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Kyoto Trip Diary
9 years ago
Kyoto, November 2011
There are birds chirping outside the slotted window a few inches from the wobbly bunk you collapsed in about eight hours ago. The sheet over your nose smells clean but foreign in a comforting sort of way; for a moment you can’t quite recall where you are. Your eyes aren’t quite ready to open yet although you probably should get out of bed. Suddenly like a lightning bolt it hits you; you’re in the quiet temple city of Kyoto for the first and possibly last time in your life. There is so much to see and so little time to see it that you all but fall out of the bunk and onto the cedar flooring below. The bunkroom is cold but not freezing despite it being late November and well into the deep winter season in Japan. Your feet twitch in reaction to the worn patterns in the flooring and you long for one of the many robe-like oversized sweatshirts you left back in America.
The bulging canvas bag tucked beneath a bunk ladder contains the clothes you chose to bring to Kyoto among other things. You quietly sift through socks and shirts until a suitable outfit is bundled beneath one of your naked arms. Behind you another one of the students in your group snores softly with his headphones on. You smile to yourself and tiptoe to the washroom to get changed. Outside the world is still waking up it seems, people are speaking in cheerful tones and walking to and fro as the trains hiss in the distance. The one thing you miss hearing is the always happy bark or howl of a delighted dog, a twinge of homesickness hits you as you consider this absence and step into the small shower room. The water is unexpectedly warm for a hostel and you immediately feel the stiffness of the long train ride and hike fading away. Your mind pages through the possible things you could see today but none of your theories seem quite fantastic enough. You shave and change clothes, taking time to wash your face and brush your teeth while you have the chance.
The small lift jitters slightly as you ride down to the lobby for a can of coffee from one of the splendid machines tucked away from sight. For 380 yen you purchase two small cans of coffee and sit on the stairs to take in the sights for a moment. The one thing you appreciate the most about this place is the smell, aging hardwood and a combination of muddled other smells that practically encompass the emotion of human comfort. Everyone here smiles as second nature and seems always so eager to talk to you if only for a moment during their seemingly endless day. You think of the temples in the mountains nearby and feel a surge of excitement and wonder at what they may be like. You only hope that the meager phone you brought will be able to scratch the surface of the experience with the photographs and videos it takes. You board the lift again bound for the top floor and the common room where most tourists and students gather to check email and make phone calls. The broad windows in the room flood the lift with light as the doors open and you momentarily raise a hand to your eyes to shield them. When you vision clears you see small groups of folk scattered around a large room with a kitchen. They each share the trait of dark circles beneath their eyes customary of travelers from the U.S. Despite their weariness there isn’t a frown among the group as they chat amongst themselves and lazily catch bits of the news via the large television on the far wall. The leader of your group sits on the floor closest to the television as she checks for updates from our coordinator. She smiles as she sees you and beckons for you to sit beside her. You trade pleasantries for an hour or so and discuss the plans for the day; smiles come easily between the two of you as you joke about some of the events of the plane ride and such.
In time your small group will move outside this small, comforting, place and into the city to the shopping malls and temples beyond. You still feel excitement and happiness for all the things to come in the next fifteen days but at the same time there is a sort of wistfulness at leaving the hostel. There is on occasion a sense of nonchalant but nonetheless vaguely painful alienation when you move through the city streets. You are after all a foreigner who does not speak the native tongue regardless of how badly you would like to learn. This small place helped to calm your nerves and set your mind in order for the joys to be found ahead regardless of language barriers. You hope to find more spots of subtle familiarity along your travels but something about leaving this place in particular makes you truly sad. You feel a certain twinge of shame at seeking the familiar in a situation in which you should be seeking to move outside of your comfort zone; at the same time you realize there is little you can do about a feeling as deep as the need of familiarity.
