06 August 2006
Postcard from Kyoto
What a time to fall ill. George and I have just agreed we will go completely Japanese for the next 4 days, staying in Japanese-style hotels and only eating Japanese food. But something has disagreed with me and anything other than the blandest of normal food and the highest standard of Western loos is a worry. I wonder if I pop into a posh Western style hotel for a coffee, they will let me use the loo…
We take the Shinkansen bullet train from Tokyo. It’s a great way to travel even though – 40 years on – it has probably been overtaken technically by the TGV. It’s full of “sarari-men” (company executives) and we feel out of place in our casual dress. A rather nice touch is the way the ticket inspector bows to the carriage before and after inspecting our tickets. Two hours later, we pull into Kyoto station and take a taxi to our hotel, the Yoshi-Ima Ryokan. The taxi driver unusually speaks excellent English and is very proud of his car, which he tells us is “Rexus-bland” (Lexus brand). He sympathizes about the bombs in London and plays “God Save the Queen” rather loudly on his CD player as a mark of respect. “You may sing” he says, adding at the end “Thank you for listening”.
Staying at a Japanese hotel is certainly different. We leave our shoes at the entrance and the check-in formalities take place in our room (that’s an improvement). In fact, there’s a Kimono-clad woman who looks to our every whim: check-in, food, bed preparing and so on. In the room everything takes place at ground level; there’s just a 30 cm high table with a couple of cushions for us to sit on. The floor is covered in tatami mats. The window has a paper sliding blind and overlooks a small bamboo garden. Strangest is that there is no bed: it’s stored in the cupboard, and the room is converted to a bedroom after dinner. The pillow weighs about 3 kg, so pillow fights are out. Meals are served in the room by the same woman. In her very limited English she engages us in conversation, even taking a photo of us. We talk about the Beatles, Rolling Stones (“which do you prefer?”), when Eric Clapton produced his best music (“when he was with Cream”). We’re losing George at this point as there’s at least a 15 year gap between Cream splitting up and George being born; she is definitely more my generation. She – like everyone else – wants to know about the recent bombing in London and whether our friends and family are OK. “It’s Bush’s fault” she claims. Her explanation requires a lot of hand-waving: the attack happened because of the invasion of Iraq, which inflamed opinions in the Islamic world; Blair was fooled into following Bush into Iraq, and the bombs are the result. It’s a bit simplistic, but hard to argue against. We agree with her assertion “I don’t like Bush” and leave it at that.
The next morning George is in a major grump about having fish, rice and pickles for breakfast. He was rather hoping for the Chinese-style porridge and buns, but not here. With my gut still rumbling, I am allowed toast, so have a good laugh at his expense: not a highlight of rosy father/son relations. We finish quickly and set off for some major tourism.
Kyoto – like Xi’an – is an ancient capital, only relinquishing the title to Tokyo at the end of Japan’s 2 centuries of isolation from the rest of the world in C19. It’s where the Shogun was based, with his Samurai warriors. Unlike Tokyo, Kyoto was not carpet-bombed during WW2, although many older parts have been damaged in various fires and earthquakes over the years. The Shoguns lived at Nijo Castle, which has murals painted by famous artists, a so-called Nightingale floor (which squeaks as you walk over it, to warn of intruders) and spectacular gardens.
To the east of the town centre is the Kamo River, the banks of which are a Lovers Lane at night. Every few metres, couples sit close together looking out over the river. Our hotel is on the other bank in Gion, where there is the largest concentration of old houses, tea shops, Shinto (the traditional Japanese religion) temples and shrines, cherry-blossom parks; even the odd Geisha walking about. There are also extremely muscular young men offering tours in high-tech Rickshaws, but at £40 for 30 minutes, we decline. (They also seem to focus on Japanese girls, who are both more picturesque and, with their slight build, require less effort than a couple of stout European men). Instead we walk for miles.
So, what best to do after walking for miles? That’s right, we did the Philosopher’s Walk. This 2 km route – that a famous philosopher took every day to go and teach at the University – leads along a canal and past various shrines, temples, gardens and the ubiquitous tea houses. We see a 50 cm pike in the shallow waters, but otherwise devote ourselves to talking philosophically as best we can.
The night scene is not very satisfactory, consisting mostly of over-priced micro-bars, some with more than drinks on sale and some with names (e.g. the “Pink Boy”) that don’t encourage us to enter. After some research we end up at the Ringo Bar, which is full of Beatles nostalgia and projects early concert film footage onto a wall. We are invited to join a group of local Japanese psychiatric nurses – 3 women and 2 men – who want to know all about us, and about the bombs in London. One of them has been to London and Birmingham on an exchange program, and tells us that hospitals in the UK are [sucked teeth] “very different” to Japan. Ah yes, that icon of British modernity: the NHS.
