Kanazawa: As it Ever Was
Heading southwest and inching closer to the Sea of Japan, we rolled into Kanazawa just before dinner and got settled into our traditional, yet bowling-alley-long apartment just outside of the Higashi-Chaya Geisha district.
We walked a short distance to Sumibi Yakitori Ryo restaurant right on the Asano River, which the locals affectionately call the Onna-gawa (Feminine River) because it flows gracefuly through the historic geisha district. Sumibi Yakitori translates to "charcoal-grilled meat on skewers."
Determined to try some local foods unique to Japan, we opted for the chef's choice meat skewers, giving the chef full authority (okay, almost) to serve us his best selection. The only caveat: No organ meat. We "bypassed" (pun intended) the heart and liver skewers and were brought a variety of chicken parts including the neck, gizzard, skin, thigh, and breast, in addition to meatball, with likely a combo of unnamed parts. The chef brought out trays of local heirloom Kaga vegetables: tomatoes, local root crops, and a variety of meat of unknown origin. We "gobbled" down (okay, enough with the puns) this delectable selection and continued to order pork and waygu beef trays and a side of sake for Kip and I to round out our meat-heavy experience.
Afterward, we strolled out into the night for a closer look at the Higashi-Chaya geisha district, hoping for a peak at these mysteriously elegant women whose role in Japanese society has been revered for centuries.
For approximately 430 years, Kanazawa's traditional samurai and geisha districts have remained virtually unchanged. There are many reasons for this. In order to understand, you may need a little history and context of Kanazawa. So, here I will try to condense hundreds of years of Japanese history into a few paragraphs. Wish me luck.
First, you have to understand how the system of government was dispersed geographically. From 1603-1868, known as the Edo or Tokugawa period, Japan had a unique system of power. Edo (Tokyo) was the center of political and military power ruled by the Shogun (military dictator and supreme ruler). Kyoto was the cultural and spiritual capital ruled by the Imperial Family. Kanazawa, ruled by the Maeda clan (feudal samurai lords under the Shogun), served as a major seat of local government. Kanazawa rivaled the importance of Edo and Kyoto, by focusing their enormous wealth on "soft power," through the arts, traditional craftsmanship, and gastronomy. In fact, even today, Kanazawa has more restaurants per resident than any other city in Japan.
The Edo period is recognized as a time of peace throughout all of Japan. Because of this, in Kanazawa, the Maeda feudal lords remained in power and unrivaled for the entirety of the Edo period. Consequently, the city never faced military invasion, seiges or civil wars, leaving much of the city intact. Sadly, serious damage did come in the form of Kanazawa's worst enemy: Fire. Considering the tightly packed wooden houses in the districts, fire could spread easily...and often. Fortuitously, the Maeda clan were a thoughtful and precise bunch. They kept careful records and used the exact same blueprints, materials, and traditional techniques to rebuild what was lost, despite significant damage. This atention to detail and planning even extended to the layout of the labyrinthine streets that the Maeda constructed so meticulously to confuse invading armies should they arrive on Kanazawa's doorstep.
During more modern times, Kanazawa was spared from Allied bombing raids during World War II for two main reasons. Geographically, it is relatively isolated along the Sea of Japan and bordered by the formidable Japanese Alps, creating a natural barrier between the city and much of the rest of Japan. By that point, the U.S. and Allied forces already had control of the Pacific, so there was less strategic need to spread their resources thin. Kanazawa also lacked high-priority military targets such as chemical plants, munitions factories or rail yards that ran military supplies. Kanazawa's bread and butter, thankfully for them, was the arts, traditional crafts, and cuisine, industries that, from a military perspective, simply weren't worth the expenditure of firepower.
By contrast, in 1945, just 35 miles away, bombs from allied planes dropped over 1,400 tons of napalm and magnesium firebombs, essentially incinerating 99% of the city of Toyama, targeting its aluminum, ball-bearing, and chemical manufacturing plants. Aside from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Toyama suffered more damage than any other city in Japan. So, here we are in pristine Kanazawa, marveling at the authentic architecure.
