A souvenir from Kyoto

Often chance encounters, unplanned events, persist long after the excursions and sights of a particular trip have faded. It was in 1998 when 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 pinpoint 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 game against Argentina. And the night the Japanese team was eliminated, defeated by Croatia, it seemed that the entire nation cried. And then everyone got up to work the next day as if nothing had happened, presumably all the arrogance had been publicly and duly dispatched.

But of course it is the differences that the short-lived traveler notices. We had done our research and were determined to experience something essentially 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 did manage for more than a week at the location we’d pinpointed, which was Ryokan Yuhara, right on the banks of the canal at the southern end of the Philosophers’ Walk. We even got a room at the front with a balcony, overlooking the water.

And so on to some of those differences, so carefully noted and recorded. It began, and perhaps ended, with the shoes. The outer shoes were left in the lobby, each room had a designated locker on a large wooden shelf, a space containing the runner’s shoes. So the shelf is really a great status board for the hotel. Outdoor shoes on the shelf mean you’re in, while hallway shoes on the shelf mean you’re out.

Runner shoes are exactly what the 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 shoes in the room for shoes in the hallway, you go to the bathroom, and then you change your shoes in the bathroom.

And then you are faced with the toilet seat, a remarkable computerized robot that can be programmed to individual preferences. It can be heated or cooled. Play music. It is cleaned only after use. Play a recording of the toilet flush to hide the actual noise your own flush makes. He’ll probably turn it upside down, douse it with cologne, and announce, “Nice to serve you,” if you’d like. No wonder you need special shoes.

And then there is the bathroom. This has to be reserved. There are half-hour slots and, having reserved 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 rule of the house that the occupants of a room bathe together, by the way. Think hard before reserving this place with your grandfather. A conventional shower with soap and shampoo is followed by a ten-minute bath in a deep tub, the hot water is simply replenished, not replaced, between slots, so that everyone shares the same water. It is an amazing place.

But the most lasting memory of the entire trip came from a completely unexpected event. The temples in Kyoto 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 short way in the direction of a particular temple, Sanjusagendo, famous for its ranks of hundreds of Buddhas and boddisattvas, a veritable multitude of statues, each with no less 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 blinds 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 food establishments. They carry photos of the dishes on offer so they can be ordered 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, as we couldn’t read a single character of kanji.

So we sat down. There was another menu card on the table. I took it to the bar, it attracted the attention of the owner, who was bending down to restock a fridge, pointed to the corresponding photo and indicated that we wanted two. We were living in Brunei at the time and we weren’t very far from home so we thought we were used to most Asian things. We were surprised when the owner responded in English, however, with an immensely courteous: “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 photos framed on the wall. It was clearly a well-known place. A framed letter signed by all Canadian Disney on Ice members expressed appreciation for the food.

The food took a little longer than expected, but it finally came. And it was excellent. A large and deliciously dressed salad of pickled cucumber and orange 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 royalty 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 would have to move on, and asked for the bill. I was immediately surprised when he said there was nothing to pay. After missing 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 upon entering, the one with the picture menu. It clearly said CLOSED in large English letters right on the other side. Waiting for kanji, we hadn’t seen it. He laughed a lot and wished us a nice sty in Kyoto.

As a tourist, it is the differences that you notice, but it is the human similarities, the universal human values ​​that endure.

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