Author: Wilma Nakamura

There is only one destination for which I will endure a nine hour flight in an uncomfortable seat, and that’s Japan. My favorite place is Kyoto in the fall. Whenever I can, I plan an autumn trip from Maui to Kyoto to see the artwork and history, and for the food.

Shopping doesn’t interest me much (unless it’s Tokyu Hands department store), but eating at small hidden and not so hidden places entertains me to no end. I look for inexpensive and beautifully presented food. Easy task in Kyoto. The choices are endless, and most of the restaurants I have tried are great! The only time I didn’t enjoy a meal was when I ate pasta or bacon and eggs. The pasta had a Chef Boyardee and ketchup flavor and the bacon was boiled instead of fried to a crisp. So I stick to what they do best, Japanese food.

The preparation at most places pays close attention to variety. Every little detail is addressed beautifully. They balance every presentation with color and size and shape. All of it makes me smile.

One of my favorite restaurants is at the Kyoto Municipal Museum. It’s quiet and small. Twice now it has been pouring rain outside, and to wait it out I went to have some lunch at the museum. They have four restaurants there, and I like the smallest one for their simple tofu variety lunch. The tofu in the bowl (bottom right) is made from the milk of ground sesame seeds. Oh so creamy and rich. They are also very clever with tofu skin. Here they have used it to make it look like a little bag. Even the tie they used to close it up was edible. This lunch was $13.

I can’t begin to guess how many restaurants are in the Kyoto Train Station. More than a hundred? It is a confusing task to pick one. The night I was there I was so beyond hungry, I couldn’t think straight. To complicate things, most restaurants had lines of people waiting to get in. I walked around and got to one I thought would be okay and the hostess/waitress was walking by the door as I stood there. She asked if it was only me. I said yes. She waved me in. I thought, what about all those people out there? But since I didn’t say it out loud, no one answered my question. I walked in and they had a seat just for one. I had a pretty good meal. Miso soup, fried chicken and lots of pickled things. That was exactly what I wanted to eat. Actually, I didn’t finish the chicken. They fry chicken with the skin on, so it was a bit too oily for me. But the miso soup was really good. $11.

Did I mention how delicious the rice is in Japan? I mean it has lots of taste. What I grew up with in Hawaii has no taste. I don’t eat it anymore. So I was pleasantly surprised that the rice in Japan tastes the way rice should. It’s fresh and nutty. My guess is it’s because the rice is grown in small fields by different farmers and each farmer uses their family heirloom rice seeds. They are not planting store bought or GMO seeds.

Breakfast at the Bienesse Hotel on Naoshima Island is a perfect way to start your long day of visiting art sites. This is a set menu breakfast. I thought I would need a nap after all this food. Everything was so delicious, I didn’t leave anything behind and waddled my way around the island. The egg custard (bottom right corner) was soft and had lots of flavor. Made with fresh dashi, seaweed and an egg. This meal also had freshly made gomadofu (sesame seed tofu), my favorite. I could taste the lemon they curdled the sesame milk with. I also loved all the little dishes everything was served on. The different textures and colors added to the enjoyment of the meal. I took my time appreciating this one.  $29.

On Naoshima island, I found this very tiny restaurant that served lunch. The choice is to sit on the floor or at a picnic bench with others. I sat at a picnic bench and waited for service. Some very kind people (also customers) sitting across from me realized I did not speak Japanese. I was staring at everything in the room, so they were kind enough to serve me water and hand me my utensils. I just smiled and sat there. They pointed me towards the counter where I was directed to put my order in. I would have sat there a long time without food if they hadn’t noticed I was doing nothing but smiling. I ordered red rice with black sesame seeds, miso soup and fresh fall garden vegetables. Delicious. $13.

Would you like to shop for a prepared lunch where the local people go? Japan’s version of fast food is the Bento Box. The contents are healthier than french fries and a burger, and beautiful to look at. Leave it to the Japanese to elevate the everyday mundane meal to an art piece.