From our experience, there's a significant difference between other places we've visited versus Japan: The nightlife. Excluding some major hubs in Tokyo, like Shinjuku or Shibuya, most shops or restaurants close by 9:00 pm. In Spain, you haven't even contemplated where you're headed for dinner by 9 pm and by 2 am, things are just getting into full swing. In Tokyo, the reliance on the train schedules are paramount and because trains don't run 24 hours a day, staff need to close up, clean, and end their shift in time to catch their ride home. Otherwise, restaurant owners face steep cab charges or stranded employees. In Kanazawa, closing time is even earlier. So, when we wandered into the geisha district at 9 pm after dinner, we were amazed to see the lanterns on...but no one home.
Whisper quiet, we walked through the geisha district, the sound of our footsteps suddenly loud and echoing off the buildings, and wondered, "Where the heck is everyone?!" Yet, halfway up the silent street, we caught movement behind traditional slatted wooden windows and doors (koshi). It seems as if we stumbled upon a rare, and highly authentic glimpse of Kanazawa's living history: A Geisha Banquet. Partially obscured by the latticework door design, a smart looking and stylish party of of eight were seated along a rectangular wooden table; a geisha presiding over the group. During the day, these teahouses provide the utmost privacy, the angled latticed doors make it difficult to see inside. However, at night, the paper doors are illuminated from within creating a cinematic, silent image.
These nightime teahouses adhere to a strict code of privacy, and enforce "ichigen san kotowari," a policy meaning "no first-time customers without an introduction." A guest cannot just walk in and expect to be served. Rather, they must be introduced formally by a well-established patron who will guaranee behavior....and enough money to foot the bill for the entertainment. Geishas pour beer and sake, engage in witty conversation, lead drinking games, and perform the arts of music, dance, and poetry for which they've been highly trained. I could have stood outside all night to watch this scene but, feeling a little voyeuristic, we passed by knowing that we had witnessed a fleeting moment of Kanazawa's nighttime culture that many might just walk past.
The following morning was hot and unusually still by 8 am. Yet, we chose to walk the 20 minutes to Kenrokuen Gardens meaning, "The Garden of Six Sublimities." The name is derived from an ancient Chinese landscape design book that argues that a garden can never be perfect because the six essential qualities of landscape are in constant conflict with eachother:
Spaciousness vs. Seclusion
Artifice (Man-made design) vs. Antiquity (Wild aging)
Abundant Waterways vs. Panoramic Views
For example, a wide open space cannot simultaneously feel secluded.
The Maeda clan saw this as a challenge and chose to prove them wrong, spending generations moving dirt and stone to harmoniously pack all six qualities into one 25-acre garden. And, they succeeded. Kenrokuen is considered one of the top 3 most beautiful gardens in all of Japan. Let me tell you...that's saying a lot considering how numerous and profoundly important gardens are in Japan as a living works of art, spirituality, and philosophy.
The most famous symbol of Kenrokuen Gardens, and also the cultural symbol of Kanazawa itself is the Kotoji-toro lantern. Standing 6 feet tall, the two curved stone legs are shaped like the tuning briges of the traditional Japanese musical insrument; the koto (zither).
Many of Japan's gardens use a series of supports or crutches beneath the limbs of trees. This practice is designed to support massive structural weight, preserve the designer's intended artistic shapes, and protect against old age and breakage. The effect is marvelous as you walk around the broadly reaching branches.
There is no set route through the gardens. You follow your own path, meander as you will, and find quiet moments that underscore the precision yet natural wild beauty they've created: Mosses like little stars hide under trees, gracefully arching bridges span burbling creeks, fountains that rely solely on natural water pressure trickle continuously, and waterfalls create tranquil noise in the otherwise silent spaces inbetween.
