my ryokan in kyoto, an addy recommendation: not the full-blown, traditional ryokan treatment, all luxuriousness and ritual and formality, more like a b&b experience in a traditional japanese house tucked away on a little stonewalled, cobblestone alley (easy to miss even if you were looking out for it.) entering my room i find behind paper screen doors a little balcony, two soft-cushioned chairs, a little glass table with lace cloth over, bamboo blinds. the view overlooked a little garden, in which, a pine tree.***
for breakfast (at eight, earlier than is my wont), old mrs u the ryokan owner brings out a dish of thinly shaved ham, pressed into the shape of a large saucer and cooked on a hotplate. the edges of the ham were just becoming crackly, like the edges of incense paper just catching fire and bending inwards. on top of the ham she had cracked a large egg, the white cooked through, the egg yolk still a little quivery. very thick toast and butter and strawberry jam (the breakfast jam is always strawberry in boarding houses, i wonder why), also yoghurt and grapes and a large wedge of sweet rockmelon. she makes coffee and tops me up twice. it is good, but by the second day i think to myself that i would like a japanese breakfast very soon.
***
it is raining lightly: i sit on the zabuton at my low table comfortably, and think, this could almost be my cambridge days, only it is real tatami, not my crate and barrel bamboo mat. across the alley, i can hear cheerful singing from the neighbouring house, a woman’s voice, jaunty but deep.
***
there is no staff: mrs u runs the ryokan all by herself. she is in her eighties and has slightly less english than i had been given to understand. she grows on me: but then sweet and solicitous asian grandmother types delight me (they run the best guesthouses: last year in seoul, i stayed in a hanok in bukchon run by an equally lovely white-haired korean grandmama.) before i leave the house she brings the weather forecast page of the newspaper to me, pointing at today’s raincloud symbol: you have umbrella? when i came home she had made up my futon: my coverlet has embroidered flowers on it. .
***
last night i said to mrs u. that i was going to sleep in this morning so please, there’s no need to make any breakfast for me. (i’m the only guest here this week, so if she makes breakfast it really would be just on my account) but still this morning she got worried enough to come up at 950am and call out by my door, are you all right? and when i rolled off my futon, tugged on clothes, and opened up, smilingly handed me a little tray with a bowl of cherries on. i am a little of a puzzlement to her: i am home more often than she expects, and she doesn’t quite understand if some days i enjoy the solitude and want to stay indoors on my little balcony reading…the weather is excellent, kyoto and its treasures await, i’m but here for the week, and there i am indoors with a book. �no going out?” she asks me again and again. i cannot explain: i am feeling extra tongue-tied. “not now, later. maybe afternoon.” we smile, in mutual and earnest incomprehension. it doesn’t matter. she becomes used to finding me home during the day, and brings in a little tray with chilled hojicha and a little snack whenever she sees i am in: beads of grilled mochi on a skewer, a slice of japanese cake that is exactly like german baumkuchen, two chocolate chip cookies, a bowl of fruit.
***
perhaps she has an extremely fine-tuned mental antenna, but when old mrs u. brought me my evening snack and tea tonight, she said to me, tomorrow breakfast — japanese ok? and of course i lit up. i had consulted addy the previous night, on whether i might request a japanese breakfast, only i did not want to put her to special trouble, if all she offered was western breakfasts.
***
the japanese breakfast is explained: two guests had arrived in the night, and at least one is japanese — i met him in the breakfast room, a middle-aged gentleman who was surprised i’d found this ryokan at all. “i think you made a good choice. modern hotels — same everywhere in the world. this place is special.” we make small talk: he is from hiroshima. (the name triggers some embarrassment — i have a small internal struggle — don’t mention the war! there’s no need — and why should i — to feel collective guilt about hiroshima, and if it comes to that, i’m from an occupied nation! — and then the moment mercifully passes.) the third person was a solo traveller too (mrs u., pointing to the three breakfast trays in turn: “one person, one person, one person!“) but lingered as long as i could over my breakfast i did not meet the third guest: i would have liked to know what kind of person chooses to stay here.
laid out in my place was broiled salmon with salt and lemon; a bowl of agedashi tofu (freshly fried only when you come down!); sweet pickled green chilli peppers with tiny anchovies; beancurd skin and bamboo shoot and cucumber, chopped thin; a simmered dish of squid and some kind of crunchy white stem vegetable which i mistook for squid rings initially; goma-ae spinach; black fungus and beans salad, dark and sweet; miso soup and rice and watermelon, hot tea. i eat everything, even the squid (i’ve never liked squid), content.
***
the japanese gentleman has left: two westerners, a couple, move into the room below mine. i would very much have liked to talk to them, but was leaving too early the next day to share the breakfast room. i want company and conversation tonight, but i go to bed early.
***
old mrs u. comes up to collect the room money and brings me a packet of genmaicha. “souvenir for you.” i had prepared the exact amount for her, but she shuffled off saying she’ll bring change. “because you two days not have breakfast.” when i insisted no no no, no change, she went into her room, fetched a yukata from a cupboard and gave it to me. “not new,” she hastened to assure me, “old one.” pretty pink floral motifs on a caramel background. when i stooped to hug her goodbye as i was leaving, she gave me the hug that the very old gives one, talcummed and bony, saying “you’re very tall!” and wanted to come to the bus stop with me. persuaded not to, she stood by the door waving until i’d turned the corner. if you go to kyoto, stay with her, really. you don’t need the luxury of a ryokan, and you certainly don’t want a western-style hotel. what you want is a hidden old house with old school charm on a cobblestone alley run by a gracious grandmama, and you certainly will eat her breakfasts!
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