Temple day, all day, so as not to get too anxious about being in Kyoto and not checking out the temples.

First, baths and a long breakfast. Gaijin neighbors had moved in and the big loud dude entered our room by accident. Later we heard him asking for different food. Then, we saw him traipsing around the garden with his camera and we were glad that we were already dressed.

We really don't have much time in Kyoto. There is still so much to do here that I didn't get to do last year and that I won't get to do this year either unless we get really lucky with time. And I don't count on that. There is the problem that this is Andrew's first visit and that means that there are some first-visit things that I will see again with him, which is important too.

Last year we visited the Philosopher's Walk but only incidentally and half-heartedly. I really enjoyed the colorful walk along the canal and wished then for more time to see Nanzen-ji. So today we started at the southern end of the walk and dove in at the charming subtemple, Konchi-in, that is just a bit south of the humongous two-story gate at Nanzen-ji, which is perpetually teeming with tourists. Few people occupied the subtemple and it had a nicely groomed rock garden that we enjoyed from sunwarmed nightingale floors. A good first Kyoto temple for A.

Then the tourist tangle of Nanzen-ji. It and the crowds are impressive, but the crowds tire and obscure the temple with their trodding and blocking and noise. We followed the flow of people uphill past the main building and up under the aquaduct. As we walked, people stopped and the flow thinned. Finally we'd reached the uppermost temple and the flow of people had dwindled to a trickle. The temple was nearly quiet and quite lush and mossy. Still, when we exited the gate, we pushed uphill as almost all others turned to return the way they came. The path was but a dirt road from here, a maintenance route or other road of practical use. You can see why tourists don't pursue it, and we were glad for the ruse. Up we went until the road ended at stone stairs and the stairs ascended further, beyond a stone basin for cleansing hands and mouth. At the top of the stairs was a tiny shrine, unlit and wet. Beyond it, a diminutive waterfall that was more like a strand of wetness stretched over a sudden rock face. We found the alter there and climbed some steep stairs to a cave where we found another alter. From there, higher still until we stood at the crest of the waterfall and had only one more short stone climb to a carving in the stone and where other visitors had stashed coins in the crevices of the rock. We were alone with the view of the valley down to the main gate of Nanzen-ji. All those people unloaded from buses right below and none but us had ventured up.

We descended into the crowds and stayed among them the rest of the day, walking along the canal and stopping for matcha at the tea shop at the south end of the walk. A little ways on we walked up a short drive to another forgotten temple, a neighborhood temple not well maintained and not popular but interesting moreso for it.

And then, when we reached Honen-in, we began to look for Ryoku An, the sweet shop whose owner is teacher to my local sweet maker in Seattle, Chikako. She'd given me the name and general directions, so we had to do some looking around, walking up the path and backtracking then dropping east a block to try the same thing. Here we found the unassuming storefront and went in. I introduced myself with my poor Japanese skills but the owner's wife was already expecting us. Chikako had told her we were coming. I wanted to buy a lot of things to support their small shop, but she offered to give it all to us for free. I hadn't known before I picked it out and the amount seemed too much. We pushed on each other until we worked out something fair. I bought the big box I'd selected and she gave us two of the luscious sweets and two wafer cookies. I'm so excited to have that connection, to be able to visit the shop where Chikako apprenticed.

Afterward, we walked back up the hill for Honen-in and the monolithic sand shapes it has, then Ginkakuji, because oh-what-the-hell we were right there. We queued and conveyored through the sites. I was so glad we went just to see Andrew gasp at the stone cone and the thick slabbed stone garden attached to it. Last year I didn't suffer the crowds to walk up the path on the hillside, so we did that this time and it was a good thing to do because it was one of the prettiest views in all Kyoto, like they say. From the hillside, you can see the rock garden face-on instead of from its knees, and the eaves of the silver pavilion are well-framed by foliage. Beyond it, the city whole.

It was dusk by the time we descended the hill and the temples tucked there, and it was cold. We decided to catch a cab and we managed to get a driver who didn't know where our ryokan was. My attempts to describe in Japanese failed, and I had to dig and dig to find the paper directions. It seemed insane for him not to know. Eventually he figured it out and he pretty much drove us there in a straight shot. We were returning only to retrieve our luggage so that we could check into our next, much less expensive, ryokan. I didn't like the driver, so when we got out I let him drive away. Then, once we had our luggage, the ryokan staff were surprised that the cab wasn't waiting. When the new cab arrived and we showed him our directions, the ryokan staff tried to help us explain . Their surprise that we were going to another ryokan surprised me. "You're going to another hotel?!" the woman said. I thought about how if they hadn't been booked but for those two nights we might've stayed longer, but even if they hadn't you'd have to be someone we're not to be able to swing a week there. They didn't know where the ryokan was, but the taxi driver did. It's more his kind of place.

Back when we couldn't get lodging for the full week at recommended places in Kyoto, we looked on the Web for a cheap little traveler's ryokan that seemed friendly and that provided at least private baths (even if not in room) and Internet access. I kind of liked the idea of staying in a part of town I hadn't visited so I could see what a different part of the city looked like. We settled on Ryokan Rakucho because it had all these features and, importantly, because it still had rooms throughout the rest of the time we planned to be in Kyoto. It's really inexpensive, and I knew it would be good. So, when we arrived and it was like every other inexpensive traveler lodging in Japan—that is to say that it was spotless and came with friendly staff, big fluffy beds, and all the amenities a traveler wants, including modest food storage and cooking facilities plus yukata and laundry facilities—I was super excited for Andrew to be able to contrast it with the other two places we had stayed.

We checked in and got the tour. Our room is teeny, but clean. No one cleaned the wheels of our luggage, and the fluffy bedding never gets stowed. But we have a little hot pot already filled with water and green tea to make if we want it, and there is a space heater and big furry pink blankets to keep us toasty.

Somewhere between that first cab ride and stepping out of the second one, I dropped my cashmere gloves. :( It created a helpless frustration I couldn't release myself from and from that and hunger I devolved into a golden crankiness. It's cold now, and a sucky time to lose gloves. I don't want to shop for gloves; I want my gloves. But I know it's a small thing, the losing of gloves, and yet I can't help the feeling.

The place was empty, maybe because it was Wednesday, maybe because it was late. The alley it flanked was dark and empty; inside the light was dim and the man, wife, and other woman, old. I had the feeling that the restaurant wouldn't be around much longer, that these three were at their last and a young generation crowding into Starbucks cafes and other newer places would overlook them altogether.

They had to fire up the oil for us, unwrap the veggies. The meal came at once: All of the tempura and the soup and the rice. As we ate, we watched them put away the day's preparation. It was so quiet we were afraid to talk, so we ate fast. When we moved to go the old man asked us where we were from and I told him Seattle and he said "Mariners" with some coarse accent, but I understood and elaborated a bit for him and garnered a smile and some warmth. I felt again, for the millionth time glad for having studied Japanese.

We left them their old shop for the dark, cold old alley next to the river and we walked up to the busy street where the Starbucks and throngs of tourists were. I felt sad, for the lost opportunity to chat more with them, for our collective losing of that generation, at the wincing powerlessness to find missing gloves. We got hot drinks and then I walked Andrew up Kiyomachi-dori to pass by the trashy bars because that is a part of Kyoto too. And then we walked back down Pontocho a bit and I explained to him the history of the place. At the end, we waited long and cold with a crowd to catch a bus north. It came and the bus filled, but it had emptied again by the time we reached our dark stretch of Kitaoji-dori.

We returned after the shower curfew but slept soundly, softly, cleanly anyway in the quaint economy of our new ryokan.