The Spark of A Memory

 The Spark of a Memory-A Short Travel story

 Japan will impress you with its innovation, but it will draw you in with its mysterious Zen. Insisting that you slow down with it, demanding that you respect it. If you bow down, it will return a peaceful bow to you. The respect and politeness of the country not only reverberates through itself, but also through its people.  As you sip sencha tea in an elegant tea house. As venerable temples stand tall above modern neighborhoods. Dark wooden Onsen’s, with magical healing waters that once healed samurais after battles. Now helped businessmen relax after work. The old and the new sing in pure harmony together, and this is the true spark of Japan. 

 

I had a dream in my back pocket for a long time, to visit Kyoto during Cherry Blossom season. I was now living out that dream, but the contrast to reality is that this dream was one I shared with thousands of tourists from all over the world. I was frustrated after weeks of shuffling in and out of tourists, having to mumble “Sumimasen” while bowing slightly. The narrow streets of grey cobblestone not built for crowds. Kyoto is often quoted as the heart of Japan, it's not only one of its oldest cities but one of the only cities to have not been bombed in WW11. I had been slowly moving across the country. I had just come from the south island, Kyushu. Where I had gotten a sunburn on the tip of my nose, as I stood on the tip of a volcano. So in my defense, I hadn't accounted for the frigid cold of the ancient city I was now visiting. I had layered every piece of my clothing on top of each other, all stuffed under my cheetah print windbreaker. I looked and felt like the defeated, strung out backpacker I was. I had always planned for Kyoto to be the grand finale, the city that would steal my heart. However, every moment had felt forced, disappointing, and the city was falling short of all my expectations. The Cherry Blossoms were late to bloom due to the lingering cold weather. Simple adventure’s, like walking through the fragrant local food markets or visiting famous shrines were over capacitated and overwhelming. I couldn’t seem to find the pulse underneath it all that I knew belonged to Kyoto, instead of stealing my heart, the city was breaking it.

 

 

I had bought tickets months earlier to a theater performance put on by local, professional Geishas in the ancient suburb of Gion. I felt drawn to the mystery of Geishas, who from the time they are young girls, aging into women, dedicate their life to the practice of an ancient artform. Using Harnessed skills to charm and enchant only the most exclusive and trusted guests behind closed doors. Having tickets to get a glimpse of these women, peer into their world. It was like getting a glimpse into the past, an old but important piece of Japan that still remained. After trying to put on something appropriate to wear but finding only clean jeans, and my leopard print windbreaker, I gave up and walked outside into the bitter night. For once I was thankful to join the waves of people, who created a blockade from the elements. I looked up at the peaceful pagodas towering above aged wooden buildings on the other side of the bridge, as I left the rush and bright lights from the loud city hub behind me. As I inched my way along the narrow stone bridge that crosses into Gion. I turned my face down to the dark waters that flowed underneath the bridge, the water was a blanket of twinkling stars reflecting back. There it is, I realized as it started sneaking up on me. The spark. 

 

 

Once I crossed the bridge, I had arrived at the golden theater. The theater was a pale gold colour with white, antique Japanese trimming. The roof was lined with long, ceramic tiles like fingernails. Bright lights lined the different stories of the building, shinning proudly onto itself. I was ingulfed into the entrance with a mob of people. Every attendee entering looked immaculately dressed for a night out at the theater. I realized how horribly underdressed I was for the social gathering of the season. I entered into the warm room and pulled off my tuque, my eyes on the intricate detailing of the tall, gold flaked ceiling. I was ushered into my red plushy seat on the top balcony. It felt like the best seat in the house, dead center so I could enjoy the whole room. Just as I was seated, it went dark and the yellow curtains lifted not only on the stage, but along the side of the room bedside the audience as well. Revealing mentor Geishas who sang and played traditional Japanese instruments. Such as the shamisen (has three strings and looks the most similar to a guitar) and shakuhachi (a flute that is played vertically like a recorder) and drums. Elegant Geishas in draping kimonos started gliding out from the side of the stage. They had on delicate hair ornaments and platform wooden sandals. Their makeup was dramatic, their eyes calligraphed in thick eyeliner and faces caked with white powder. Yet they showed no emotion throughout the entire show. The Geisha’s danced their way through four acts, each one dedicated to the four seasons. Throughout the entire performance, I willed myself to try to burn every detail into my memory. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath, and for the grand finale, as the full cast danced under cherry blossoms made of paper, covering not only the spinning Geishas, but the whole room as well. The curtains fell and we all exploded together in applause at the magic we had just all been touched with. 

 

I left the theater and was shocked to find that it was snowing outside. I realized that it was the light pink Sakura blossoms, finally being blown off the trees. Thousands of tiny flowers, circling around and twirling down through the air as they blanketed the crowd. Through the blossoms I noticed that both locals and tourists stared, as the performing Geishas left the theater. All mouths agape, as they walked amongst us, the pure beauty and intricate details of these women seemed impossible. From not a single hair being out of place, down to the rhythmic way they walked. It was impossible not to stare, and in my dreamlike trance I found myself stepping forward and following one through the crowd. A purple dusk had fallen on Gion and somehow, the Geisha I was following was weaving through the crowd effortlessly. She was sort of running in her wooden sandals, hiking up her lilac kimono, as she made her way over the bridge towards Kyoto. I was almost pushing people out of my way, trying desperately to catch up to her. Suddenly she stopped, so I instinctively paused, immensely curious about what was about to happen next. I wasn’t even thinking at that point, I was completely absorbed by her. I realized she had stopped to soak in the moment. She closed her eyes, so I closed mine too. I heard the clawhammer twang from a man playing the shamisen, as it rang out above the crowd, across the water and into the sky. I smelled the almost sickening, sweet scent of cherry blossoms. I felt the crowds of giddy people as they made their way in all directions around us. I opened my eyes just as the Geisha opened her own, she must have felt my eyes on her and she turned and noticed I was sharing this moment with her. A small smile came to her perfectly, red painted lips and she bowed slightly to me. Before I could react, she was pulling her kimono back up and as if she was still on stage, she danced through the sea of people. Mysteriously off to wherever she was needed next in Kyoto. I walked over to the man with the fingerless mitts playing his shamisen on that cold night. Our eyes met for a moment as I bent down and dropped Yen into his case and pulled out a CD. 

 

As I now slide that CD into my car stereo and drive along the modern streets of my hometown. I think about that last, magical night in Kyoto. It’s in that moment that I realized that Japan is a place where traditions and innovation are in a constant dance with each other, where everything feels shiny and new. Yet, if you let yourself slow down with it you realize they will always stay rooted in their history. I had come to Kyoto with a dream of finding the spark. The one I had been looking for to come alive. The same spark that I had become addicted to finding on adventures, that always sneaks up on me while travelling. Where everything starts serendipitously falling into place and makes me feel alive. It’s the spark that comes alive again inside of me, as the music takes me back to that night on that bridge.