Rooted in clouds,

Fuji rises like a cedar,

Dense and eternal.

Poet Matsuo Bashō wrote this of the view of Mount Fuji through the Peace Torii gate across Lake Ashi, arguably one of the most quintessential Japanese scenes.

After an early morning run in the Odawara Castle park, an onsen in the rain, and a nauseating bus journey, my partner and I arrived at the spot that inspired Matsuo's verse.

Yūgen, in classical Japanese aesthetics, supposes that a mist or partial cloud can only make a view more striking.

Beauty in imperfection.

As we approached the famous peace Torii gate and stood under its entrance to view Japan's famous mountain, I realised that today somebody had turned the yūgen up to 100 and ripped the dial off.

Mists deny my Lake Ashi Fuji view

We could see a mere four metres ahead of us over the frigid and fog-clad waters of Lake Ashi, and would have to take it on trust that Mt. Fuji was somewhere in the distance.

Hoping that time and a favourable wind would reveal the famous vista we'd hoped to see, we hopped over to the nearby art gallery and woodland temple.

The temple and its grounds absolutely benefitted from this severe bout of yūgen, with tendrils of mist wrapping themselves around the tall cedars on the approach and the intricate, moss-covered statues.

And the exhibits were equally exquisite.

The temple was constructed in worship of a nine-headed dragon who, so it was believed, once terrorised the locals before being tamed by the monk, Mangan—the founder of the temple.

Now confined to the cold depths beneath the lake, this dragon acts as a protector spirit, bringing rain and prosperity.

People come to this temple to pray for relationship success, love, and victory in elections.

Historically, it sat on the road between Kyoto and Tokyo (known as Edo at the time), and it was a checkpoint with a famous rule: “no guns in, no women out.”

Not only did the Shogun (military dictators of feudal Japan who ruled in the emperor’s name) not want rivals smuggling weapons and munitions near the capital, but he also held the relatives of his subordinates hostage in the city as an insurance policy against a coup.

After completing a lap of the gallery, we still hoped to see Mt. Fuji.

But unfortunately, the mists held as the daylight began to fade, so we braved the winding bus ride back to Odawara.

How authentic is too authentic?

Hungry and a little dejected, we scoured the streets near our hotel back in Odawara, looking for some sustenance.

My partner always likes to find the most authentic restaurant wherever she goes.

But in a country as protective of its traditions and wary of outsiders as Japan, it turns out that this ambition can be self-limiting.

After about 20 minutes of pacing, she declares a winner.

It was the classic size of a traditional Japanese eatery, had one chef, and no offered English signage.

Luckily for me, my partner can read kanji, and deduced from the signage out front that the establishment served drinks and yakitori—a dish consisting of meat and vegetables skewered with bamboo and fired intensely over charcoal.

It was agreeable indeed on a chilly spring day.

But as we opened the door, we were intercepted by a young waitress and the owner-cum-chef, who must have been nearing retirement age (an age by which most Caucasians have become fossils).

Their posture is prohibitive, and they both address us in frantic Japanese.

We have no idea what they said, but ask if we can come inside for a meal.

The owner, with a wry smirk, says in English, “but how will you order?”

He said it as if we were the first people to try to order food in a foreign language, and as though he’d cleverly poked a hole in our plan.

I said, “we can read and point,” gesturing to the names of the dishes that were all clearly displayed, at pointing height, on the wall behind him.

At this, he reluctantly stepped aside and let us in.

Turned away by Japan’s social boundaries

Seated at the only communal table, we nodded to the two other diners—a couple in their 50s.

The husband looked very dapper indeed and addressed us in English.

We managed to exchange some brief pleasantries before the waitress reappeared and signalled for our order.

Having anticipated further issues, I had preloaded the phrase, “we would like two glasses of sake please” into Google Translate.

Instead of butchering the enunciation and letting this be an excuse for the eviction I sensed looming, I showed the waitress the text.

Her face flashed annoyance, whether at my order or my ingenuity I'll never know.

