Crashing into Kyoto

This is the seventh of my posts about my six-day trip in Japan.

I knew it would come sometime that day. I was cautiously optimistic that perhaps it could be avoided, but it was bound to happen to one of us. And then I heard it from behind -- the crash. I slammed on the brakes and spun around just in time to see a whirlwind of color flying over the side of a bicycle. Kat had crashed.

I hurried back to the scene where Kat was picking herself up off the pavement. Together, we surveyed the damage -- skinned palms and elbow and one shaken Kat, but other than that, not too bad. To her credit, Kat quickly gathered her courage and climbed back into the saddle, and we were back on our way to Nijo Castle, the extraordinary example of how the other half lived in 17th century Japan.

Kyoto is best perused on bicycle. In this biker-friendly city, it's quicker (and cooler) than walking, more efficient than buses or trains and easy peddling on the flat expanses. In the early morning hours, Kat and I cruised down the bike lanes bordering the Kamo River watching elegant cranes poke around for breakfast and gnarled fishermen cast their nets.

It was a quick ride to what would become my favorite temple complex in Kyoto. I call it Orange Temple, though the Japanese refer to it as Fushimi Inari Shrine. It’s a massive complex awash in vibrant tangerine, extending up the mountainside and guarded painstakingly by hundreds of stone foxes, which are meant to bring prosperity. You could spend all day there, hiking the trails to temple after temple, strolling through the walkways shadowed by thousands of orange gates.

Though the day was young, it was already sweltering, and people were crowded around the fountain – a temple complex staple. Little ladles are always provided for your scooping needs and sometimes even towels. At the first shrine, we saw a pair of teenagers who looked like they’d taken a bath in the fountain and were now busy going about the business of what I call, devotional laps. From the stone entrance, they walked to the altar, threw in some carved sticks as an offering, bowed, turned, returned to the entrance and repeated the process over and over again. I watched for a few minutes and then left them to their ritual.

Having arrived so early, we were there for the opening of the temples. The ornately costumed abbots and monks visit each of the dozens of temples in the complex, bringing food to the deities and offering prayers every morning. Visitors can make their own offerings of money, usually coins that are noisily tossed into metal bins at the base of the altar.

Noise seems to be the name of the game at Japanese temples. The noisy offerings are usually followed with the clapping of hands and banging of gongs hung on the ceilings of the temples and accessed via ropes extending to the ground. If I were a god, I certainly wouldn’t want the masses clamoring for my attention in this fashion, but then again, I’m not a god.

The shady cool of the forest beckoned, but there is so much to see and do in Kyoto, and our time was quickly running out. So we bid goodbye to the cheerful shrine and peddled to the next site.

Check out my photo album, "In Search of the Geisha, Days and Nights in Kyoto," on my facebook page.