Kyoto Before the Buses

The city belongs to the early, the crows, and the tofu delivery boys.

I was born in Kyoto, and I have a confession: I hardly ever see the famous places. They belong to the tour buses. But between five and eight in the morning the buses are asleep, and the city returns to the crows, the monks and the boys delivering tofu by bicycle.

So I set an alarm for 4:45 and climbed Fushimi Inari in the blue light. Ten thousand vermilion gates, and on the upper slopes not a single person, only a cat sitting on a fox statue with the expression of a landlord. At the top I ate an onigiri from my pocket and felt unreasonably proud.

By seven I was in Higashiyama, walking down Ninenzaka and Sannenzaka with their wooden shops still shuttered, the stone steps wet from someone's morning sweeping. At Kiyomizu-dera the great wooden stage hung out over the maples and the city was pink below it.

Breakfast was at Asagayu Shizuku, a tiny place that serves only rice porridge, pickles and a grilled fish that the old owner salts as carefully as a jeweller sets stones. At nine the first bus arrived at the bottom of the hill. I nodded to it, like a rival, and went home for a nap.

Lived November 22, 2025.