2025年のREMINDEDの最新＆人気コンテンツ -GRAVITY(グラビティ) SNS

京都駅前の変なホテル
一晩2.3万円の宿泊費に含まれる朝食に、驚かされた。ほぼ毎朝早々からの不愉快な体験が、一日の気分を台無しにした：
1. 初日の朝、パン焼き機の電源が入っていないこと（焼き上がったパンが冷たかった）とジュースが切れていることを伝えただけだった。そもそも多くは食べていないし飲んでいない。すると中年女性スタッフから逆に指摘された：「中国人ですよね…これはビュッフェだけど、食べ放題じゃない！」
2. この地域差別的な理不尽な発言をホテルスタッフに伝えたが、具体的な対応は一切なかった。翌朝、再びその中年女性スタッフに会った際、謝罪も改善も見られなかった。なんと朝食券の確認を理由に、インド系の家族3人を入口で15分近くも足止めした。ようやくレストランに入ると、高圧的な口調でその3人に「日本のルール」とは何かを説教し始めた！
3. 3日目の朝食時、同じ中年女性スタッフが再び「スリッパでの入室は禁止」と阻止してきた。これはホテル内のレストランであり、書面による同様の注意書きや提示要求は一切なく、純粋にこのスタッフの口頭での恣意的な発言が「日本のルール」と化していた！顧客に時間と手間をかけさせて、彼女の言う「ルール」に従わせようとするのだ！結局、ホテルスタッフに申し立てた後、ようやく入室を許可された！
4. 二度も苦情を申し立てたにもかかわらず、ホテル側は実質的な対応を一切行わなかった。むしろその中年女性スタッフが私に対して逆の苦情を申し立てたため、チェックアウト時に警告処理が適用され、セルフチェックアウトが正常に完了できなくなった。結局、スタッフの介入が必要となり、出発が45分遅れた。
5. 総合的に見て、世界中の同価格帯のホテルの中で、このホテルの朝食は品数が最も少なく、ルールが最も変で、サービスが最も劣悪なホテルである。他に類を見ない。それまでは本当の変なホテルだ。

The breakfast included in a $160 nightly room rate was shocking. The early-morning annoyances set the tone for a miserable day:
1. On the first morning, I simply reminded the server that the toaster wasn't plugged in (only after toasting did I realize the bread was cold) and that the juice was empty—I hadn't eaten or drunk much. Instead, a middle-aged female server retorted: “You're Chinese, aren't you... This is a buffet breakfast, but it's not an all-you-can-eat deal!”
2. After reporting this regional discrimination and inexplicable remark to hotel staff, no concrete action was taken. The next morning, upon encountering the same middle-aged female server again, there was no apology or change in behavior. She even detained an Indian family of three at the entrance for nearly 15 minutes under the pretext of checking breakfast tickets. Once they finally entered the dining room, she proceeded to lecture them in a condescending tone about Japanese rules for another several min!
3. On the third day, the same middle-aged female server again blocked me, stating slippers were prohibited in the restaurant. This was an internal hotel restaurant with no written policy or sign—purely her arbitrary verbal declaration as “Japanese rules”! She forced guests to waste time and endure hassle to comply with her so-called rules! Only after reporting it to hotel staff were we finally allowed entry!
4. Regarding both complaints, the hotel appeared to take no substantive action. Instead, due to the restaurant staff's counter-complaint against me, they actually flagged my account during checkout, preventing smooth self-service checkout. This ultimately required manual intervention, delaying my departure by 45 minutes.
5. Overall, among hotels of comparable price globally, this hotel offers the most limited breakfast, the weirdest rules, and the worst service—without exception, which seems in line with the name of Hotel.

一晚2.3万房费所含的早餐，令人震惊。几乎每天一大早的糟心体验导致一天心情不佳：
1. 第一天早上，只是提醒服务员面包烤箱电源没插（烤完后才发现面包是凉的）和果汁没有了，本身没有吃很多或者喝很多。结果被一名中年女服务员反向提醒：“你是中国人吧。。。这是自助早餐，但不是你想吃多少就吃多少！”
2. 将这种地域歧视和莫名其妙的言论告知Hotel工作人员后，并没有任何具体行动。第二天早上再次见到该中年女服员时，并没有任何道歉和改观。竟然会以查验早餐券为由，将印度裔一家三人拦在门口近15分钟。最终进入餐厅后，又以高高在上的口吻指导教育该三人什么是日本规则！
3. 第三天再去吃早餐时，该中年女服务员又拦住说，不允许穿拖鞋进入餐厅。这是酒店内部餐厅，没有任何书面类似提示或要求，而纯碎是该服务员口头任意表述就成了日本规则！让客户搭上时间和麻烦来遵守她口中所谓的规则！最后找酒店员工反映后又可以进入!
4. 对两次投诉，酒店似乎没有做任何实际应对。反而因为餐厅店员对我的反向投诉，最终在check-out时竟然进行了预警处理，无法顺利自助check-out。最终导致人工介入，推迟45分钟离开。
5. 整体来看，全球各地同等价位的酒店中，该酒店早餐是种类最少，规则最奇怪，服务最差劲的一家，没有之一。

Wandering Soul

A journey across lands, within a heart.

