XO type of deam. 2nd bottle

プリント2：京都 (Print 2: Kyoto)

Having sent the heaviest of our suitcases ahead to the next hotel using the wonderfully convenient Kuroneko delivery service, we arrived at the station — and it immediately became clear that “all’s not well in Baghdad.”

The place was absolutely packed, even by Tokyo standards. A wild cacophony of voices filled the air, and the only islands of relative calm were the station staff — patiently (and endlessly) explaining something to a crowd of bewildered, mildly furious tourists and locals alike.

After a few dizzy laps in this human whirlpool, the picture became clearer: a nasty typhoon was creeping up from the south. It had already swallowed Osaka and was now sliding along the coast toward Tokyo, pausing every so often as if to reflect on life’s choices. The entire railway system had fallen into a catatonic stupor, and the poor shinkansen trains were standing still on the tracks — dejected, instead of soaring across Japan like the joyful high-speed swallows they were meant to be. Their schedules were delayed by nearly an hour — an unthinkable disgrace for trains famous for arriving to the minute.

Long story short, we only made it as far as Shizuoka before our train began to slow down — and then stopped altogether. A scrolling announcement informed us that the line had been suspended due to worsening weather conditions. At first, we cursed Japan’s obsession with overcaution, but about an hour later, we realized these people simply knew what they were doing… while we clearly didn’t grasp what a real typhoon was.

I’d seen a couple of tornadoes in the U.S., but this was a whole different beast. The sky turned pitch black as far as the eye could see. The wind was so fierce that old trees bent almost flat against the ground, clinging to the earth for dear life. From inside the train, it felt as though a team of deranged window-cleaning enthusiasts from some avant-garde company had decided to pressure-wash the carriages into oblivion. The only place I’d seen that kind of watery dedication before was at a car wash.

There was nothing to do but accept that the trip — normally a brisk two and a half hours — would now take considerably longer. What truly hurt, though, was the hunger. We hadn’t brought any food, confident we’d have breakfast in Kyoto. All our stomachs had to rely on were two cups of coffee and a melon pan each — which we’d devoured back at Tokyo Station. These “melon buns” are wildly popular across East Asia — not for any melon flavor, but for their patterned, crunchy crust that vaguely resembles the netting of a muskmelon. Whatever the case, our hunger kept growing.

A few emergency matcha KitKats surfaced in our bags like little green miracles, giving us brief solace. But what really distracted us were the meteorological warnings flooding everyone’s phones.

At one point, locals began receiving alerts: during a typhoon, flooding, landslides, and mudflows were possible. The message instructed: “If you hear the siren, drop your belongings and seek shelter immediately.”
Seek shelter where, exactly — from a train — was a mystery. So all we could do was encourage each other, track the storm online, and nervously joke about our “authentic Japanese experience.”

We did, in the end, reach Kyoto.
But instead of the promised two and a half hours, it took six and a half — battling our way through the wrath of the weather gods.

The old capital greeted us freshly washed and polished — as if it had just come back from a forced typhoon spa session. We’d had more than enough adventure on the road, and our grand plan for the evening was to grow roots in bed until morning.

However, our stomachs suddenly unionized and presented a list of non-negotiable demands: food. Immediately. Those poor KitKats from the train had long been digested, and the rebellion was brewing. Failing to comply, they threatened to form a coalition with the rest of the digestive system and stage something ominously referred to as “The Brown Strike.”
Not eager to find out how serious they were, Nastya and I dragged ourselves out in search of nourishment.

After something vaguely resembling a pancake stuffed with meat, the hunger dulled — but didn’t fully retreat. We stood for a minute in a mild trance, hypnotized by a sign showing fried meat, when a lively host seized his chance. Like a jack-in-the-box, he jumped out of the doorway, flashed two fingers, and asked, “Two?” Since we only ever planned to eat in each other’s company, we nodded. Before we knew it, we were seated inside — a cramped but cozy little eatery.

It turned out they specialized in wagyu beef. Amaterasu bear witness — that level of indulgence was not in the budget. But it felt rude to leave, and besides, we were curious. We decided to order one portion — just to see if this much-hyped delicacy really lived up to its legend.

The dish that arrived looked… exotic, to say the least: seven or eight neat slices, their edges coated in golden breadcrumbs, with centers so medium rare it looked like the meat had just been peacefully grazing a few minutes ago.

By the way — if, like my wife and me, you’re not exactly fans of such enthusiastic rawness, there’s a small grill on every table. Twenty seconds on each side, and voilà — the beef achieves a more reassuring level of doneness. Still, determined to dive headfirst into the local experience, we decided to try a couple of pieces as intended. Thankfully, there were plenty of sauces to experiment with, and in the worst case, we could always fall back on that gloriously fluffy rice in the neighboring bowl.