She thought for a moment before replying in Japanese.

Our smartly-dressed tablemate translated that she needed to know exactly which sake we wanted.

Not knowing any sake brands off the top of my head, I asked our companion for a recommendation.

At this, there was a bark from the chef.

Looking now very sheepish, our tablemate said, “no recommend.”

The chef made his way to the front door with surprising speed.

Opening the door, he gestured to us and gave a polite but firm, “no. Thank you.”

So my partner and I bid the old couple a good night and crossed the threshold again, perhaps a minute after we had arrived.

During that minute, the street lamps had come alive to highlight a soft drizzle.

To improve the holiday mood, while I sought directions to another restaurant on my phone, my partner fumbled her umbrella spike into my eye.

Cursing in the rain while holding my eye and gesticulating in frustration with my partner fussing me, we must have been a bumbling sideshow for those still in the eatery, validating, I should imagine, the owner's decision to eject us.

Yet despite everything, I managed to get us to a nearby ramen chain, complete with bright flashing neon lights and English on all the signs.

Authentic? No. Welcoming? Yes.

While I slurped down my brothy noodles, I reflected on the day's events.

Taking pride in diversity

Japan is not unique in its wariness, or outright dislike of foreigner visitors, and encounters like ours are common enough.

Foreign residents constitute just under 3% of Japan's population, compared to an average of 14% for member states of the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (a group of 38 high-income countries that promotes economic growth and global cooperation through policy coordination).

As with many things in this country, there is a distinctly Japanese disconnect between the internal and external.

In his book Hokkaido Highway Blues, Will Ferguson describes a back-patting local newspaper article bragging about having appointed a “foreigner” as head of a local Parent–Teacher Association.

As it turns out, the man was born and raised in Japan. So were his parents. But because his grandparents immigrated to Japan from China, his diversity was considered newsworthy.

I have zero doubt that the chef who evicted us from his restaurant was, at that moment, one of the angriest people I’d ever met.

Through his trembling and swelling veins, I could practically read the man’s change in blood pressure.

He prided himself on running a good, traditional Japanese eatery for local people—and we did not fit his customer profile.

It is also entirely possible that he has had to endure misbehaving tourists in the past. They are common enough.

Either way, he was polite about our eviction, used our language, and held the door for us on our way out.

And I can hardly blame him for adhering to Japanese social norms after a lifetime of doing so.

Japan may be hidden, but it is still there

My noodles at the ramen joint went down quickly, and I moved swiftly on to the accoutrements.

It's incredible the effect good food can have on one's outlook.

We were thoroughly fed up after trekking so far only to have fog deny us a view of Mt. Fuji, and to have found a restaurant so authentic that we weren't allowed to eat.

It is all too easy when travelling to heap enormous expectations, and to let obstacles and deviations from your plans get the best of you.

Yet how dull would travel be if every country matched every expectation, everything went according to grandest or most facile plan, and nothing unexpected happened?

My delicious meal made me feel optimistic again, and I thought of another poem written about the view of Mt. Fuji across Lake Ashi, this time by the poet Yosa Buson:

Fuji in mist

Even when hidden

It is still Fuji.

Even though I never saw Mt. Fuji, I stood at the lake it dominates, looking through a torii gate built to frame it. I walked through its forests and temples, and even felt its presence through the mist.

Denied the famous view, I was forced to notice what was closer: the precision of the museum pieces, the joinery of temple woodwork, the intricate moss climbing stone.

The same could be said for my pre-dinner ejection.

Although hungrily observed, the restaurant’s carpentry was no less exquisite, camellias burned bright against the dark night, and the ramen chefs at the alternative restaurant took incredible pride in their work.

Neither mists nor ejection diminished my trip to Japan.

They kept it partially hidden. They kept it yūgen.

And in being forced to look, I'm convinced I saw more of it, not less.

Although tired, I had just enough energy remaining that night to render my current feelings in a haiku of my own.

Japan shrouded

Yūgen turns me gently back

Still, it is Japan.