I set off on a quiet journey, alone.
A soul in search—
for something unseen,
something lost within.

In Japan,
the soft chorus of autumn insects
followed the footsteps
of evening walks with my dog.

The air was clear,
crisp as glass,
and the rice fields whispered—
leaves rustling like distant waves,
waiting patiently
for harvest time to come.

Golden stalks, heavy with life,
bowed low,
as if listening
for the right moment to be released.

In the Philippines,
the sea shimmered in endless blue.
From Cebu to Malapascua,
then El Nido—
I chased the edge of the horizon.

I dove beneath the surface,
hoping the depths might answer me.
But what I was searching for
remained quiet,
somewhere beyond coral and salt.

Kalanggaman—
an uninhabited island
shaped like a kiss
between two drifting shores.

I whispered to the wind,
“One day,
I want to camp here with you.”

In Thailand,
on Khaosan Road,
I followed the map scribbled
in Lonely Planet’s margins.

Pad Thai sizzled,
foreign voices filled the air—
it hardly felt like Asia at all.
Or perhaps,
a Western village
planted in Southeast soil.

Like a scene from The Beach,
neon and nostalgia intertwined.
From Bangkok’s alleys,
I drifted south
toward Phuket’s waiting coast.

In Vietnam,
ao dai whispered through humid air,
pho steamed in quiet bowls,
and sudden rain
washed away even the noise.

I quarreled with a motorbike driver,
then laughed,
alone on a borrowed scooter
chasing the perfect bánh mì
through night markets
alive with spice and neon.

From Da Nang to Hoi An,
the road curled like smoke—
and the noodles I ate alone
tasted like courage.

In Bali,
the night chanted with fire.
Kecak dancers circled flame,
and I lay beneath a net,
dreaming in whispers.

I met my mother,
shared mint cucumber water,
and let time soften
what silence could not.

Spa hands pressed memory into skin.
Coconut paths led to Ubud,
where an amaryllis bloomed
quietly in a rice terrace—
as if it, too,
had been waiting.

In the Maldives,
spices clung to the air—
saffron, cumin, memory.

I wandered the morning market,
and in the mosque’s quiet breath,
wrapped myself in stillness
and modesty.

Malé felt too small
for the loneliness I carried.
Even land seemed to shrink
beneath the weight in my chest.

On Maafushi,
romance shimmered
just out of reach.
Stingrays in the shallows
played near my feet—
but the rendezvous
never reached my soul.

In Istanbul,
gulls cried over the Bosphorus,
and the wind tasted like salt and scripture.

At Hagia Sophia,
bells echoed in my ribs,
and a cup of tea
warmed something
colder than skin.

The bazaar twisted like a dream,
each alley a whisper
of spice and silk.
I felt both lost and found,
held in the hum of ancient prayers.

In Paris,
light fell gently
on bowls of pho
and broken mornings.

A stranger—madame—
offered me kindness.
When she said au revoir,
my eyes betrayed me.

Her kiss on my cheek
was the kind of goodbye
that aches for a lifetime.

At Sacré-Cœur,
I surrendered
to a grief I hadn’t named—
let it spill like stained glass
onto the quiet hill.

In Italy,
a single rose bloomed
on the table beside my risotto.

I watched pizza spin
in the hands of artisans
who touched the dough
like a living thing.

Warm laughter filled the streets—
a kindness without question.

In Spain,
tapas flickered beneath golden lights.
Gaudí’s stones reached for the sky,
and I coughed quietly
into thyme tea
as the sun dipped behind
Barcelona’s silhouette.

In Hungary,
steam curled from bathhouse tiles,
and friendship stirred
like the first warmth
after a long frost.

But fever came.
And so did silence.

I lay still in a guesthouse bed,
feeling eyes that saw me
as something other.
Even kindness
had a border that day.

In Morocco and Jordan,
I followed the scent of saffron
through souks that twisted like vines.

Tajine reminded me of home.
The kindness of strangers,
rooted in the Qur’an,
wrapped around me like linen.

In mountain towns dyed blue,
I shrank into myself—
then slowly breathed again
in the calm of dry air
and starlit nights.

What I searched for—
I never found.

Not in the oceans,
not in the prayers,
not in the heat or the hunger.

But in every step,
something remained.

The scent of mint and sea,
the rhythm of unknown tongues,
the silence after parting—
they live inside me now.

I returned
with nothing in my hands,
but everything
in my heart.

What was missing
was never meant
to be found—

It was meant
to be felt.

And now,
it blooms quietly
inside me—
like a flower
no one else sees.

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