The temples are silent monuments to things even your dreams could only vaguely grasp. Towering statues and stone lanterns accented with the soft green of natural moss line the paths you eagerly walk. The air smells of pine and mystery and distant butane heaters that line the temple shops. There is true wonder to be found on these earthen paths on which so many have walked before. You feel like a child on the night of Halloween or the night prior to Christmas though even those feelings don’t do this one justice. Each step is like a leap into something completely new and magical; each simple temple you move into is like a wooden monolith to something you can only admire from afar. There is so much to see and absorb and so little time to appreciate everything. Along one of the many paths you come across the temple festival celebrating the winter months. The vendors smile at you in a knowing sort of way and offer you snacks and pamphlets written in their beautiful language. You blush like a child when you speak to them; not only because you don’t know how to read the pamphlets but because you admire these people so much that words fail you. At one of the many stores that seem to sell just about everything you could imagine you purchase a simple sandalwood bracelet to match the necklace you’ve worn for so long. Your group members stop to admire it as you slip it onto your wrist and continue making purchases for family and friends. At that moment you feel as though your heart is truly happy in this simple place.
A small earthen path dotted with ferns marks the way to the highest point in the temple, a small shrine was placed here for prayers to be written on talismans nearby. You pause as one of your group members translates some of the prayers and wash your hands in the ceremonial fountain. A phone call breaks the calm of the moment; you’re expected to leave soon and will need to catch the next train available. Your heart sinks as you think of leaving the friend you only had just now come to know and discover. You’ll miss Kyoto as much as you know you’ll miss Nara in the next few days. You start out with the group and move through the crowded streets, making prayers at the shrines you see and donating to the temple when you can. The train station is a nine mile hike, two bus rides, and a four mile walk through city streets away. While you’ll be tired as those familiar doors slide shut and the train departs the station for new places and another hostel you’ll miss Kyoto and the quiet elegance you only barely witnessed. Future stories you’ll tell will only scratch the surface of what being there was like and for all your words even you know that. Yet still you will tell the stories time and time again with a smile as you strain to recall every detail and cloud in that wonderful sky.
After all Kyoto was the friend you knew briefly enough to care about, but not long enough to really know.
There are birds chirping outside the slotted window a few inches from the wobbly bunk you collapsed in about eight hours ago. The sheet over your nose smells clean but foreign in a comforting sort of way; for a moment you can’t quite recall where you are. Your eyes aren’t quite ready to open yet although you probably should get out of bed. Suddenly like a lightning bolt it hits you; you’re in the quiet temple city of Kyoto for the first and possibly last time in your life. There is so much to see and so little time to see it that you all but fall out of the bunk and onto the cedar flooring below. The bunkroom is cold but not freezing despite it being late November and well into the deep winter season in Japan. Your feet twitch in reaction to the worn patterns in the flooring and you long for one of the many robe-like oversized sweatshirts you left back in America.
The bulging canvas bag tucked beneath a bunk ladder contains the clothes you chose to bring to Kyoto among other things. You quietly sift through socks and shirts until a suitable outfit is bundled beneath one of your naked arms. Behind you another one of the students in your group snores softly with his headphones on. You smile to yourself and tiptoe to the washroom to get changed. Outside the world is still waking up it seems, people are speaking in cheerful tones and walking to and fro as the trains hiss in the distance. The one thing you miss hearing is the always happy bark or howl of a delighted dog, a twinge of homesickness hits you as you consider this absence and step into the small shower room. The water is unexpectedly warm for a hostel and you immediately feel the stiffness of the long train ride and hike fading away. Your mind pages through the possible things you could see today but none of your theories seem quite fantastic enough. You shave and change clothes, taking time to wash your face and brush your teeth while you have the chance.
