The sun is setting, the sky is gorgeous, the weather is brisk, my feet are sore, and my friend Mara and I have gone astray on the wrong side of Mount Inari. I’m scanning the timetables at a bus stop (after a good bit of wandering in the wrong direction alongside the elevated shinkansen track, and then some wandering in the right direction that found us at a highway, a dead end as far as we pedestrians were concerned). Mara takes what I give her and attempts to trace something feasible for us on the accompanying route-map. Only days later do I realize, upon a closer inspection in better light at another bus stop, that the three timetables given—color-coded blue, red, and green—which I had assumed meant the blue, red, and green bus lines passed by that stop, are actually weekday, weekend, and holiday schedules, respectively.
The sky is gorgeous, but the sun is setting. I remind myself that it is after all only six o’clock in the evening, and other members of our group have come back to our room at the inn far later at night before without much fuss. At the very least I don’t need to worry about anyone worrying.
I have been afraid of cabs for a long time, which is part of why I am reluctant to go with Mara’s suggestion to hail one. (It’s also probably hubris—”I’ve just hiked barefoot up and down a mountain, darn it, I don’t need to PAY to get back to Kyoto Station!”) But after we finally give up on the bus, we wave over the first cab we see and something about the driver’s uniform—his cap and his white gloves—and then the way he gets out to open the door for us, puts me immediately at ease. I don’t even feel the panic I should feel at the prospect of being The One Who Speaks Japanese between the two of us; there’s nothing terribly complicated about saying “Kyoto eki, onegaishimasu” anyway, but even when he asks us where at the station he should let us out, I feel comfortable saying, in Japanese, “We’re just walking from the station, so please drop us off in front” (though it probably comes out a little less elegantly; he gets the point and is far too polite to correct anything). Later my father will tell me that there’s nothing like getting a little lost (“but not too lost!”) in a foreign country to put you “right smack in the moment.”
As we ride I find that I feel cheated, or perhaps like a cheater myself, for having to fall back on the easiest and most expensive way out. In retrospect I realize this is ridiculous: hiking barefoot up and down a mountain should be adventure enough in one day for anyone.
The noise of the crowded station contrasts greatly with the quiet of the mountain. Normally such dense humanity is overwhelming to me, but right at the moment, with its promise of food and our lodging nearby, it is welcome.
Next time, given more daylight, I think I’ll just take a shortcut back over the mountain. Nature Walks make me feel at home in unfamiliar places like nothing else, and that way “please don’t litter or smoke” is all the Japanese I need to worry about (although it’s nice to be able to read the signs that add, “because this is a sacred mountain and you will be struck with divine punishment if you do!”).
But if that extra trek should be out of the question, I’ll have my experience to use as a basis for my actions, not to mention support for my nerves—and an improved understanding of Kyoto’s transportation systems to boot.
Aileen Brotherton has been studying Japanese since middle school and recently made her first visit to Japan. That trip cemented her determination to keep on learning, reading, and speaking Japanese; Aileen’s hope is to find work involving Japanese-English translation in the future.
Photo © Aileen Brotherton. All rights reserved.
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