The Global Grandma: The Little Bridge in Kochi, or Off the Beaten Path.

Kochi, or Off the Beaten Path.

Story One: The Little Bridge.

From the series: "Japan, or The American Senior's Extreme Vacation."

(Do I have enough titles? Is three enough?)

As often as I talk about cruises, I hear about the enormous crowds on the liners and the impossibility of finding a moment of solitude. Which, in my opinion, isn't entirely true. Everything depends on us. It's a matter of choosing the right time and place. I think all three of my stories about Kochi will prove this. This story is about a tiny bridge in the city of Kochi.

I have a habit from many working years: waking up early. This habit is joined by the desire to meet the sunrise on the ship, which has become a tradition for me. Usually, my travel companions were asleep, and I'd rush up to the deck... And it wasn't just the sunrise that attracted me. In the morning, our ship was usually entering a new bay, arriving in a new city, which is always interesting.

Morning.

I'm on the top deck alone.

Completely alone. Greeting the sunrise.

Ah, I haven't introduced myself and my still-sleeping companions: I, Meire, and Rosely—teachers on a cruise ship sailing around Japan.

The ship is the Celebrity Millennium.

For us passengers, who knew little about Japan (so we wouldn't ask too many unnecessary questions), there were maps everywhere on the ship, and screens constantly displayed information: where we were sailing, where we were going, how fast, what weather to expect, and so on. A special channel told us about each port of arrival, excursions, and sights. But our trio—we were prepared ourselves: we had chosen the places we wanted to visit in advance.

Day five. We are sailing into Kochi.

After breakfast, some stayed on the ship, others left for excursions.

But we took a taxi—and headed to the bridge. Or rather, the little bridge, which is considered the landmark of this relatively small city.

It’s a good thing I had seen photos and knew the bridge was tiny. Well, small, so I wasn't disappointed by the size. It's just an ordinary city all around. The very center.

Ordinary streets.

And amid the generally "non-existent," or rather, unexpressive space—a very poetic corner.

And now for a story that has a parallel among every people, every nation. Listen.

The Legend of Forbidden Love.

There once lived a girl who knew no sorrow in the house of her father, a wealthy merchant named Harimaya. Her name was the poetic Ouma. She met a young man named Junshin, who often visited her father's shop. The young people liked each other and fell in love. But trouble was brewing: the young man was a Buddhist monk from the Chikurin-ji Temple on Mount Godai-san, and they were strictly forbidden to enter into a relationship. But the young Buddhist monk fell in love and forgot all prohibitions. The youths met under the cover of night under the little red-painted bridge, Harimaya-bashi, near her father's shop. No one knew of their love. But one time the monk decided to delight his beloved, Ouma, by buying her an ornament, a red hairpin—a kanzashi. Oh, the beautiful ones sold in the shop near the red Harimaya-bashi bridge.

And people saw the red hairpin and realized the unlawful love. The lovers immediately fled their hometown. But their happiness was short-lived, for the fugitives were caught and the youth was banished from the city in disgrace, so the young couple would never meet again. Ouma was forced to marry a rich, but unloved, man.

My free retelling of the legend, which happened here in the 19th century, if the legend is to be believed.

By the way, for those who read the previous stories, how do you perceive this color? To me, it's just "red," bright red, not vermilion at all! It even has a pinkish hue... It lacks the orange, fiery tint; it lacks the golden radiance in the sun's rays. What do you think?

Harimaya-bashi is the name of the little bridge.

Once, the Horikawa River flowed here, and on its opposite banks stood two large shops belonging to the wealthy trading houses Harimaya and Hitotsuya.

Do you see the rotunda? It is at the end of the pond, "enclosing" the space, as it were. It looks very classic; pleasant views of the water and the bridge open up from there...

Excuse me, I got distracted by the photo.

In those old days, the bridge was built over the river to facilitate passage between those two influential houses, the expensive shops. The first bridge was built in the Edo period, then it was repeatedly moved along the river, rebuilt, then the river was filled in, and the bridge was destroyed...

But the legend lived on. And so, the city created this little corner, with a small pond and an artificial stream. And they reconstructed the Harimaya-bashi bridge (where Harimaya is the family name, and "bashi" translates to "bridge").

This story is immortalized in the local folk song, the "Yosakoi-bushi":

In the city, in Kochi,

On Harimaya-bashi,

Everyone saw the monk,

Buying a kanzashi!

Yosakoi, Yosakoi!

In the moonlit mountains,

on the mirrored shore

I invite the girl

to be alone...

Yosakoi, Yosakoi!

Mountains can be crossed,

Rivers can be crossed,

But Tokyo is far away,

No one can reach it!

Yosakoi, Yosakoi!

The word "yosakoi" itself is archaic, consisting of three parts (yo-sa-koi), and together they form a phrase that translates as "Come tonight!" or "Come this evening!" And it's not what you thought at all; the phrase meant "come this evening to dance."

The song immortalized the phrase familiar to every Japanese person: "In Kochi, at Harimaya Bridge, I saw a monk buying a hairpin."

(Well, it's like how popular a line like "Frankie and Johnny were lovers, O Lordy, how they could love" is for us—though, with the passing of my generation, perhaps both the song and the line will be forgotten. I don't think the modern generation knows the melody or the story. Everything passes.)

Now, the story of the monk and the girl's love lives on not only in the song but also in the yosakoi dance and the festival, which now takes place not only in Kochi but throughout Japan in early August. (We sailed into Kochi two weeks before the festival, but in early August, we hit the festival in Aomori. I'll be sure to tell and show you!)

We weren't on and around the bridge for long, about five to ten minutes: we looked, took pictures for memory, and continued our walk, the next stop of which was Kochi Castle.

Oh, I forgot one detail: when preparing for the trip, I didn't know that there was a mechanical clock on the building opposite, which tells the story you now know every hour.