I read the bestselling novel Memoirs of a Geisha many years ago. The book was so popular it even made it onto Carmela’s bedside table in an episode of The Sopranos. The story describes the struggles of a poor young girl in the early 1900’s, sold into a life of misery and servitude in which her perseverance pays off when she becomes a geisha and can finally be together with her Prince Charming. A Japanese Cinderella story of sorts, which is probably why it appealed to me (and millions of others) when I read it as a teenager. Who would have thought that years later I would actually be on a plane heading to Kyoto, Japan, the setting of this tale in which the little girl Chiyo, the protagonist of the story, develops into the beautiful geisha Sayuri? Maybe a little naively, I hoped that perhaps I would be lucky enough to see, snap a photo, or even meet a real geisha during my short visit. Of course, I had thoroughly researched this on the internet and Wikipedia. Still, I knew in my heart that it would be unlikely. So, I would just have to be satisfied with images or serendipitous encounters. And, I promised myself that I would not be fooled by the hordes of tourists who audaciously run around in cheap, brightly coloured rent-for-the-day ‘kimonos,’ and take selfies that are often mistaken for geisha that you see plastered all over Instagram and people’s blogs.
While I was wandering aimlessly around some back streets with my 35mm camera dangling around my neck, a stylishly dressed young woman who appeared to be in her late 20’s approached me and asked what I was looking for or if I needed directions. Feeling a little foolish and a bit shy but full of conviction, I told her what I was doing. ‘I’m looking for geisha.’ She politely told me that they were called maiko and geiko in Kyoto. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t remembered that. Looking a little surprised, she then mentioned, without telling me what she did for a living, that she was on her day off and that she had spent some time abroad and spoke a bit of English. She then kindly offered to show me around the geisha districts or hanamachi (flower districts) as they are known in Japan. She introduced herself as Hinako, and our adventure began.
We moved through narrow alleyways lined with red paper lanterns. She pointed out the teahouses where the geisha entertained and even where they lived and went to school. She was very knowledgeable. I wanted to ask her why, but I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt, so I kept silent and listened to her explanations.
While we walked, I felt there was something special about Hinako. She was constantly greeting and being greeted by people who at first glance appeared to be just random elderly shopkeepers; some were even dressed in beautiful silk kimono, but all had their hair in immaculate coiffures. ‘Were the women in kimono geiko?’ I asked, deliberately emphasizing the word ‘geiko’ she had taught me minutes before. ‘Yes, they all are, and still are. All are senior geiko,’ she replied, shooting me a look of approval for remembering the correct term.
This puzzled me. How could they be? There was no white makeup. They just looked like ordinary Japanese shopkeepers. And, only a few of them were in kimono. I mentioned that I was a little disappointed that they were not the porcelain-faced dolls always trying to break through the walls of tourists I saw online. She politely explained that the senior geiko were usually musicians, shamisen players or singers who didn’t wear the white makeup anymore except for special or formal occasions. She continued by pointing out that it was still a bit early to see maiko en route to their engagements because evening entertainment starts around 6:00 pm. I guess she noticed my disappointment and felt sorry for me because she took out her phone and began showing photos of maiko and geiko – this time in their white makeup, of course. There were dozens of photos. So, I took my iPad out of my bag and began showing my collection of geisha maiko and geiko images that I’d downloaded from the internet. She was pretending to be just as captivated with them as I was. Suddenly Hinako giggled as I came across one particular image and commented on how beautiful they were. I didn’t even know if they were ‘real’ geisha. I had heard that many tourists dressed up and walked through the streets getting portraits done. She then asked me which one I thought was the prettiest. I replied, ‘All of them.’ For the first time, she looked a little disappointed. However, she soon regained her smile, and we quietly continued walking in the hot sun. After a few minutes of trying to absorb and make sense of what was going on, I asked her why she knew everybody. She casually brushed it off as Kyoto being a sort of village where everybody knows everybody else, and their private matters as well. Especially in Gion.
Patting her brow with a light-coloured handkerchief, she then asked me if I would like to take a rest at one of her favourite cafés. Understanding fully that she was getting tired of acting as my personal tour guide and probably needed a break herself, I had no objection to her suggestion and said, ‘That would be great. It’s quite hot, and I’m a little jetlagged, too.’
We went down another side street to a little wooden house. She opened the latticed sliding door and said, ‘Tadaima‘ (I’m back) and was welcomed by a little old lady in kimono with a cheerful ‘Okaeriyasu‘ (Welcome back, in the Kyoto dialect). The shop was slightly air-conditioned but wasn’t the refreshing oasis I would have preferred.
Hinako grabbed my hand and took me to the wooden booth in the back of the shop. On our way, we passed a wall with dozens of white rounded fans with beautiful writing on them. There must have been close to a hundred, all arranged in perfectly straight rows. It was almost like there was a specific order to the arrangement. Before we sat down, she pulled out a light blue handkerchief and gave it to me without saying a word. I guess I was sweating a little more than I thought. Putting her phone on the table, she called out to the old woman, ‘Matcha aisu o futastsu kudasai‘ (Two matcha iced teas, please). ‘Ookini‘ (Thank you) came the reply from somewhere inside the shop.