We rested in the shade under a replica of a traditional Japanese house boat made by nail-less joinery and watched fastidious gardeners pick pine straw (by hand) out of the moss beds. You will find no short cuts here, no leaf blowers to drown out the silence; only traditional methods, uncompromising vision, and pride in their efforts.
While Kenrokuen mostly lets nature do the talking with its immaculate landscapes, we suddenly stumbled upon a lone bronze figure standing guard; the only human form in the entire garden. Cast in 1880, a sculpture of the legendary warrior, Prince Yamato Takeru stands at 18 ft. tall on an equally tall rock base and is Japan's cultural equivalent to King Arthur. Interestingly, birds refuse to land on the sculpture, making him the most pristine prince there ever was. Not a dropping graces his warrior head. For the first 100 years or so, the Japanese considered this a divine miracle and would have continued to do so if it hadn't been for a metallurgy professor at Kanazawa University named Yukio Hirose who became curious. He determined that the alloy used in the creation of the sculpture was made from a mixture of arsenic and lead, creating a natural repellent. Simply put: The birds are no dummies and know that lead and arsenic are poison! Hirose later earned the 2003 Nobel Prize in Chemistry. I'm thinking we need to fashion something similar for our backyard pigeon habitat?
By this time, the heat was really upon us but we still had plenty more to see. No coincidence, across the bridge from Kenrokuen gardens is Kanazawa Castle, the permanent residence of the ruling Maeda clan during the Edo Period. For three centuries, Kenrokuen Gardens served as the Maeda's private outer garden and sanctuary. Must be nice.
Kanazawa Castle, built in 1580, has some strategic secrets that bear mentioning. For example, the Maeda designed the scrolling roofs for defensive purposes in case of a lengthy siege and the castle was in need of more ammunition. The whitish roof tiles are not made from typical clay. Instead, they were made from lead. This way, the warriors could rip down the tiles, melt the metal, and create ammunition for their matchlock guns.
While Kanazawa Castle was reconstructed in the 21st Century, the architects held true to the original 16th Century craftsmanship and design by building the castle without a single nail, bolt, or screw in the Japanese joinery method called Kigumi. The timber framework has a hidden benefit too. It absorbs shock and makes the castle "earthquake ready." The castle's new construction is considered the most ambitious and historically accurate reconstruction project in Japanese modern history.
Through the castle woods...and back again...and wait...where are we?...and how do we get down from these godforsaken walls? Somehow, we managed to get lost on the castle grounds. Through the trees, we could see where we needed to get to but couldn't, for the life of us, figure out how to get down to ground level other than jumping from the 72 foot walls into the dry moat below. This little detour made our trip to Nagamachi street that much longer...and hotter.
As we made our way to Kanazawa's samurai district, we walked along Seseragi-dori Street, which means "Murmur" and was named for the sound of the flowing water in the Kuratsuki Canal. The street is divided by the water so to enter the boutiques, restaurants, and cafes, you must cross individual mini stone bridges and steps over the rushing and mouth-wateringly refreshing looking water. In the heat, I can't tell you how many times I fantastized about a quick canal dip.
We entered the Nagamachi Samurai District, leaving all modern amenities from Murmur Street behind. Like the Higashi-Chaya Geisha district, the Samurai District has been left intact, each home made from the earthen walls and topped with small wooden roofs. During the winter, the roofs are covered with mats to prevent heavy snow from falling through.
We wound our way through the quiet narrow streets toward the Nomura House; a perfectly preserved samurai house. If a samurai from the Nomura clan spontaneously resurrected and returned home, he would sigh, remove his armor and swords, sit cross-legged at his low slung writing desk, oblivious to the passage of time.
The Nomura clan were high-ranking samurai who served the Maeda for 12 generations. While the Maeda lived in Kanazawa Castle, the Nomura and other elite samurai were positioned around the castle perimeter to aid in protection.
