My lodgings sat at a considerable elevation in relation to the rest of the city, and my preferred means of transportation down to the streets of Kyoto was my cherished bicycle, Manami. By December, the trip from my lofty palace to the mundane was accompanied by a wind so biting that I often thought it would cleave me in two. Normally, I would have simply avoided going out, sparing myself meaningless pain. But today’s outing was for the sake of my research. I could not afford to be selfish.
I have, I believe, the distinguished honor of being the only researcher in the world focused on this particular subject. The most foolish thing a man can do is to fail to take pride in his work. Or to put that another way, if one at least maintains pride in one’s work, even the most meaningless endeavor becomes something noble. There is no value in allowing your pursuits to be undermined by your own self-doubt or the way others perceive you. Do not waver. Cast not your eyes to the ground. Press forward with unflinching resolve, your chin always held high.
So I followed my own advice. I barreled down the street astride my beloved Manami, my head high, my spirit resolute, my cheeks bearing the full brunt of the chill northern wind.
I followed Mikage Street, making my way into the mundane. But when I reached its intersection with Higashioji Street, where the cold, wintry wind rips freely north to south, I was struck by a most unpleasant sensation. I stopped riding to examine my surroundings more carefully.
At first, nothing seemed amiss. It was the same intersection I’d always known.
Higashioji Street emerges from the neighborhood of Rakuhoku, the northernmost part of Kyoto proper. At first, the street seems determined to cleave southward in a perfectly straight line. But upon reaching Gion Yasaka, it begins to falter, wavering from side to side until its resolve deteriorates so far as to allow a full ninety-degree turn that merges into Kujo Street. In a word, Higashioji is a street I neither care for nor admire. I have had many opportunities to ride along it, and I’ve come to realize I must always be on my guard. Any slight lapse in attention, and there’s no telling where in the city the street might take you.
But my unease about Higashioji on this particular day went beyond the flaws in its design. There was something else wrong. Something more subtle and far more repulsive.
I flicked my eyes to the nearest streetlight. It twinkled with seasonal strings of decorative lights. They were not as lavish as their cousins at the Kobe Luminarie. But neither were they the cheap, flimsy things found wrapped around your typical domestic Christmas tree. I traced the street with my eyes, examining lamppost after lamppost. They were all decorated in the same manner. I gasped and turned back to examine my westerly route. Mikage’s lampposts, too, were strung with lights.
How could this be? I was mortified. The terminal monster, my old foe, had returned. He had waited for the moment my vigilance lapsed to pounce upon me, and now he was striding ever deeper into my fair city. Christmas was upon us…
I grumbled bitterly to myself. How had the heathen Yule made it to the gates of the Tanaka Shrine, stalwart guardian of this neighborhood of easterly Kyoto? What must the shrine’s guardian deity, Okuninushi-no-Mikoto, think of this trespass?
Half of December’s days were already stricken from the calendar, so I was well aware of the encroaching whirlwind of Christmas fascism. I’d steeled my heart long before it consumed the vicinity of Shijo Kawaramachi, as it did every year. I always made a point of avoiding that neighborhood after the thirtieth of November. But I could have never imagined that my nemesis had advanced so near as to scrape its claws down Higashioji.
Alas, I do not have time here to enumerate the many faults of Christmas as it is known in modern Japan. I must continue my tale.
The sun was still up, but night’s blanket was preparing to descend upon the world. With much chagrin, I took one last look at the twinkling strings of lights, then pedaled on.