Untangling My Chopsticks (9 page)

During their training, male and female tea students learn the seamless choreographed movements necessary to boil water, measure out powdered green tea, and whip the two together with a small bamboo whisk to create thick and thin tea. To an outsider, this process sounds as simple as making a glass of instant lemonade.

Which is what is so bewitching about Japan: things seem so easy until you try to understand them. An American acquaintance now living in Tokyo said that after his first week, he felt he could write a book about the country; a year later, only a magazine article; after fifteen years, only one sentence. Remove the mask, draw the curtain aside, learn the language, and you face a web of complicated mazes.

The art of making tea entails a litany of movements and emotions that turns the process into a sort of spiritual ballet that changes slightly for each of the seventy-five or so different tea
ceremonies the student might encounter in his or her career. What's more, students must learn the history of the many different utensils they will use—at least ten per ceremony—for all the different tea ceremonies they will perform. A tea bowl appropriate for autumn, for example, will likely be heavier and more somber in color than a tea bowl for summer. And the bowl chosen for autumn will probably differ in color and shape, depending upon whether the tea ceremony takes place in the morning versus the afternoon. Advanced students even learn to coordinate various tea utensils in an appropriate combination based on the era in which they were produced. For example, if a tea practitioner wants to use a tea scoop identified with a famous sixteenth-century tea master, he or she should choose a tea bowl made by a potter within one generation of the same era.

Tea students also need to learn the proper social graces and way to dress in the teahouse. They must know, for example, how to wear a kimono and which one to choose for winter, summer, or a certain festival. Each age group and sex has specific guidelines. Young girls can wear bright colors, yet they should refrain from wearing busy patterns more appropriate for parties and festivals than tea gatherings. As women age, their kimono colors should become more subdued. Men traditionally wear only quiet dark colors.

The fabric of the kimono also matters. Hemp or lightweight silk is appropriate for summer tea gatherings, while heavyweight silk is usually worn in winter. The fabric on the
obi
(waist sash) should be elegant and understated, along with the type of knot that holds the obi in place. Elaborate knots are frowned upon because they draw attention away from the tea ceremony and to the person wearing them.

Tea students must additionally comprehend the hundreds of
details involved in facilitating a guest's journey from the outside world to the teahouse, such as the proper accoutrements to put in the garden's waiting pavilion and the appropriate stone to step on when greeting the guests.

Last, but not least, tea students' studies include learning the art of tea kaiseki. They must understand how to choose appropriate seasonal menus, often based on important Japanese historic events or holidays. They need to be able to prepare the recipes and to know what serving dishes and utensils should be used and in what order. They must also understand the proper etiquette involved in serving, eating, and clearing a tea kaiseki meal, as well as the intangible spirit that lies behind it.

Meeting the Grand Tea Master of Mushanokoji would entail much more than a quick handshake and cheerful “
herro.
”It would be a delicate process involving a series of favors exchanged back and forth among the tea world, the real world, and those who traveled in between, like Mrs. Hisa.

Getting introduced to Mushanokoji's Grand Tea Master was akin to meeting the pope, a privileged encounter bestowed upon a chosen few. Only in my case, I wanted to leave our encounter with more than a blessing.

The Grand Tea Master, although not directly related to Rikyu, had married one of his descendants, a woman named Sen Sumiko. And it was Sen Sumiko who taught all the tea kaiseki classes at Mushanokoji. If my introduction to her husband proved successful, I would be permitted to enter her classroom.

Friday morning arrived along with the moment of truth: Iwould rendezvous with Mrs. Hisa by the front gate of Mu
shanokoji, whereupon we would go inside and meet the man who might grant me enrollment.

To calm my jangled nerves, I rose early and went for a long jog along the Kamo River. As often happens during such times, the world came into stark relief. As I ran up the embankment, details popped, such as the nickel-blue river, topaz marsh grass, and leafless trees that looked almost silk-screened onto a paper panorama of Kyoto.

Flushed with endorphins, I dashed back to the Guesthouse feeling much calmer about meeting with the Grand Tea Master. By 8:00, I was down in the den drinking coffee and breakfasting on persimmon toast. Persimmons had recently come into season and, when sweet and jelly-soft, made a luscious topping for crisp buttered whole wheat bread.

