Kyoto-Osaka: The Travelers

On Monday, as I had planned, I moved to a hostel in Higashiyama Ward. Mayuko’s family told me I could stay longer if I wanted, but I felt like three days was more than enough for me because I couldn’t repay such kindness. She asked me to meet again before I left Kyoto. I stopped by their shop, bought some cakes and said goodbye to her family. She offered me a ride, but I gently refused since the weather was pretty nice. I walked again through Okazaki park. Within a moment, a group of junior high school kids with pen and paper in their hands approached me; “excuse me, do you have time for an interview?” They gave me a paper with some questions I needed to fill out while asking another question: “what do you like about Kyoto?”

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When I arrived at Guesthouse Gajyun I was greeted by Jiro, a white Shiba dog—he was very polite and calm. The house was a typical modern traditional Machiya. I was placed in a shared room on the second floor with Elon, an Israeli, and Martin, a German. I wondered if they’d talk about history. I took a nap until 5:30 and found my sheets full of sweat. I went down, saw my roommates in the living room, and it didn’t take long until we started a conversation. There was another man from America and a woman from China who joined in. They planned to go to an Izakaya bar somewhere nearby, so I joined them. Elon told me that this hostel provided a free sento bath every night at 9 and it was limited to only 10 registered people. “You should write your name on that whiteboard if you want to join,” he said. A moment later we walked outside searching for an Izakaya bar. Matt, the American, said he would catch up with us soon. Somewhere, we entered an Izakaya bar and sat there for a while. After screening the menu, Elon and Martin decided to look for another place, but Elsa, the Chinese woman, said she would stay because she had already told Matt about this place and it was also a bit impolite if all of us left after sitting there. Elon and Martin finally left. I waited there until Matt arrived, then left both of them to catch up for the sento. At the hostel, Martin shouted at me, “Ah, good decision! The food is very expensive, isn’t it?”

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At 9 PM, Ichiro-san, the guesthouse owner, brought us to the sento with his car because the location was quite far on foot from the guesthouse. This was my first time visiting a communal bathroom like this. In Japan, bathing in sento is part of the daily tradition—they usually take a night bath after work. Everyone was completely naked inside, male and female were separated. I felt very awkward at first. The process started by bringing the soap and shampoo in a small bucket, then washing the body at sitting lined-up faucets before soaking in hot water. The tubs also had different heat levels, and people were free to choose which level they were comfortable with. I started with the lowest and slowly moved to the hottest.

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This hostel served more than a proper breakfast for the guests: tofu soup, chicken rice, tea & coffee, a variety of bread, fruit, juice, and yogurt. All were served by Ichiro-san. In the living room, I saw an old man go back and forth to the food table about three times, repeatedly taking the same menu. He ate while watching TV.

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I’d been wondering about the tiny reaction boxes on Japanese TV shows. Every show had them. Maybe it showed viewers how to react, or maybe there was something cultural I was missing. I needed to figure it out.

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After breakfast, I took a leisure walk to the Shirakawa river—it was about five minutes from the hostel. I sat on the small dock near a bridge while soaking half of my legs into the river. A few moments later I saw two western women sit on the other part of the dock. One of them approached me and said, “Hey, can you speak English?” “Yes.” “Can I have a few minutes of your time?” “Yeah, sure.” “So, my name is Elis, I’m from the United States. We are on a mission to tell the story of Jesus. Do you mind?” “No, not at all, go on.” I assumed they were evangelists or Jehovah’s Witnesses. I saw her friend just sitting there doing nothing, facing the other side. “Sorry, are you a believer? What do you think of Jesus?” I told her I saw Jesus as someone who fought against power and lost. She looked surprised—I wondered if I’d been rude. “Can I pray for you?” “Yes, sure.” That’s how it ended. She closed her eyes and I watched her recite prayers in front of me.

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I spent the rest of the day cycling and hunting for a teapot around Kyoto. Towards dusk, I sat by the Kamo river. I began to draw scenes in front of me. Not far behind me, a group of street musicians were singing a Japanese song. I saw a little girl dancing with her mother in front of the show. Within a moment, another little girl was timidly watching me drawing from behind. Her mother gave her a drawing book. I smiled and encouraged her to sit beside me. “She likes to draw,” said her mother. Her name was Annie and they came from Taiwan. I skipped my drawing and drew a sketch of her drawing birds and gave it to her as a gift, but then with an innocent gaze, she pointed at my drawing book and asked for the other pictures. I really… couldn’t afford to refuse.

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YouTube recommendation seduced me into watching a Sumo history video. I’d always thought Sumo was just two bloated heavyweight bodies pushing each other, but I learned it’s much more than that. The ritual before the fight is elaborate and ceremonial, full of formalities, while the main fight itself can end surprisingly fast—sometimes in one second after the first move. I found myself watching how the first ten seconds usually decide everything, how a single misstep can defeat even the bigger fighter, how the opening position leads to a better grip, how leg strength helps hold the opponent’s body before the push or slam. The Japanese-born sumo wrestlers are a cultural pride, hailed and adored. The biggest yearly tournaments are attended by the emperor and empress. I noticed that over the last two decades, two Mongolian wrestlers—Hakuho Sho and Asashoryu Akinori—have dominated the highest Yokozuna rank, which seemed to carry some weight I couldn’t quite grasp at the time.

