The thing I love about travel is the fact that horrible memories get better over time.
Often the worst memories turn into the funniest ones – the times when things seem so bleak due to bad luck, bad weather or bad food.
My 11-year-old son and I were in Hakuba to catch the tail end of the ski season. After a day of lessons on the slopes, we were cold, hungry and tired when we found ourselves at a tiny izakaya (informal Japanese bar that serves alcoholic drinks and snacks).
It was no bigger than a bedroom, with just eight seats lined up along a wooden bar – the kind of place you hope is amazing, but you’re not quite sure.
There was one man running the whole show. He didn’t call out orders or rush around. He just quietly cooked, served and washed dishes – all in the same small space. Calm. Focused. Almost like a performance.
“We have the house hotpot,” he told us. I hesitated. August is very much a chicken-and-rice kind of kid and this did not feel like that.
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Out came a steaming pot filled with a clear broth and things I couldn’t quite identify. Whole silver fish. Tiny creatures with eyes and claws still staring back at me. Strange, unfamiliar red meat shapes floating ominously on the surface.
We poked and prodded all the strange meats with our basic chopstick skills and tried to pretend we were really enjoying our meal.
I finally gave in to my curiosity and asked, in my very poor Japanese, what we were eating. The chef smiled and said, simply: “baniku”.
I knew instantly that it was horse. I quickly told August it was chicken. He looked at me, unconvinced.
Eating Mr Ed was appalling. I just could not do it. We both played with the hotpot like it was a hot mess and paid our bill as quickly as we could. Afterwards, we stepped outside for some fresh air.
I spotted what I thought was a sweet little garden shrine and wandered over for a photo. Before I knew it, August grabbed me and pulled me back.
“Mum,” he said, trying not to laugh, “You’re standing on a grave”.
Of course I was. We walked home quietly after that, hand in hand, both a little humbled and overwhelmed, feeling we should never mention horse hotpot again.
Sami Muirhead is a radio announcer, blogger and commentator, wife and mum of three.