After scanning the newspaper, checking the weather and the exchange rate, I headed up to my room to get dressed. Now what to wear?

Mrs. Hisa had suggested a skirt, although she had not indicated what length. A short skirt would rise dangerously high above the knees when sitting on the tatami, a flagrant breach of tea etiquette. After much deliberation, out came the Labels For Less black wool suit with its matching purple-and-black-patterned blouse that tied in a bow at the neck, black stockings, and black “comfort” pumps. On went some eyeliner, a dab of lip-gloss, and some simple pearl studs. Voilà. It was the best I could do, short of renting a kimono.

It was only later that I found out the outfit was appropriate. Tea devotees consider loud clothes, jangling jewelry, makeup, and perfume flashy material distractions in the spiritual world of tea.

After taking the subway to a stop near the Imperial Palace— a dark wooden structure sitting in a vast white gravel park—I got
out and walked down Karasuma Street, where I turned right at the Young Men's Christian Association, toward Mushakoji Street.
Mushakoji
means “Samurai's Path,” likely because this small road served as a popular thoroughfare for these fierce warriors on their way to the Imperial Palace. Ironically, the samurai became enamored with the tea ceremony around the turn of the thirteenth century, a time when political power lay not with the emperor and aristocracy, but with the head of the military government, called the
shogun,
and his warrior clan of samurai. Intrigued with the discipline of the tea ceremony that mirrored their strict codes of conduct, these warriors began patronizing the spiritual world of the teahouse.

After almost ten minutes of walking, I came to Mushanokoji, an elegant caramel-colored stucco building built in the early 1600s when mud and timber were in style (and still are for traditional teahouses). Vertical brown beams decorated the façade and a small gray roof, like the top of a birdhouse, ran the length of the compound's wall. Several maple and pine trees rose up from an interior garden, creating a lush natural fence.

In front of a bamboo and wood entrance gate stood a small elderly woman with silver hair that softly curved around her temples. As I came up to her, she dipped her head as if to bow.

“You must be Virginia,” she said, with a shy smile.

“Yes, I'm Victoria,” I said, hoping she would subconsciously pick up the correction. “And you must be Mrs. Hisa.”

“Oh, yes, oh, I am sorry, I meant Victoria,” she said, somewhat flustered. She pushed open the gate. “Let's go in.” I followed her down a narrow stone pathway flanked by gravel and low green bushes. At the end of the walkway stood a flat stone ledge, where we slipped off our shoes before stepping up to the tatami waiting room.

A young maid in a chartreuse kimono decorated with red and gold cranes came forward to greet us. Split-toed white socks muffled her steps as she led us down a series of smooth wooden corridors perfumed with the faint spicy sweetness of sandalwood. As we passed through various tearooms—seven in all—paper screens filtered in diffused ivory light. The chirping of sparrows could be heard from one of the tearooms, whose screen had been pulled open to reveal an enchanting moss garden.

As my grandmother discovered long ago, the Japanese excel in cultivating nature. Their gardens come in numerous styles, including paradise gardens, dry-landscape gardens, stroll gardens, and tea gardens. Although each type has its own goal, they all share the same principle: nature is manipulated to create a miniature symbolic landscape.

A paradise garden is meant to evoke the Buddhist paradise through the use of water dotted with stone “islands.” Dry-landscape gardens, usually tucked away in Zen temples, use dry pebbles and stones to create minimalist views for quiet contemplation. Stroll gardens offer changing scenes with every step, a pool of carp here, a mossy trail there, and a small bridge to link them both, while a tea garden provides a serene path to take you from the external world to the spiritual one of the teahouse.

The tea garden at Mushanokoji had smooth black and gray stones of various sizes zigzagging around the moist carpet of green. This was the roji, and its angled path suggested that the road to enlightenment is rarely straight.

A large stone urn stood in the middle of a mossy patch, not far from the Amigasamon, a gate made from a simple latticework of bamboo poles topped with a roof that resembled an
amigasa,
the large woven bamboo rain hats monks often wear.

