So, I guess it is time to check Facebook and post photos. Australia is an hour ahead, I think.
Then it is hours later and it has got light outside without me noticing and Sam is up and telling me it is time to do, do, do. Off to see Japan. Don’t waste the time, I think, because I will never be coming back here.
8.30am. I’m in the shower, as the hunt for breakfast begins. I’m for eating straight up, but Sam can put it off and eat later. It is a source of conflict, as you may well understand.
We’re going to ride our bikes to the Golden Shrine again today and try to catch it when it is open. It is hot as we step out our front door, and we both take it in turns to head back inside and change into shorts before we leave.
9.15am. We headed off up the main road towards the Golden Shrine. Passed all the usual takeaway food shops offering breakfast. Then I spotted something on the other side of the road.
"Sweetie, sweetie, is that a p, p, pannery? Sweetie. Sweetie, stop stop."
A french’ish bakery right there, not far from home. How could I have not sniffed this out before now?
We got a fish roll and a chicken sandwich, and a burger, and an egg pie and a second egg pie, not quite the same as the first, all half the price of what we have been paying for breakfast in a restaurant/café. We found a small park not far away in which to eat them. Lovely.
A man came into the park with his young daughter, about 5, or 6 years old, and they appeared to be having a very intelligent conversation between the two of them as they entered the playground. That’s the type of kid you want, I think.
After we were done, I headed over to the pissoir, a small nondescript cream coloured building in one corner to have a leak, which was, practically open to the street on one side. As I urinated, I watched grandma come out of her house, lock the door and head off up one of the streets, all the time I was sure I was visible to her.
We looked at some of the signs on the wall. Sam has an app on his phone that he points at Japanese writing, through the camera function, and it changes the language to English.
As we were looking at the signs, a sixty something, possibly older, I don’t know exactly, man rode up to the bog and he made it quite clear he was looking for some men to play with in the bog. We rode off, and I thanked the universe I wasn’t him. Then I wondered what grandma may have got to see?
10am. We’re at the Golden Temple. We followed the heard. 400 yen thanks. A short walk and then there is was glinting in all its gold beauty in the sunshine. The gardens were quite lovely, dare I say spectacular, somehow appearing in a state of peace and tranquillity all of their own.
There were a million tourist taking photos of it, as you would understand.
We headed out to get our bikes, and I stomped off across a crossing where the red man was showing, not a car in sight though. The old bloke directing the proceedings – they seem to give old retired pensioners menial things to do to keep them busy – shit his pants at my wickedness, but I was taking no notice of such nonsense. I’m sorry old man that you have retired without an interest in the world and now the state has patronisingly given you a job of no basic worth, but please don’t waste my time, I am an adult and I can manage to get myself across a street without dying thanks very much.
He stopped Sam though.
We ride from the Golden Temple to the Ryoanji Temple, apparently, not all that far away. I discover Satan’s house on the way. A house with a white Mercedes out the front with 666 number plates.
The bike riding through the streets of Kyoto, seeing the Kyoto world up close and personal and even getting lost, is quite possibly more fun than the temples/tourist attractions themselves. Is more fun. People wreck the tourist attractions, in plague proportions the people are.
11.15am. We get to the Ryoanji Temple. 500 yen thanks.
We arrive with a tour group, and while I’m Silently incanting and wishing to them all dead, okay not so silently, Sam declares that he has to send me to Zen School. “It is an emergency situation,” says Sam. “All this negativity…”
“Ha ha,” I scoff.
“It is my ears that bleed, not theirs.”
The Ryoanji Temple, it is not easy to achieve a state of zen with a bus load of Russian tourists yapping on in your ear.
The Svetlanas never shut the fuck up, oblivious to anyone else present. Loud and talking over everyone else so it was only them who could be heard as we all sat and contemplated the 500 year old zen garden. Get back on your bus and bugger off back to the transcaucasian states, is all I could think. Intolerant? Well, of boorish behaviour, maybe I'm guilty. It was a zen garden for the universe’s sake, we didn't need to hear them laughing at some mother state humour, or whatever the fuck they were blithering on about.
Then there is an earnest American talking constantly to his interpreter about varying states of the Buddhist religion.