Tomorrow we continue by bullet train to Hiroshima and Miyajima.
We take the Shinkansen bullet train from Tokyo. It’s a great way to travel even though – 40 years on – it has probably been overtaken technically by the TGV. It’s full of “sarari-men” (company executives) and we feel out of place in our casual dress. A rather nice touch is the way the ticket inspector bows to the carriage before and after inspecting our tickets. Two hours later, we pull into Kyoto station and take a taxi to our hotel, the Yoshi-Ima Ryokan. The taxi driver unusually speaks excellent English and is very proud of his car, which he tells us is “Rexus-bland” (Lexus brand). He sympathizes about the bombs in London and plays “God Save the Queen” rather loudly on his CD player as a mark of respect. “You may sing” he says, adding at the end “Thank you for listening”.
Staying at a Japanese hotel is certainly different. We leave our shoes at the entrance and the check-in formalities take place in our room (that’s an improvement). In fact, there’s a Kimono-clad woman who looks to our every whim: check-in, food, bed preparing and so on. In the room everything takes place at ground level; there’s just a 30 cm high table with a couple of cushions for us to sit on. The floor is covered in tatami mats. The window has a paper sliding blind and overlooks a small bamboo garden. Strangest is that there is no bed: it’s stored in the cupboard, and the room is converted to a bedroom after dinner. The pillow weighs about 3 kg, so pillow fights are out. Meals are served in the room by the same woman. In her very limited English she engages us in conversation, even taking a photo of us. We talk about the Beatles, Rolling Stones (“which do you prefer?”), when Eric Clapton produced his best music (“when he was with Cream”). We’re losing George at this point as there’s at least a 15 year gap between Cream splitting up and George being born; she is definitely more my generation. She – like everyone else – wants to know about the recent bombing in London and whether our friends and family are OK. “It’s Bush’s fault” she claims. Her explanation requires a lot of hand-waving: the attack happened because of the invasion of Iraq, which inflamed opinions in the Islamic world; Blair was fooled into following Bush into Iraq, and the bombs are the result. It’s a bit simplistic, but hard to argue against. We agree with her assertion “I don’t like Bush” and leave it at that.
The next morning George is in a major grump about having fish, rice and pickles for breakfast. He was rather hoping for the Chinese-style porridge and buns, but not here. With my gut still rumbling, I am allowed toast, so have a good laugh at his expense: not a highlight of rosy father/son relations. We finish quickly and set off for some major tourism.
Kyoto – like Xi’an – is an ancient capital, only relinquishing the title to Tokyo at the end of Japan’s 2 centuries of isolation from the rest of the world in C19. It’s where the Shogun was based, with his Samurai warriors. Unlike Tokyo, Kyoto was not carpet-bombed during WW2, although many older parts have been damaged in various fires and earthquakes over the years. The Shoguns lived at Nijo Castle, which has murals painted by famous artists, a so-called Nightingale floor (which squeaks as you walk over it, to warn of intruders) and spectacular gardens.
To the east of the town centre is the Kamo River, the banks of which are a Lovers Lane at night. Every few metres, couples sit close together looking out over the river. Our hotel is on the other bank in Gion, where there is the largest concentration of old houses, tea shops, Shinto (the traditional Japanese religion) temples and shrines, cherry-blossom parks; even the odd Geisha walking about. There are also extremely muscular young men offering tours in high-tech Rickshaws, but at £40 for 30 minutes, we decline. (They also seem to focus on Japanese girls, who are both more picturesque and, with their slight build, require less effort than a couple of stout European men). Instead we walk for miles.
So, what best to do after walking for miles? That’s right, we did the Philosopher’s Walk. This 2 km route – that a famous philosopher took every day to go and teach at the University – leads along a canal and past various shrines, temples, gardens and the ubiquitous tea houses. We see a 50 cm pike in the shallow waters, but otherwise devote ourselves to talking philosophically as best we can.
The night scene is not very satisfactory, consisting mostly of over-priced micro-bars, some with more than drinks on sale and some with names (e.g. the “Pink Boy”) that don’t encourage us to enter. After some research we end up at the Ringo Bar, which is full of Beatles nostalgia and projects early concert film footage onto a wall. We are invited to join a group of local Japanese psychiatric nurses – 3 women and 2 men – who want to know all about us, and about the bombs in London. One of them has been to London and Birmingham on an exchange program, and tells us that hospitals in the UK are [sucked teeth] “very different” to Japan. Ah yes, that icon of British modernity: the NHS.
Tomorrow we continue by bullet train to Hiroshima and Miyajima.
# posted by DavidF @ 14:52 