So, picture this: Nastya and I sitting across from each other. The exotic meal before us. Chopsticks at the ready. Beer of courage sipped. Determination in our eyes. We each pick up a slice, dip it carefully into the sauce of choice, and, with equal parts skepticism and fear, pop it into our mouths.

And then — something happens.

That humble breaded strip of beef suddenly explodes into a mad symphony of flavors.
The creamy sweetness of fresh milk. The delicate, unmistakable notes of umami. A faint smokiness and the subtle crunch of the golden crust. A whisper of salt and pepper reminding us of our soy-and-pepper dip combo.

It was The Great Wave off Kanagawa — but made of flavor.

Good thing we’d already survived that “vegan ramen masterpiece” back in Tokyo; otherwise, we might’ve lost the power of speech — and possibly consciousness — right there at the table. The wagyu didn’t even need to be chewed much; it seemed to dissolve on its own, while every taste receptor we possessed fired simultaneously, demanding an encore.

Dazed, we looked at each other — then instantly grabbed another slice, just to rule out the possibility of a fluke. Nope. No mistake. The second bite was just as divine as the first.

It became painfully clear that one shared portion was a crime against culinary art.
Reading each other’s minds, we called out in unison:
すみません！- “Sumimasen!” — a phrase which, in this context, roughly translates to “Excuse me, could we please have another plate of this heavenly madness?”

Minutes later, a fresh round of flavor ecstasy arrived. This time we took it slow, savoring every piece, regaining enough control over our primal instincts to form actual sentences instead of the guttural growls of cavemen roasting mammoth for the first time.

By the time we finished, a solid line of people had already formed outside — all eager to enter the tiny establishment. See, this is a common sight in Japan: queues for good food. Most local spots have only twenty seats, sometimes fewer. So if you arrive and it’s full, the host will politely but firmly ask you to wait outside and give an estimated time for the next available table.

That’s also why, in these queue-worthy places, it’s considered bad form to linger too long once you’re done eating. In a country where politeness borders on religion, you’ll be asked — endlessly politely, of course — to pay and free the seat if you seem more focused on your phone than your meal.

And so, wishing to let others taste the same bliss we’d just experienced — and mindful of Japanese dining etiquette — our happy, overfed duo paid the bill and rolled blissfully back to the hotel.

The next day, quite unintentionally, we made our modest contribution to Japan’s powerhouse economy — specifically, to its transportation sector.
You see, we decided to visit the famous Fushimi Inari Shrine and find out whether there were really ten thousand torii gates… or only 9,999.

Now, our route.
We checked the subway map — the shrine wasn’t far, but one transfer was required. Chatting away, Nastya and I hopped on the train. One station before the transfer, we got off… and immediately realized something was off. We looked around, puzzled, then went back down. Wrong station. Got off again. Entered through another gate. Still wrong.

By this point, the station attendant — sitting in his little glass booth like a silent guardian of confusion — was eyeing us with barely concealed fascination. He probably wondered why two foreigners were so determined to burn money in such a creative way.

Here’s the thing: there’s no single company running the entire subway in Japan.
Every line — or even suburban train — belongs to a different operator. So, every time you switch lines, you actually end one fare and start another. Meaning: every mistaken exit and re-entry costs you again.

By the time we finally realized we just needed to ride one more stop, we had already donated a couple of thousand yen to the world’s fourth-largest economy.

Still, we eventually made it to the shrine.
I even clumsily performed the traditional purification ritual: washing hands, tossing a coin, bowing twice, clapping twice — the full package. Not that I’m a devout believer in the whole Shinto-Buddhist pantheon, but it felt right to thank the higher powers for helping me realize a dream I’d cherished for fifteen years.

Technically speaking, Fushimi Inari Taisha is not a single shrine, but a complex — the main one dedicated to the goddess Inari, who’s got quite the résumé: patroness of abundance, rice, foxes, industry, and general good fortune. With that kind of portfolio, you can’t just build any old shrine — they even named an entire mountain after her.

Granted, it’s not a very tall mountain — just 233 meters — but thanks to a delightfully twisted path (as if ancient architects were paid per curve), the full circuit is about four kilometers. You’ll want to set aside two hours at least.

“Well,” Nastya and I thought, “steps won’t count themselves,” and off we went.

Fun fact: the lower levels of the shrine — with those dense, fiery-red corridors of torii gates — are absolutely swarming with tourists. There’s something endearingly desperate about how some girls tried to capture a photo with as few people in the background as possible.

We, being more seasoned and a bit cynical, knew better: the higher we climbed, the thinner the crowd would get. It’s the same story everywhere — most people don’t seek experiences, just photos for their feeds. For them, without likes as validation, even the most breathtaking Wonder of the World becomes just another dull stop on the itinerary.

That said, this wasn’t exactly an Everest expedition, but a bit of fitness still came in handy.
And indeed — after just twenty or thirty minutes of ascent, we found ourselves walking through those crimson-black corridors completely alone.

