Urban Japan: Hidden Worlds and The Act of Tasting

This illustrated essay is part of a series on Why Urban Japan is So Good, and if so, why does it matter to the rest of the world? If you are just joining us, you might want to start with the introduction first. And feel free to subscribe if you’d like to get this column regularly.

The mountain breathes and the smell of wet forest and gear grease hangs about the cable car station. I lug my suitcase up the well-worn steps with the sense that I am moving through something both ancient and industrial.

The cable car is empty. For a moment I wonder if I’m the only one heading to the hidden mountain town tonight. I wonder further — what if the cable car is in fact done for the night, and I am foolishly sitting here, alone? Then, at two minutes to ten, a man and woman in business attire walk up the slanted stairs. They quietly take their seats at either end of the car, apparently waiting just as I am, to be taken up the mountain. My fears subside. I am heading into an unfamiliar world tonight, and it is comforting to have company.

At exactly 10pm our cute little cable car softly creeks and rattles its way up the incline. We rise slowly. The view widens, revealing a sparkling sea of city lights in Ikoma and the Nara Basin below. In the far distance, a train, just a small chain of lights moving along, disappears into a mountain tunnel. Another emerges from the same mountain. It must be the Keihanna Line that connects Ikoma to Osaka and the Nara suburbs. After five minutes of watching this view become both wider and more remote, we arrive at Hozan-ji Station, the cable car’s final stop.

The main street of the mountain town is a sloped walkway made of stone, only passable by pedestrians. It is quiet at this hour. So quiet that the only sound I hear is the buzz of a giant neon sign that spells out Ikoma Sightseeing [ 観光生駒 ]. It feels surreal that I am just a five minute cable car ride from Ikoma city, and from there, just one subway stop from Osaka.

In a region so well-connected by public transit, peace and quiet is actually not hard to come by in the city, if one knows what train to take.

After becoming a bit lost on the stairs and alleys, I eventually stand in the lobby of Kanko Ryokan Yamato, the humble yet beautiful old inn where I spend the next two nights.

The owners of the ryokan (traditional Japanese inn) look like a couple who have been doing this their whole lives. Behind the counter, the grey-haired man watches a baseball game between Japan and Korea on a television with rabbit ear antennas, while the woman copies my passport and motions to follow her up the stairs. She brings me on brief a tour of the facilities — the bath, the breakfast room, the coffee corner. We set a 7:30am breakfast time and she hands me the room key. A real metal one. I miss real keys.

The bath feels extraordinarily good, and the futon, thick comforter and scent of old wood and tatami send me to sleep without hesitation.

Morning comes with what might be the largest breakfast of my life. A bunch of tiny dishes, each highlighting a different individual ingredient, along with miso soup, rice, and a personal hot pot filled with tofu and mushrooms. I have an aversion to mushrooms, but I somehow find myself slowly enjoying the sensation of eating them this morning — accepting for the moment, that my dislikes do not necessarily have a place here.

As it is, I feel entirely outside of the time-space that I am accustomed to. Though surely time must be moving as before, miraculously nothing is rushing me. Likewise, while there is a window in the breakfast room, though which I can see the tiny cars and trains going about in the world below, I have no urge to move with them.

Which world am I in?

Looking back at the small plates of food, it becomes clear that each plate exists in its own world, too. One can enter into these worlds simply by biting and paying attention. I do this, one by one, chewing on each new world. In doing so, the sensation of eating is no longer about my taste — it is about the act of tasting itself.

Nearly every moment since my ascent to this old inn on the edge of the city has reminded me of these distinctions, and through them, the great joy in these many worlds — a warm bath, a cozy futon, and even a steaming bowl of something I don’t normally enjoy eating. There are desires fulfilled in entering these worlds, but this exercise seems more about gratefully acknowledging what is here — whether I desired it or not.

When I find myself back in the world premised on timelines, judgements, and dislikes, I hope to recall this — that other worlds are possible, accessible simply by paying attention without fear or judgement. I suppose that many such worlds are overlooked by each of us, every day. I hope we can overlook them less.

Getting up from the breakfast table my legs wobble. Food coma calls, and with it, the urge to crawl back into that futon. But the stone stairs outside are calling, too.

Indeed, walking will do me better than a futon.

Questions: I wonder about the hidden worlds around us, waiting for us to notice. Are there hidden worlds you have found in your life?

Next Week: We continue with a walk through the town and mountain, where we realize some interesting contradictions.

Read Another Story: The forest here reminds me of a story from a few years ago, which takes place just across the valley on the edge of Kyoto. I guess you might enjoy a read of this one too.

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Thanks again, for letting me into your world this week. This one took much longer than usual, on account of my having an abundance of paying gigs needing to be done these weeks. If you have the means, you can help me say ‘no’ to those other jobs and ‘yes’ to drawing and writing by supporting this project as a paying subscriber.

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