I bought this meticulously prepared lunch for $8 down the street from the Kyoto Hyatt at a Bento shop. I saw a line of people waiting to purchase something, so I had to have a look. Oh a bento box, okay, I’ll try one. The vegetables and raw fish were fresh, the rice was cooked perfectly and I noticed they didn’t make anything with shoyu and sugar. It was simply cooked or steamed and lemon was the only flavoring, if any. I was pretty impressed with myself for finding this little shop.

I splurged one day. I had read about Kaiseki (multi-course meal that is prepared by skilled chefs) Bento Boxes, so I went looking for them. In the basements of the depato (department) stores like Daimaru and Takashimaya is where Kyoto’s amazing food courts are located. But there are so many vendors, it’s a dizzying task to find the one I was looking for. I must admit, I was enticed to go left when I should have gone right because everything looked more tempting and delicious than the last. Good thing I don’t understand much Japanese. The sales people beckon you to their booth by saying things like, “you’re going to miss out on this fresh salmon” or “just picked today, you must try it,” and it’s hard smiling as I go past for the fourth time looking for the Kaiseki Bento Boxes. Finally, I found them. This was all they had in their glass showcase. Simple choice. $27. It was beautiful. The combination of foods complimented each other. Nothing was too salty or too sweet. They had the best fresh vegetables, barely cooked. I would go back for more, and I did.

The design of the box was conceptual. The Kaiseki bento chef/designer had “high mountains, valleys and streams” on his mind when he deliberately put basic shapes and colors together. Chefs have an esteemed status in Japan. They are artists well trained in food preparation.

I made it a point to eat at restaurants where they welcomed a non-Japanese speaker. I liked watching the kimono clad women glide around so gracefully. To add to the ambiance, the women spoke just above a whisper so as not to break the peaceful atmosphere. At the bento places, I enjoyed watching them wrap my purchases in plain white paper. They have a special way of wrapping each purchase.

Bento boxes are very popular in Kyoto, but nowhere in the shops do they provide someplace to sit and eat your meal. I would always plan a walk into my day to a temple outside of the downtown area just to sit and eat. It’s a no-no to stand and eat on the sidewalk or to sit and eat at a bus stop. Being creative while traveling is part of the fun. I became an expert on where the next appropriate bench was.

Nothing compares to Kyoto’s beauty or the choice of food options, in my opinion. It is not an expensive place to go for a vacation. Lunch can cost anywhere from $6 at a Family Mart to $80 for a crazy, fancy, way too much food Kaiseki meal at Yata’s. Both unforgettable.

Sometimes a stop at one place can lead to a great adventure in another. From an art gallery on Maui to an entirely unexpected experience at a sacred place across the ocean…

In 2012, the Schaefer International Gallery at the Maui Arts and Cultural Center had a ceramic exhibition by contemporary Japanese female artists, “Soaring Voices: Recent Ceramics by Women from Japan.” It was described as pushing boundaries and conveying an internal energy. The works that fascinated me the most were from Shigaraki.

I have wanted to go to Shigaraki, Japan ever since, imagining I would see much more of the beautiful styles of ceramic work that had intrigued me at the gallery. The unique pieces in the show had calcium deposited in the clay. Large, raw, unglazed pieces.

This year, I booked a trip to Kyoto with plans to explore more of the artwork and temples I had looked for on previous visits. This time, I would make my way to Shigaraki. I got up early on a Monday morning and waved goodbye to the front desk at the hotel. I asked one last time, “Are you sure the Ceramic Cultural Center is open on a Monday?” The desk clerk waved back, “No problem, have a good time.” So off I went.

Planning my route, I had looked up the bus and train schedules and both looked complicated. I didn’t want to take the Tozai line and switch to the Keihan Railway to Hamaotsu and from there take the Ishiyama line to Ishiyama train station. Trains didn’t run after a certain hour, so if I missed the last one I would be in trouble. No thanks. I decided a taxi from Ishiyama would be the easiest way to get there.