But even for regular gym-goers like us, it wasn’t easy. The temperature stubbornly clung above +30°C, while the humidity could’ve made any mangrove swamp proud. Closer to the summit, the phrase “sweating rivers” became less of a metaphor and more of a meteorological fact.

It honestly felt like I was melting — and that soon Nastya and I would turn into two cute, glistening puddles right there on the sacred path.

Our reward for all this suffering was a series of breathtaking views from countless little lookout points, plus a scattering of small, humble temples — each with its own neatly kept graveyard. And everywhere, the stone kitsune foxes — messengers of the goddess — watched silently, each adorned with a red bib.

We had no clue what the bibs were for — until the all-knowing Wikipedia revealed that it’s called a yodarekake, a traditional “drool cloth,” offered as a sign of reverence.

As for counting the torii gates — somewhere around the third or fourth thousand, I decided to take the guidebook’s word for it. If I forced my brain to keep counting, my mental kettle would start whistling like a forgotten stovetop moka pot.

On the way back down, we would have looked down upon the ascending crowds with smug superiority — if only we had the strength left to feel superior. Judging by the faces of our fellow survivors, that emotion was universal among everyone foolish enough to climb in the midday heat.

By the end, all anyone had the energy for was to coo at a cat drinking from a fountain.

Then again, the Egyptians might’ve had a point in worshipping these creatures. Think about it: you’re on a sacred mountain, at a centuries-old shrine complex — a place so ancient that even a Japanese emperor made a pilgrimage here back in 1072.
And yet, people still fill their phone storage and film rolls not with the sacred, but with a black-and-white scoundrel, simply quenching his thirst.

One of the absolute must-visit points for me in Kyoto was the Hario Café.
Those who know me—or have read my other stories—are well aware that I’m a hardcore coffee junkie. Sure, there’s a Hario Café in Tokyo too, but sadly, we didn’t make it there. And besides, the Kyoto one looked far cozier and more authentic.

Inside, it was pure coffee paradise… and a terrifying danger to any reasonable budget. Of course, you could grab a cup of some rare single-origin roast, brewed for you by smiling, quick-handed baristas. You could also expand your arsenal of coffee gadgets and brewing gizmos.

But! What you probably wouldn’t expect is that Hario has mastered the craft of making jewelry. Yep. The company has been creating all kinds of heat-resistant glassware since 1921, and along with elegant coffee gear, they also produce stunning earrings, pendants, necklaces, and rings — basically, everything that makes a girl’s heart melt on sight.

At the mere sight of these glittering prospects, Nastya let out a quiet squeal of joy and immediately declared that her wedding-anniversary gift from me would be chosen right here.

Well then — it took me three cups of coffee, a cheesecake, reading every bit of promotional material in the café, wandering around the store, buying themed pins and a tote bag, using the restroom, and chatting with the waiter — just to give my wife enough time to make her choice.

She and the Japanese shop assistant were chirping away happily without a translator in sight. The funny part? The girl spoke only Japanese, Nastya only English — yet they parted absolutely delighted with each other.

Since our brains were now entirely under the command of a monstrous dose of caffeine and an equally powerful surge of endorphins, we decided to keep the spree going. It was settled: we’d do our part to return Japan to the Top 3 world economies.

Luckily, that was easy to accomplish — a long, arrow-straight street stretched just beyond the café, lined on both sides with shops that practically whispered:
Leaving Japan with unspent yen is a disgrace and a sin.

Like the infamous Langoliers from Stephen King’s novella, we devoured everything that caught our interest — meaning, pretty much every Japanese delicacy in sight. Matcha ice cream, mochi of all shapes and sizes, little rice balls stuffed with sweet red-bean paste, local cookies, chocolate — we tried it all, enthusiastically and without remorse.

By the time we’d made it halfway down this edible street of wonders, it was my turn to breathe heavily and rumble in anticipation of Nastya’s anniversary gift to me.

The massive Hard Rock Café sign glowed ahead, whispering my name and summoning flashbacks from past travels — all those trips where I’d hunted for their iconic T-shirts. We went inside, browsed the store, and then — blackout.

We came to our senses at the cash register, paying a rather hefty bill, since Nastya had decided she also needed one of those shirts. And I, of course, had been foolish enough to approach the stand with the collectible pins and themed trinkets.

Like overloaded camels on the ancient Silk Road, we left the store and realized it was time to make it back to the hotel — to unload our endless bounty of bags, boxes, and packages before figuring out where to have dinner.

To dive headfirst into the atmosphere of Kyoto’s night, we chose the Ponto-chō district. It’s a deliciously crooked little alley running right alongside the Kamogawa River. Many restaurants there have verandas built on stilts, extending beyond their main halls — offering a picture-perfect view of the river and the old wooden houses along its banks.

