After the disappointment of Buried Rooster Mound, we followed Pauline to the local onsen. When a departing elderly man politely informed us this probably wasn’t our destination, he gave us some confusion directions to the Visitor Centre which had been our goal. Between the three of us and over the span of ten minutes, we finally gathered his pointing and headed in the opposite direction.

The Cultural Heritage Centre wasn’t the prettiest building on the outside but it had a pretty comprehensive (if small) exhibit. Generally I avoid going to these centres when I travel because I feel they don’t offer many good photography moments. On the other hand, this one did a good job of explaining why Hiraizumi got chosen as a World Heritage Site (and not because of the 2011 earthquake, contrary to Pauline’s theory). There were quite a few pictures and accounts of the “Kyoto of the North” that was the brainchild of an overly optimistic buddhist clan called Fujiwara who thought they could create a centre of learning and the arts square in the middle of the warring states era. Apparently all that gold they found nearby and their reluctance to swear fealty to any of the neighbouring warlords isn’t the best combination for starting a pious Switzerland in terrain that’s easily traversed by armies.

Apparently the Minamoto invaders were so distraught over the ruination of the beautiful Pure Lands that they vowed to protect the city and try to keep its splendor alive. That the Heritage sites are two reconstructed gardens and two ruined ones gives a good idea over how concerned they really were.

The two workers at the front desk informed us (in basic Japanese that I could understand despite Pauline’s uncertainty) that the rear of the Cultural Heritage Centre had several interactive displays. Kait and Pauline dressed up in the bureaucratic robes of old timey Hiraizumi officials. Pauline dressed up as a boy because it’s better (obviously) and Kait fulfilled a lifelong dream of wearing a costume kimono. Then, they clambered inside an old carriage, tried a weird instrument that looked like an upside down circular pan flute and even attempted some weaving. I mostly stood on my blistered feet trying to forget how hungry I was.

By the time we finished at the Centre, Kait checked her watch just in time to start panicking about our schedule. The original plan was to take the scenic stroll along the walking path back to the station so we could grab some bicycles and head to the temple outside of town. However, the bike ride itself was about an hour to get there and we only had a little over two hours to see two major temples still in the main city. Thus, she charged us past the restaurants yet again as we headed to the furthest flung Chuuson-ji. We couldn’t cut this place out, however, as it was pretty much the only authentic still standing collection of buildings left from the ancient glory days.

And it was clearly the main attraction as tour buses lined the suddenly wide street and packs of people meandered up the wide flagged stone walkway. We debated where we should enter–whether through the old torii gate marked on the map or the very lovely manicured pathway winding its way up the hill and choked with visitors. We opted for the pathway mostly due to proximity and a fleeting hope that we could still see everything.

The path up to Chuuson-ji was very nice. Enormously tall Japanese cedars lined the route and blocked out the rusted town that surrounded it. Numerous small shrines and viewing areas branched off the side (as well as the main entrance we noted with chagrin). Despite the number of people, everything was orderly and clean. Even old stone roofing lay neatly and free of leaves in piles off the path. Kait paused at all the small shrines so she could pray–as she is want to do. And as we got to the temple complex proper, we found small covered stalls with enormous flowers (apparently chrysanthemums), manicured bonzai trees, and large shield shaped flower garlands. Apparently, we were on the tail end of a seasonal festival and though we missed the stall food, we could still enjoy everything submitted for the competitions.

Unfortunately, we ran into the large Chinese tourist group and I had to fight to get some decent pictures of the newer temple buildings that weren’t swarming with strangers. We sort of meandered through the complex, looking for the fabled gilded hall. After a few false starts, we found a rather severe concrete structure selling tickets. We managed to parse that it was both a ticket office and museum. But we were on a schedule and skipped the museum to follow the picket fence to where the famous gilded hall lay.

Much to our disappoint, the great treasure of Hiraizumi–Konjiki-do–was housed in a very plain cement box of a structure. Many “No Photo” signs were hung about, irritating me to no end. This was one of the original 1100 structures and was a gold leafed mausoleum that housed the remains of the Fujiwara elders. We showed our tickets then slipped behind the wall of people ogling the travesty.

First, when I think hall, I picture a structure you could actually stand in. Granted, I’m probably much taller than the monks bobbing around in the twelfth century, but there would be no way I could enter this thing with a modicum of dignity. You’d have to shuffle around on your knees, careful to not bang your head on the golden tie beams and dent over a million dollars worth of damage. It’s also packed full of squat statues on a raised dais, presumably some sort of representation for the bodies I can only presume are all shoved Tetris-like beneath their feet.

Oh, and all this is kept under poor lighting and behind an inch of glass. Needless to say, I couldn’t find a good angle to steal some photographs of the bashful golden dead though Kait bravely found a spot and took her first illicit photo! I’m so proud of her.

We filed out of the small cement box and moved to the sutra repository–a wood relic that has been stripped of any valuables but at least the logs are old! The old shrine that housed the mausoleum was open and we poked around inside its empty hall, marvelling at the weird stickers that have a habit of accumulating in Japanese temples and trying to appreciate the old paintings hanging on the walls while our fingers grew cold in the lengthening day.

