"Success for my Family, and Happiness"
Yesterday evening I was in the travel trance, in a soft leather seat at the front of a shiny brand-new coach between Luton and Oxford, teary-eyed from the random songs my iPod kept handing me like small gifts, looking at the sparkly lights of the English motorway system as we swung round a roundabout with a funny, jovial driver at the helm (when he got a straight, empty stretch of road he went "Wheeee!"), and a local bus pulled in in front of us with a sign on the back saying "Stuck in traffic? You could be shopping in Hemel Hempstead!" Wise bus. It's nice to be reminded to count your blessings once in a while.
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6-7 October
Kyoto was one cool or pretty or awe-inspiring thing after another, most of it hard to put into words, so I didn't at the time.
We dumped our bags at the youth hostel (where we had to take off our shoes at the entrance; hello, Japan) and headed straight out to Kiyomizu shrine, which stands on a cliff above a forest ravine on the eastern edge of town. On the way there we crossed a river with grey herons and stumbled into a memorial service at Otani Mausoleum. A monk seemed to be displaying a casket of ashes to the few gathered people, who must have been family members and who had brought offerings of sake and KitKats for the monks (or the gods; I wasn't sure, but everybody loves sake and KitKats). Ivan and I had been chatting but froze, not even wanting to breathe loudly, when we realised what was going on. The people bowed to the ash casket, burned incense and chanted, then someone clapped their hands and it was over.
We went on up the hill through a mossy cemetery guarded by large crows, and on to the shrine, which was full of uniformed children on school trips, running up the steps and laughing. Teenage schoolgirls were attempting to walk between the 'love stones' with their eyes closed - the stones are about 20 feet apart and if you get from one to the other with closed eyes, thinking the name of the beloved, it means your love will work out. A statue of a giant rabbit, a fertility god decorated with the white paper zigzags they put on anything sacred, was watching the proceedings with a wry smile. People were buying wishes on twists of paper and tying them to fences, or writing prayers on pieces of wood which were hung on racks. The monks offer up all the prayers to the gods once a month, then the racks are cleared to make room for more.
Then we walked down Sannen-zaka, an old street of winding steps preserved from the old town, smelling spice and scented wood from the shops along the way, and into a park of ponds and mysterious green lanterns. We sat there for a while listening to birds and crickets in the almost-dark. We moved on at last and found a village of spirits.
Around a square paved with ancient-looking flagstones stood several dozen little houses, ornate wood with tiny front gardens and paths up to their doors, all hung with dark-coloured lanterns. The paths were roped off with more of the white paper zigzags. When you looked closer, through the open front doors you could see tiny shrines - statues surrounded by candles and lamps, prayers and offerings. Some of the statues looked like people, some like foxes, some were stranger things I couldn't identify at all. They seemed to fidget and wink in the low light. You felt the need to speak in a whisper. In front of some of the shrines Japanese people were putting offerings in boxes (they say a five-yen coin is the luckiest), then clapping their hands or ringing the bells that hang in front of each house, to get the attention of the spirit inside. I wanted to ring the bell too but I didn't know what I'd say. I could have stayed for hours, but it was getting late.
Beyond the spirit village we found ourselves in the entertainment district, neon-lit and full of bars and tea houses... and geisha. The Guide said this was the perfect time of the evening to see them arriving at appointments, and there they were, hurrying along in their wooden white-socked sandals with their kimono fabric catching the light, chattering to each other and on their phones. We went into a restaurant where the staff called out "Irrashaimase!" (welcome/can we help you?) in little-girl voices with the last "e" drawn out forever. We sat on tatami eating rice balls mixed with tiny fish the length of your fingernail; I thought they were just little slivers of some meat or other and then I realised they had faces. They were delicious. We drank sake overflowing from the glass into a little boxy wooden saucer.
If this all sounds stereotypical, that's the amazing thing about Japan: I wasn't expecting this, because I come from a country where the tourists I met as a kid seemed to be expecting pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, everyone wearing green and saying "Wisha" and not knowing what a computer was, but Japan is exactly what people say it is.
