Read Online Untangling My Chopsticks by Victoria Abbott Riccardi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Abbott Riccardi
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the moment of truth: Iwould rendezvous with Mrs. Hisa by the front gate of Mushanokoji, whereupon we would go inside and meet the man who might grant me enrollment.
To calm my jangled nerves, I rose early and went for a long jog along the Kamo River. As often happens during such times, the world came into stark relief. As I ran up the embankment, details popped, such as the nickel-blue river, topaz marsh grass, and leafless trees that looked almost silk-screened onto a paper panorama of Kyoto.
Flushed with endorphins, I dashed back to the Guesthouse feeling much calmer about meeting with the Grand Tea Master. By 8:00, I was down in the den drinking coffee and breakfasting on persimmon toast. Persimmons had recently come into season and, when sweet and jelly-soft, made a luscious topping for crisp buttered whole wheat bread.
After scanning the newspaper, checking the weather and the exchange rate, I headed up to my room to get dressed. Now what to wear?
Mrs. Hisa had suggested a skirt, although she had not indicated what length. A short skirt would rise dangerously high above the knees when sitting on the tatami, a flagrant breach of tea etiquette. After much deliberation, out came the Labels For Less black wool suit with its matching purple-and-black-patterned blouse that tied in a bow at the neck, black stockings, and black “comfort” pumps. On went some eyeliner, a dab of lip-gloss, and some simple pearl studs. Voilà. It was the best I could do, short of renting a kimono.
It was only later that I found out the outfit was appropriate. Tea devotees consider loud clothes, jangling jewelry, makeup, and perfume flashy material distractions in the spiritual world of tea.
After taking the subway to a stop near the Imperial Palace— a dark wooden structure sitting in a vast white gravel park—I gotout and walked down Karasuma Street, where I turned right at the Young Men's Christian Association, toward Mushakoji Street. Mushakoji means “Samurai's Path,” likely because this small road served as a popular thoroughfare for these fierce warriors on their way to the Imperial Palace. Ironically, the samurai became enamored with the tea ceremony around the turn of the thirteenth century, a time when political power lay not with the emperor and aristocracy, but with the head of the military government, called the shogun, and his warrior clan of samurai. Intrigued with the discipline of the tea ceremony that mirrored their strict codes of conduct, these warriors began patronizing the spiritual world of the teahouse.
After almost ten minutes of walking, I came to Mushanokoji, an elegant caramel-colored stucco building built in the early 1600s when mud and timber were in style (and still are for traditional teahouses). Vertical brown beams decorated the façade and a small gray roof, like the top of a birdhouse, ran the length of the compound's wall. Several maple and pine trees rose up from an interior garden, creating a lush natural fence.
In front of a bamboo and wood entrance gate stood a small elderly woman with silver hair that softly curved around her temples. As I came up to her, she dipped her head as if to bow.
“You must be Virginia,” she said, with a shy smile.
“Yes, I'm Victoria,” I said, hoping she would subconsciously pick up the correction. “And you must be Mrs. Hisa.”
“Oh, yes, oh, I am sorry, I meant Victoria,” she said, somewhat flustered. She pushed open the gate. “Let's go in.” I followed her down a narrow stone pathway flanked by gravel and low green bushes. At the end of the walkway stood a flat stone ledge, where we slipped off our shoes before stepping up to the tatami waiting room.
A young maid in a chartreuse kimono decorated with red and gold cranes came forward to greet us. Split-toed white socks muffled her steps as she led us down a series of smooth wooden corridors perfumed with the faint spicy sweetness of sandalwood. As we passed through various tearooms—seven in
To calm my jangled nerves, I rose early and went for a long jog along the Kamo River. As often happens during such times, the world came into stark relief. As I ran up the embankment, details popped, such as the nickel-blue river, topaz marsh grass, and leafless trees that looked almost silk-screened onto a paper panorama of Kyoto.
Flushed with endorphins, I dashed back to the Guesthouse feeling much calmer about meeting with the Grand Tea Master. By 8:00, I was down in the den drinking coffee and breakfasting on persimmon toast. Persimmons had recently come into season and, when sweet and jelly-soft, made a luscious topping for crisp buttered whole wheat bread.
After scanning the newspaper, checking the weather and the exchange rate, I headed up to my room to get dressed. Now what to wear?
Mrs. Hisa had suggested a skirt, although she had not indicated what length. A short skirt would rise dangerously high above the knees when sitting on the tatami, a flagrant breach of tea etiquette. After much deliberation, out came the Labels For Less black wool suit with its matching purple-and-black-patterned blouse that tied in a bow at the neck, black stockings, and black “comfort” pumps. On went some eyeliner, a dab of lip-gloss, and some simple pearl studs. Voilà. It was the best I could do, short of renting a kimono.
It was only later that I found out the outfit was appropriate. Tea devotees consider loud clothes, jangling jewelry, makeup, and perfume flashy material distractions in the spiritual world of tea.
After taking the subway to a stop near the Imperial Palace— a dark wooden structure sitting in a vast white gravel park—I gotout and walked down Karasuma Street, where I turned right at the Young Men's Christian Association, toward Mushakoji Street. Mushakoji means “Samurai's Path,” likely because this small road served as a popular thoroughfare for these fierce warriors on their way to the Imperial Palace. Ironically, the samurai became enamored with the tea ceremony around the turn of the thirteenth century, a time when political power lay not with the emperor and aristocracy, but with the head of the military government, called the shogun, and his warrior clan of samurai. Intrigued with the discipline of the tea ceremony that mirrored their strict codes of conduct, these warriors began patronizing the spiritual world of the teahouse.
After almost ten minutes of walking, I came to Mushanokoji, an elegant caramel-colored stucco building built in the early 1600s when mud and timber were in style (and still are for traditional teahouses). Vertical brown beams decorated the façade and a small gray roof, like the top of a birdhouse, ran the length of the compound's wall. Several maple and pine trees rose up from an interior garden, creating a lush natural fence.
In front of a bamboo and wood entrance gate stood a small elderly woman with silver hair that softly curved around her temples. As I came up to her, she dipped her head as if to bow.
“You must be Virginia,” she said, with a shy smile.
“Yes, I'm Victoria,” I said, hoping she would subconsciously pick up the correction. “And you must be Mrs. Hisa.”
“Oh, yes, oh, I am sorry, I meant Victoria,” she said, somewhat flustered. She pushed open the gate. “Let's go in.” I followed her down a narrow stone pathway flanked by gravel and low green bushes. At the end of the walkway stood a flat stone ledge, where we slipped off our shoes before stepping up to the tatami waiting room.
A young maid in a chartreuse kimono decorated with red and gold cranes came forward to greet us. Split-toed white socks muffled her steps as she led us down a series of smooth wooden corridors perfumed with the faint spicy sweetness of sandalwood. As we passed through various tearooms—seven in
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