Mojiko: We are Strange Tourists

For those of you who are just joining us, welcome! Each week I write an illustrated story or narrative essay, exploring cultural 'riffs' on cities and how we inhabit them — mostly from here in East Asia. This week’s piece is part of a series on slow travel, taking us from Busan (Korea) to Shimonoseki and Mojiko (Japan).

If you want to catch up, the previous installment of the series is here:

Mojiko: Walking Under the Ocean

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Stomachs grumble and there is a mist to cool us as we take on the incline of the hill. The scene reminds me of my younger days walking the streets of San Francisco. I had to stop less back then, but somehow walking still feels more enlivening than it does daunting. Thankful for that.

I look at Suhee, who is ahead of me. She often is. “Go left up there!” I say as I catch up. “Dinner is going to feel really good.”

Suhee nods. We head left and continue up the hill. The curious hilltop building we were aiming for on this walk slowly comes into view. “Ah ha! I was right!” I declare triumphantly. “A restaurant!”

When traveling, Suhee and I call each other’s sense of direction our internal ‘GPS.’ Some days Suhee has better sense, and some days I do. We pay attention to who has the better ‘GPS sense’ on a given day, and this is how we decide who should lead on that day. In light of this, I take a moment to look around the street with my head held high in mock-pride, announcing to Suhee that “My GPS is very fine-tuned today.”

Somehow Suhee seems unconvinced. She walks closer to the stone wall in front of the restaurant and reads the sign on the wall in more detail.

“It’s closed.” Suhee announces.

My face winces. Suhee however, is not discouraged, she swirls around and takes out her camera. “Stand there.” She points to the middle of the road, then snaps some photos of me with our umbrella. Later, I draw the scene.

Suhee thinks it looks like something from a Miyazaki film. “It’s like you are waiting for Totoro!” A lot of Japan really does look like a Miyazaki film. Of course it does.

Then Suhee notices something just down the block. Some lanterns shine along an old wood building. I turn and squint. It seems there is also steam coming from a vent in the wall. Might be food. Our stomachs urge us to walk back down the hill for an investigation.

Closing in, the smell of the steam gives it away. This is a neighborhood oden bar. Suhee asks, “Should we go inside?” but by the time my brain registers it I already have the door open with my head poked inside. I see only four seats in the entire place — two are already occupied. The owner stands behind a high bar counter, ladling soup and chatting with the other patrons. He looks startled when he sees my head come through the opening in the curtain.

“Konbanwa!” I announce, politely asking if there is room for two people.

The owner looks down at the two empty bar seats, and up at us. He nods. “Two seats. Two people. Yes yes! Please, come in!”

Over plates of good, cheap food, and flowing beer, we chat with the owner and guests. One of the guests also happens to be the owner of the guesthouse where we are staying. Small town, this Mojiko.

We find out that the guesthouse was a proper geisha joint back in the days when this town had loads of money. Nowadays the geisha are gone but tourists still flock to the hip ‘Retro’ neighborhood by the docks to relive the glory days. Or at least, to see the buildings that were produced by the glory days. Banking on that nostalgia seems to be a main source of income here in Mojiko, but the empty streets in most other parts tells a different story. Tourist income probably did not trickle down and out quite as far as the town might have hoped.

“Strange tourists! How did you come here?” asks the guesthouse owner, motioning with his arms to the confines of the small oden bar in which we sit. “Tourists don’t come here. This is a local restaurant.”

Suhee and I — the strange tourists who take naps in parks and eat at local oden bars — look at each other, suddenly a bit embarrassed. The story about how we got here probably would not make the least bit of sense to this man. Even so, I consider how to say “A pigeon in the park led me here” in Japanese. As I am thinking this over, the man can obviously see the neurons firing in my head. Suddenly he smiles, leans over the bar, and looks us in the eyes. “If you ever come back to Mojiko, let me know. I’ll take you around.”

Thanking the man for the kind offer — and promising to return — we finish our plates and raise our beer glasses. “Kanpai!”

As Suhee and I walk back to the guesthouse, I look up at the now clear sky. A few dozen stars are shining between the buildings and the mountains. After over a decade living abroad, I ponder what it means to be a local. Is it about the length of time spent, or the depth of local knowledge in one’s head, or is it more simply just about what one gives back to that place in the process of existing there?

We can dwell in a place in so many ways. For now, we happily accept the ‘strange tourist’ label as we head back to the geisha house, for some sleep.

Question: Have you ever felt a sense of belonging in a place you were just visiting? What made that experience special, and how do you think we can cultivate deeper connections with the places we travel to — whether as tourists or as locals who interact with tourists?

Next week: If you’ve ever wanted to see the inside of an ‘okiya’ geisha house, we will do it right here. This particular house does not serve the purpose any longer, but has been tastefully remodeled as a guesthouse. We’ll get to see some of the main features that make this kind of building both simple and beautiful.

Another Story: If you are interested in the oden bit of this story, have a look at this story from January of last year. It might make you hungry though.

SHORT #26: Kawaguchi and the Oden Route

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