Six years ago, in the summer of 2010, I visited Japan the first time, spending most time in Kyoto learning Japanese, and a couple of weeks traveling around—Hiroshma, Kōyasan, Nikkō, Tokyo.
This time, I am back to Kyoto again, in fact to the same university (Doshisha University) where I studied Japanese before, and this time for a conference. It feels like a full circle coming complete.
I am always fond of Kyoto, one of my favorite cities in the world. Above all, it offers many old temples and palaces that always excite a historian like me. Since I've visited most of them in my last trip, I skipped them this time, and went to see a really old temple—actually the oldest in Japan—Horyu-ji (法隆寺) near Nara, which was founded in early seventh century (Sui Dynasty in China). The temple was sponsored by Prince Shotoku (聖德) to worship Yakushi Nyorai (藥師如來), a healing Buddha, to help the recovery of his sick father.
It was a cloudy day. Under the overcast sky, the pagoda (the left picture above) looked imposing. Old architecture like this, precisely because they are old, are plain, empty, and vast, as if history had stripped down all their ornaments and only left the most basic there. The awe they elicit lies not in magnificence, but in simplicity, bare-bones simplicity.
At the time of its construction, the temple could be tremendous. How this type of building travelled from India to China, to Korea, and finally to Japan is beyond my knowledge. But one episode from Xuan Zang's Datang xiyu ji (大唐西域記) is interesting. The famous monk, during his travel in India in the early 7th century (not long after Horyu-ji was built), encountered a stupa that was fifteen meters high, commissioned by a foreign merchant. It was covered by the paste of saffron, a plant with colorful flowers and fragment smell. Already then, ornamentation figured more prominently in India than in Japan.
What was Japan like in the 7th century? I don't know much. This is the period of Asuka (飛鳥, 538-710), when Buddhism started to penetrate into Japan, and cultural exchange between China, Korea, and Japan flourished. This vibrant exchange continued in the following centuries, first in the Nara period (奈良, 710-794), then peaked in the Heian period (平安, 794-1185). One piece of material evidence is the many items preserved in Shōsō-in (正倉院) of Tōdai-ji (東大寺) in Nara, many of which are medicinal substances from China and further west. I tried to take a look at this important site when I was in Nara, only to find that I was too late to enter. So I only caught a sight from afar.
After I visited a few temples in the Nara area, visual fatigue arose—in the end they all look similar. Better to get some change: Kanazawa (金沢).
Kanazawa is two-hour train northeast of Kyoto. Often called "Little Kyoto," it has some interesting historical sites, though not as old. A fairly small city that literally you can walk around to cover all the places. It has a famous castle dating back to the 15th century when a so-called "Peasants' Kingdom" was established. Here we are at a different moment of Japanese history—the Sengoku period (戦国, 1467-1603). Not unlike the Warring States period in ancient China, the period witnessed the waning of the central power in Kyoto and the rise of feudal lords in local regions. The Peasants' Kingdom was one of them. It didn't last long. In late 16th century, it was defeated by Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豊臣秀吉). Several decades later, Japan was united again by Tokugawa Ieyasu (徳川家康), and enter the Edo period (江戸, 1603-1861).
Another famous site in Kanazawa is Chaya (茶屋), tea houses or geisha houses developed in the early 19th century. I suppose this is why the city is called "Little Kyoto," as that is what Kyoto is famous for. In Kyoto, there is a street at the center of the city called Hanamikoji (花見小路) where if you are lucky, you may see a "flower," an euphemism for geisha. Similar idea for the Chaya districts in Kanazawa, where a century ago customers (mainly male) sought rest and pleasure. These days the districts have become popular commercial sites to sell the quintessential Kanazawa product—things made of or covered by golden foil. The city was the major site of gold production in the 19th century. Hence the name 金沢, "marsh of gold." They even have a golden ice cream. Walking around the districts, I had sort of conflicted feeling. The architecture is certainly impressive. Yet underneath them hides a history that entwined money, greed, and distress of women.
Leaving the Edo history behind, I am entering a new domain, both temporarily and spatially, Hokkaido (北海道). Why Hokkaido? Well, the answer seems obvious: Hokkaido has a special appeal to foreigners because of its natural beauty. As the last piece of territory incorporated into Japan in the 19th century, it is like the American West, a wild, mysterious land that allures and invigorates. Not to mention its romantic portrayal in many movies, from Yamada Yoji's superb 遙かなる山の呼び声 (Chinese title: 遠山的呼喚) to Hou Hsiao-Hsien's Millennium Mambo (千禧曼波), and even to the popular movie 非誠勿擾.
So here I am, in Hakodate (函館), a southern city in Hokkaido. It feels fresh. No more heavy historical burdens; no more stifling heat in Honshu region; no more hordes of tourists. Here you see empty streets, quiet neighborhood, vast ocean, and still-active volcanos. There are some interesting historical sites, though, chiefly in the 19th and 20th centuries. Say, a Catholic church, an Orthodox church, and a Buddhist temple sit right next to each other, betraying the history of Western proselytization in the past century. But coming to Hokkaido is chiefly to enjoy its natural beauty and pleasant weather, not to forget its abundant seafood.