And the gardens! A covered, wrap-around wooden deck with a spectacular view. Despite homes being tightly packed together in this district, you feel absolutely secluded and calm. Colorful Koi fish, moss creeping around stepping stones, sculpted rock lanterns, tinkling fountains, hanging trees, and rain catchers make this a sublime place to connect with nature.
Inside one wing of the house, a slew of fascinating artifacts were on display. Clockwise from top left: Hand-warmer, stirrups, curtain tie back, gold coins, a letter, and a silk painting.
But, my favorite of these was the handwritten letter below that was somehow exceptionally polite and gruesome in equal parts.
Translation:
To Mr. Nomura Shichirogo,
We appreciate that you worked so hard to kill one high ranked soldier on the fourth of last month at the Yokokitaguchi Battle in Kaganokuni Enumagun. We are very happy that you brought us his head.
Yoshikage Asakura
Ok! Who wants icecream?!
We felt we deserved a pick-me-up. And, what better way to honor Kanazawa than with a sweet treat in its name. Kanazawa's literal translation means "gold marsh." Legend says that, while digging for potatoes, a peasant named Imohori Togoro found gold flakes. Now, 99% of Japan's gold leaf comes from Kanazawa. It must be so plentiful that they can afford to sell it as food, only to be digested? With the amount of gold leaf ice cream they sell here, it brings new meaning to the expression, "sitting on a goldmine." While the gold doesn't taste like anything, maybe you just feel a little more refined eating the delicate tissue-paper-like layer. Ah, but the sophistication quickly turned to laughter at Liam's new Flavor Flav style grillz. I wish I caught a photo before he licked it all off his teeth.
We took a break from walking for a delicious lunch at Omicho Market. In the middle of the chaos of seafood stalls, vegetable vendors, and hawkers of wares, we ate at a sit-down restaurant called Curry Laboratory. This was an unforgettable concoction of Japanese style curry over sesame rice and raw cabbage for crunch. Little Albert Einstein over here is looking a bit dubious about the size of her platter.
We had a an hour back at the house to rest before our appointment with our first art workshop of the trip. Yuzen Silk Painting!
Prior to the trip, I found a place where you could design your own painting ahead of time instead of simply selecting from a variety of pre-drawn designs. Quinn and I chose this option and sent our designs to Toshiaki Hirano, the owner of Kaga Yuzen Yomei, two weeks before our arrival so he could prepare our design for painting. Toshi is an accomplished Yuzen artist with an impressive resume of awards and accolades. Below is one of his dragon designs for a upcoming kimono.
Toshi is also a patient and gregarious teacher. Below are Quinn and my original designs.
The silk is stretched taught and tacked to a wooden frame. Then, the line work is laid down using a small paper cone, like a bakery pipette, filled with an all-natural resist paste called Itome-nori. Made from glutinous rice powder, rice bran, slaked lime, and seaweed glue, the gray paste functions like a waterproof dam, keeping the dye isolated within its designated boundaries when you start to paint. This effect prevents the dye from bleeding and also making Yuzen a forgiving art.
For over two hours, we sat and painted. Between intermittent conversation with Toshi and his lovely wife, we learned about his life and the Yuzen process. But, mainly, we were caught up in our work mixing paints, changing brushes, and making color decisions. Each of us grounded in our own flow state of being as we daubed drops of thin dye on our silk canvas, watching the ink bloom and slowly stretch to the edges of the Itome-nori lines. The Yuzen process is incredibly rewarding, satisying, and meditative. Hours later, we finished our paintings. But, Toshi had other plans as he taught us the final step: Painting our Japanese signatures on our silk. After sounding out our names in Kanji or Hiragana, he gave us strips of fabric while we, rather stressfully, practiced for the real deal. With a deep breath and control of our shaking hands, we were successful! Finally, we stretched and reacclimated to reality. We said goodbye to Toshi who promised to finish up and deliver the pieces to our apartment later that evening.
The last part of the Yuzen process is one that Toshi completed while we were relaxing at home: Drying, Steaming, and Washing.