The owners of the place we picked didn’t overthink the name — their restaurant was simply called Ponto. Technically speaking, it’s an izakaya — a casual spot where you come to sip sake, and if you get hungry, to grab a good, hearty bite.

Naturally, we asked for a table on the veranda. And naturally, thanks to our phenomenal luck, we got the very last one available.

By the time we settled in and our order arrived, night had already fallen. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds as if on cue, turning the entire scene into something out of my most optimistic daydreams of Japan.

Just imagine it: you’re sitting on an open veranda. Around you, a soft hum of voices in a dozen different languages drifts through the air.
Your eyes glide over the dark mirror of the nearby river.
What at first seemed like a pale blotch turns out to be a snow-white heron, standing perfectly still in the shallows, hunting for fish.
You look higher — there are historical buildings, tastefully illuminated by a mix of neon and warm yellow light.
The endless stream of people echoes the river’s flow, whispering across the bridge and dispersing into the narrow side streets.
Laughter and conversation ripple through the night, punctuated here and there by the click and flash of cameras.
And above it all shines a full moon, teasingly ducking behind the clouds, only to reappear a moment later — brighter than before.

It was right then, like a sudden flare of a supernova, that it hit me — my dream had come true.
All the effort, patience, years of anticipation, anxiety, and planning — all of it was justified by this very moment. This was exactly how I had imagined my journey through this extraordinary country.
Every expectation had been met — and then some.

My wife will back me up on this: my grin stretched from ear to ear and refused to fade, no matter what.
In that instant, I was already drunk on happiness long before taking the first sip of sake from the frosted little glass.

When Nastya said we needed to immortalize the moment, I struck a pose, hamming it up like a flamboyant rock star during a photoshoot. My performance was abruptly interrupted by a burst of laughter — the kind you can’t hold back no matter how hard you try.

I turned my head in amused confusion and locked eyes with an elderly Japanese woman, laughing wholeheartedly with two of her friends. When she noticed me looking, she struggled to compose herself and managed, with a bow, to say:
“ごめんなさい! — gomennasai!” — “I’m so sorry!”

But I was in such a blissful, good-natured mood that even if she had been aiming a rifle at me, I would’ve still told her it was perfectly fine and not to worry about a thing.

About an hour later, just when we were thinking of wrapping it up and taking a lazy stroll before bed, the whole company of Japanese grannies paid their bill and started making their way to the exit, weaving between tables. I caught eyes again with the one who’d laughed first — and she winked at me. The shameless flirt.

When we finally drifted out of the izakaya, we could’ve easily quoted Blok: “breathing perfumes and mists.”
Never mind that the “perfumes” hanging over us were of the alcoholic variety, and the “mist” was more like that pleasant haze that gently wraps your mind after a few moderate drinks.

We watched in pure delight as Kyoto’s nightlife swirled and bubbled around us — like a party that had slipped out of polite control. The kind where everyone’s still pretending to keep decorum, but the joy has already taken on that bold, reckless gleam.

Every now and then, out of the laughing, gesticulating crowd, someone would appear who just demanded attention.

Passing one of the countless side alleys, we spotted a local vagrant wearing a jacket several sizes too big — quite the sight in the thirty-degree heat. In overall shape, he looked like a compost heap come to life, though, to his credit, he didn’t smell like one. Swaying his greasy hair back and forth, he scanned the ground with intense focus, occasionally bending down to grope at the asphalt. As we drew closer, it became clear that he was collecting cigarette butts — an impressive handful of them, in fact.
Completely unbothered, the man would light a new stub from the dying ember of the last, with such practiced ease that he resembled some kind of cigarette sommelier, his face raised in almost meditative contemplation.

A dozen alleys later, down a quieter side street, we passed a group of youthful salarymen — Japan’s white-collar warriors. Their crisp trousers and long-sleeved white shirts stood in funny contrast to the surrounding chaos of color and revelry. You could tell these particular soldiers of the printer and highlighter had already had quite enough: the main cluster swayed together like pines in the wind, struggling to smoke with the solemn dignity of men far beyond saving.

My Japanese is modest, and I certainly don’t speak the highly specific dialect known as “drunken office worker.” But even from a few slurred phrases, it was easy to pick up the timeless tones of boozy conversation — about “the unassailable cunning of women” and “the mistaken political path of the Motherland.”

Only one brave alco-ronin had quietly separated himself from the pack. I figured he was either the weakest link in their sake marathon — or a philosopher who believed that a true samurai never clings to his drink. Either way, the green serpent had bested him. The poor man was bent over, retching heroically and spitting between rounds of battle, yet still managed to retain a sort of stoic dignity —
carefully positioning himself over a sewer grate to ensure his shoes and jacket remained unsullied.
He even hung his blazer neatly on the nearby fence, like a gentleman preparing for a duel.

Almost back at the hotel, we caught the sound of a nervous violin melody and followed it. At one of the busiest intersections, there he was — a dashing street violinist clearly determined to stun every passerby with his virtuosity.
And damn, he was good.

