Making friends in Pontocho Alley
We arrived at Kyoto station at dusk; my body ached all over, and my shoulder screamed from the weight of my duffel bag as I dragged it to the curb. I looked around and locked eyes with an idle taxi driver. The trunk opened, and we hoisted our bags and shuffled into the backseat. He made eye contact with me in his rearview mirror.
This is the part where you tell him where to go. Shit. How do you say that in Japanese again?
"Uhhhhhhh," I stammered. I pulled out the Airbnb address and handed my phone to the driver. He took it, scrolled up and down on the page, and then scowled as he handed me back the phone. Jeremy and I exchanged glances. Before we could say anything else, he peeled off from the curb, then hit the breaks, yelling intelligible Japanese at another driver who got in his way. I gripped my phone and stared hard at our location on the map, avoiding the driver's gaze.
He made many turns; crossed over the river more than once. After 15 minutes, he began to circle the same block. We knew we were on the wrong side of the river, but we could tell his patience was failing. We asked him to let us out and thanked him. He looked annoyed but obliged. After we paid and retrieved our belongings, the car jolted away from us and disappeared down the block.
The sky was purple above and cloudless, dotted with early evening stars. We followed our phone, and in a few minutes, we approached our hostel. Light beams from the glass at the entrance cut sharply through the night. We opened the door and stepped inside, immediately noticing the vacant greeter's podium. Off to the left, we could see a wrap-around bar. Two men wearing tank tops and sandals sat on wooden stools, laughing. They looked up briefly and nodded in our direction. To the right, a bulletin board mounted to the wall was covered in flyers 2 layers deep.
A second later, a woman appeared from the hallway beyond the bulletin board.
"Hello, welcome," she said. "Do you have a reservation?"
I pulled off my backpack and retrieved my binder, leafing through about 20 pages of itinerary until I found it. I handed her the email reservation. She checked our names on her list and nodded.
"Great. This way, please," We followed her down a hallway and up a flight of steps.
The boards creaked and gave as we ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, the hostess turned left and lead us down another corridor lined with large doors decorated in bamboo. She stopped in front of a door and pulled out a key on a coiled bracelet.
"This is you guys," she said as she unlocked the door. It swung open wide to reveal a small 15 by 15-foot room. She reached for the light switch. The room flooded with a pale green light. The all-too-familiar threadbare tatami mats gave a little under our feet as we kicked off our shoes and stepped inside. Our futon bedding sat neatly in one corner on a ledge.
"The bathrooms are down the hall back the way you came," she said. "If you need anything else, someone will be down at the front desk."
And then we were alone. We dropped our bags and sat on the floor, my shoulder throbbing with the sudden lack of weight. Jeremy looked around. "I'm not really ready to sleep yet, are you?" He said as he reached into his pocket.
I shook my head, feeling the fatigue on my frame. I could have used the night staying in to relax, but I knew Jeremy would be bored sitting in the room for the few hours before bed, so I needed to rally. He was already on his phone, looking for nightlife in Kyoto. I started pulling magazines and notebooks out of my backpack to lighten the load.
"There's this place called Pontocho Alley." He said, not looking up from his phone. His thumbs scrolled feverishly, his face aglow in a blueish white light. "Apparently, it has a lot of bars and restaurants. Want to check it out?" He finally looked up at me.
"Sure, babe. We can go out for a little while, at least." I smiled weakly.
It's going to be a long night.
Five minutes later, we were back out into the night. Yellow lanterns glowed, their orbs reflecting off puddles along the deserted streets. With each step, I tried to ignore the blisters covering my feet. Inky black water rushed over smooth stones in a shallow channel next to us. Much like our driver, we zig-zagged over the channel a few times until our path eventually intersected with a major street. Cars whizzed by as the streets bustled with pedestrians dodging in and out of closing restaurants and shops.
Off to the right, a steady stream of pedestrians ambled in and out of a narrow alleyway. Above a sign read, "Pontocho alley."
We slipped into the alley and followed more lanterns gently dangling from rain gutters. Tourists and locals peered into windows and entered doorways, on the same quest for food as we were. We followed behind the rubberneckers, shuffling this way and that to make room for people entering and exiting. My belly grumbled loudly as I walked past each restaurant; the smell of salty, rich ramen wafted from behind curtains.