Hinako then took out her fan, unfolded it and began fanning the both of us. ‘Atsu-osu ne!’ then corrected herself, ‘I mean, it’s hot, isn’t it?’ Still fanning herself with one hand, she picked up her phone decorated with sparkling sequins in the shape of an owl, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to check my messages.’ ‘No problem. Me too.’ I pretended to do the same, knowing full well that I had no messages because I forgot to buy a new SIM card. The proprietress brought over two largish, round ceramic bowls and set them down in front of us.
Hinako looked up from her phone for a second and said, ‘Ookini, okaasan,’ and went back to checking her messages. There was one large ice cube in what looked like a frothy pond. I had had matcha green tea many times but only hot up until then. But this was Kyoto, and Kyoto was famous for its green tea. I’m sure it would be tasty, I thought. Realising she was being a little rude, she said ‘Sorry,’ cupped the tea bowl with both hands, took a sip, and with a big smile said ‘Oishii‘ (Delicious).
Following her lead, I picked up my bowl, brought it to my lips, and took in the fresh smell of the matcha. I had tasted it many times before, but Kyoto matcha green tea was much more enjoyable. ‘Oishii,’ I said, mimicking her intonation, and we both looked at each other, nodded in agreement and giggled.
Suddenly the table began to vibrate, and her phone started humming. Looking a bit embarrassed, she stood up, politely excused herself, and went outside. After a few moments, I saw her motioning the proprietress to come out. They talked briefly, and with a glance towards me and an apologetic bow to both myself and the proprietress, she disappeared down the alleyway. I was a bit confused and began to feel a little uncomfortable. I didn’t have very much money on me and didn’t know whether I would be able to pay the bill, so I slowly sipped my iced matcha tea in a cold sweat.
Noticing my discomfort, the proprietress came over as if apologetically, motioned me to slide around and sat next to me. She then handed me a charming little chirimen silk crepe case with some Japanese characters embroidered on it. ‘Beautiful,’ I said.
Nodding her head and smiling in agreement, she said, ‘Dozo, naka o mite okureyasu‘ (Please look inside) while gesturing to do so with her hands. I unfolded the crepe case and carefully slid out a piece of meticulously folded notepaper. It had little round white fans on it. As I began to open it, a small rectangular piece of paper fell out and floated down to the floor. ‘Gomen nasai‘ (I’m sorry), I apologized in my well-practiced but broken Japanese.
Rolling her eyes but still smiling, she bent over, picked up the sticker and told me it was a Senjafuda. She then pointed to the beautiful calligraphy and said, ‘Neemu karudo,’ which I took to be some form of business card. It had the same kanji characters as on the case.
The note said. ‘Sorry I have to leave. My teacher called me. I paid for the tea. Please watch Mamehina on YouTube. Please Take Care.’ This was accompanied by a tiny heart drawn at the bottom.
I couldn’t wait to see what she meant by watching YouTube. Obviously, there was no Wi-Fi in the small café. I didn’t even see a TV like you do in most mom-and-pop shops. So, with no possible way of getting online in my current situation and my curiosity piqued, I decided to head back to my Airbnb rental. The geisha safari would have to be put off until after dinner. And, if truth be told, I genuinely felt jetlag coming on, so I decided to take a taxi. To avoid any possible communication problems, I had prepared a printout of the lodgings I would be staying at with the address written in Japanese, and handed this to the taxi driver. I arrived safely at my newly renovated machiya townhouse, and entered the security code. Then, as I slid open the door, I said ‘Tadaima‘ (I’m home) even though I knew that nobody would answer back. But, it did make me feel like I was in Japan. I went to the living room, knelt at the small, low traditional dinner table, and flipped open my laptop. Then I carefully typed in ‘M-a-m-e-hi-na’. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what or who Mamehina was. Surprisingly, a video came up. So, I clicked on it and then clicked the skip ads tab.
Suddenly traditional Japanese music began. I think it was the shamisen. A large curtain began to rise, and there was a woman elegantly dressed in emerald green, standing center stage between two others equally impressive looking. I assumed they were geiko. They glided effortlessly across the stage with the weighted hem of their kimonos trailing behind them. The woman who started in the center began weaving between the other two dancers, with precisely choreographed movements slightly touching the other on the shoulder, signalling them to follow behind her. This continued until the music gradually faded away. The camera then zoomed in individually on the dancers as they kneeled and prepared to bow. It wasn’t until just before the curtain fell that I noticed that the one in the middle looked familiar. I went back and replayed the ending. ‘Yes!’ I said out loud to myself. I knew I recognised the middle dancer. It was Hinako, and Mamehina must be her geiko name, I thought. The whole day started to make sense now.
