A kiss for Kyoto

After spending several days in Tokyo, Japan my family decided to board a bullet train to Kyoto o get some eyes on older Japan. At the train station, it’s common to enjoy fresh sashimi, and my mom and sister indulged in tuna and salmon served with white rice. The flavors were subtle, clean, and surprisingly fresh for a subway station meal.

Once in Kyoto, we explored the open-air Nishiki Market, sampling chestnuts from a small local factory. Unlike the tourist-heavy Tokyo Fish Market, Nishiki offered a more authentic charm, with a true sense of local flavor. It was easily one of the highlights of our trip to Japan.

Later, we wandered the streets near our hotel, Ace Hotel Kyoto, where we encountered a woman serving roasted green tea with the dedication of an artist. Her approach to tea felt as precise as a Van Gogh painting — deliberate, meticulous, and filled with deep understanding. With names like "Mountain Tea," the tea was brewed in steel pots as if Albert Einstein were overseeing the process.

After the calming effect of the tea, we visited the Yasaka Shrine gardens. Surrounded by Japanese maples and profound silence, the atmosphere was deeply moving. I sat in my 1960s wheelchair in lotus position, lost in thought. My sister was teary-eyed, my brother and dad were filled with joy, and my mom — ever practical — was researching our next meal.

For lunch, we dined at Omen Ginkaku-ji, where we savored soft soba noodles in a salty dashi broth. The noodles were delicate and barely registered on the tongue, yet their flavor lingered, smooth and satisfying, like the glide of a bullet train.

In the afternoon, my brother and I explored the Philosopher’s Path and stopped by Yamatoya, a jazz spot that felt like a blend of the 1930s Great Gatsby and John Coltrane. The Arabian Turkish coffee, served in fine china through a handmade filter, tasted like history in a cup. The plum wine, with its glistening brown hue, had a nostalgic sweetness reminiscent of vintage Dr. Brown’s soda. The barista, assisted by a beautiful apprentice spinning rare jazz records, elevated the experience into a true art form.

I ended my time in Kyoto writing a letter to my caretaker back home. Though my hands trembled, each stroke felt meaningful. She is a caregiver like no other, and the letter was my way of honoring her. As I sipped tea from my bedside, I wished for a fountain pen and a wooden tobacco pipe to complete the timeless ambiance. My mom and sister, ever organized, were nearby, typing away, planning the next leg of our trip.

Now, we’re heading westbound to Osaka, eager for the next chapter of our adventure.