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Wednesday morning. A short appointment with Comachi. She realized that she had forgotten to give me the refund from the last calligraphy class. We met at Ippudo Ramen near Nishiki Market, then she helped me look for green tea powder. We split up afterward. I took a bus to the Philosopher’s Path. It’s a two-kilometer stone path lined up with cherry trees alongside a canal. I walked from end to end. This place gained popularity because Nishida Kitaro, a renowned philosopher, used this place for contemplating while walking on his daily commute to Kyoto University.

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Wednesday late afternoon. A farewell food hunt with Mayuko. “Do you mind a long queue?” “No. That’s fine.” “Let’s visit this legendary soba place.” “I’ve tried soba before, what’s special about this one?” “It’s been there since 1465! Can you believe it?” “No question, let’s go.”

We took a metro bus to Nakagyo Ward and walked to this place called Honke Owariya. I tried to imagine what it meant—serving soba for more than five centuries. We waited in line. When we finally sat down, we ordered the specialty cold Hourai Soba and Soba Rice Cake. “Don’t forget to slurp the soba, that’s the manner.”

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Thursday morning. It was raining outside. I felt tired of writing. I spent half a day reading Beauty and Sadness by Yasunari Kawabata in the living room. At midday, I went to the Arashiyama bamboo forest with Tom. I became a tourist who became a guide for another tourist. At night, Ichiro-san held a barbeque party in the living room. There were more guests than I thought—they seemed like a group of ninjas who suddenly appeared from behind the bamboo. We also celebrated the birthdays of two guests. They looked very touched. Jiro moved back and forth from one person to another, waiting for food donations. I exchanged stories with them. Matt told his story of pursuing a master’s degree in Eastern Medicine. Elsa told her resignation story from her job as an accountant in Beijing. Sarah was taking a gap year for traveling throughout Japan. Jiro collapsed from overeating.

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“Time passed. But time flows in many streams. Like a river, an inner stream of time will flow rapidly at some places and sluggishly at others, or perhaps even stand hopelessly stagnant. Cosmic time is the same for everyone, but human time differs with each person. Time flows in the same way for all human beings; every human being flows through time in a different way.”
— Yasunari Kawabata, Beauty and Sadness

• • • • •

Hotel: Guesthouse Gajyun
Hotel Environment: traditional Machiya
Treatment: 5 stars hotel breakfast, free sento every night
Others: local party every Friday night, kimono & bike rent, close to everywhere, backyard garden
Impression: I already miss Jiro, the backyard, and the breakfast

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Friday morning. Along with Tom, Natasha, and Daniele, we left the hostel and headed to Nara. We exchanged stories. I talked with Tom on the train about the bottles in front of Japanese houses. Daniele didn’t talk too much. Natasha talked about her study as an English literature student. We walked around Nara Park, feeding the deer who might think these sapiens were their food supply. Natasha and Daniele decided to leave early as they had to catch a Shinkansen to Hiroshima. We entered Todai-ji temple. There was a big Daibutsu statue in the main hall. The sound of morning prayer from my secondary school monastery greeted me. I saw a group of school kids crawl into a hole under the Daibutsuden statue—according to the legend, those who pass through the hole will be blessed. We walked around the park complex. There was a baby festival nearby and a parking area for baby strollers. I said goodbye to Tom at Nara station. I was heading to Osaka.

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Friday afternoon. I arrived at Tennoji station in Osaka. My hostel was about 500 meters from the station. It was operated by foreigners with a working holiday visa—they took part-time jobs here. An Argentinian in the living room said she worked in a department store in Namba. Other part-timers asked me to join the karaoke party tonight, but I said I should look for souvenirs because tomorrow I would leave Japan. After the chat, I walked casually to the Janjan Yokocho area. I stopped for a moment in front of a place filled with old men playing Shogi, then I ate udon near Tsutenkaku tower. Outside the shop, a myriad of blinking neon lights started to illuminate the street. It felt like Tokyo but with more boisterous people. Then I hunted for souvenirs. Then I walked to the Dotombori area, watching a group of tourists on the river from Ebisu Bridge, watching a kid jump rope in front of the big Glico sign, watching the face of Yui Aragaki on the Don Quijote building. I stopped by a train toy shop. And for the farewell, I spent a sum of yen playing arcade games. At the hostel, I talked with an old polyglot who also took a part-time job there. He demonstrated his language abilities and told me about his peripatetic life from the last 20 years. Tomorrow would be my last half day in Japan. Kansai Airport was ready to take something from me. Another part in the series of goodbyes.