Often chance encounters, unplanned events, linger long after the excursions and sights of a particular trip have faded. It was in 1998 that my wife and I visited central Japan, based in Kyoto, having taken advantage of cheap flights from Bandar Seri Begawan, courtesy of Royal Brunei. I can place the date exactly, because it was during the first group stage of the 1998 World Cup in France. I can vividly remember watching TV in a bar and seeing David Beckham being sent off in the match against Argentina. And the night the Japanese team was eliminated, beaten by Croatia, it seemed like the whole nation wept. And then everyone got up to work the next day as if nothing had happened, presumably all the arrogance had been publicly and properly dispatched.
But of course it is the differences that the ephemeral traveler notices. We had done our research and were determined to experience something quintessentially Japanese. An essential part of this was staying in a small traditional hotel called a ryokan. We couldn’t fix it right away, but we managed to get over a week at the spot we had pointed out, which was Ryokan Yuhara, right on the banks of the canal at the southern end of Philosopher’s Walk. We even got a front room with a balcony, overlooking the water.
And so to some of those differences, so carefully noted and recorded. She began, and perhaps ended, with the shoes. Outside shoes were left in the hall, each room had a designated locker on a large wooden shelf, a space that contains the runner’s shoes. So the shelf is really a great status board for the hotel. Outside shoes on the shelf mean you’re in, while aisle shoes on the shelf mean you’re out.
Runner shoes are exactly what their name suggests. They are used only in those common areas where there is no water. In your room, you have your room shoes, which never come off. So if you go to the bathroom, you change your bedroom shoes to the hallway shoes, you head to the bathroom, and then you change your bathroom shoes.
And then you’re faced with the toilet seat, a remarkable computerized robot that can be programmed to individual preferences. It can be heated or cooled. Play music. Cleans itself after use. Plays a recording of the toilet flushing to hide the real noise your own flush makes. You’ll probably turn it upside down, spray it with cologne, and announce, “Pleased to serve you,” if you like. No wonder you need special shoes.
And then there is the bathroom. This has to be booked. There are half-hour slots and, having booked your time, you put on your robe and wait for a knock on the door. The maitre d’hotel is there, waiting to take you to the bathroom where, of course, there is another pair of shoes. It is a house rule that the occupants of a room take a bath together, by the way. Think hard before booking this place with your grandfather. A conventional shower with soap and shampoo is followed by a ten-minute soak in a deep tub, the hot water simply replenished, not replaced, between slots, so everyone shares the same water. It is an amazing place.
But the most enduring memory of the entire trip arose from a completely unexpected event. Kyoto’s temples were quite impressive, of course, and we tried to see as many as we could, so our itinerary sometimes required starting quite early in the morning. It also meant that we could often stroll through the beautiful gardens along the way and take our time. One particular morning we left very early and walked a little way in the direction of one particular temple, Sanjusagendo, famous for its rows of hundreds of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, a veritable multitude of statues, each with no fewer than 44 arms. So it was still quite early when we looked for breakfast in an area of the city that was new to us. Many restaurants and cafes still had their shutters down, but after a long journey, we found one whose door was open.
Outside was the customary large bulletin board. These seemed to be a common feature of all Japanese eating establishments. They carry photos of the dishes on offer so they can be sorted by number, a much easier process than trying to list often complicated sets of ingredients. Imagine twenty different noodle dishes, all of which have vegetables and seafood. The numbering system works. My wife and I looked at the screen, noticed the illustrated breakfast, and went inside. The pictorial menus were a complete blessing for us, of course, since we couldn’t read a single kanji character.
So we sat down. There was another menu card on the table. I took it to the bar, it caught the attention of the owner, who was bending down to restock a fridge, pointed to the matching photo and indicated we wanted two. We lived in Brunei at the time and weren’t too far from home, so we thought we were used to most things Asian. He surprised us when the owner replied in English, however, with an immensely polite, “Certainly, sir, poach, scramble or fry, and with tea or coffee?” I ordered the coffee.
While we waited for the food to appear, we wandered around the room. We were the only customers and there were several interesting framed photos on the wall. It was clearly a well-known place. A framed letter signed by all the Canadian members of Disney on Ice expressed their appreciation for the meal.
The food took a little longer than expected, but it finally arrived. And it was excellent. A large, flavorful pickled cucumber and orange salad was topped with three poached eggs and croutons. We ate well.
And then we had a chat with the owner, who proudly showed us some more photos. He assumed we were British, which I think was not difficult, and explained how, in the 1960s, the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had passed through the street as part of an official visit. And there was the photo, with the restaurant in the frame, as the royals proceeded.
We were in the cafe for almost an hour, eating and chatting. It never crossed our minds to wonder why we were the only customers. And then I thanked our host, said we’d have to move on, and asked for the bill. He immediately surprised me when he said there was nothing to pay. After being at a loss for words, I managed to ask him why our breakfast was free and he replied very kindly, “It’s because we’re closed, sir.” He pointed to the bulletin board we’d examined on our way in, the one with the picture menu. It clearly said CLOSED in big English letters right across it. Waiting for kanji, we hadn’t seen it. He laughed a lot and he wished us a nice style in Kyoto.
As a tourist, it is the differences that you notice, but it is the human similarities, the universal human values that endure.