I got on the subway and went from Gojo to the Kyoto Train Station. At the train station I purchased a ticket to Ishiyama. Hardly anyone was on the train. I got off at Ishiyama and walked out to find a taxi. Grabbing the first one in the line up, I asked him if he would take me to Shigaraki. He was surprised…“Shiga?” I said, “No Shigaraki”. He asked again, “Shigaraki?,” then he sat in silence before asking one more time, ”Shigaraki?” I thought, what is going on? What’s the problem? “Yes, Shigaraki,” I said.

We drove off, headed to Shigaraki. The route was a narrow curvy road into the mountains. The taxi driver didn’t speak English, and I only understand and speak very basic Japanese. We didn’t talk as he drove, I just looked out the window. Halfway to Shigaraki, we came to the famous Miho Museum. He pulled in and asked if I wanted to go there. “No thank you,” I said. “No thank you????,” he repeated, puzzled. We got back on the road and kept going.

Finally, we got to an area with houses and I could see chimney stacks. This must be Shigaraki, I thought. No English signs welcomed me, but I could see many large ceramic pots on trucks and in the distance on the ground near houses. I was getting excited. We’re here!

He pulled up the driveway to the Ceramic Cultural Center and there was a huge gate across the road. He got out of the car and rattled the gate, then got back in and seemed very upset. He quietly pointed to the gate and crossed his arms, making an X. Then he shook his head and said, “No,” and I understood. I had picked the wrong day to see the center. It was Monday, and they were closed. I just gasped. Why wouldn’t they say that on their website? We had driven a long way and my taxi fare was up to $100 at this point. But there was nothing we could do. Disappointed, I told him it was okay and that we could just go back to Ishiyama.

Heading down from the driveway, he got excited and pulled into another tiny museum parking lot. They were closed too, but he could see someone inside so he ran up to the front and banged on the door, asking them to let me in. They all spoke in Japanese, but I could understand some words and read their body language to interpret the conversation. “We have come all this way and the Cultural Center is closed. Just let her come in for a few minutes before we go back to Ishiyama.” The workers agreed, “Well, okay, but we’re closed today.” They flipped the lights on and my driver motioned for me to hurry. “They’re going to let you in,” he smiled. So I walked through the museum as fast as I could. I was a potter for twenty-five years, so as I looked at the works I was ticking them off in my mind…high fire (cone 9-10), wood fired, slip glazes, salt fired, reduction…nothing was really extraordinary, but at least I had seen some ceramics.

As we were leaving town, the driver spotted a café gallery where someone was watering potted plants. He pulled up into their parking lot. Again he ran up to the woman and asked her if we could come in because the Ceramic Cultural Center was closed and we had driven all the way from Ishiyama. She said, “Come back in an hour. I am not open now (she meant her cash wasn’t there so she couldn’t make any sales).” He insisted, “The least you can do is let her come in just to look.” Okay, she agreed. I ran in, checked off my list…electric fired, reduction fired, slip covered reduction pieces, ash glazes, electric fired hand painted pieces. I got back in the cab.

The driver apologized for Shigaraki being closed on a Monday. I said, no, it’s okay, not your fault. He simplified his Japanese and I used few English words, but we accepted what we could understand.

We got back on the road. In silence, he drove the curvy mountain route to Ishiyama. As we got closer to the train station, he said excitedly, “I’ll take you to my church.” I thought, oh no. Your church? I don’t want to go to anyone’s church. Now it’s going to get weird. Oh boy!

He drove into a large parking area, stopped the taxi and got out. This time, he spoke in English and very slowly said, “Please, Ishiyamadera, famous temple, no meter, go.” So I ran out and thought, did he say Ishiyamadera? I’d been wanting to go to Ishiyamadera, but because the directions were so complicated I hadn’t done it. And there I was!

