Japan Diary #3 - Kyoto

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Randy and I spent the first week of our honeymoon in Japan in 2000.

Kyoto children hunting cicadas on the Philosopher's Stroll, a trail overlooking the city.

New pet in its cicada cage.

Fairy tale forest near the Temple of the Silver Pavilion.

August 6, 2000. I am in Kyoto with Randy, my groom, my husband. Today we've seen an array of 1000 Buddhas and felt our way through the absolute dark of the maze in Buddha's womb. I drank water from a holy spring and tried to find my way with my eyes closed across the ten long steps from one famous temple rock to another. I stopped too soon, so my journey to love, says the legend, will not be straight nor easy. (Eleven good years and two children later, "Duh.")

We have dinner at a tiny tempura bar, sitting on high stools to watch the chefs behind the bar artfully frying shrimp, clusters of fresh corn kernels. We are the only Westerners in the room. Two businesswomen sitting next to me show me how to mix the mound of shredded fresh ginger, or perhaps it is daikon radish, in the bowl of soy.

A man raises his glass to the room. His glass wavers slowly as he intones in a deep growl of Japanese. The businessman next to us, whose business card said his name was Kawasaki, translates for us, perhaps inaccurately, out of kindness: “In memory of the hundred thousand who died fifty-five years ago today in the bombing of Hiroshima.” Randy raises his glass and offers, “To peace.”

Mr. Kawasaki and his drunk friend tell Randy that they are going to call a geisha. She amazes us when she arrives, charismatic as a rock star, distant as a celebrity. She sits between the men and never glances at us. In no way demure, she flings conversation back at the men, her high-pitched Japanese syllables snapping and musical. Her face is elaborately, theatrically painted, but the skin between the border of her upswept hair and the edge of her lowered collar is left bare. I suddenly understand the sensuality of the nape of the neck. Seeing her naked upper back so close is shocking in its frank sexuality.

Randy and I walk back to our ryokan in the rain. I dodge puddles to save my green silk mules with the embroidered flowers on the toes. We laugh and laugh, talking over our international incident, our adventures, high on excitement, Kirin beer and the beauty of Kyoto.

Our room at Tawaraya, one of Kyoto's fifteenth century ryokans (inns), looked out on a beautiful courtyard. Our room had tatami mats on the floor, paper walls and beautifully austere art on the walls. Lovely and gracious Keiko prepared our futon beds every night, then rolled them away in compartments in the walls every night. Dear Keiko took care of us like we were family. The morning we left for Hong Kong, she came to our room before dawn, beautifully dressed, her face made up pretty, to serve us breakfast and help us on our way. We exchanged thank you notes and bows goodbye.

Japan Diary #2 - Hakone

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Randy and I visited Japan in August of 2000.


After three days in the city, we took a train south from Toyko along the coast to Hakone, under Mount Fuji. A slow and twisty mountain train to Miyanoshita. Blue hydrangeas grew wild in bushes along the railway.

We were spending only one day in the mountains. As soon as we arrived, we had lunch (roe on a croissant) on the Fujiya Hotel terrace overlooking the koi pod. Children stood on flat rocks at the edge and clapped to call the giant fish, who poked their noses out of the water for bread.

New friend, with noodles.

We took a quick look at our room - old Western-style grandeur, then Randy and I took another train up to a steep tram, then boarded a ski lift up through a pass in the mountains. No sign of Fuji, the day was bright, but overcast. Steam vents in the rocky ground where the Japanese cook eggs. The sulfur turns the shells black. Freaky giant signs warned us of volcanic gas spouts leaking hydrogen sulfide:

Have a pain in your eye, nose and throat. But your sense of smell becomes numb, and you can no longer smell well. Please "immediately" evacuate from here.

The ski lift took us down to the shores of Lake Ashi where we boarded a paddle boat dressed up like a pirate sailing ship and cruised to the other side. Had a lovers' spat in a cedar wood, then caught a bus back to the hotel for a bath in the hotel's hot spring and a Japanese-French dinner, consomme, aspic and all.



Sunday, August 6
6:20 a.m. Tawaraya Ryokan, Kyoto, Japan

The days fly away, as I expected they would.

I wanted it all yesterday, so after waking in our room with the pretty flower name Acacia at the grand and venerable Fujiya Hotel in Hakone, I blankety blankety Randy and put on my bathing suit under my clothes. We went to breakfast in the bright main dining room -- clear bright light like in the Rocky Mountains. Views of the hills. Randy had the "Western" breakfast and I had the beautiful salad with a muffin and tea and grapefruit juice. "Who eats vegetables for breakfast"" I ask as Katie's mom did and I smile through my steamed broccoli and endive, kiwi and egg.

