I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

Jane Austen, “Pride and Prejudice”

22 November 2023

• 5:31-5:47 Kyoto station to Saga Arashiyama station local train (Sagano San-in line)
• Chikurin no Komichi (path of bamboo) (45m)
• Kameyama Park for a view of Daihikaku Senko-ji temple
• Tenryu-ji temple (20m)
• Hogon-in temple (15m)
• 11:07-11:24 Saga Arashiyama station to Kyoto station local train (San-in line)
• Kiyomizu-dera temple (2h)

Arashiyama

4:45 AM. I arrived at dark, cold Kyoto, sleepier than I was on the night bus. I could never do so while sitting down.

7/11 hadn’t even opened yet. So I waited until the first train to Arashiyama.

My first time in that area during Sakura season in April had pushed me to forswear bamboo forests. Now, however, the kouyou was peaking, and the hour was early enough for a tranquil re-visit.

Face and fingers freezing, I crossed vacant streets and reached Togetsukyo bridge precisely at 6:00. Dawn cracked on Katsura River.

I chuckled. Water streaming, crows cawing, mist in the mountains. Barely a homo sapien to be seen.

Path of Bamboo

The famous bamboo grove was still dim. I couldn’t see anything while passing through it, let alone those sleepless souls who had already voyaged here. Twenty or so overall.

Everyone was standing in unison, snapping rare photos. Quiet bamboos and camera clicks. There was something mysterious about this moment. Even as dawn was brightening the thicket.

At 6:50, the sun rose, licking the bottom part of the sticks.

“Wow,” I exclaimed. A Canadian girl and I, who’d been taking photos of each other, were in awe. “It looks like they’re on fire.”

It was a sight as fleeting as it was wondrous. Ten minutes later, the grove grew too populated to enjoy.

Kameyama Park

With all the temples in the area still closed, I continued to Kameyama Park, and stumbled upon a valley. Daihikaku Senko-ji temple, by a stream, at the foot of a colorful mountain. The mist from before still lingering. Sunlight shining between trees.

Tenryu-ji and Hogon-in Temples

Back on Togetsukyo bridge, breaths were materializing. Tenryu-ji, the most frequented of the local temples, had opened an hour early. I entered it for the second time since April to marvel at its dry landscape garden, one of the oldest in Japan. Red and green leaves reflecting on a clear pond.

Even at 8:00, it was too crowded. The adjacent Hogon-in slid its doors half an hour early, yet a quick stroll inside had me jaded. I’d forgotten my dislike of this region.

A yuba (tofu skin) ice cream was not the best follow-up. It tasted like tofu. And my mouth was already frozen.

Then I spotted a yuba donut. A delicacy that had graced my tastebuds only once, on April 5, on Mt Yoshino. I’d been on the hunt for another ever since.

Warm and fluffy, neither sweet nor oily. An empty stomach’s best treat.

I finished touring Arashiyama with the difficult-to-find Enri-an, tucked inside bamboo thickets and back-alleys. A locals’ spot. The expensive entry fee made me backtrack, though. So did Nison-in’s. I had tired of Kyoto’s temples after mere two.

Following an obligatory visit to Kyoto station’s tourist information center, I checked into my hostel. Sitting in the lounge, weary as a zombie, consulting a map of Kyoto while trying to plan which peaking temple to visit when, I noticed a medley of old Taylor Swift songs was playing.

“Why can’t you see… you belong with me…”

Great.

The only singer featured on this hostel’s playlist.

I took a bus back northwest to one of the two Israeli travel companies the rabbi from Tokyo had mentioned to me.

The manager wasn’t there. I spoke to his Japanese assistant. Actually, in that large office, almost everyone I noticed was Japanese. This company had originally targeted Israelis, and soared to international grounds since.

“They probably won’t even get back to me,” I thought, as I took a bus for an hour southeast. This was quite the detour, for a five minutes’ speech.

I watched the low city of Kyoto from the bus window and almost fell asleep. For Japan, traffic was quite bad here. Buses out-reached trains, stopped at every bus stop, were full to the brim, and always late. At least Tokyo’s trains were punctual and brisk.