Ishiyamadera is this rare massive rock monument. At the bottom of it is a cave. I think it reminded those who saw it early on of the cave that Amaterasu (the sun goddess, a Shinto deity) came out of. A stream circles the monument like a moat. It’s very impressive. I could feel how the first people who saw this place must have thought, “We have to build our temple around this.” The whole area feels sacred, and I could imagine the many people who had come there over the decades since the temple was founded over 1,265 years ago. It was awe inspiring for sure.

I ran back to the parking lot after about twenty-five minutes and there was my driver waiting for me. I got in and he asked, “Train station?” I said, “Yes, please (onegaishimasu).” When we arrived, he got out to open my door. With his two hands out and his head bowed, he presented a gift to me…a beautiful pink furoshiki (a traditional Japanese wrapping cloth) with a woman painted on it. He had purchased it from the gift shop at Ishiyamadera while waiting for me. What a sweet man. I was beside myself! I thanked him and he giggled.

I wished I could have told him that going to Ishiyamadera was the highlight of my trip. Shigaraki was okay, but Ishiyamadera was WOW! And he made it even more special by being so kind and considerate. My visit was filled with the unexpected. Like the ceramic works that had led me from Maui to Japan, this trip was about pushing boundaries and experiencing the energy of the people and places around me.

I’m not a fan of witnessing Pele (Hawaiian Goddess of fire) in action.  I think she does a great job of being the fire goddess and I think she is supposed to scare us mortals.

I grew up on the Big Island in the 50’s. The only excitement there was eruptions.  Didn’t matter where it was or what time of the day or night, I recall it was a must-see-immediately situation.  When I was five, I was playing with my friend when her father heard of an eruption in the Puna area and he wanted to pile his family into the car and drive over there…in a hurry.  In those days they had volunteer “Watchmen” who acted as the police in an emergency, and her dad was one of them.  Sometimes he was given notice ahead of the general public on things like the newest eruptions. In this case he was told of an eruption in the Puna area.  Her parents asked mine if it would be okay to take me along.  “Sure, Wilma will probably enjoy the ride.”

It took less than an hour to drive out to Kapoho where the eruption was.  When we parked the car we could see in the distance a house slightly tilted to the right, as if it was falling into a hole.  Not many people were there to see the eruption because it wasn’t made public yet.  The unusual thing about this one was it was taking place in an area that was not inside a crater.  No one there had seen anything like this before.

We were able to drive quite close to the house.  On the right side of the house was a small fountain of lava spewing out.  The ground was rumbling and the vibration traveled up your legs and into the pit of your stomach.  A five-year-old does not forget how that felt.  We were parked in a large field.  We got out of the car and walked as close as we could to the house.  I could see cement steps leading up to the front door.  Plants along the walkway on either side were still alive.  Everything looked pretty normal, so normal that it looked like it could have been our house.  I thought about how we had the same plants and the same color house.

When the adults were done looking at what we had come to see, we started walking back to the car.  I remember it looked like we parked in a wide, open field.  We could see the car, but now my neighbor couldn’t figure out how to get back to it.  The ground had more cracks in it than it had earlier, and we couldn’t jump across them…we were five.  So we took another route to the car and then discovered we couldn’t go that way either.  I remember wondering if we were ever going home again.  I sensed that my friend’s dad was getting worried. Finally after walking for what seemed like a very long time, we made it to the car and left.

The next day my father announced that we would all go to see the newest eruption.  “No,” I said.  I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to stay at home.  My parents ignored my panic…“of course you’re going.”  I was very upset.  I didn’t want to return to the very hot lava fountain and its rumbling sounds, and most of all I didn’t want to repeat that scary experience of not being able to get back to where we had parked.

Everyone in my family piled in to the car except me.  I hung on tightly to the front door, then the car door, all the while screaming that I was staying home.  No one understood what I was doing.  Five-year-olds do not have the language to express fear…I was acting it out.

