Anecdotes #7: Biking

April 25, 2008

Day 4: Easter Sunday, March 23rd
Kyoto

The bicycle shop had a strange odor. There was no one inside. “Ano, sumimasen,” I said. Um, excuse me.

The man came out. I told him, in Japanese, that we wanted to rent bikes. As he took out the bikes, I noticed there was a dog in the corner. That accounted for the smell. Partially.

If it were up to me, we wouldn’t be riding bikes, but Jenny really wanted to. If we were going to go bicycling, today was the day. It was the last day in our hostel in downtown Kyoto. I had wanted to show Jenny and Hedy Heian-jingu and Nanzen-ji. They were close to our hostel. We could easily ride bikes.

“It will be 1000 yen per bike,” the man said, in Japanese. “Have them back by 7 PM.”

We paid the man, but Hedy was a little wobbly on her bike. She had to trade her’s in for a bike similar to my bike at home: with u-shaped handlebars and a lock in the back. Jenny and I had different bikes. I preferred the style of Hedy’s bike.

For Hedy’s sake, we rode slowly. I was the navigator, as usual. We turned right at the corner and rode along the river. It was nice scenery.



Our first stop was Heian-jingu. I had been to it before, as an exchange student. That first time, I was the first one into the garden. This time, we were a little later and it was a little more crowded.

I had been so excited about showing my friends, but when the moment came it was a little disappointing. I had been to Heian-jingu in mid-May, when everything was green and irises were packed along the edges of the pond. Coming in March, the garden seemed a little bare.

Still, Heian-jingu had one major selling point. At one part of the pond there were several large round stones leading up to an island. It had been featured in Lost in Translation, just for a few seconds. But Jenny, who loved that movie, remembered that scene.

There was a bridge at the end. I had seen a turtle there once. Hedy liked turtles. We sat down, but I saw nothing more exciting than ducks. I remembered that before I saw the turtle, I had seen girls feeding fish. I bought 50 yen (50 cents) worth of bread. We fed the fish.

Sure enough the turtle came. He came from underneath the bridge, swimming in the water. Hedy tried to save him some bread, but the fish were too fast. The turtle lurked back beneath the bridge.

We went to a souvenir shop and had lunch. When we returned to our bikes, we rode to Nanzen-ji.

We were riding the same path I had walked last time I was in Kyoto. I knew the area well. I wanted to point out the things that had fascinated me the first time: the water fountain, that strange golden statue. But they didn’t seem interested.



Nanzen-ji was one of my favorite temples last time. I had gone there when the day was still early and few people were there. I had explored the aqueduct, admired the beautiful paintings, climbed up to the top of the gate. It was serene and, without frills, it was beautiful. But as we came up this time, there were already many people walking toward the temple. And as we went inside, my friends were silent.

I stewed. My friends didn’t say anything bad, and I took this to mean they didn’t like it. That I had disappointed them. This made me resentful. Well, maybe they didn’t like it, but I did. I dragged behind them, silent myself.

I should clarify that these may not have been my friend’s true feelings; I didn’t ask them, so I don’t know. It was rather what I felt at the time.

I suppose it wasn’t just Nanzen-ji. On many levels, my friends and I were experiencing Japan differently. They saw everything as new, whereas I already knew most things. It didn’t just mean that they got excited while I didn’t. It just meant that different things excited us. My friends went crazy over ramen. I could have ramen anytime I felt like it. But I was raving about MosBurger, a Japanese hamburger chain that I’ve only been to three times in my life. To them, I suppose, it was just hamburgers. But these little things were irritating, because it kept us from having a shared experience.

And there was something else, too. I was getting sick of playing tour guide. Before the trip, I was looking forward to showing my friends around and impressing them with my Japanese. But now that it was happening, I was tired of my friends relying on me. I hated having to ask for directions all the time. I hated feeling like my friends were dependent on my expertise for their happiness.

To surmise, I was in a bad mood. I was in a bad mood, but I kept it to myself.

We rode back. It was three or four, and Jenny was disappointed with having to return our bike so early. She had enjoyed riding around the city.

There was a spot by the river we had discovered on our way to Heian-jingu. There was seating made of brick and stone, and just across the river was a statue. We rested here.

I took pictures. Slowly, my bad mood was seeping away.