Kiyomizu-dera Temple

At 16:00, I reached Kiyomizu-dera. Arguably Kyoto’s most popular temple. Sannenzaka Hill, the traditional path leading up to it, was a complete standstill, with officers maintaining order.

Inside, madness. One could barely move. People stationed themselves at vantage points and refused to move.

But the momiji. So red. And the setting sun hitting it at the right angle. With the moon already visible in the blue sky, and the red pagoda shining from afar.

The pale wood. The thatched roofs. I heard so much Korean.

At 16:37, the sun sank behind the Higashiyama mountains.

I waited for an hour until the night illuminations. Half the time, owing to the sheer congestion, I didn’t get reception.

Black leaves illumined into crimson. Gold gleamed on wood. A beam was projected into the midnight blue sky like a shooting star. And, on the balcony facing west, a stampede.

It wasn’t just a complete standstill. People were glued to the unobstructed edge for half an hour, an hour, without even taking pictures. While a hungry crowd was pushing them from behind.

It took me twenty minutes to infiltrate this chaos. But I got the money shot.

It was both the most romantic view I’d seen at a temple and my messiest visit to one. Even rush-hour train stations in Tokyo enjoyed an orderly fashioned line.

Outside, Kyoto grew cold again. Time-honored architecture, lit up in the dark, struck me as atmospheric.

At least a third of the people out and about today were clad in kimono. When was the last time I’d seen someone dressed in traditional attire?

I stopped at a hostel near mine I’d found online when looking for places to volunteer in. Told them about my situation in the hope they would accept me like the café owner had. They said they would consider it.

Back in the enormous common area of my hostel, full of international travelers, I stumbled upon the Canadian girl.

“What are the odds?” we both laughed. We chatted for quite some time, but were both too tired to keep at it.

An email had come while I was at the temple. The Israeli manager had invited me for a meeting in two days.

I went to sleep at 23:00, drained from this long yet fruitful day.

Today’s highlights: dawn at Togetsukyo bridge; sunrise inside the bamboo grove; yuba donut; sunset and night illuminations in Kiyomizu-dera.

23 November 2023

• 9:25-10:00 bus number 17 to Ginkaku-ji
• Philosopher’s Path (30m)
• Honen-in temple (40m)
• Anraku-ji temple (20m)
• Shinnyo-do temple (30m)
• Eisho-in temple (20m)
• Okazaki shrine (5m)
• Eikan-do temple (1h 40m)
• Nanzen-ji temple (20m)
• 16:00-16:25 bus number 202 to Tofuku-ji

Philosopher’s Path

I woke early with the intention of charging at a series of temples upon their 9:00 opening.

Instead, I ate breakfast in the common area with a Taiwanese uncle from the oldest and most traditional city in Taiwan, who invited me there, should I be in Taiwan during the Chinese New Year.

So I arrived an hour later than planned, and discovered today was a national holiday in Japan.

I could barely stand on both legs inside the bus.

Then I reached Philosopher’s Path. It was dead quiet.

The leaves were dead, too. Unlike sakura, this wasn’t a kouyou spot. It was a pleasant path, with barely anyone around.

Honen-in Temple

First temple on the list from the tourist information center: Honen-in. Honen, its priest, was known as “the student with the most wisdom” already at thirteen, and had grown frustrated with praise for nothing but academy. Adamant to expand Buddhism’s accessibility to the common folk, he had found his answer in Chinese Pure-Land Buddhism.

Featuring more birds in its garden than tourists. Crystal columns by the entrance; a moss-covered, thatched-roof gate; and dry landscape art.

It was like entering a magical forest. I could hear water dripping from a fountain, despite the handful of visitors.

I paid a hefty fee to enter the temple. Cold wood sang beneath my feet. Sliding doors with gold paint. Momiji a red so pale, it looked pink.

A smoky scent drew me to a room. Incense was floating like a layer of faint mist. I’d never discerned it wafting so horizontally, so casually, in a circle.

Every detail here surprised me. Even a random fountain was full of flowers being watered by a shishi. An instant addition to my favourite temples.

There were a couple of rooms with Edo period sliding door art so old, unphotographable, and fragile, that staff members were standing sentinel. One featured monochromatic, spectacularly-peeling dragons.