He looked like Cho Jong-in from Solo Leveling: the same reddish-auburn hair, the same flamboyant flair — though without the glasses. And honestly, with the kind of expression he played with, most symphony orchestras would’ve looked like a half-asleep bard circle in comparison.

Between pieces, he worked the crowd like a pro — part showman, part stand-up comic, part salesman of pure energy. He egged the audience on, urging them to laugh, sing, clap, follow him on Instagram, and — of course — toss generous handfuls of coins into his open violin case.

After his fiery rendition of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme, even I couldn’t resist and dropped a few coins in. He played with such explosive passion that I half-expected one of two things: either he’d collapse straight into the canal, or his bow would burst into flames from sheer intensity.

One of those landmarks that most sweaty tourists just sprint past on their way to Gion or Fushimi Inari is the Yasaka Pagoda. All five tiers of its splendor have been immortalized on countless postcards, prints, souvenirs, and even jigsaw puzzles. Most people aim to get there either at the crack of dawn or late at night — just so they don’t spend hours later, cursing in Photoshop, trying to erase crowds from their shots.

As usual with attractions like this around the globe, the crowd clung to the fence surrounding the pagoda, practically elbowing each other for the best angles. We calmly approached a bored-looking ticket lady and asked to go inside. Along with the tickets, she threw in a tiny flyer full of curious facts. Apparently, over the past millennium, this five-story beauty has burned down at least three times. The reason? Quite an original one: according to legend, somewhere in its foundation lie the remains of Buddha himself. Yep, that Buddha.

Back in the day, the Japanese debated so passionately over which sect should claim ownership of such a sacred site that the discussions often ended in fire and piles of corpses on the nearby streets. It wasn’t until the 15th century that the pagoda was rebuilt, when shogun Ashikaga Yoshinori promised to do truly unspeakable things to anyone who dared burn it again. Even the most devoted pyromaniacs decided to find safer hobbies after that.

These days, you can actually step inside the pagoda and even climb up to the second floor via an absurdly narrow staircase. Though the last restoration was way back in the 17th century, traces of its former glory — delicate murals and intricate carvings — are still visible.

When we finally emerged and sat down on a bench near the entrance, it became clear we were there for a reason. We had a mission: to save the white socks of a young Chinese tourist.

While Nastya and I were discussing Japanese garden design ideas for our future countryside house, the girl approached the entrance and stared for a while at a sign on the threshold that read, “Please keep your shoes on.” Apparently, she decided it was some sort of tricky reverse psychology and began to untie her sneakers. To be fair, her confusion was understandable — in Japan, there are even bars where you go barefoot, let alone temples!

But a cultural faux pas was not going to happen on our watch. We started waving our arms like two windmills, passionately explaining that she had to go in wearing her shoes. The girl giggled, blushed, thanked us, and slipped inside, feet safely shod.

Having congratulated each other on a successful rescue operation, Nastya and I headed for the train station. Our next destination: Nara, the city where even a bearded, tattooed biker can feel like a Disney princess — all thanks to the enormous population of friendly, free-roaming deer. The fact that part of this adorable herd operates as a full-blown cookie mafia, aggressively shaking down naïve tourists for snacks, is something the local guides tend not to advertise too loudly.

At the station, we witnessed yet another shining example of Japanese efficiency. A group of middle-schoolers — about 100 or maybe 150 of them — were gathered on the platform, buzzing like a giant beehive. All were dressed in identical black-and-white uniforms, chatting and laughing at full volume. And then — within a second — everything changed.

The teachers said a few words, and the kids instantly formed several perfectly straight lines, parallel to each other. Three adults carrying large cardboard boxes started walking along the first row. Inside the boxes were neatly packed bento lunches — main course, side dish, and a juice pack. As the carriers moved, the teachers deftly reached into each box, grabbed a portion, and handed it to a student. When a box was emptied, it was tossed aside, only to be immediately picked up by another adult, folded flat, and stacked neatly inside a fresh box — like a box within a box, the Japanese way.

Within just a couple of minutes, all lunches were distributed, the cleanup was complete, and the whole group began boarding the train — leaving behind only a few tidy cardboard boxes filled with their perfectly folded brethren.

I stood there in awe, hypnotized by the whole process, until Nastya tugged at my hand and reminded me that the cute deer photos weren’t going to take themselves.

We hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps out of Nara Station when a petite Japanese woman dive-bombed toward us like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. She clutched a very familiar-looking folder — the kind that instantly triggered a hazy flashback from Tokyo. Sure enough, after a polite bow and a bright smile, she launched into perfectly decent English, asking if we could spare a few minutes for a social survey.

We had time to kill, so why not? I must admit, I accepted her questionnaire with a shudder, already bracing for another kanji-packed nightmare. To my immense relief, however, the pages smiled back at me in good old English.

