Kyoto in Layers: From Temples to Tea Bowls

 Kyoto in Layers: From Temples to Tea Bowls

May 25 began early—Kiyomizu-dera Temple opened just after sunrise. The wooden stage, supported by hundreds of tall pillars, stretches out over the hillside and gives a panoramic view of Kyoto. Kiyomizu means “pure water,” named after the Otowa Waterfall that runs beneath the temple. It’s one of Kyoto’s most visited sites, and even in the quiet morning, it pulsed with a kind of spiritual energy. People were lined up to drink from the three streams below—each said to offer success, health, or love. I didn’t try it, but it made me think about which of the three I’m really looking for right now.

We moved through Yasaka Shrine next, tucked right into the heart of the city. Bright vermilion gates and lanterns hung from the eaves. It felt lively in a quiet, grounded way. This shrine’s been here since the 800s, and it’s the site of the famous Gion Festival every July. We didn’t catch any ceremonies, but the slow rhythm of visitors bowing, washing hands, and clapping before offering prayers showed me how ritual can still thrive in modern life.

Chion-in Temple is the head temple of the Jodo sect of Japanese Buddhism. Its main gate is one of the largest wooden structures in Japan. The scale of it was unreal—so wide and tall it made you stop without even thinking. The temple grounds stretched on with shaded paths and wide steps. I learned that the founder of this temple, Honen, helped make Pure Land Buddhism accessible to the common people, which changed the landscape of Japanese spirituality. Standing there, it made me think about legacy and the kind of impact a belief system can have for centuries.

We explored the Gion district in the afternoon. Known as Kyoto’s geisha district, it has preserved architecture, narrow alleyways, and tea houses tucked between wooden storefronts. There’s a calm seriousness here, like the streets carry memory. I didn’t spot a geiko or maiko, but just being in Gion makes you feel the history—how this part of town held its own sense of artistry and tradition that still endures.

That evening, we watched performances at Gion Corner—a space that introduces traditional Japanese performing arts in short demonstrations. I saw things I’d only read about: koto music, tea ceremony, bunraku puppetry, and even ikebana flower arranging. Each one held a rhythm, a purpose, a slow intentionality that made me reflect on how rushed things can feel back home. There’s something powerful about making space for beauty just for beauty’s sake.

Dinner was shabu shabu at Gyuzen. I’d never cooked thinly sliced meats in boiling broth at the table before. It was surprisingly fun, and way more filling than I expected. I tried edamame for the first time. Simple and good. It’s interesting how communal meals like this slow down dinner—no one’s rushing through a plate, everyone’s watching the food cook, passing sauces, talking. That shared experience made me think about how food is just as much about conversation as flavor.

The next day, May 26, we traveled to Arashiyama. Our first stop was the Okochi Sanso Garden, once the private villa of silent film actor Denjirō Ōkōchi. The gardens are meticulously designed to offer seasonal views from different angles, with paths that wind through bamboo, moss, and open views of the city and mountains. It’s a place that invites stillness. I tried to walk slower, to take it all in. It’s rare that a space is designed to be viewed like a painting you can move through.

We then visited Otaki Nenbutsuji Temple. A small hilltop temple known for its collection of over 1,000 stone rakan (disciples of Buddha), each one hand-carved with unique expressions. Some wore moss hats, others seemed to be mid-laughter. Walking among them felt like passing through a crowd frozen in time, but still somehow alive. They made me smile. This space wasn’t crowded, and that gave it a kind of quiet charm.

I didn’t make the climb to the Monkey Park. Between the steep hike and a personal hesitation around monkeys, I chose to skip it. I’ve learned to honor my own boundaries in travel—not everything needs to be conquered to be meaningful.

In the afternoon, we visited Kyoto University of Foreign Studies to meet local students. The exchange was brief but genuine. Talking with them reminded me that even in a country so culturally different from home, the experience of being a student—balancing classes, hopes, identity—is universal. We shared small stories, snacks, and laughed through the language gaps.

We finished with a stop at a Japanese supermarket and Daiso. I picked up some local snacks, stationery, and thoughtful gifts. Something about wandering the aisles of a local market grounds you more than any temple or shrine—it shows you daily life, what people value, and how cultures present themselves in the ordinary.

Kyoto taught me that every layer of a place has something to offer: the sacred, the historical, the everyday. And in all those layers, I’m still finding pieces of myself.