A few nights ago, we had a party — the kind I usually throw at home. It felt warm and familiar, like those nights when everyone’s just kicking back and being themselves. It took place in House 2 (ours), which has beautiful tatami floors and a little stage tucked into the corner. It’s the kind of space that practically begs for music, for gathering, for something a little magical.
Clementine and I spent the afternoon setting up. We borrowed speakers from Hiro (thank you, Hiro!) and, of course, I had packed fairy lights — because you never know when you’re going to need a little sparkle. We strung them around the stage and across the floor, and just like that, the room transformed.
It was so cute.
“Cute” is the word younger folks use now — kind of like how we used to say awesome or sweet. It’s simple, pure, and somehow perfectly fitting. The whole night really was cute. It was cozy. It was honest. The kind of night where you get to know people not through small talk, but through the quiet conversations that spill out in corners, when the lights are low, the music is ambient, and everyone feels just a little more open.
In the morning, I woke up a little groggy but craving a change of scenery. On a whim, I decided to head to Beppu, a town on Kyushu Island famous for its geothermal hot springs and surreal, steamy landscapes. No presentations this month. No expectations. Just a little space to breathe.
I hopped a train to Fukuoka, where things quickly got… confusing. Okay, very confusing. I had no idea how to buy a ticket to Beppu. After asking a few people (and receiving some polite shrugs), a young guy finally gestured to the wall and said, “Just use the call button.”
Excuse me — the what?
He pressed a small red button and — pop! — a face appeared through a tiny square window, like it was living inside the wall. It was as if the train station had its own secret helper tucked inside a box. I asked how to get to Beppu, and the little face in the box didn’t say much — just gave me a firm, no-nonsense point in another direction. It felt like getting travel advice from a mildly irritated cuckoo clock.
I was equal parts stunned and delighted.
And now? I’m that traveler — the one who treats the call button like it summons the Station Master genie, my own personal travel guide living inside the wall. Lost? Call button. Confused? Call button. Mildly inconvenienced? Call button. I’m completely hooked.
Somehow, I still managed to board the right train. Honestly, I never really know what I’m doing — I just keep moving and trust that I’ll figure it out along the way.
So far? It’s working.
Partway through the ride, we pulled into a station, and suddenly everyone stood up and swiveled their train seats around to face the other direction. I still have no idea why — maybe the train changes directions? All I know is that when in Japan, if people swivel, I swivel.
I finally made it to my hotel in Beppu, and it seems like I might be the only tourist here. Everyone else is Japanese, which I kind of love. It feels calm, respectful, and quietly elegant. When I walked in, everyone was slipping off their shoes at the entrance, so I did too. These days, my go-to travel strategy is simple: just follow the person in front of me.
I chose this hotel for one main reason — the rooftop onsen with private baths. And oh. my. god. They’re stunning — steamy and serene, surrounded by open sky and distant mountains.
Getting there, though? Slightly less magical. I found myself standing awkwardly in a little lineup, not entirely sure what was waiting at the front or what I was supposed to do when I got there. I just kind of smiled, nodded, and pretended like I totally knew the onsen protocol — which, spoiler: I absolutely did not.
Now I’m back in my room, lounging in a robe and getting ready for dinner. Everyone here wears their yukata robes and socks to the dining hall. It’s a little odd but definitely part of the charm. No fuss, no pressure. Just comfort.
The next afternoon, after wandering through the otherworldly “hells” of Beppu (Jigoku Meguri) which were really cool but suuuper touristy, I found myself drawn to something I hadn’t planned for: a sand bath.
I’d only vaguely heard of it, but the idea lodged in my brain like a little dare. I told myself I’d just walk by and check it out. But somehow, my feet walked me right inside. Before I knew it, I was buying a ticket, still not entirely sure what I’d signed up for.
They handed me a sheet of instructions — and to be fair, they were very clear. But the moment I stepped into the changing area, every carefully read word vanished from my brain. The space was tiny, with maybe eight other women already inside. I started taking off my clothes then slipped into my yukata, still unsure of what came next. I looked around, confused — where was the sand?
Eventually, I followed a few others and walked into the sand room — a warm, quiet space where everyone looked like they were being slowly baked like giant human potatoes. About three staff members were moving around with shovels, covering each person in a blanket of hot sand like it was the most normal thing in the world. I laid down, and within moments, they buried me too.
Seconds later, I was sweating, slowly steaming from the inside out.
I didn’t want to be the first to move, so I just waited… and waited… until one of the other women started unburying herself. That was my cue.
Back in the rinsing area, I completely misunderstood the final step. Everyone else was politely scooping water from a small bath to rinse themselves — but me? I got right in. Just plopped myself into the communal tub (which is what I thought everyone would do) like it was a little hot spring. Only later did I realize I’d probably committed some kind of serious onsen faux pas.
The moment of clarity hit as I was getting out of the tub — a little too late — and all I could do was shrug and think, oh well.
I left a little sandy, a little sheepish… but glowing.
Traveling solo can be strange sometimes. You’re constantly making tiny decisions without a sounding board, guessing your way through social norms, misreading signs, and occasionally hopping into the wrong tub. But it’s also where the magic lives — in the moments you lean into the unknown, laugh at your mistakes, and find beauty in places you didn’t plan for.
From fairy lights and quiet corners to sand baths and mysterious seat-swiveling rituals, this little adventure cracked open something in me. A reminder that even when you’re a little lost, a little awkward, or completely out of your depth — you can still find your way. You can still feel cute.
And honestly? That might be the best kind of travel magic there is.