That was my cue to unfurl my linguistic peacock feathers and flex those C2-level English muscles. I translated the questions for Nastya, so she could join in, too — but soon the survey took a surprise turn. Turns out, Nara isn’t just Japan’s version of “Istanbul with cats.” It’s “Istanbul with deer”… and sake. The place is packed with breweries famous across the country — and beyond. Judging by the list of brands mentioned, one could easily ascend into alcoholic nirvana after just a few tastings. Plot twist of the day: we came here for the deer, not the drinks.

Once the survey was over, we were rewarded with a couple of packets of local candy. Nastya, impressed by the Japanese approach to incentivizing respondents, started musing aloud about implementing something similar at her own job. And before we knew it — while chatting about Japanese politeness — we’d already reached the park. And there they were. The deer. Everywhere.

It was almost surreal — these sizable, majestic animals strolling around like they owned the place. I get the legend about the god Takemikazuchi-no-Mikoto riding into town on a white deer — very poetic. But when several speckled hooligans with dreamy eyes and sharp antlers surround you in an alley and start demanding tribute, it feels less like mythology and more like organized crime.

We quickly figured out the core of their racket: special deer crackers, sold in packs of ten for a laughable 200 yen. When I suggested buying two, Nastya snorted, “Make it four. You’ll thank me later.” Naturally, she was right — we had to restock anyway.

Here’s how the “deer business model” works. You show them a cracker — and suddenly, all the four-legged emissaries of the gods in the vicinity converge on you. If you’re lucky, only two or three. They bow politely. You bow back. You feed them, snap a few wholesome pictures, everyone’s happy. Show them your empty hands, and they’ll gracefully move on in search of richer tourists.

If you’re unlucky, though, things escalate quickly. At the first rustle of a cracker pack, a stampede of four, five, eight, even ten deer can charge your way. You’ll be encircled before you can say “kawaii,” each trying to snatch a bite ahead of the others. Anything paper sticking out of your pocket? Gone. When you flash empty palms, they assume you’re just holding out — and escalate the negotiation tactics. First come the nudges. Then come the headbutts. And when all else fails, there’s the nuclear option: a bite to the butt. Apparently, in deer philosophy, nothing motivates a human better than a quick nibble on the gluteus maximus.

You’d think deer, being herbivores, wouldn’t have much of a bite to them. Wrong. The bastards bite hard. My poor denim shorts still bear the scar of that ambush. (Young male with trimmed antlers — I remember you. And someday… vengeance will be mine.)

To take a break from the omnipresent racketeering, we wandered into the local botanical garden. Wrong season — nothing was blooming — but it was still pleasant. We strolled along gravel paths, observed cotton plants and rice varieties, and discovered that even the koi carp in the ponds go wild for deer crackers. The local schoolkids were feeding them green pellets, but the fish clearly preferred our contraband snacks. Out of sheer curiosity, Nastya and I tried a cracker ourselves — we had to know what drove the deer insane. It tasted like plain bran. Go figure.

Deeper in the park, the atmosphere grew calmer. Here, the deer seemed more civilized — gentle does and elegant fawns bowing courteously, gazing soulfully into our eyes (and our backpacks). It lulled us into a false sense of security… which, naturally, didn’t last.

On a sun-drenched meadow, our guard dropped. We’d hidden the crackers deep in our bags, determined not to draw attention. We snapped a few photos, chuckled at other tourists fleeing from horned pursuers, and felt pretty smug about our composure. Then Nastya, moved by maternal compassion or sheer madness, decided to share a cracker with a few particularly cute does. I tried to stop her. She broke the cracker into tiny pieces and handed them out discreetly — like a schoolkid sneaking cigarettes behind the gym.

We lasted all of thirty seconds.

From across the field, heat-seeking deer missiles locked onto us. The whole herd came charging, some of them sporting antlers that looked like medieval weaponry. One particularly pushy buck had already made an impression earlier — he’d crept up behind me near the station and jabbed me in the ribs with his antlers, apparently by “accident.” (Yeah, right.)

Every military doctrine agrees that strategic retreat is a valid form of survival. We bowed respectfully to the spotted mob and began backing away, palms raised to show we were unarmed and snack-free. Most of the herd bought it. But one especially macho young buck — clearly overexposed to toxic masculinity reels — started pushing Nastya, swinging his antlers dangerously close to her.

Now, those who know me understand this: I love animals. I’m the guy who pets every cat, scratches every dog, and pays for it with allergies. But there’s a small asterisk to that statement — if any creature dares threaten my wife, I instantly evolve into a wild-eyed maniac capable of adding “extinct” to its species status.

So when Nastya yelped after another horn jab (pun fully intended), I told that deer, very calmly, that I’d once eaten venison on a business trip — and if he didn’t back off, as we say back home, “we can do that again.”

