this is the white dream of today I've been chasing all the way from Tokyo.

"Recovery, progress: seventy percent." "And the remaining thirty?" "Fill it with a single word from you." My partner gives a little chuckle and flicks the white surface with a fingertip. The dot bounced, then vanished.

When the wind shifts, the white splits, and the sound of a waterfall reaches from far off. My cheeks tinge faintly with color, and my heartbeat returns to a person's rhythm. The truth of the white, right now, is properly a bath. Not mist, not white smoke. In the water, I resolve, seriously. Today, I won't lose to clear anymore.

I rinse off, dry my hair. When I slip on the sandals, my bare feet go tap. At the same time, my partner's sandals go tap too. Doing things at the same time feels good. That's this morning's keyword. We press the same button on the vending machine at the same time, and two of the same drink drop. I laugh and propose, "Let's settle it with rock-paper-scissors. No more 'tie means another bath,' okay?" "We already got in, after all." We laugh together and step outside. The white is thin, the sky is deep.

Beyond the ridgeline, a thin line. The Ashinoko Skyline beckons faintly. My partner motions with her chin. "Next, shall we chase the blue?" "Bringing the white along." I answer seriously, but with just a touch of mischief mixed in. The throttle answered in a warmer sound than before.

—Temperature, reclaimed in a morning bath. White is an ally.