Plastic food adorned each window displaying flakey pork katsu cutlets, small plates of shiny raw fish morsels, and fork-fulls of spaghetti twirled and floating in a physics-defying position above the bowl. We checked a few places that looked promising, but each place we stopped was closed or full. The emptiness in my stomach was soon replaced by flutters of anxiety and FOMO. We abandoned our instincts and began checking every place that looked open. I knew my next stage or hunger wouldn't be so pretty -- hangry, shakey, and undecisive. We had to think fast.
As I neared a meltdown, we finally gave up the prospects of a full meal and resigned to finding the first open bar, preparing to fill up on late-night bar snacks. The alley widened and came to a fork. We continued down the right path and found a doorway to stairs leading up to the second floor. The sign on the street read craft beer. We looked at each other and nodded.
This will do.
As we climbed the stairs, we noticed a brown door on the wall with a porthole window. It swung open into the stairway suddenly. A couple in their late 20's, nicely dressed, stepped into the stairwell. They waved goodbye to the interior and descended a few steps while laughing before noticing us. We pressed against the walls as they shuffled past and watched them, and looked back at the door.
Behind the wall, we could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and music. Jeremy turned the knob, pulled, and we stepped inside.
The door squealed loudly over the blast of 80's hair metal. It was the type of place that when you open the door, everyone reflexively turns back to look at the newcomer. The bar was so small, it was hard to avoid eye contact with almost everyone in the room. It felt like we had intruded on something private.
I scanned the bar quickly and spotted two wooden stools at the end. I had hoped for a booth to rest more comfortably, but I knew that if you were lucky enough to find two open seats, the god of nightlife has blessed you, and you shall not squander your gift. So we crossed the room and claimed our prize.
As soon as we sat down, the door swung open yet again. This time, the new patrons peered in, frowned, and descended the stairs, slamming slightly as they left. We indeed had won the jackpot.
After one more visual sweep of the room, I turned my attention to the menu. I read over each cocktail names and ingredients until I saw it. I couldn't believe it. In the middle of the page was my favorite cocktail, the one I drank throughout college and still drink to this day, the Kamakazi. I hadn't seen it offered in any other bar we had been to thus far on our journey. I laughed and pointed at the bold black letters on the menu for Jeremy. He read them and then looked up at me incredulously.
"You have to get it!" He said. "It's your drink!"
I took it as a sign that we had chosen the right bar for the night. The bartenders didn't speak English, but we were accustomed to the basics of ordering in Japanese now.
We ordered our drinks and a few appetizers from our bartender and waited. I looked around the small room once more. Foreign currency from all over the world covered the wall behind the bar, left behind as gifts from former patrons.
Our drinks appeared in front of us, and we thanked our bartender. I picked up my glass and took a sip. The taste of lime rolled over my tongue.
"Oishii des!" I said, raising my glass to the bartender. She smiled and began taking another order.
"Kampai" Jeremy raised his glass up toward me. We clinked our glasses and took another sip.
We sat and listened to music for a while, enjoying the Bon Jovi blaring from the TV. The next video played a familiar tune. My eyes lit up as I heard the opening chords play. One of the bartenders began singing in English, "You are... my fi-yure. The one.... dee-si-yure. Believe.... when I say..."
To my surprise, half the bar sang in tune: "I want it that way!"
Patrons came and went, each time the bartenders shouted a greeting of welcome and farewell. After twenty minutes, we began hearing English spoken between an older couple next to us. They were from England on holiday, and they were traveling around Japan just like us. We spent time sharing what we had seen and experienced thus far. It was such a nice break to swap stories in our native tongue. After an hour, they said farewell. We stayed behind, not ready to end the night.
After my fourth drink, most of the tourists had gone, leaving room for the locals to take over and enjoy a late-night cocktail before going home. The music changed, and the bartender erupted in excitement as he called over to a patron in a business suit. They joined together in the corner, jumping up and down to a Japanese punk song. Jeremy looked back at me with a big smile. I knew this is what he had wanted all along.
We left soon after, but not before the bartender gave us a hug as if we were now good friends. We didn't share a common language that night, but instead, we communicated and bonded over the language of music.