Takayama, Japan
With outsider eyes, I overlook a hidden spectacle. Nestled between a hundred vast mountains, natural guardians that never sleep, is the geographical heart of Japan. Gradually, my head moves in a panoramic motion as creatures of the terrain jump into view and scream for attention. I spot the great Alps in the distance, snow-capped peaks that sparkle all year round. Feeling frozen and insignificant against the thriving backdrop, I watch 60,000 inhabitants below me move throughout Takayama, a miniature world of mass congestion.
Pieces of history endure in physical impressions. Shrines and temples exist along narrow roads, next to a playground, between cafes and convenience stores. Traditional breweries are decorated with an anxious line of customers waiting for a taste of homemade rice wine. Now caught inside a dollhouse of wonders, I walk, look, point, touch. Various sensations float by. Trinkets, paintings, snacks and aromas are limitless, and equally unique. Community members move leisurely to their destinations. Within the street mazes I am lost carelessly. Chimes ring, the breeze stirs my imagination. I sense souls perched above a Torii gate, sleeping on rooftops, rising and setting with the Asian sun. I look up to greet the blue sky and find myself enclosed. A seemingly fictitious set that sits quite properly. Distinct and consuming, this place is.
The cherry blossom flourishes as one of spring’s most refreshing sights. Trees burst into full bloom and crowd the banks of the only river that flows through town. People swarm the streets or sit casually on cotton blankets sipping alcohol. Everyone appreciates the essence of their home. The gentle pink wonderland is stunning, with flowers sprinkled randomly in all directions. It is simultaneously a vibrant and fleeting image of pure beauty.
Snowbound, flakes fall for hours to create a breathtaking view from any angle. There is no sound, only stillness. The season is persuasive, urging all to admire its newborn face. Alleyways drown in an ocean of white. The air is light, yet giant trees bow from the impressive weight of myriad flurries. Icicles dangle from the ends of concrete shrines and the path towards one temple, all temples, is deep like the faith of the person who walks along it. Magnetism comes in waves; they push and pull from the corners of town. I feel the spirit of Takayama: an endless vision, a magical land.