Further on, I liked crouching under low ceilings.

Anraku-ji Temple

Anraku-ji, the sister temple, was a similar affair. I sat on the veranda of a tatami pavilion facing a garden. Just me and birds. The momiji in front of me was kissing fiery orange.

“I’m just really happy you’re out of my life,” I heard again and again. “You really don’t know how to love and care about someone.”

This was, without a doubt, the most important sentence anyone had told me since Horizon’s confession at her birthday party.

“I’m the only person who doesn’t disappoint me,” she had cried into my shoulder, back in June.

Which was, in turn, the most important sentence I’d heard since the Dutch girl from Mt Yoshino.

“If people want you in their life, they will make time for you,” she’d said in early May.

And now – this.

No one had stressed the relief my absence had brought them. It was devastating to learn that my lack could be a blessing.

Shinnyo-do Temple

I walked for ten minutes from east of the Philosopher’s Path to west for Shinnyo-do temple, and my jaw dropped.

A copse of momiji. The temple grounds were like the Red Sea.

Very crowded, but not without merit. Everywhere I walked, scarlet provided shade.

Another favourite temple.

Eisho-in Temple

Wandering outside, I stumbled upon Eisho-in temple, where a Buddha was meditating under a storm of leaves.

Green, red, orange, yellow. They were all threatening to consume it, overwhelm it with colour, dwarf it with magnitude. Yet it remained unfazed.

On the contrary, it was shutting its eyes, even to the most breathtaking scenery.

Nothing got to it. Neither beauty, nor pain. As if undergoing a trial by fire, and emerging unscathed.

“I’m just really happy you’re out of my life.”

I sat in the veranda and watched the Buddha for a long time. Leaves rustling, birds tweeting, respectful tourists. The complete opposite of Kiyomizu-dera. This Buddha moved me as much as the Boddhisatva in Shodoshima. I would never forget either moment.

Okazaki Shrine

Next, Konkai Komyo-ji, which featured little kouyou, and didn’t seem worth the steep fee.

I peeked at the nearby Okazaki shrine simply because it was marked on my map. Basically, the childbirth and rabbit shrine. With a sculpture of a rabbit giving birth for a water fountain.

Eikan-do Temple

Eikan-do, further down the road, sprawling as much as the line to enter it. Established as a training hall called Zenrin-ji in 853, it had been expanded by a chief priest called Eikan.

The grounds were aflame with momiji, while inside a complete standstill led me step by step into a temporary exhibition.

So this was where everyone had gone to. I glimpsed magnificent paintings in-between this assebly.

Rocks and Waves (Hatozu) by Hasegawa Tohaku, gold nihonga boasting a roaring, silver sea; Japanese Cypress Trees and I-RO-HA uta by by Konoe Nobutada, gold nihonga with silver cypress trees; and Mountains and Woods, gold nihonga with brown mountain ranges.

The emphasis on silver negated the extravagance of the gold for me. Rocks and Waves particularly spoke to me.

The main prayer hall was sheer gold, however, with eye-popping ornaments hanging from the ceiling.

“I don’t open to people easily, not like you, finding soulmates one right after another.”

Where were those soulmates? I wondered, as I climbed stone steps to a pagoda, and beheld another Red Sea.

Eikan-do was my largest temple in Kyoto thus far, and another highlight on this increasingly impressive holy string.

Nanzen-ji Temple

Next: the nearby Nanzen-ji, Kyoto’s top Zen temple. The dry landscape garden reminded me of Ryoan-ji’s, with waves separated by lines. This depiction of ebb and flow made me think of disturbances in an otherwise perfect order. Like incidents that upended your routine, changed your trajectory, until the wave subsided, and the gravel was straight again.

Back to the way things were.

Every time I beheld a dry landscape garden, I felt empty. They dried the fluid around my bones.

Kennin-ji was the oldest Zen temple in Kyoto. Yousai, the founder, had been ordained at 14, and later introduced tea from China to Japan. He was considered the founder of the tea ceremony.

There was a gold leaf folding screen depicting the winder and thunders gods – the mark of the temple. Old and contemporary sliding door art, using traditional and new techniques. And a large dry landscape garden.

