I waited on the platform for the train to Gokurakubashi, from whence I would take a cable car, and then a bus, to the monastery. It was unclear to me, and still is, why I would take a cable car—not a train—directly to Koyasan station.
I had to hold myself back from jumping onto a waiting train. I must not have been the only one to feel this impulse, because a recorded announcement kept repeating in English, “Do Not board the train on platform x. If you are going to Koyasan, there will be a later train.”
The monastery registration had stated that “visitors must arrive by 5:00 pm.” It was only 3:00, so I wasn’t worried. Who am I kidding? My mind was busily generating worst-case scenarios. But then the train came, and the scenery was vertiginous and spectacular, and I forgot to worry.
These signs were everywhere. I’m not sure to what they referred.
I had imagined a rickety old gondola creaking and swaying up the mountain. Instead I boarded a sleek, very expensive-looking car—as it should be, since it held dozens of people and their luggage.
In five minutes, it lifted us up a thousand feet. Or maybe it was 300. I have no idea but it was steep and high. Whee!
The station at the top was decked out with glass globes and strips of paper fluttering in the breeze—maybe for the Tanabata festival?
Spiffy uniformed guides waited at the exit and efficiently pointed us to our respective buses. Twenty minutes later I stepped into the monastery, where a man in black led me on a march around the facility. In staccato English, he pointed—“Shoes, no!”—then point elsewhere—“Shoes okay!
“Meals seven in morning, six thirty evening. You come down. Women bath open, four to seven. Gates close nine o’clock. Meditation six a.m. Yukata, no!”
This last part I would screw up the next morning.
He led me to my room which was up a steep flight of stairs.
The room was quiet and spacious and there was a view of the koi pond. The man in black left me and I inspected the features.
There was a sink! This small amenity would save trips down the hall to the shared bathroom area to fill the kettle, and I’d be able to wash my clothes, which by now were crunchy with dried sweat.
But why, why couldn’t pink champagne come out?
The internet was easy and fast, and there was a bean bun snack. By now I was famished, and the snack fueled my hunger. I rooted around in my suitcase, wondering if maybe I’d forgotten I had a pizza in there. I came across a gift box of yuba, the specialty tofu I had been toting around since I left Nikko two weeks before. It was heavy, so why not do myself a favor and just eat it now? Turned out it was heavy because it was vacuum packed in broth. I wolfed it down.
The best food is when you’re really hungry, which most of us aren’t, very often.
Several hours later the man in black served me dinner in a private room. As someone who loves fruits and vegetables and beans and tofu, I was almost so enthralled I forgot to eat. Except I didn’t, of course.
I tucked in to the 15 foods in 24 dishes. The food was fab but I felt a bit isolated. I had imagined a communal dining hall where I would meet interesting fellow travelers. I could hear a pair of Aussies talking on the other side of this screen.
But never mind. I had exploring to do.
In real time, I attended a training last night to volunteer as an election judge. I didn’t realize that part of it could involve “challenging” people who may not be eligible to vote, including felons. I felt very sad, imagining anyone with a record caring enough to vote, then being questioned in front of dozens of his fellow citizens.
I hope I don’t have to do it, but if I do, maybe I am about the most empathetic person for the job.