Farther on lay various waiting pavilions, where tea guests
would sit and enjoy a small cup of boiled water, either plain or lightly flavored with a seasonal accent, such as a salted spring cherry blossom, before entering the teahouse. Since the boiled water comes from the same source the tea master will use for the water at his tea ceremony, this thoughtful offering enables the guests to anticipate the quality of the whipped green tea.

According to Mrs. Hisa, every bush, fern, and blade of grass in Mushanokoji's garden was there for a reason, mainly to suggest the feeling of being on a remote mountain. Flowering plants rarely appear, since they might distract the mind from the tea ceremony to come. Also, a bloom in the tea garden could detract from the beauty of the floral arrangement in the alcove inside the tearoom.

After a tour of the tearooms, the maid ushered us around the corner of the complex to the cooking school, a faded pink stucco building with rippled glass windows and cracked cement steps.

Up until World War II, Mushanokoji had been a thriving enterprise that attracted hundreds of wealthy tea devotees. By the time the Japanese surrendered in 1945, the tea population had become so reduced the school faced financial disaster. To shore up its coffers, the Grand Tea Master at the time decided to build a cooking school on the premises with his daughter, Sen Sumiko, serving as the school's tea kaiseki expert: she could never be a Grand Tea Master because she was a woman.

Despite the confining nature of her kimono, the maid scurried up the stairs to the cooking school with Mrs. Hisa and me in tow. After turning right, she scuttled down a black linoleum hall,
whereupon she turned left and led us into a small dark room furnished with little more than a few floor pillows and a low lacquer table. She bowed and left.

Before we could catch our breath, the Grand Tea Master entered the room. He appeared to be in his late seventies. A smooth stubble of gray hair covered most of his head, while a handsome black kimono hung in loose neat folds around his slight frame. He said nothing, then bowed to Mrs. Hisa and me. Not sure how low to bow, I bent over at the waist and stared at the yellow weave of the tatami, thinking how smooth they felt beneath my stockinged feet. After what I thought was an appropriate passage of time, I straightened up, feeling the blood drain from my face, and smiled.

Mrs. Hisa and the Grand Tea Master began speaking. He did most of the talking, while she nodded and occasionally looked over at me. In an effort to appear respectful, I focused on the Grand Tea Master's knobby blue-veined hands so studiously trained in the art of whisking tea, arranging flowers for the tearoom alcove, and writing calligraphy for the seasonal scrolls. Suddenly, the Grand Tea Master stopped talking. I looked up.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Hisa, turning to me. I nodded solemnly, assuming the correct answer was yes. She said something to the Grand Tea Master, who then bowed again and left the room.

At this point, Mrs. Hisa suggested we kneel on the floor pillows to make ourselves more comfortable, a relative term in Japan. The Japanese know how to kneel, having done it since they were children. The legs of most women, in fact, bow outward as a result. Like most Westerners, I found tucking my toes beneath my bottom for long periods of time to be a horrendously painful or
deal. Nevertheless, I told myself that if I wanted to be accepted into Mushanokoji to study tea kaiseki, then I should probably contort myself into this “proper” position.

Now that I was kneeling, the moment had arrived to sip the tea. “Here are the sweets,” said Mrs. Hisa, eyeing the maid in the chartreuse kimono. The young woman set down two small black plates each holding a puffy red-orange maple leaf. Mrs. Hisa lifted up a pointed flat wooden stick from the edge of her plate. It looked like a toothpick fit for King Kong. Traditionally carved from the spicebush, the pick had a tan pointed end and mottled brown top. Mrs. Hisa sliced open her maple leaf, carved out a small wedge, and stabbed it. “Oishii,” she murmured, closing her eyes and gently chewing. I cut my leaf into little wedges and pierced one. The sugary sweet had a dense velvety consistency.

“We eat the sweet first before drinking the tea,” said Mrs. Hisa with her mouth full of bean paste. I had heard the tea would be bitter.

Eventually, the maid came in carrying two bowls of thin whipped green tea. She handed a black tea bowl to Mrs. Hisa and a cream-colored bowl embellished with red, orange, and gold maple leaves to me. Hundreds of tiny bubbles covered the surface of the emerald green liquid, giving it a pebbly texture that almost glowed in parts.