The antlered thug blinked in disbelief — one moment he was bullying a petite blonde, the next he was facing a tattooed four-eyed demon. He hesitated, puffed up, then decided to charge anyway. Bad call. He was promptly disciplined with a preemptive strike — my backpack to his face — and apparently reconsidered his life choices. At that point, I couldn’t care less which deity these beasts represented; what mattered was that my golden-haired goddess was safe.

Having firmly re-established our position in the food chain, we carried on, though with mixed feelings. The deer community, perhaps sensing the misconduct of their kin, sent forth only their most well-mannered representatives. The final one we met was a magnificent stag, his antlers a whole chandelier of bone. He seemed neglected by tourists — probably because of his size and intimidating looks. He didn’t even rise as we approached, just gazed at us with melancholy calm.

Despite the lack of barriers — and the obvious risk if he changed his mind — we took out our last crackers and offered them gently. At first he didn’t react, then the smell reached him, and he began to sniff eagerly. With slow, regal grace, he stood up, stepped closer, and bowed deeply.

Remember that scene in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, where Harry bows to the hippogriff and has to wait for it to bow back? That was us. I now fully understand Harry’s tension in that moment.

We fed the stag, who munched his treats with serene dignity. When the crackers were gone, we showed our empty hands. He sniffed them politely, sighed — a sigh of Buddhist acceptance, if I’ve ever heard one — and stepped back. We bowed in farewell and continued toward the station, ready to head back to Kyoto.

We’d had enough of deer diplomacy to last us for years.

By the time we returned, dusk had already settled over the streets, and our strength for tourist heroics had been completely depleted. The only exception we made was for three glorious floors of Uniqlo and a completely indecently sized parfait.

The clothing part was straightforward: the brand had left Russia and almost instantly achieved cult status among certain circles. Inside the store, we ran into a crowd of fellow countrymen who seemed to have made it their personal mission to buy an entire seasonal collection per person. Nastya, of course, didn’t stay on the sidelines. After trying on a few pieces, she declared with utter seriousness that it was love at first sight — and therefore, a purchase was non-negotiable.

Not wanting to be accused of apathy toward the sacred brand — or worse, get burned at the righteous pyre of last season’s leggings — I bought myself a pair of socks. They turned out to be soft and absurdly comfortable, so if the rest of their clothing is made to the same standards, I fully understand the brand’s fanbase and don’t judge their manic shopping enthusiasm in the slightest.

The parfait situation, however, was a little more complicated. Once our avant-garde, color-symphony masterpieces were served, we dove in, only to realize after a couple of spoonfuls that local confectioners seemed to rely more on visual poetry than on actual flavor. Compared to Häagen-Dazs, this ice cream clearly tried its best — but failed to elicit a single “wow.” It felt like all those flamboyant glasses, riotous colors, and whipped cream mountains were created simply to stand there beautifully and please the eye.

In all fairness, their signature dish — a towering creation called “Le Rêve” (“The Dream”) — was almost Nastya-sized, cost around 56,000 yen, and could easily have decorated a corporate banquet table at a successful financial firm… or triggered a sudden tax audit.

And just like that, the final day in Kyoto crept up on us. That morning, my mother declared she was missing one crucial element in her life: a real Japanese fan. She asked us to bring one back for her collection. Fortunately, we lived just a few steps away from the Nishiki Market and its boundless sea of shops.

Once the choice was made — an elegant fan with Fuji (obviously!) — we found ourselves in the middle of yet another cultural epiphany.

The shopkeeper, an elderly but impeccably elegant Japanese woman, wrapped the fan with such meticulous grace that the paintings at an average art exhibition would’ve hanged themselves out of jealousy. Then she handed me the package, came out from behind the counter, and bowed so deeply I honestly didn’t know how to respond.

No, by that time Nastya and I had already grown used to the everyday bows and even learned to perform them with decent skill ourselves. But this… this was something else. I remember instinctively stepping back, mumbling thanks, dragging out the last syllable in the local fashion —
“どうもありがとうございます,” - “Dōmo arigatōgozaima-a-a-a-a-su,” which roughly translates as “Thaaank you sooo very muuuch!”

After we managed to retreat with minimal losses before the overwhelming forces of boundless politeness, we strategically shipped our now dangerously overweight suitcase straight to Osaka Airport via our old friends, Kuroneko. For the rest of the trip, we had to share a single suitcase between us, but it was still better than dragging a 23-kilogram hippopotamus through the streets of Japan.

Since our checkout wasn’t until the next morning, we decided to wear down our soles a little more on Kyoto’s cobblestones. The first contender for our farewell stroll was the Kyoto International Manga Museum. Now, I wouldn’t say we’re die-hard fans of anime — or, heaven forbid, manga — but from a purely historical point of view, it was fascinating to “rewind” 10, 20, 30, even 40 years back and see how this culture evolved.

