Japanese manners, either,” she added as an afterthought. “They have wonderful manners in Japan!”
And indeed I had found this to be true everywhere I had been in Kyoto that summer. As we pulled in
to a Family Mart to buy fresh bottles of water, I noticed the way the young shopkeepers scurried to restock
shelves, mind the cash register, and re-arrange inventory, all while bowing politely and calling out greetings
and farewells to customers in clear, bright voices. It definitely wasn’t something I saw very much of back
home, if at all.

Pae checked his map and informed us that for the next hour or so we’d be winding our way up a
mountain. “After round the top, we’ll be able to see the lake!” he said cheerfully. After two hours of
pedaling my legs felt like something like jelly. The oppressive Kansai sun hung lower in the sky than it had
when we set out, but still beat mercilessly down on the exposed parts of our flesh.

The quaint Japanese architecture of the surrounding villages whizzed by sometimes swiftly,
sometimes ploddingly as we followed the ups and downs of the curving mountain road. Somewhere nearby
I knew the historic Buddhist temples of Hiei Mountain hid in the deep recesses of the forest, but if we were
to make it to the lake in time I knew we would not be able to spare the effort to go visit, at least this time. I
remember finally being able to see the clear, crystal blue of the lake through over the top of a hill and
excitedly pointing it out to my companions, who whooped and laughed as we followed the road down the
mountain, our three-hour journey culminating in a triumphant arrival on the shores of the massive
freshwater lake.

It seemed we’d only set our bikes down on the rocks and laid down on the shore for a brief moment
before Henri noted that the sun was setting and we’d better get going soon if we were to make it back to the
city before dark. I couldn’t believe it—we’d just gotten here!—but sure enough, the sun had continued its
inexorable daily march across the sky, and it was precariously advanced in its journey.

I sat up, gazing out over the expansive blue water, listening to the sloshing waves and the cawing
crows high above. And of course there were the omnipresent cicadas in the brush all around, tsuku-tsuku-
boshi, tsuku-tsuku-boshi. It was utterly tranquil in its own unique way. To leave so soon seemed a
tragedy—and to leave Japan, I mused, an even greater one.

I sighed, retrieving my bicycle and preparing to set off with the others back home—first to my dorm
room at the I-House, and in a week’s time on a flight back to America. Before I went I cast one more glance
over the rapidly darkening waters, resplendent in the way the setting sun was reflected upon the rippling
surface. I promised myself that someday I’d be back to Japan, this magical land where an incredibly deep and
multi-faceted culture had arisen amidst scenes of such absolute beauty and tranquility. Until I have the
opportunity to go back, I will remember forever what I saw as a young man staying in Kyoto—the
incredible, genuine politeness of the Japanese people, the gorgeous scenery, the beautiful culture, and of
course, the incessant chirping of the cicadas in the summertime.

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