As we were walking to the station to catch the train to Tokyo, in the rain, we saw a man sitting cross-legged in a doorway. He had an umbrella which he wasn't holding over himself, but over the ginger cat sleeping on his lap.
Pictures are here.
*
6-7 October
Kyoto was one cool or pretty or awe-inspiring thing after another, most of it hard to put into words, so I didn't at the time.
We dumped our bags at the youth hostel (where we had to take off our shoes at the entrance; hello, Japan) and headed straight out to Kiyomizu shrine, which stands on a cliff above a forest ravine on the eastern edge of town. On the way there we crossed a river with grey herons and stumbled into a memorial service at Otani Mausoleum. A monk seemed to be displaying a casket of ashes to the few gathered people, who must have been family members and who had brought offerings of sake and KitKats for the monks (or the gods; I wasn't sure, but everybody loves sake and KitKats). Ivan and I had been chatting but froze, not even wanting to breathe loudly, when we realised what was going on. The people bowed to the ash casket, burned incense and chanted, then someone clapped their hands and it was over.
We went on up the hill through a mossy cemetery guarded by large crows, and on to the shrine, which was full of uniformed children on school trips, running up the steps and laughing. Teenage schoolgirls were attempting to walk between the 'love stones' with their eyes closed - the stones are about 20 feet apart and if you get from one to the other with closed eyes, thinking the name of the beloved, it means your love will work out. A statue of a giant rabbit, a fertility god decorated with the white paper zigzags they put on anything sacred, was watching the proceedings with a wry smile. People were buying wishes on twists of paper and tying them to fences, or writing prayers on pieces of wood which were hung on racks. The monks offer up all the prayers to the gods once a month, then the racks are cleared to make room for more.
Then we walked down Sannen-zaka, an old street of winding steps preserved from the old town, smelling spice and scented wood from the shops along the way, and into a park of ponds and mysterious green lanterns. We sat there for a while listening to birds and crickets in the almost-dark. We moved on at last and found a village of spirits.
Around a square paved with ancient-looking flagstones stood several dozen little houses, ornate wood with tiny front gardens and paths up to their doors, all hung with dark-coloured lanterns. The paths were roped off with more of the white paper zigzags. When you looked closer, through the open front doors you could see tiny shrines - statues surrounded by candles and lamps, prayers and offerings. Some of the statues looked like people, some like foxes, some were stranger things I couldn't identify at all. They seemed to fidget and wink in the low light. You felt the need to speak in a whisper. In front of some of the shrines Japanese people were putting offerings in boxes (they say a five-yen coin is the luckiest), then clapping their hands or ringing the bells that hang in front of each house, to get the attention of the spirit inside. I wanted to ring the bell too but I didn't know what I'd say. I could have stayed for hours, but it was getting late.
Beyond the spirit village we found ourselves in the entertainment district, neon-lit and full of bars and tea houses... and geisha. The Guide said this was the perfect time of the evening to see them arriving at appointments, and there they were, hurrying along in their wooden white-socked sandals with their kimono fabric catching the light, chattering to each other and on their phones. We went into a restaurant where the staff called out "Irrashaimase!" (welcome/can we help you?) in little-girl voices with the last "e" drawn out forever. We sat on tatami eating rice balls mixed with tiny fish the length of your fingernail; I thought they were just little slivers of some meat or other and then I realised they had faces. They were delicious. We drank sake overflowing from the glass into a little boxy wooden saucer.
If this all sounds stereotypical, that's the amazing thing about Japan: I wasn't expecting this, because I come from a country where the tourists I met as a kid seemed to be expecting pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, everyone wearing green and saying "Wisha" and not knowing what a computer was, but Japan is exactly what people say it is.
As we were walking to the station to catch the train to Tokyo, in the rain, we saw a man sitting cross-legged in a doorway. He had an umbrella which he wasn't holding over himself, but over the ginger cat sleeping on his lap.
Pictures are here.