The latter couldn’t have been more serene. Quiet and carefully laid out. It was both fulfilling in the sense that it proved human effort, will, and determination – yet also emptying, because it was just gravel, and pale in coloration, and bare. I felt uplifted and dispirited at the same time.

Birds were chirping on trees. People were walking on gravel. Wooden floors ever acreak. Sitting on the veranda, I felt like the ants on the rocks beneath me: small and unimportant, always striving towards things that wouldn’t matter in the end.

At least ants enjoyed the fruits of their labour. At least they contributed to the ecological system. What had I achieved in my life? What mark had I left upon the world? What a waste of a body and a soul.

I felt both optimistic and pessimistic about life, and grew surprised at this mixture of emotions, in a place I hadn’t expected to visit. Once again, I struck by the value of the unexpected, and discovering things that spoke to me more than the ones on my list along the way.

“The Best Two Months of My Life” (6 April 2023)

Waves ebbed and flowed; reprieve came and went.

I saw golden sliding doors afterwards, and paid a separate fee for Hojo Garden. Another dry landscape garden.

At 16:00, I had my first sip and bite in since 8:30. The kouyou temple marathon had nourished me.

After a bus ride to Tofuku-ji, I found out reservation for the night illuminations was necessary. Today was sold out.

Irritated at first, it struck me as a decent idea on second thought, preferable to the Kiyomizu-dera pandemonium.

I walked to my hostel for half an hour. The sun had set; the sky was blazing into pink. Clouds like peaches in heat. It took my breath away – and compensated for my itinerary blunder.

Half of the clouds were parallel, like the gravel. The rest were a shapeless mass. As yellow ginkgo trees lined my path, the clouds lost their vitality, and dissipated into ashes.

One could actually witness the sunset in Kyoto on a regular basis. In Tokyo, it was easy to forget such a phenomenon existed.

Crossing landmarks such as the giant torii of Heian Shrine, I could see the Ukrainian girl and me all over this city. So many memories from our mere two days here in April. Even the grocery store where I bought dinner for tonight seemed familiar; I’d looked for black sticky rice there with her.

Everything I’d done today had me dazzled. Such a gathering of ruby was a first for me, even after a full month of foliage in Hokkaido and Tohoku. Indeed, Kyoto was an unmatched autumn destination. Maybe more than spring.

Today’s highlights: the incense inside Honen-in; the yard in Anraku-ji; the red sea of Shinnyo-do; the Buddha of Eisho-in; red, gold, and silver in Eikan-do; the dry landscape garden of Nanzen-ji; a sunset just as fiery.

24 November 2023

• Job interview
• Tofuku-ji temple (1h)
• Tofuku-ji’s Honbou garden (20m)
• Quick visit to To-ji temple

Job Interview

This morning, I returned to the travel company for my meeting with the Israeli manager. Their office was broad and stylish, vaguely Japanese in style, with slippers and traditional tea that was served to me while waiting.

The manager was a middle-aged man who had travelled in Japan on the year I was born in and loved it so much, that he’d stayed here since. His company, founded 18 years ago, had moved from dealing only with Israeli tourists, to international, greener pastures. His current clients were cosmopolitan jet-setters who visited Japan with an unlimited budget on their private plane.

In a table next to us sat a representative of the most expensive hotel in Japan.

“I am actually looking for a foreigner at the moment,” he said. “To plan tours and maybe guide a little. But first I need to hire a few Japanese employees, to maintain balance. There might be an interview for you in January.”

As it turned out, foreigners dealt with foreign clients, while Japanese made reservations in Japanese.

“Even a foreigner fluent in Japanese can’t reserve everything we need,” he explained. “There is a clear cultural divide.”

“Even after living in Kyoto for thirty years?” I asked.

He nodded.

“You will never be Japanese,” he said. “That is both good and bad.”

He neither smiled nor looked at me during our meeting. Instead, he spoke straight to business, matter of fact.

“Why should I hire you?” he asked, point blank. After listening to my answer, he inquired if there was a chance that I would go back to Israel. One of most famous songs in Israeli history opened with the line: “Even if my land burned, there is no other place for me.” Israeli people swore by their country; he didn’t want to hire a homesick expatriate.

