Back Home in Kyoto

Sept. 13
The morning agenda was taking a bus to Daitokuji, a famous Rinzai Zen temple, and visit several gardens on the grounds. After walking to several bus stops and watching several full buses pass by with no room for 18 Americans we finally arrived. I took the lead and followed three male pilgrims up to the main gate, finding myself quite amused at the image of these three men dressed in traditional garb (they could have actually been from the 16th century I think) walking alongside a young girl in a short minidress and tall boots whose hips swung side to side with each step. I probably giggled out loud at least a few times. The man at the main booth pretended to not understand my Japanese, and I kept hearing strange Eastern European languages whispering by, coming from a never ending stream of ungainly and gangly tourists I wanted so badly to distance myself and our whole group from. Thankfully there was a tea ceremony at Daitokuji this day, so these two unpleasant points were countered by lovely ladies in kimono carrying dainty parasols and gliding down the paths.

Even more, I forgot there were other people entirely when we entered Kōkōin, a most lovely garden I wanted to lose myself in forever. It was a mossy paradise fit for Elvin royalty...even my best pictures do it little justice. The Japanese aesthetic I love so much was truly captured in this place.

Before exploring Daitokuji’s further, lunch was in order. Through Cynthea’s many connections we were able to locate a famous noodle shop, and I tried keiran udon for the first time. Grated mountain potato and egg are added to homemade udon noodles, creating a slightly thick broth. Superb!

Daisen’in provided our second garden party of the day, and there our eyes feasted on the magic of creative use of natural space while our mouths tasted the most delicately delicious cinnamon cakes and high grade matcha. The head priest of Daisen’in, Ōzeki Sōen, happened to be sitting in the front room writing the names of any who wished on their brochure in beautiful calligraphy. His zeal for life was quite discernable, and I think he quite enjoyed entertaining visitors.

This priest took an immediate liking to me, and remarked quite loudly how beautiful he thought I was. I asked if he could write my name in Chinese characters, to spice things up from boring katakana, and he donned a huge grin and proclaimed that I was the most beautiful and smartest woman in the world (he must get paid extra to flatter foreigners…). In proper Japanese style, I adamantly refused all the compliments, but when he said that he could see the Buddha inside me, in my heart, it somehow seemed rude to retort, “No, no, no.” I just smiled, a little surprised and a lot embarrassed. Daisen’in is another place I could have stayed for eternity, and indeed when I finished circumambulating the building and gazing in wonder at the centuries old rock formations seas and universes I found Cynthea chatting with the elderly priest about how he thought I should stay there forever. Don’t tempt me!

Our day was not yet over, and the afternoon was a stop I’d been looking forward to since I first visited two years ago: Sanjusangendo. This unbelievable wooden hall houses 1002 gilded statues of Thousand Armed Kannon in long rows, dating from the Kamakura through the Edo periods. As soon as you turn the corner and enter the complex the electricity of the place totally consumes you and demands all attention. We donned our art historian hats and walked from statue to statue picking out stylistic attributes in an attempt to discern early statues from later replicas. This is no easy task, and I have the utmost respect for true art historians like Cynthea who can pick up on the most seemingly minute detail and reconstruct history with it. Marie and I noticed a particularly funny faced statue directly to the right of the main image (I called it the Michael Jackson Kannon for its weird shaped nose), so Cynthea suggested we ask the priests about its provenance. Honestly I do not even recall the response, for Cynthea and I spent the next thirty or forty minutes chatting with a senior priest and a junior priest about language, writing systems, and the symbolism that connects reality with the past and creates meaning. I pulled out my electronic dictionary and showed them how it pronounces Chinese words and shows stroke order, and they pulled out stacks of dictionaries that show the progression of characters from handwritten blobs to recognizable glyphs.

We reflected on the long day of study at the Hyatt in SE Kyoto, a funky hotel remodeled by an architect at Super Potato quite masterfully, sipping on martinis in the basement bar. Stacks of books turned page side out formed textured wallpaper, and collections of mechanical pieces (wooden keys, etc.) adorned glass and wood walls. This bar, Tozan (Eastern Mountain), was the coolest I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking booze at. And the waiter was just so lovely and attentive.

With a beautiful buzz we left the Hyatt and headed to a second hand designer store so Cynthea could appease her Commes des Garcon fix. We had just enough time to squeeze in a delicious shabu shabu dinner on the seventh floor of the new Mina building before racing back to Daishin’in for our curfew (which we did not make, I am sorry to announce). I’ve had shabu shabu many times before, but this dinner was a new experience for me. For one, there were many more sauce and seasoning options. On top of that, you can select an array of broths to cook the meat and vegetables in, and we chose tōnyū (soy milk) for one. It gave such a rich flavor. I am a huge fan. Ah, shabu shabu – I’ve missed you!