A light drizzle greets us in Kyoto. We get a cab to our ryokan, a traditional Japanese hotel with movable wood/paper walls, mats for beds, wooden baths, etc. It turns out our particular ryokan is a real dump. Fluorescent lighting, coin-op TV in the room, no tea service, no charm of any kind. Maybe the gods are offended; it’s right above a cemetery, after all.
Gabe immediately drives the proprietor into a rage by showering outside of the prescribed hours (630pm-11pm); we sense trouble.
Worst of all, there’s an 1130pm curfew. Gabe and I resign to change hotels tomorrow and cram as much as we can in today before lock-down.
We stumble upon a miniscule bar with some blues twinkling out of it. The owner Ishimaru is one of the sweetest people we’ve met yet. He explains that he built the place himself after receiving the location as a gift (it’s only about 80 square feet). He hardly speaks any English but pours us some sakes, puts on an album, and inquires if we like “Big Bill Broonzy” and “Tampa Red.” Well, alright then.
Ishimaru presents us with a delicious custard-filled pastry and indicates that Gabe should play something for him. Miller obliges, taking the guitar off the wall and impressing with some blues stylings.
We exchange cards, make plans to get dinner tomorrow night, and head out to grab some grub. The locals are reluctant to serve us (“All full! Closed!”)—more on this tomorrow—so we go to some random joint on the street.
Sitting next to us are two friendly women and we strike up a conversation. Turns out they are both “couchsurfers,” participating in the swap-style housing system which Gabe and Jared used on their recent tour. Eri (the host, a manager at Uniqlo) explains with a wink that our dinner is called “okonomiyaki.” I wish it had a bit more okonomi; it is totally vile and still costs us more than each of our last four meals. Annette, Eri’s guest, is Malaysian and hops off on couchsurfing trips whenever she can.
We make plans to meet Eri in Tokyo on Thursday and start our walk back to the World’s Most Depressing Unrelaxing Ryokan. Thankfully we don’t make it there, because Kyoto’s premiere punk-rock snack shop lies in our path. I don’t think I need to explain these pictures. Whatever you imagine happened, happened.
1 comment:
Hey, I know that crab! Come to think of it, I feel like I've seen all of these pictures before. I must be losing it.
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