The small lift jitters slightly as you ride down to the lobby for a can of coffee from one of the splendid machines tucked away from sight. For 380 yen you purchase two small cans of coffee and sit on the stairs to take in the sights for a moment. The one thing you appreciate the most about this place is the smell, aging hardwood and a combination of muddled other smells that practically encompass the emotion of human comfort. Everyone here smiles as second nature and seems always so eager to talk to you if only for a moment during their seemingly endless day. You think of the temples in the mountains nearby and feel a surge of excitement and wonder at what they may be like. You only hope that the meager phone you brought will be able to scratch the surface of the experience with the photographs and videos it takes. You board the lift again bound for the top floor and the common room where most tourists and students gather to check email and make phone calls. The broad windows in the room flood the lift with light as the doors open and you momentarily raise a hand to your eyes to shield them. When you vision clears you see small groups of folk scattered around a large room with a kitchen. They each share the trait of dark circles beneath their eyes customary of travelers from the U.S. Despite their weariness there isn’t a frown among the group as they chat amongst themselves and lazily catch bits of the news via the large television on the far wall. The leader of your group sits on the floor closest to the television as she checks for updates from our coordinator. She smiles as she sees you and beckons for you to sit beside her. You trade pleasantries for an hour or so and discuss the plans for the day; smiles come easily between the two of you as you joke about some of the events of the plane ride and such.
In time your small group will move outside this small, comforting, place and into the city to the shopping malls and temples beyond. You still feel excitement and happiness for all the things to come in the next fifteen days but at the same time there is a sort of wistfulness at leaving the hostel. There is on occasion a sense of nonchalant but nonetheless vaguely painful alienation when you move through the city streets. You are after all a foreigner who does not speak the native tongue regardless of how badly you would like to learn. This small place helped to calm your nerves and set your mind in order for the joys to be found ahead regardless of language barriers. You hope to find more spots of subtle familiarity along your travels but something about leaving this place in particular makes you truly sad. You feel a certain twinge of shame at seeking the familiar in a situation in which you should be seeking to move outside of your comfort zone; at the same time you realize there is little you can do about a feeling as deep as the need of familiarity.
The temples are silent monuments to things even your dreams could only vaguely grasp. Towering statues and stone lanterns accented with the soft green of natural moss line the paths you eagerly walk. The air smells of pine and mystery and distant butane heaters that line the temple shops. There is true wonder to be found on these earthen paths on which so many have walked before. You feel like a child on the night of Halloween or the night prior to Christmas though even those feelings don’t do this one justice. Each step is like a leap into something completely new and magical; each simple temple you move into is like a wooden monolith to something you can only admire from afar. There is so much to see and absorb and so little time to appreciate everything. Along one of the many paths you come across the temple festival celebrating the winter months. The vendors smile at you in a knowing sort of way and offer you snacks and pamphlets written in their beautiful language. You blush like a child when you speak to them; not only because you don’t know how to read the pamphlets but because you admire these people so much that words fail you. At one of the many stores that seem to sell just about everything you could imagine you purchase a simple sandalwood bracelet to match the necklace you’ve worn for so long. Your group members stop to admire it as you slip it onto your wrist and continue making purchases for family and friends. At that moment you feel as though your heart is truly happy in this simple place.
A small earthen path dotted with ferns marks the way to the highest point in the temple, a small shrine was placed here for prayers to be written on talismans nearby. You pause as one of your group members translates some of the prayers and wash your hands in the ceremonial fountain. A phone call breaks the calm of the moment; you’re expected to leave soon and will need to catch the next train available. Your heart sinks as you think of leaving the friend you only had just now come to know and discover. You’ll miss Kyoto as much as you know you’ll miss Nara in the next few days. You start out with the group and move through the crowded streets, making prayers at the shrines you see and donating to the temple when you can. The train station is a nine mile hike, two bus rides, and a four mile walk through city streets away. While you’ll be tired as those familiar doors slide shut and the train departs the station for new places and another hostel you’ll miss Kyoto and the quiet elegance you only barely witnessed. Future stories you’ll tell will only scratch the surface of what being there was like and for all your words even you know that. Yet still you will tell the stories time and time again with a smile as you strain to recall every detail and cloud in that wonderful sky.
After all Kyoto was the friend you knew briefly enough to care about, but not long enough to really know.