By this time we’d resolved ourselves to just one more site, so we spent a little time poking around for the outdoor Noh stage and even taking a minute to whirlwind through the museum and its handful of random items.

We gave up on the walking path and booked it as fast as our sore, worn feet could to Moutsuu-ji. This was the site of one of the four gardens of Pure Land Hiraizumi and was one that was reconstructed. Though, I feel they used the term lightly. We arrived forty minutes before closing so the place was pretty empty when we entered. The sky was beginning to darken with the first hints of encroaching night. My batteries had died up at Chuuson-ji, so I spent the first while trying to find some that worked. Once again, the perks of Kait’s new camera ensured that we had lots of pictures of samey looking temples despite me being out of service.

Moutsuu-ji is only about a quarter of its original size. Little remains of its layout, with the main hall and two ancillary halls situated around the garden. I won’t confess to having any clue about the design or intentions of buddhist gardening, which is a simple confession to make since even Japanese scholars don’t fully understand what inspired Moutsuu-ji’s… unique design. The main feature of the grounds is a large, gangly pond with a tiny peninsula jutting up from its southern bank and about four rocks clustered in a small shoal on its left side. A few trees poke around its perimeter but judging how they burst from the old stone pathways, I doubt they were an original feature.

Otherwise Moutsuu-ji is a collection of a dozen empty plots with white markers listing what once stood there. You really have to stretch your imagination to picture what the place was. It’s much like the first empty hall we visited. It’s basically Rome all over again. Whatever rich heritage was here has long given up to the earth and grass. However, unlike Rome, it’s clear that the inhabitants would have loved to keep their old buildings. The recurring story amongst the signs I could read told of careless fires or structures being destroyed during periods of conflict. Decade by decade, Hiraizumi was picked down to its barest bones. The one bright spot is that the Japanese are not adverse to reconstructions–and they usually adhere to traditional design and building methods when they do them. Perhaps, one day, Hiraizumi will arise like the phoenix from its muddy ashes but as it is now, you have to squint really hard to overlay the artistic renditions over the gaping spaces scattered about the town.

The peace and tranquility, however, inspired us to write our own haiku with each of us contributing a solitary line:

 

Ducking mosquitoes,

you need seven syllables,

overhead the clouds break.

 

I think it puts Basho to shame.

After completing our circuit of Moutsuu-ji, it was time to head back home. By now, having near nothing to eat, I was ravenous and tired. While the girls once again tried to sort tickets for our train (assisted by a very helpful young Japanese man who kindly took charge of speaking with the ticket office to figure out our lines), I snacked on what little food Kait had brought with us. I also nursed the small package of Halloween Smarties gifted by Pauline who only upon arriving in Japan realized how poor an idea of loading up a bunch of children with sugar would be. By the time we had our route sorted, night was fully upon us and we shivered at the train platform.

Pauline and Kait rudely sat on the old, pregnant disabled seats while I properly clutched at the handrail until we made our transfer in Ichinosaki. We boarded a tiny two car seat filled to the brim with high school students (don’t ask me what they were doing all Saturday in their uniforms because it was probably boring) but kept piping warm with the heaters right beneath our butts. We saw only one person in costume board and it was a young guy sporting a half decent Baron Samedi type outfit which we all tried to admire without staring.

Though the snacks had staved off my hungry, I was getting really grumpy by the time we rolled into Sendai. Unfortunately, Pauline was dead set on going to this fabulous little eatery in Izumi that she neglected to mention was a forty minute walk from the train station. As we prowled the dark streets, passing one restaurant after another and listening to Pauline prattle on about how Germany invented daylight saving time to save oil during World War II (they didn’t if you were considering fact checking), I was told repeatedly that the restaurant was “just a little farther.”

I could tell Kait was even getting annoyed when she started commenting on random noodle places as looking good. This is the girl who confessed to having survived on yaki-soba for her first two months. We finally came to an Indian restaurant completely empty of customers. The owner greeted us first in Japanese then in English. He was more than happy to serve us directly and mentioned how glad he was to see Pauline returning. Kait ended up taking a cowardly level three of spice in her order. I had to ask how spicy level five was and was told that it was Japanese hot. My expression must have said everything since he followed-up that they offer up to level fifteen off the menu. I don’t know why, but I elected to go with twelve.

I found mine rather mild so I can only imagine how plain Kait’s was. She was even emboldened enough to try my curry and, while hotter than she’d prefer, she said she would order hotter if we returned. All three of us got an enormous piece of naan to eat with our dishes (I had chicken) and, overall, it was both a filling and (relatively) tasty meal and also made me suspect that Pauline wasn’t vegetarian.

Once done, my feet were past protesting and nearing outright rebellion as we had to double back the entire distance to return home. Pauline filled that space with a story of Japan’s rice famine that required America to step in and force them to stop exporting all their rice so they could feed their own population (I couldn’t even narrow this down at all in the history books to figure out what she meant to describe). Kait and I walked in mostly silence. By the time we waved her goodbye and arrived back in Kait’s tiny apartment, I had enough energy to peel my stinky shoes off and pass out in bed.

My feet were going to really be suffering in the morning.

Pauline Pearl – Sou sou sou means shut up.