Something funny happened when I was in Hokkaido. Some places there reminded me of other places faraway that I visited before—a strange sense of déjà vu. When I was standing on the top of the Hokkaido Mount where I had a nice bird-view of the city, and the ocean beyond, I thought about Grenoble, a city in southern France I visited a few years ago. It also has a mount where you can climb up and have a magnificent view of the city, and the Alps beyond.
Here is another example. I spent a day exploring Toya Lake (洞爺湖) near Hakodate. Sitting near the lake and looking over, I discerned some mountains afar, which, perhaps because of the dense mist, were reduced to sheer geographical shapes. Are they not the mountains in Lauren Harris's paintings? The Canadian artist is famous for his depiction of natural sceneries as abstract, geographical, and hence highly spiritual objects. Harris went to Lake Superior in the early 20th century to produce many of his paintings. And I am now sitting along Lake Toya in Hokkaido, experiencing the same.
Is this a coincidence, or not? I have been traveling to quite a few places in the past years, mainly between 2012-13 (see my earlier posts). If my first visit of Japan six years ago provoked more of an excitement of initial encounter, this second visit, by contrast, offers something different because it is already built upon layers of my earlier travel experiences. As a result, some kind of connection emerges. For a historian, naturally enough, I cannot help pondering these questions: What is time? What is place?
After I visited a few temples in the Nara area, visual fatigue arose—in the end they all look similar. Better to get some change: Kanazawa (金沢).
Kanazawa is two-hour train northeast of Kyoto. Often called "Little Kyoto," it has some interesting historical sites, though not as old. A fairly small city that literally you can walk around to cover all the places. It has a famous castle dating back to the 15th century when a so-called "Peasants' Kingdom" was established. Here we are at a different moment of Japanese history—the Sengoku period (戦国, 1467-1603). Not unlike the Warring States period in ancient China, the period witnessed the waning of the central power in Kyoto and the rise of feudal lords in local regions. The Peasants' Kingdom was one of them. It didn't last long. In late 16th century, it was defeated by Toyotomi Hideyoshi (豊臣秀吉). Several decades later, Japan was united again by Tokugawa Ieyasu (徳川家康), and enter the Edo period (江戸, 1603-1861).
Another famous site in Kanazawa is Chaya (茶屋), tea houses or geisha houses developed in the early 19th century. I suppose this is why the city is called "Little Kyoto," as that is what Kyoto is famous for. In Kyoto, there is a street at the center of the city called Hanamikoji (花見小路) where if you are lucky, you may see a "flower," an euphemism for geisha. Similar idea for the Chaya districts in Kanazawa, where a century ago customers (mainly male) sought rest and pleasure. These days the districts have become popular commercial sites to sell the quintessential Kanazawa product—things made of or covered by golden foil. The city was the major site of gold production in the 19th century. Hence the name 金沢, "marsh of gold." They even have a golden ice cream. Walking around the districts, I had sort of conflicted feeling. The architecture is certainly impressive. Yet underneath them hides a history that entwined money, greed, and distress of women.
Leaving the Edo history behind, I am entering a new domain, both temporarily and spatially, Hokkaido (北海道). Why Hokkaido? Well, the answer seems obvious: Hokkaido has a special appeal to foreigners because of its natural beauty. As the last piece of territory incorporated into Japan in the 19th century, it is like the American West, a wild, mysterious land that allures and invigorates. Not to mention its romantic portrayal in many movies, from Yamada Yoji's superb 遙かなる山の呼び声 (Chinese title: 遠山的呼喚) to Hou Hsiao-Hsien's Millennium Mambo (千禧曼波), and even to the popular movie 非誠勿擾.
So here I am, in Hakodate (函館), a southern city in Hokkaido. It feels fresh. No more heavy historical burdens; no more stifling heat in Honshu region; no more hordes of tourists. Here you see empty streets, quiet neighborhood, vast ocean, and still-active volcanos. There are some interesting historical sites, though, chiefly in the 19th and 20th centuries. Say, a Catholic church, an Orthodox church, and a Buddhist temple sit right next to each other, betraying the history of Western proselytization in the past century. But coming to Hokkaido is chiefly to enjoy its natural beauty and pleasant weather, not to forget its abundant seafood.
Something funny happened when I was in Hokkaido. Some places there reminded me of other places faraway that I visited before—a strange sense of déjà vu. When I was standing on the top of the Hokkaido Mount where I had a nice bird-view of the city, and the ocean beyond, I thought about Grenoble, a city in southern France I visited a few years ago. It also has a mount where you can climb up and have a magnificent view of the city, and the Alps beyond.
Here is another example. I spent a day exploring Toya Lake (洞爺湖) near Hakodate. Sitting near the lake and looking over, I discerned some mountains afar, which, perhaps because of the dense mist, were reduced to sheer geographical shapes. Are they not the mountains in Lauren Harris's paintings? The Canadian artist is famous for his depiction of natural sceneries as abstract, geographical, and hence highly spiritual objects. Harris went to Lake Superior in the early 20th century to produce many of his paintings. And I am now sitting along Lake Toya in Hokkaido, experiencing the same.
Is this a coincidence, or not? I have been traveling to quite a few places in the past years, mainly between 2012-13 (see my earlier posts). If my first visit of Japan six years ago provoked more of an excitement of initial encounter, this second visit, by contrast, offers something different because it is already built upon layers of my earlier travel experiences. As a result, some kind of connection emerges. For a historian, naturally enough, I cannot help pondering these questions: What is time? What is place?