But he sponsored work visas on a regular basis.

Tofoku-ji Temple

I took an hour-long bus to Tofuku-ji and weighed my options. Working for him in Kyoto, planning tours for the world’s richest elite, and being sponsored a work visa, was tempting. As much as the idea of living in Kyoto repelled me.

But my tourist visa would expire in late January, and so would the deadline for the next intake of Japanese language students (for the July course). There was no telling if the immigration office would re-extend my visa, since there was no telling when the war in Israel would end.

I didn’t want to hinge my future on bloodshed. Yet if I waited for an interview that might never happen, or didn’t lead to a job offer, I would risk missing the July intake.

Back in Tofuku-ji, another top Zen temple, its garden out-blushed Shinnyo-do’s. A select few leaves were showing signs of withering.

Every shade of flare was alight here, like a forest fire. From pale yellow to burgundy. Some petals were so scarlet, they were maroon.

The view from the top was particularly astonishing. Probably the most beautiful I’d seen.

I prayed at a hall by a dry landscape garden. This one was checkered. The patterned blocks featured parallel lines, some horizontal, some vertical. Their clashing was minute and precise.

Perfect chaos. A model for one’s life. To chase those unexpected moments of jumble that enraptured you, crushed you, and upheaved your existence – but in a neat manner.

A predictable routine was too stagnant. Hanging by a thread was too uncertain. A lick of flames could bring some water.

I paid for a separate ticket to Honbou. A dry landscape garden featuring circles among lines, as if giant raindrops had birthed ripples of water. The same impression of wabi-sabi, imperfection in perfection. If this concept was the proper way to live, why was it so emptying?

To-ji Temple

My last stop was To-ji temple. Unlike Kiyomizu-dera, entering before sunset and staying for the night illuminations was not permitted. Separate tickets were a necessity.

At 15:40, Kyoto had grown so cloudy and windy, while To-ji disenchanted me; neither the time nor the money seemed rewarding. I walked back to my hostel and devoured an entire bag of matcha Kit-Kat (only my second time in 6.5 months in Japan!). A friendly staff member recommended plenty of hidden gems to me, while a friend texted that he was spontaneously on his way to Osaka. Thus, I spent the evening revising my itinerary.

Horizon’s ex texted me at night again. He’d been doing this quite often lately.

Every day was a struggle for him. His sole consolation was the idea of saving enough money to go look for her in Israel after the war ended.

“But she said if I come to Israel after the war, she won’t meet me,” he said. “I can’t understand at all.”

I stared at my phone and formulated a reaction. What do you say to someone in that situation? Paralysed with heartbreak, foiled by lack of communication? Determined to sell his apartment and cross the globe for another person?

“I don’t think you can do more than what you’ve already done,” I said. “You just need to give her time.”

“Maybe I will die before I meet her,” he said.

I tried to comfort him. Nothing could.

“Miss you Kesem,” he said in the end.

My heart sank.

Even my sister, who, according to my mom, was missing me so much that she was worried about not seeing me again, had been criticising my course of action instead every time we’d talked, and told me to go back to Israel. People closer to me hadn’t uttered what he had.

“Miss you too,” I texted.

“You’re the only person I can to talk about this,” he said. “Come back to Busan.”

Today’s highlights: the conflagrant foliage and dry landscape garden of Tofuku-ji.

25 November 2023

• 10:37-10:41 Kyoto station to Yamashina station (Biwako line)
• Bishamon-do temple (1h)
• 12:43-12:50 Yamashina station to Aono station metro (Tozai line)
• Kaji-ji temple (20m)
• 15:08-15:40 Daigo-ji mae to Kyoto station (Hachioji gate) bus number 301
• Daigo-ji temple (1h)
• Kodai-ji temple (1h)

Lately, someone had been stalking me. Well, more than one person. Now, one of them had found a new way to keep an eye on me, after I’d been trying to get them off my trail.

Problem was: this blog.

“Your digital footprint is too big,” a friend had remarked a few weeks ago, after suggesting I blocked someone.