When we got to the eruption we were far away from the house with the lava fountain.  By this time the house was tilted even further and the lava was still spewing.  Civil Defense had cordoned off the house with yellow tape.   We couldn’t park anywhere near that house, but I still refused to leave the car.  Eventually, my story came out.  I told my Dad that I had walked very close to the house.  I told him that the lady had plants like we did (anthuriums) and then we had a hard time getting back to the car.  He asked me to point out where we were when we had seen the eruption the day before.  When I showed him how close we’d been, he got very upset.  He agreed it was not a safe viewing spot.  We should never have been that close.

When we got back home, my dad had a word with our neighbor.  The whole experience felt so dangerous and volatile, and that kind of eruption outside of a crater rattled everyone.  We all felt vulnerable that if it could happen there, it could happen anywhere…including our house.

I have never liked the sounds that Pele makes when she is in full production.  She’s impressive alright, and to a small child the memory of being stuck out there so close to her fury made for many sleepless nights.

Getting to the beach with my grandfather in his Model T Ford was a huge task.  In the summers, my grandparents looked after my sisters and me.  I think when I was seven and my sisters were five and twelve, the thought of going to the beach and having a picnic was on our minds all the time.  We would plant the idea in my grandfather’s mind and on some days he would ask my grandmother to pack a picnic lunch.  YES!

That was the first part of the plan.  Success!

My grandmother would mumble something in an annoyed tone, but she would put the rice on and start frying spam.  She would pickle some cabbage. Beat some eggs, fry them with slices of Vienna sausage and cut them into bite size pieces.  The whole house would smell of “picnic”!!!  In about a half hour she would start packing the lunch ever so neatly into a cardboard box.  We had a table cloth, napkins, forks, chopsticks, plastic cups and a pitcher of ice water.

Meanwhile I was changing into my bathing suit and running around talking in a very loud, excited voice looking for my inner tube and beach towel.  I have no recollection of what my sisters were doing.  They were probably quietly holding their bathing suits, towels and inner tubes watching me get overly excited.

We would pile into the back seat of the car.  Me with my inner tube on, bouncing up and down on the seat, holding on to the cord behind the front seat and making believe I was riding a wild horse.  I have no idea how my sisters would fit into the back seat with me. I was too busy bouncing and swinging on the cord.

We would reverse out of the driveway and I would try not to scream too loudly.  My grandmother was never excited to be going to the beach.  She had gardens to look after, trim, clean…not waste time going to the water.  The car smelled of fried spam and musubi (riceball).  My grandfather would drive about ten minutes down the road.  As soon as he saw a dirt road that looked like it it didn’t lead anywhere, he would pull over.  He didn’t speak much English but he would smile broadly and say, “LUNCH!”  We would yell, “NO Jitchan (grandfather), drive some more!  Go Jitchan, no lunch, beach!”

He would get the car back on the road and we would drive another five minutes.  He would spot somewhere he could pull over and he would announce…“LUNCH,” and we would scream again…“NO!  Beach, Jitchan, beach.  Go!”  And off we’d go again.  Eventually, the smell of lunch would get to all of us.  The beach was forty-five minutes away from their house.  I don’t remember ever getting to the beach with my grandparents or having lunch at the beach.  We would always give in and eat our lunch sitting in the car stopped on the side of the road.

Full of a great lunch, Jitchan would turn the car around and go back home.  No lunch to take to the beach now and ready for a nap.  The ride home was quiet.  All the excitement and bouncing around was exhausting.   

In the next few days we would try again.  Never making it to the beach didn’t discourage us from trying again and again.  I would think my grandmother would get tired of packing a lunch for the beach and not getting there, but she never complained about not seeing the ocean.  We never caught on that we didn’t need our inner tubes or towels either.  Lunch in the car by the side of the road always tasted delicious.  I love the memory of my grandfather pulling over on the side of the road for lunch.  I think of it every time I go to the Big Island.  I see places where we had our picnics in the car and I laugh, seeing myself sitting inside an inner tube eating lunch in the back seat of Jitchan’s Model T.