EPTI finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next four days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover that could have killed a bull moose. Sunlight was streaming directly onto my face through the tiny window above my bunk. I groaned and looked over at Sam, whose right leg was draped over the edge of the bed frame in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. I took two aspirin, left the box in plain sight for Sam's benefit, and got ready to face the day.
In a lot of ways, Kyoto reminded me of Florence, Italy. Both cities are spectacular tourist traps, jam-packed with all manner of cultural significance. Tourists are aware of this fact, but the cities themselves seem to be, too. Both cities have an indescribable, smug, disdainful feel to them. Everywhere I looked, throngs of tourists were parading through shrines and silently appreciating nearby objets d'art. Intersections featured arrows to prominent locations. Tour buses roamed with impunity along the narrow streets. When a crosswalk indicated it was safe to proceed, I felt the urge to moo as I surged forward with the rest of the herd. "Does anyone just live here?" I wondered.
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Kyoto.
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Kyoto.
If I had entered every shrine I passed during my seven-hour romp through Kyoto, I would have easily spent $200 on admission tickets alone. Instead, I limited myself to the more interesting attractions. The first shrine I visited, Sanjūsangen-dō, featured a massive Buddha flanked by row after row of guardian statues. "Good lord," I boggled silently, "there must be 1,000 of them." A plaque revealed that the real number was 1,001. I smiled as I circled around the people praying before the giant Buddha and made my way into the attached gift shop. To me, nothing undercut the message of Buddhism in quite so fitting a manner as selling bracelets and fortune scrolls to tourists for $20 and $1 apiece, respectively.
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The gift shop.
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Near Sanjūsangen-dō.
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Near Sanjūsangen-dō.
I made my way to the Kyoto National Museum, an enormous complex of art, crafts, and archaeological finds. The museum was spectacular—I don't mean to imply otherwise—but it was like a crypt, nothing but dim lighting and silence. Masses of tourists crept through the halls with their hands at their sides, not pointing nor speaking. It wasn't hard to envision the group, zombie-like, chanting "braaains" at irregular intervals. I did my best to blend in, hoping to avoid being eaten as an afternoon snack by the walking dead.
Having no idea where to proceed after I exited the museum, I followed the general flow of tourists up a long, winding, uphill stretch of narrow road, the sides of which were laden with restaurants and open-air shops selling all manner of trinkets. The crowd was reminiscent of passing time at my high school. There was an equilibrium rate of speed to which everyone who entered the amoeba of humanity had to conform. Those who stopped to photograph the fearsome chaos were scorned for impeding the progress of others, whereas those who tried to hurry cut a disruptive swath through the middle of the group. Had I been able to take the walk at a leisurely pace, I'm sure I would have enjoyed the ascent up to Kiyomizu-dera
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Dear lord.
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Dear. Lord.
Located at the top of "Teapot Lane," Kiyomizu-dera is an important Buddhist temple and one of Kyoto's most famous landmarks. I did not know any of this at the time. All I knew was that I had to separate myself from this oppressive crowd. I snapped a few photos and ducked down a side street, wandering for 30 minutes before seeing another person. And that's when I saw her.
Shuffling down the street to the light, equine clip-clop of her wooden sandals, the geisha was refinement personified. She wore an elegant kimono, flowers in her hair, and a knowing smile. Her heavy, traditional makeup concealed any flaws that might have adorned her face. Keeping her head bowed, she glanced through her eyelashes at the swarm of onlookers. People were draping their arms around the poor girl and jamming cameras in her face. Still, I thought, one picture can't hurt. I turned on my camera. The screen briefly read "LOW BATTERY" and went dark.
"No, no, no, NO," I thought. This was not happening. It couldn't be happening. My one geisha sighting was not going to be spoiled by a lithium-ion battery, of all things. I shook the camera in my hand like a vicious dog trying to snap the neck of its prey. Maybe I thought I could somehow transfer kinetic energy into the rechargeable battery. Whatever my rationale, I turned on my camera again. This time, I snapped a photo the moment the lens cap opened. The screen displayed the image for only a second and again went dark. But I had my geisha photo. I breathed a sigh of relief and watched the geisha for a few more moments. Her pace, already downright glacial, had slowed to nearly a stop. The scene reminded me of a crowd of small children poking a jellyfish with a stick. I shook my head. There was nothing I could or should do. Moments like this were the reason people visited Japan. But this wasn't the Japan I knew, the Japan I had experienced.
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The geisha.
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I managed to take two more photos before my camera truly died.
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I managed to take two more photos before my camera truly died.
When I arrived back at my hostel several hours later, the other foreigners and I began the evening's festivities with a spirited penis-measuring competition. "I walked for, I don't know, maybe seven hours," I said, sipping a large glass of water, "all around Higashiyama, beautiful area."
"That's it, mate?" Sam asked. "I was wearing these big ol' boots, and I still wandered about for nine hours. I'm trying to conserve money, though, so I didn't go into any of the shrines or anything."
The Swedish engineer scoffed. "I got somewhat lost, so I walked for ten and a half hours, south of the station and through Higashiyama."
The Frenchman pursed his lips and said, "Yes, I too walked for many hours. I enjoy walking."
"Well I don't know about you blokes," Sam said, "but I need a drink." I chugged my glass of water and went to refill it; I knew the direction the night was headed. If I couldn't avoid it, at least I could be prepared.
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From left to right, a Canadian guy living in Kyoto, his girlfriend, the Swedish engineer, me, the Frenchman, and Sam.
