I didn’t get out of the pool until my skin was totally wrinkled. Another bucket of water I poured over myself completed the cure.
I was ready for my first morning in Kyoto.
Good Times with Older Dogs
Breakfast in the ryokan took the form of rice and fish, served at such low tables that anyone wanting to sit down had to be a yoga expert. But after going to bed without any dinner the night before, I was hungry enough to adapt to the strange food and seating arrangements.
I got up from the table with backache. Before setting out to explore Kyoto, I looked up the address of the atelier of the mysterious postcard sender in myLonely Planetguidebook—not that I really hoped I’d glean any information about this unknown person who’d brought me all the way to Japan.
And what did a production-line porcelain cat have to do with the organic philosophy of wabi-sabi anyway?
Answer: nothing.
I sat down on an old armchair in the lobby, which gave some support to my back. On one side of the armchair was a rack containing several Japanese magazines. On the other side were three shelves with books on different subjects in several languages. It seemed they’d been left there by visitors to the ryokan who’d read them and didn’t want to lug them around any more. There was only one book in English, and the title was so odd—Good Times with Older Dogs—that I couldn’t resist taking it down from the shelf. The cover showed two patient, weary-looking dogs with grizzled muzzles. I could almost hear their hoarse, muted barking, trying in vain to scare someone who was venturing too close to their house.
The book was written for an American readership, and I checked out the back cover to get an idea of what it was about. It described the pleasures of living with a dog that is growing old. The animal has less energy and requires more, but makes up for it with deeper understanding of its owner, who is growing older too.
It was very wabi-sabi.
I imagined dog and owner growing older together and eventually reaching the stage when they’d resemble each other—not only in their way of hobbling around, but also in their expressions.
I returned the book to its place on the shelf, thinking that my old age would be worse than that of those mute old dogs. They at least had someone to follow round and love. Apart from a cat that did what it pleased and would live ten more years at the most, I was all alone in the world.
This upsetting thought made me connect my phone to the ryokan’s Wi-Fi network. I’d received two messages since the last time I’d been online, in Doha. The first one, to my great surprise, was from Daniel Lumbreras. I’d forgotten that I’d given him my number when I’d written to him. His message was to the point.
I’m in Gràcia. Shall we meet for coffee?
I answered that I would have loved to have coffee with him, but was just a little bit too far away to make that possible. I finished by saying I’d contact him when I got back and opened the second message. Seeing that it was from Gabriela, I read it with apprehension.
Titus told me you’ve gone to Tokyo. Nice idea. I wouldn’t worry re trying to find sender of postcards. This person will find you if he wants to. xxx
The Mysterious Address
My first daylight stroll around Kyoto led me into the traditional streets of the Gion district where my ryokan was located. Antique shops, boutiques and small cafés and restaurants were already showing signs of life.
Wandering around this area, I came to the narrow Pontocho Street, which runs parallel to the Kamo River. Walking past teahouses and clubs that had a secretive air, even in broad daylight, I wondered whether the wabi-sabi workshop was in this part of the city. I was still dazed after my journey and had forgotten to ask about it at the ryokan, but I had the evidence I needed with me: the postcards.
I leaned against a tree that sprouted from the cobblestones like a mushroom. On the back of the cat postcard, the blue ink of the wordswabi-sabiseemed to glow in a special way.
I peered at the tiny inscription that saidAtelier. That was followed by some kanji characters and the number twenty-seven, so I imagined that must be the address. I then started examining the Golden Pavilion postcard. Apart from my name, nothing was written on it, and there was no address. The only clue was in the postmark, which was the same on both postcards: a quarter of a circle with the same kanji characters and a four-figure number below it: 4,032. That might mean they’d been posted in the same district.
They may have had the same postmark, but the two peculiar stamps couldn’t have been more different. One showed an Akita dog (a breed I recognized from Richard Gere’s movieHachi), with a curled tail and a glowing halo around it. The other showed four women in mauve tunics standing next to an old telescope. One was looking through it while two others observed her with interest and the fourth was gazing at the sky as if she trusted her own eyes more than the instrument.
While I was wondering about all this, a woman of around sixty stopped in front of me. Dressed in a skirt and jacket, she bowed courteously and then held out her hand to take the postcard I was staring at—the one that had the workshop’s address. It seemed she wanted to help, so I gratefully handed it to her, making a small bow in return. Behind the very thick lenses of her glasses, her considerably magnified eyes opened wide in astonishment when she read it. As if Satan himself had jumped out of that address, she hastily returned the postcard, bowed once more and scurried off down the street.
I was left standing there wondering what kind of place this workshop must be if it scared the woman so much. Curiosity made me scan the crowds of Japanese people filling Pontocho Street at this early hour of the morning to see if I could identify someone who might speak English.
I chose a long-haired boy who was carrying a folder covered with pictures of the Sex Pistols and went over to him.
“Excuse me, can you tell me the district where I might find this address?”
The boy took the postcard, leading me to believe he’d understood me. But he handed it back a couple of seconds later with an uneasy smile.
What was going on with this place? I was more and more bewildered.
“Sorry, I can’t tell you.” He shrugged and rushed away, his folder under his arm.
Nothing Has Existed or Will Exist Forever