I want it all so I tell Randy I'll meet him at the pool and tour the impossibly lovely greenhouses while he finds his suit. Those tiny pink and white fuchsia flowers I thought were paper because they were too pretty to be real are growing here along with bonsai and tiny moss pots and other petite flowers - Christina would go nuts. And Japan is made for Sally.

I'm going up to the pool, marveling at the beauty and I catch a strong familiar scent - I turn back and it's a huge gardenia bush, covered in creamy blossoms. I burst into tears from the loveliness and meaning. My mother wore gardenia perfume.

I meet Randy and we climb stone steps to the blue pool at the top of the hill. Wisteria vines grow on the lattice over the lounge chairs and blue and while changing rooms. Cicadas singing in the trees overhanging the pool, three boards and an old concrete slide at the deep end.

Va va voom!

The water is cold, then perfect. I swim laps then dive, loving the fresh energy as I break the surface.

I cried a second time as we walked the tiny busy street to the Miyanoshita station because we passes a photo gallery with historic black and whites of Fujiya guests and there was John Lennon and the Emperor, okay, but who was that sweet faced old woman with the short and wavy 1930's hair. She had Grace Paley's wide and open cheeks. I knew her like I'd met her. I'd seen her in the photos in the halls of the hotel next to the New Year's groups in festive formal wear. 1917. 1929.

Then I noticed her far away look and the famous Fujiya white rooster with the 20 feet tail on her lap. It was Helen Keller stroking the bird. I cried with the recognition. Emotions are brought close to the surface by this world, this culture of reverence and beauty.

Japan Diary #1 - Tokyo

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Randy and I traveled to Japan for our honeymoon in August, 2000, long before I started this blog. I wrote a few journals entries during the trip.

August 2, 2000
Park Hyatt Hotel, Tokyo, Japan

Randy and I are married and in Japan and both experiences astound me. "The cliches are true," I told well-wishers, "It is the happiest day of your life."

Rereading the guide book reminded me that we wanted to find our own way from Narita Airport - so simple. The cab drivers wear white gloves. The curvy, elevated highway snakes through the city like a carnival ride.

Everything feels very good and very right, although Randy surprised me last night with arguments against "Ms."


This is my favorite time in vacation - Randy sleeping and I'm refreshed and nibbling on large sweet grapes in front of the eastern window overlooking a foggy city. The city is immense -- development spreading to the horizon in all directions. This suite is luxury on every surface and cunning design in every detail. Tiny wooden square boxes reveal snacks or toiletries. Unbelievably comfortable green obi robes with slippers. A computerized toilet with heated adjustable seat and varied water flow. We're transfixed by Asian TV - loud, bright commercials that are utterly transparent and clear to understand, raucous baseball games with a giant inflatable ball for the home run, cruel game shows: eat huge bowls of food for $50.


Friday, August 4, 2000
7:05 a.m. Park Hyatt Hotel, Tokyo, Japan

Our last morning in this beautiful room on the 42nd floor. White peaches and champagne for breakfast.


Tsukiji fish market yesterday. Blood red snapper with saucer eyes, tentacle everywhere, obscene squid and mussels with long tongues sticking out, monster tuna, fresh and frozen solid. Men smoking, driving carts down tiny pathways, hauling tuna onto electric saw platforms, eating handfuls of rice and sushi, women peering out of tiny cubicles, all lit with bright tiny bulbs in the cavernous warehouse. A dizzying trip.

We ate sushi and drank Kirin for breakfast in a tiny closet of a place in the market. When we pushed our stools away from the bar, they hit the back wall.

"Good morning!" called the young fish hauler when I took his picture, exaggerated, the only English he knew, I guessed. I'm suddenly shy, say "good morning," smiling and turn away.


We walked to a beautiful Japanese garden, Hama Rikyu, with royal duck hunting ponds and a 300 year old pine, its twisty branches wrapped in straw and bands of black metal, supported by crutches.

A boat ride (I napped with my head in Randy's lap - beer does that to me) to the Asakusa neighborhood and the Senso-ji temple. Streets of vendors and fortune tellers. We washed our hands in incense for good luck.


A tiny amusement park just beyond the temple. Random oddness on stage. Jangling pachinko parlors. Met Johnny Fingers later that night in Shinjuku for Indian food.

Fingers!