Drying: First, he dries the painted silk, suspending the fabric over heaters until the ink is set and the itome-nori is completely hardened before handling the silk.
Steaming: He wraps the silk in protective paper and places them into a specialized steaming box set to exactly 212°F for one hour. This steaming process triggers a chemical reaction that bonds the molecules from the dye to the silk. Most importantly, the itome-nori paste is designed to withstand the steam and heat so the colors don't bleed into other parts of the design.
Washing: Once the dye is fused with the silk, the paintings are submerged in a cold water bath to dissolve the gray lines of the itome-nori paste, leaving behind the delicate white lines associated with the traditional craft. Before plumbing was invented, Yuzen artists created a picturesque image, standing in Kanazawa's pristine rivers to wash their silk kimonos.
Here are our finished works of art! Click on the thumbnails.
From left to right: Amy, Kip, Liam, Quinn, Gaelan, Onora.
While waiting for our Yuzen to be delivered, we did our usual: Ate big-as-your-face nutella on bread, listened to music while writing, or playing cards.
Our last night in Kanazawa was at a Jiyuken Restaurant in the nearby higashi-chaya district before packing up and heading further south to Kyoto.
Bright and early, we woke, packed the car and left for a 9:00 am reservation at the famed Myoryuji Ninja Temple. I started off a bit shaky as I tried to communicate, with zero success, that we needed change to pay for our parked car. It was a major "lost in translation moment," one where I realized that no matter how wildly I gestured, or how much I broke my own language into bite-sized pieces, no amount of effort would bridge the gap of understanding. If anything, the only thing I was successful at was sweating through my shirt. I pleaded with Quinn, "Can you help?" He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Eventually, I gave up, flashed a desperate smile, and repeated, "It's okay. It's okay." Kip found another shop for change. We felt sheepish and overwhelmingly incompetent, struggling with our lack of language. Quinn vows to remedy this in the future.
The tour was given in Japanese and yet, the accompanying English binder did a nice job capturing the main points. Nonetheless, I did a some additional research afterward to glean more information on this fascinating piece of architectural genius. Despite its name, ninjas never lived here. Disguised as a two story temple, in reality, it was a seven level military outpost designed to serve as a safe place for the Maeda Samurai clan to defend against a surprise invasion. However, this could not be public knowledge as the Shogunate (and supreme ruler) in Tokyo forbid regional lords to construct multi-level castles or fortresses. So, from the outside, the design of the temple was built according to code. But, from the inside? The Maeda used deceptive engineering and skilled artisans to hide an active fortress in plain sight. This unassuming temple contains 23 rooms and 29 staircases split among seven levels! This maze of staircases and hidden doorways makes it virtually impossible for an invading army to navigate and prepare a coordinated attack, especially in the dark of night.
Because there are no photos allowed inside the Myoryuji Ninja Temple, I did find a blog www.dannywithlove.com that shows a few interior shots from their postcards they sell at the temple. See photos below.
Left: Paper screens on the risers of this set of steps, allows guards to hide beneath the stairs, watching for shadows. If anyone tries to climb the steps, they attack their ankles through the paper screen. Center: In one narrow view, you can see 6 of the 29 staircases leading in a variety of directions, creating a labyrinthine effect. Right: By day, it's a temple offeratory box but by night, the grate can be removed, turning into an 8 ft. pitfall that drops any would-be intruder into a concealed room where guards would make quick work of them.
The temple is constructed with a hidden watchtower to alert Kanazawa castle of an invasion through a system of mirror flashes by day and lantern codes by night. The structure also contains a series of trap doors, hidden chambers, false floorboards, secret passages, and allegedly an elaborate subterranean tunnel that runs from the temple to Kanazawa Castle itself, 1.2 miles away. You could say the designers were ingenious or absolutely paranoid...or maybe a little of both.
