It’s the Little Things That Count

Japan is an archipelago that lies thousands of miles away from the States, with vast ocean blue separating their shores. This is a glaringly obvious difference. What interests me more are the subtle nuances of culture that really make one take pause and reflect. For example, I changed rooms today at the hotel and when I arrived in my new room later in the afternoon there was a note on top of which were a penny and a green cap. Turns out I had forgotten the top of hair shine spray and one penny – ONE PENNY – somewhere in my old room. The maid had collected them, inquired whether I had checked out or changed rooms, and had them sent to my new room. If anyone has had this experience in America I would be astonished.

It has been a little over a week into this Japanese adventure and my experiences have already been incredibly rich. Even my slight hangover from sake fun the night before could not detract from my happiness when I awoke on Saturday morning. Dark clouds hung low in the Kyoto sky, and I brewed my tea and looked out my window, calm and content. Penned a postcard. Listened to music. Smiled.

On this day I had the pleasure of packing my swelling bag and preparing to lug my new book collection to a different room…even that bothered me none. Cynthea and I set out for her former home, an old machiya (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Machiya) in Higashiyama. This neighborhood captivated me at first glance, with its tiny thoroughfares and wafting smells of Japanese sweets and aging wood. We stopped by Cynthea’s favorite sweets shop, and the owner and his wife dropped everything to come say hello to their old friend. They were absolutely delightful, although I could barely understand their heavily accented Kyoto dialect. We bought some sweets and walked about two feet across the street to peak into an antique shop, plum full of tiny ceramic bowls and plates. Then back across the street for homemade noodles and nama uba (the fresh skin of tofu – dough-like texture). The noodles were like soba but yellowish and chewier, and they came in a bowl with daikon, bonito, and pickled plum. It was so delicious that neither of us said a word before finishing the entire thing.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hayashi popped in from the sweets shop with little bowls of jelly for us and another package for…me. I was astonished when she presented me, little ol’ me, with this exquisite gift: a tissue package and long, flat wallet from Yoshioka-san’s workshop. Yoshioka-san is a famous textile dyer in Kyoto, and his work is beautiful and very pricey. As it turns out, the Hayashi’s had given Yoshioka-san leftover chestnut shells from their sweets shop, which he had ground up and turned into a dye. In return he had given them these two pieces. I almost cried at the sincere kindness. She said she thought I was so charming and hoped I would use them. I immediately transferred the appropriate goods into their new homes, all in a glow from this wonderful woman.

Another shower hit just as we were leaving the noodle shop, and we huddled under the eaves of Cynthea’s former home and ate our cinnamon jelly from the Hayashi’s. I love Kyoto – nay, life! – precisely for moments like this. 

In the afternoon I met up with Isaac, my phriend from California, next, just as the sky cleared and the sun shone through. Isaac is one of the few people who knows me on both academic and personal (i.e. music loving) levels. We had a great time walking along the Kamogawa (Kamo River) past the crazy old lady who grows tomatoes and raises cats and through a mini tent-city of beer drinking old men who greeted us with gritty “konnichiwa.” All the while we chatted about Buddhist studies, travels in Asia, and the difficulty of balancing those worlds with the crazy realm of traveling around to see music. I really appreciate his friendship.

It was a lovely Kyoto afternoon, and the temperature was just perfect. Interesting moments: we saw a guy urinating on the street in Gion (this is an EXTREMELY rare sight in Japan) and infiltrated an otherwise exclusive coffee house (it was blatantly obvious that the kami-san [woman in charge] did not like foreigners, but I eventually wooed her with my charm). Like every day in Japan, the time just flew by. A lovely stroll through the old imperial palace grounds (much like an anormous park) later and we met back up with Cynthea, and she regaled us with stories of being kidnapped in India and sneaking on trains in the Chinese mountains to go to Dunhuang before it was time for our Thai massages, which turned out to be another experience I will not soon forget. The style of massage – a blend of deep tissue and shiatsu – was new to me, as was the experience of directing a masseuse in Japanese.

Despite feeling like I could drift into post-massage happy sleep for hours and hours, I decided to make the most of my window of hanging out with good friends and make it out for dinner with Isaac. We walked to Sanjō-dōri, a major street in Kyoto, and grabbed dinner at what was supposed to be an organic, vegetarian friendly restaurant. This, we learned, was not quite the case when the first vegetable dish we received contained strips of beef. Nevertheless, it was a pretty decent meal. The cold tofu we ordered first was by far the best. The sanma was tasty too. The nasu (Japanese eggplant), however, which is usually my favorite, was undercooked and tough. Thank god they served cold beers with quick speed to make up for this! Another long walk back down the dead streets (I swear people close up shop and go to bed by 10:00 at the latest here), and I puttered away on my computer in the lobby catching up on digitalia until sleep came a knockin’.