We get it, we get it, you have read up on eastern religions.
And, of course, there are always the rude Chinese. Terrible thing to say, but they just don’t have any courtesy for anyone else. I’m guessing it is because there are so many of them back home and they have to speak up to be heard over the masses. Different lives. It is all very interesting. And I am allowed to whinge if I like.
“Complainer,” says Sam.
The day is gorgeous, a lovely day to ride our bikes.
We come to the old train depot we saw last night, we see the old purple train go into the depot. We want to check it out some more, but we are hungry and it is time for lunch.
12.20pm. We’re eating Kazaguruma ramen for lunch. Sam ordered a mountain of food. Sam ordered 2 large bowls of ramen and dried chicken with rise. We were both really full by the time we’d finished it.
The guy running it was adorable, dimples and all. Sam calls me an old perve, even if I catch him gazing at the cute guy.
Randen is what the old train is called. It seems to be a historical train with its own short train route, it takes in historical sights. We want to go on it, enjoy the antiquity of it, but we can’t find anywhere to park our bikes. There are plenty of bike parks nearby, but they are all connected to the large shopping centre next door. We can’t find any other parking, so reluctantly we leave for home, waving the old train line behind.
There are more back streets we wend our way through. There is a quaint old bridge which seems to be made out of stone and a river which seems to have many people using it for recreation.
We head to the Kyoto Gyoen, the big park that houses the Emperor's Palace. (Do parks house?) The palace is open so we park our bikes in the nearest bike park and go in for a look. It is huge, (I know we have all heard that before, but in this case, it is true) and the grounds are lovely. We walk the sign posted route through the grounds with everybody else. It hasn’t, actually, been the emperor’s palace since 1870, or thereabouts, when the capital was moved to Tokyo
After we have finished viewing the palace, we ride our bikes through the park, there are no uptight whingey mother’s, with snatches like a tight fists here, hysterical about a bike coming within 100 metres of their precious Tarquins or Maddisons, here, so sensibly one can ride through a park. My usual spot on sense of direction deserts me and we ended up riding to the exact diagonal corner to which we were headed. Rats. Google maps to the rescue.
3.12pm. We’re drinking coffee at the kiosk style coffee shop on the corner of the big intersection next to McDonalds, across the road from the Kyoto Gyoen and on the other corner to the place where we’ve eaten breakfast a few times. They have an espresso machine, which is what you have to look out for, otherwise it is going to be pour over coffee, America’s crime against humanity.
A double shot macchiato, double shot latte. Then home.
5pm. The rain started. Then we’re home and the rain is falling nonstop. What are travelling boys to do? Hop into bed with a good book and read until we fall asleep. Sounds good to me. An afternoon snooze is always a good idea.
The tourisms’ been done, what is there left to do? The trip to Gion tonight is now definitely out of the question with Sam's pathological fear of his hair frizzing in inclement weather.
7.22pm. We head to the market to eat pancakes. Straight down our street to the city. We were going to walk, then decided to ride our bikes as it would be quicker, so we got our bikes out, but then it began to rain again, so we put the bikes back, got the clear umbrellas and walked, as the rain spat lightly, into the night. Kyoto, warm night, rain sprinkling down gently, the long streets, the golden glow of house lights dotted along the way, lovely.
8pm. In town at the pancake place, just near the market. There are cabbage savoury pancakes, Okonomiyaki (お好み焼き o-konomi-yaki) ( listen (help. · info)) is a Japanese savoury pancake containing a variety of ingredients. The name is derived from the word okonomi, meaning "how you like" or "what you like", and yaki meaning "cooked" (usually fried).
We order two, one with meat and one with seafood. There are hotplates in the middle of all the tables which the pretty waitress switches on as soon as she has taken the order. The meat pancake will be ready sooner than the seafood pancake. “Did we want them both bought out together?”
“No, just as they come,” we say.
We didn’t catch any trains again today, only the 2nd time we’ve had a day of no trains since we’ve been here. Japanese cities are so train intensive, with their efficient metros systems, it is interesting to not when we don’t use them.
The Okonomiyaki are great. There is nothing quite like them, and I would suggest you must try them when in Japan.
We walk home with full tummies.
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