The whole charm of the museum lay in how gleefully it mocked the eternal “Do not touch” principle. Here, almost any book (save for the most fragile or rare editions) could be picked up, browsed through, and enjoyed in one of countless chairs, windowsills, or cozy carpeted reading zones. Judging by how few empty seats we found, this kind of pastime is clearly beloved by the Japanese.

Even though our pace had slowed compared to Tokyo, our feet apparently didn’t get the memo. On the way out, we took turns complaining about mortal fatigue and debating who’d have to carry whom when our legs finally gave out and all that was left to do was lie down in the general direction of our next stop.

To delay our premature demise, we decided it was high time to eat. The nearby restaurants were deaf to our suffering, politely informing us via posted schedules that they would only open in the evening. As we wandered in search of something edible, our weary feet led us to the edge of the same Nishiki Market we’d already visited earlier that day.

Back then, Nastya had taken one look at the sizzling rows of street food and wrinkled her nose with absolute conviction: she would not eat anything here. But that was the non-hungry, well-rested Nastya. The current version — tired and ravenous — just pointed at a shiny sea urchin on the counter and uttered a primal, “Want!”

By then, I was starving too, so we decided to partake in another cherished Japanese custom: eating everything that moves (or doesn’t) right at the market. As for the urchin — I can’t say I understand those who roll their eyes in ecstasy while eating it. Its orangish bits tasted like something halfway between caviar and pâté. Far more impressive were the flame-grilled squid, the wagyu beef, and the freshly heated breaded shrimp.

Fun fact: many of the foods you see displayed on the stalls are fakes. Once you point at what you want, the smiling vendor disappears under the counter and emerges with a near-perfect edible replica. I suspect there’s an entire industry in Japan devoted to producing these hyperreal food models — we saw their clones everywhere, from cafés to fancy restaurants.

Having tamed our hunger and realizing with surprise that night had already fallen, we decided to return to our old haunt, Ponto-chō. We wanted one last drink in an authentic spot — to raise a toast to our next destination.

Reality, however, had its own ideas. Every riverside terrace with a nice view was packed, and the waiting lists were already layered several people deep.

Completely on a whim, we popped into Ponto again — and, as always, Lady Luck was waiting with her fan open. The host had barely begun to tell us there were no free tables when a waiter flagged him down — apparently, one table for two had just materialized out of thin air.

Pleased with our luck, ourselves, and the universe, we happily sank into the now-familiar veranda seats, placed our order, and started chatting about the day that was already slipping into memory.

At one point, I suddenly heard a bright, high-pitched voice right next to my ear:
“Maaashirooms!”

I turned around in surprise to see the sweetest little girl — maybe ten years old — holding out a plate of mushrooms toward me. At first, I waved my hands, mumbling, “Oh no, thank you!” But the young lady fixed me with a stern look and repeated firmly: “Maaashirooms!”

Only then did my brain’s internal translator kick into gear and realize she meant “mushrooms” — the mushrooms I had, in fact, ordered.

With a smile and a nod, the plate landed gracefully on our table. I couldn’t help but watch with curiosity as this tiny member of Japan’s hospitality force went about her serious business. Her sheer cuteness worked in her favor: four elderly ladies from some Spanish-speaking country let out a collective “Aww!” every time she brought them food. A group of five stern Japanese salarymen went silent mid-sentence, scrambling to clear space on the table so the miniature waitress could set down the next round of dishes.

You could see she took her duties with absolute seriousness. She listened carefully to her older colleagues, never rushed even when carrying multiple plates, and clearly had a keen sense of balance. At one point, while returning to the kitchen with a tray full of empty glasses and plates, she suddenly froze, frowned, and then—standing on one leg to rest the tray on the other knee—she thoughtfully rearranged everything according to some mysterious inner logic. Then she lowered her leg, gave a satisfied nod, and marched on.

We stayed there almost until closing time. Even after paying the bill and stepping outside, neither of us had the slightest desire to go back to the hotel. We wandered down to the riverbank and, like sunflower seeds in a row, nestled ourselves between a Japanese couple and a family from the Netherlands.

Along the canal sat dozens of people from all over the world, mingling with locals — chatting, laughing, sipping drinks, nibbling snacks. Some were taking photos, others just quietly watched the rippling water. The air itself seemed to breathe with a rare kind of peace and contentment. It was the kind of moment you could feel with your soul — when all you wanted was to stay silent and soak it in, or speak softly about something philosophical.

When we finally got up, we deliberately took a longer route back to the hotel — that’s how much we didn’t want to leave. Kyoto, for its part, kept tempting us with unbearably cute vignettes of its nighttime life: couples huddled under a single blanket by the river, street musicians softly playing acoustic versions of popular hits…

But a plan is a plan. Tomorrow, another journey awaited — and another deeply authentic experience: an onsen, or hot spring.

But that, my friends, deserves a story of its own.

                                           

                                                                                                                               つづく(to be continued)