Because it was considered deeply shameful for a samurai to be captured alive, the Maeda attempted to avoid that scenario at all cost by designing a room with a singular ruthless purpose in mind: Ritual Suicide. In case of a total breach, and imminent capture, the samurai will enter the Seppuku room. Once the samurai steps over the threshold and shuts himself inside, the mechanized revolving door locks from both sides, marking a point of no return. The locking mechanism is designed to eliminate human weakness for the task ahead. Once inside, a samurai must commit hari-kiri (ritual suicide) by taking on the gruesome task of disemboweling himself. It allows the samurai to take control of his own fate, die with dignity, and thereby retain his honor. However, with 300 years of peace during the Edo period, the room at Myoryuji Ninja Temple, gratefully, was never used.
Back in the sunlight, and shivering off the horrifying possibilities and images that place elicited, we headed an hour southwest toward the Sea of Japan to the Tojinbo Cliffs. The 90 ft. cliffs were created by volcanic activity approximately 13 million years ago, made from pyroxene andesite which formed into rare geometric columns. These same columns appear in only three specific places worldwide: Norway, North Korea, and the Tojinbo Cliffs here in Japan.
Across the way, a red pedestrian bridge spans the mainland to Oshima Island, "The Sacred Island of the Gods." When visiting Oshima, there are a few rules to remember. According to deep-rooted folklore, only walk clockwise around the island and never step foot on the island after sunset. Both of these trespasses will incur the wrath of the vengeful spirits that inhabit the place.
We continued toward Fukui Prefecture past rice fields and rolling hills en route to the Valley of the Dinosaurs.
80% of all dinosaur species found in Japan have been discovered in this region. And they're all aptly named: Fukuiraptor, Fukuisaurus, Fukuititan, Fukuivenator, Tyrannomimus fukuiensis...and the outlier, Katsuyamaia.
We subbed Gaelan in as our resident sensei for the day as we approached the Fukui Prefectural Dinosaur Museum, one of the top three dinosaur museums in the entire world. From a distance, you could see the giant reflective modern metal dome of the museum against a lush backdrop of greenery. What a sight!
With 50 complete skeletons, giant anamotronics, and a laboratory where you can watch researchers in their 'habitat', it is a modern, open, and visually engaging museum.
I always knew Gaelan loved dinosaurs, but I didn't realize the sheer extent of his knowledge until we visited the museum. The incredible depth of knowledge he’s absorbed and retained is shocking. He's not just fascinated by them. He knows their skeletal structures, can succintly relay interesting facts about each species, and can place each dinosaur in its respective Mesozoic era timeline; Triassic, Jurassic, or Cretacious. He has completely mastered the facts and imparts each with the aplomb of a seasoned docent.
I'd point to a skeleton from 15 feet away. "Gaelan, what's that one?" He'd take one look and respond, "Camarasaurus." We'd approach the placard. Sure enough, Camarasaurus. It was like watching a whiz kid talent show.
Our museum lunch was peak dinosaur theme: dino paper straws, cold soba noodles, chicken curry, and a hot dog for Onora featuring a tin foil wrapped bone sticking out of the end like a prehistoric corn holder. I guess it keeps your hands clean? Wait. Hold on. Is that an actual bone? Please tell me that's not a real bone.
After paying respects to our favorite prehistoric species, the sun was beginning to set and we still had a bit of a drive to Kyoto. For the first time, we put on some music, rolled our windows down to catch a cool breeze, and watched the scenery pass by.
Shifting colors of sunset materialized as Lake Biwa came into view. At 39 miles long and 14 miles wide, Lake Biwa is the largest freshwater lake in Japan. Lucky for us, we had this magnificent body of water in our view for a large portion of the drive.
And, just past sunset, the Shirahige Shrine floating Torii gate appeared and took my breath away. Fortunately, I had the forethought to reach for my camera to take a quick photo as the rest of the scene blurred by.
Up ahead, Kyoto's lights shone brightly in the dark and we all realized that this was our last stop on our adventure. We have five nights in Kyoto to soak up this culture into the very marrow of our bones. I have a feeling some of us don't want to leave.
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