My impetus for this blog was for anyone interested in reading it to be able to do so. The downside was: anyone willing to read it could do so.

I’d been sharing exact information on my whereabouts and doings for anyone to see. Now, I couldn’t slip away a la Slytherin, even if I developed the will.

Bishamon-do Temple

After a short train ride to eastern outskirts of Kyoto, I crossed narrow, forested alleyways on the foot of the Higashiyama Mountain range, and reached Bishamon-do temple.

A Tendai sect branch, founded in 703, in worship one of the Seven Deities of Luck, called Bishamon-ten. The staircase to the entrance was speckled sanguine, while the main hall was painted tangerine. Inside were sliding doors painted gold and silver, reminiscent of yesterday’s Tofuku-ji. A vibrant, handsome leaves.

I toured the temple with a couple of English teachers from Jamaica and Trinidad. It was sunny and drizzling at the same time, so gently that I couldn’t feel the raindrops with my hands.

The Trinidadian was tall, articulate, and slender. The Jamaican carried a katana umbrella and a bag spotted with pins.

“Ooh, chile,” she panted whenever going up and down the stone staircase, “lord have mercy.”

We walked back to the train station through charming backyards.

It would’ve been fun to hang out more with them, but Kaju-ji was waiting for me.

Kaku-ji Temple

The head temple of the Yamashina school of Shingon Buddhism, founded in 900. A locals’ spot, courtesy of my hostel. In an area of Kyoto devoid of tourists, even Japanese.

Brilliantly scarlet trees. Yet a different plant was attracting me. I sat on a rock facing a pond full of wilting lotus. Jeonju in late June was my first time seeing this flower. A myriad of things had wilted since.

“I’m just really happy you’re out of my life…”

It was completely silent here, with maybe five elderly Japanese visitors.

Daigo-ji Temple

Next, I walked twenty minutes to Daigo-ji, headquarters of the Daigo-ji school of Shingon Buddhism. Famous for the oldest, reliably dated, extant building in Kyoto – a pagoda from 951 – and a historical cherry blossom viewing party, turned an annual parade.

The entrance gate was a fierce introduction. The pagoda, pale brown, was indeed the oldest one I’d seen. There was an ancient tombstone engraved with a priest and a flaming dragon. Shaved-headed monks wearing white geta and black robes.  

As far as kouyou went, only the pond struck a leaf. Verdant wine reflecting on water, towered by the tallest gingko tree.

In the afternoon, I returned to my hostel, and passed the time with the Taiwanese uncle. Expressing my desire to behold kouyou again at night, he recommended a temple I’d visited in April.

Kodai-ji Temple

At 20:00, I walked for half an hour to Kodai-ji. Gion was pleasantly nipping and lantern-lit.

I stood in line for the first time to a temple. Once I entered, a smile stretched on my face.

Dark gravel and illuminated fires. Thatched roofs and a full moon peeking between momiji.

The route inside the temple was congested enough, that I was standing most of the time in line. Here was no mere night illumination, but also a digital projections on a dry landscape garden. The blasphemy.

Then, a pond. Orange and yellow reflecting on blackness. A hearth of dark ripples and upside-down, lit-up leaves had me frozen solid. One of those sights so sad, that they became beautiful. Or rather so beautiful, they became sad.

It moved me more than any temple on this marathon.

This was the epitome of romanticism. Gothic, fragile, dramatic, sombre, small and large at the same time. Pining and pensive – so, so melancholic. The allure of anguish. The elegance in misery. The art that came from a wound.

The only form of art, in my opinion.

Finally, there was a bamboo grove, with more illuminations.

I walked back to my hostel for another half an hour through sleepy Gion. My ten days in Kyoto during peak blossoms had convinced me to return here only when snow would out-pile tourists. Now, in peak foliage, I’d done the opposite.

Gion at night, in fall, after four days of kouyou, paid off.

I picked back-alleys and narrow detours running parallel to placid streams. Kyoto finally made me grin.

Today’s highlights: a marriage of tangerine and sanguine in Bishamon-do; the withered lotus pond in Kaju-ji; the ginkgo tree in Daigo-ji; the dark pond and illuminated bamboos in Kodai-ji; Gion at night.