people in what may sometimes turn into a comical attempt to justify the earlier claims.
A common example of a Kansai-Kanto contrast concerns escalator etiquette. In Kansai people typically stand to the right and walkers pass on the left side. In Kanto, on the other hand, everyone stands on the left and walkers pass by on the right. The reason often given (if any) for this predictable set of behaviors is a historical one. Because Tokyo was a city of samurai, even now contemporary people prefer to stay on the left in order to easily draw their swords traditionally kept on the right side. As Osaka was a town of merchants, they still prefer the right side for the protection it offers since traditionally they carried their belongings in the right hand. In any case, one outcome of the current revival of interest in regional or prefectural character has been to raise awareness in Japan of the internal diversity of the country. It also makes it difficult for non-Japanese to speak glibly about the national character of the Japanese when there is actually so much regional and local diversity.
With Kyoto and Nara as the political and cultural center of Japan since the beginning of recorded history, and Shiga, Kobe, and Osaka the great commercial centers during the Edo period, Kansai possesses a complex cultural identity. Even within Kansai itself each prefecture is known for its distinctive character. Kansai people not from Kyoto often describe Kyotoites as “aloof” or “two-faced” since they value reserve and do not easily reveal directly what is on their minds, while Osakans are often called the “Latins of Japan” for being warm, down-to-earth, outgoing, and funny. It was here that Manzai originated—the stand-up comedian duos of the straight man and the funny man. Although both Kyoto and Osaka are known for their delicate cuisine, when compared to each other, the emphasis of Kyoto easily shifts to fashion as the saying demonstrates: Kyo no kidaore, Osaka no Kuidaore (Kyoto people ruin themselves for clothing, and people of Osaka on food). People from Shiga, known for their business savvy, have long cultivated a philosophy of sanpo-yoshi or “three-way satisfaction” in which buyer, seller, and the society at large should all be beneficiaries of any economic transaction for it to be considered a success. From the region have come the founders of such notable companies as the trading giant Marubeni and Wacoal, the famed producer of lingerie.
Sometimes the contrast between Kansai and Kanto is cast as historical pique since Kyoto lost its status as the nation’s capital in the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, Kyoto not only maintains a prestige as the birthplace of Japanese culture but is also frequently charged as the keeper of Japan’s traditions in the present while Tokyo gets regularly blamed for all forms of standardization. While this often smacks of mere caricature, it is intriguing how the distinction between Kansai and Kanto was sufficiently intact as to influence foreign policy during the Allied fire bombings in World War II. While bombs devastated a great deal of Sakai and Osaka, Kyoto, the country’s capital for over a thousand years, was spared because of its cultural and historical significance. Tokyo hardly received such consideration and was not spared from heavy bombing. As a result, Kyoto was able to continue to take pride in its visible heritage of ancient temples and castles while Tokyo lost most of its own. Japan’s modern capital had no choice but to rebuild and modernize. Therefore, much of Tokyo is comparatively new, having been built within just the last six and half decades.
In writing this book I wanted to return to an earlier time when I first set foot in Japan and experienced everything as strangely new. Full of questions but with few ready answers, my enthusiasm carried me in multiple directions at once. At that time, I could have benefited from a guidebook, not one chock-a-block with historical personages and dates too easily forgotten (for such books exist aplenty), but one that would have served more as a cultural compass to allow me to discover patterns and trends and help me find my own way. This book is intended to be just that kind of guide, the one I didn’t have, to assist those who desire to go beyond the cultural stereotypes, predictable tourist sites, and would appreciate a combination of contemporary focus with more interpretive depth while traveling through a vibrant and ever-evolving region. This book is also intended for the many Japanese I have known over the years who for one reason or another expressed regret that they had scant opportunity to explore their own country. I have heard this complaint again and again from Japanese at home and abroad and attempt to respond to it with this book.
My own interest in Japan began as a fascination with the country’s first contact with the West vis-à-vis the arrival of Portuguese and Spanish Jesuits and Franciscans in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. I wondered why a mutually engaging relationship that had lasted a century then deteriorated and precipitated the country into a long era devoid of all international exchanges save but a small community of Dutch and Chinese on a tiny island in Nagasaki built for this sole purpose. The launching point of my interest gradually expanded to encompass an ever broader cultural interest in Japan that sustained me throughout my professional training as an anthropologist. Over the years I have heard many diverse interpretations and characterizations of the country from sociologists, anthropologists, visitors, expats, novelists, psychoanalysts, and policymakers that in their totality conjure up the South Asian parable of the blind men and the elephant.
Asked to determine what an elephant looks like by touching it, each man feeling a single part of the animal—tail, trunk, tusk, leg, ear, and belly—describes the elephant as a very different kind of creature. In the same way, we can read that Japan is a “compact culture” (O-Young Lee), a “dependency culture” (Takeo Doi), a “shame culture” (Ruth Benedict), a “vertical society” (Chie Nakane), a “typhoon mentality” (Edwin Reischauer), a “wrapping culture” (Joy Hendry), a “kimono mind” (Bernard Rudofsky), a “culture of humiliation” (Amélie Nothomb), and the most recent descriptor a “cool culture,” (METI). The actual expression the Ministry of Economy Trade and Industry uses is “Cool Japan” to describe a country in which popular culture has now come to signify the whole in the new geopolitics of soft power officially promoted by the Japanese government today with its ambassadors of cool.
Though I am indebted to all of those mentioned above for teaching me about some aspect of Japan, and to countless others less conducive to sound bytes, I am uncomfortable with master concepts and summations that attempt to capture the main spring of any culture or civilization. However, there are two words that express approaches to life that I have found pervasive throughout Japan. They are: gambaru/gambatte, and kansha. Gambaru can mean “keep trying” or “go for it.” It exhorts a person to make the most sincere effort possible in any undertaking. It also implies that the outcome is far less important than the effort put into something. Ivan Morris captured the sentiment well in his elegant book—The Nobility of Failure: Tragic Heroes in the History of Japan—that tells the stories of various heroes who failed to attain their goals, and often losing their lives in the process. Not victorious in any simplistic way, yet in Japan they are nonetheless considered heroes. What they possessed was a spirit of gambaru as they threw everything they had into their effort. The word kansha translates as “gratitude” and is an orientation that recognizes that a person never accomplishes anything alone but rather is supported throughout life by innumerable people, the natural world, and organizations. The opposite of any notion of self-reliance, it goes a long way in keeping the ego in check.
For the most part, I have attempted through description to avoid grasping another part of the elephant myself. That said, I have allowed a few principles to guide my approach. The over-arching theme of all these chapters is cultural change and the incessant tug-of-war between preservation and innovation. I found this issue particularly acute in Kyoto, the heartland of Japanese tradition where maiko, apprentices to full-fledged geisha, can still be seen stepping from limousines in the Gion district and shuffling to their appointments in steep platform willow-wood pokkuri thongs, while Buddhist monks in straw sandals and broad conical hats that double as umbrellas roam the back streets of the city chanting with begging-bowls in hand and eat only what they receive in alms.
To some extent, the issues raised in these chapters can hardly be confined to the Kansai region alone and are applicable throughout the country. But given the depth of tradition in the Kansai, loss of this same tradition and adaptive innovation strike a particularly poignant note. After all, the roots go deeper and traditions tend to hang on longer here. In addition, these were the specific cases that faced me in my daily environs in Kyoto and are not meant to be exhaustive or to carry the last word. Whenever possible, I compare the Japanese