Moments of Excitement
Inciting Winter, Silver Certainty — What I, at twenty, found in Kyoto in 2004
2004. I was twenty years old. Tokyo, Nishi-Shinjuku. Looking up, the twin towers of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building loomed arrogantly high against the backdrop of a piercingly blue winter sky.
At the time, I didn't think for a second that there were any 'limits' to my existence. There was no basis for it. But with my shoulder-length blonde bob fluttering, wrapped in a white down jacket, and armed with bold, heavy makeup, I truly believed I could go anywhere in this city and achieve anything. I was reckless, impulsive, and utterly free.
The Tokyo winter had a coldness different from the countryside where I was born and raised. The building winds were as sharp as blades, a dry wind that seemed to stir up a sense of loneliness even in the middle of a crowd. On one freezing night in January, I suddenly decided, 'I'm going on a trip.' The destination was Kyoto. There was no reason. Just a vague, baseless sense of omnipotence—the feeling that 'the current me could conquer Kyoto alone'—pushed me forward. There was nothing that could be called a plan; the name 'Kyoto' just popped into my head. Even so, I surrendered myself to the impulse called excitement and booked a ticket.
With the neon lights of Shinjuku at my back, I boarded a night bus. As the engine let out a low roar and the bus left the city center, a heavy silence began to flow through the cabin. Late at night, we stopped at a service area somewhere. When I got off the bus, there was 'pitch darkness' in the truest sense of the word. Only the light of the vending machine stood out coldly, and the breath I exhaled was stark white. Suddenly, I felt the confidence I had held until just moments ago slipping away from my fingertips.
I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets and hunched my freezing shoulders. (What am I doing here all by myself...?) As I was swayed by the vibrations of the bus moving through the darkness, the confidence that should have been solid began to waver little by little. I started to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, and the solitude suddenly pressed in on me, colored with 'loneliness.' Kyoto was still far away.
Kyoto Station in the early morning was pure serenity. Although I left my luggage at the hotel, I didn't know what to do. Dressed in an outfit that was inappropriately flashy, I headed toward Shijo-Kawaramachi. I was hungry. What caught my eye was a high-class-looking kaiseki restaurant. A blonde bob, a white down jacket—looking back, it must have been bizarre for a twenty-year-old me to walk through those noren curtains alone.
The dishes brought to me must have all been as beautiful as works of art. However, to be honest, I don't remember the 'taste' at all. My throat tightened with nervousness, and even my hand holding the chopsticks was stiff. Only the sensation of my fingertips touching the dishes and the uneasy feeling of existing there as a foreign object remain in my memory. To me, the proprietress said some warm words: 'Take your time. You can have as many refills as you like.' At those words, the bravado I had been carrying began to dissolve. I didn't know the taste, but I certainly received its 'warmth.'
That night, I went to a large super sento I had found. The night view of Kyoto I gazed at while soaking in the bathtub was somehow gentle and calm. I made up my mind: 'Tomorrow, I will go see the real Kyoto.'
The next morning, I decided to rely on a professional. I hailed a taxi and said, 'I want to avoid the standard spots I went to on my middle school field trip and be taken to places I haven't seen yet. My budget is about this much...' Confirming the fare was my own way of being sincere about wanting to take responsibility for my trip. The driver was a veteran with a guide license, and he put together the perfect course for me within my budget, including 'Suzumushi-dera Temple' and 'Sanzen-in Temple.'
In the car, the driver looked at me and said, 'Miss... blonde hair, all by yourself, in such a cold winter. We older folks get worried. I wondered if you were troubled by something.' (No, if that were really my intention, I would have gone to Tojinbo from the start!) I felt like face-planting in my heart, but at the same time, I realized: my trip was being watched over by the goodwill of strangers.
When I arrived at Sanzen-in Temple, there was 15 centimeters of snow piled up. Entering the building, a Japanese-style room steeped in history spread out before me. With every step, the scent unique to old buildings and the cold air pricked my skin. I stood in the long corridor of the historic structure and looked outside. At that moment, I was struck by an indescribable feeling. The building before me was a thing of the "past," having been there for hundreds of years. Yet, the snow piling up in the garden was a thing of the "present," having just fluttered down from the sky. The snow falling continuously in the silence was surprisingly real. The past and the present overlapped like a single painting. Faced with that magnificent view, I was vividly confronted with the fact that I am "alive here and now."
That winter, I sowed the seeds of excitement with my own strength and reached a breathtaking view. I was ignorant and reckless, but because I took that first step, I encountered a once-in-a-lifetime scene and the warmth of people. An exciting moment becomes the power to take on challenges. If you become afraid of the unknown world and stop engaging with it, the excitement in your heart will wither away. I do not want to forget the exhilaration I felt in the snow that cold January in 2004. No matter how much I age, I want to keep my eyes shining at the unknown and make plans, asking myself, "Where shall I go next?" I want to be someone who can keep feeling excited forever. The "power of excitement" I found in that snowy corridor still burns within me like a warm flame.
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