Passing through the hotel lobby, I discover that today, Tuesday, is a public holiday in Japan.

This accounts for the flocking of visitors to downtown Kobe, which I observed last evening. How can Monday be as touristy as the weekend, I had wondered.

Now I have the answer. Today marks the autumn equinox, and the Japanese string it together with the weekend to create a four-day ‘Silver Week’, outdone only by the ‘Golden Week’ of cherry blossom-ed spring.

Long ago, the Emperor kidnapped this Shintō feast and made it his own, using the occasion to mourn his Imperial kith and kin, passed before him. Since the secularisation of Japan, in 1948, the day has taken on more natural connotations.

Equinox celebrates ‘balance’ – that time when day and night are of equal length. The idea of balance is close to the heart of Japanese society and the evidence is everywhere to see. There is the careful weighing of individual and communal needs; there is restraint in moments of hilarity, when a giggle replaces the guffaw; and then there are chopsticks.

I am convinced, without evidence, of the reason why the western knife-and-fork never took hold here. They disrupt an elementary demand for balance at the table. Cutlery – with its spikes and blades – is the ugly stepsister of Cinderella chopsticks.

***

I have been observing women closely during my first days here in Kobe, they being the peacocks of their race. The blokes look like they dressed in the dark, and from the laundry basket. But the ladies of Honshu dress to be noticed, with a poetry so confident it need not rhyme.

I saw an astonishingly glamorous young woman walk down the street with her unremarkable boyfriend, yesterday. She had the cinched waist of Hepburn, and the elegance of Holly Golightly. Although 27 degrees in the shade, it appeared that her outfit was made fully of wool.

Beauty weaves suffering into its seam.

***

Later that day, as I waited at a sushi restaurant that in fact was a pork specialist, two middle-aged women in traditional dress sat in line beside me, studying the menu. The detailing of their silk kimonos deserved close examination, but I could get away only with staring at their feet.

The ladies wore crafted, black thong-sandals and white, mitten socks, the latter decorated in white needlework of scattered leaves, most prominent around the big toe.

The past and present seem closer together here, and perhaps it is because I know so little of this country.

The mind perceives a mosaic of things known and new, and seeks to weld it into a more coherent whole. Perhaps it is the reason that the brain loves to travel.

Hiroshima is 270 kilometres away, and I sometimes wonder what the people in the Kobe hills thought of that mushroom flash, in 1945. Equally now, the intricate footwear of these ladies prompts me into the geisha world of Madame Butterfly.

Had I followed their lead and read the menu, I might have been better prepared for pork.

***

I took my first trip on the train to visit a herb garden on the other side of town. Why is it that no matter how simply a city’s transport is laid out, it is utterly bewildering for the first-time traveller?

During the mid-morning commute, I noticed that the passengers in my carriage were all women. How odd. I ached to ask ChatGPT their percentage in the Japanese workforce, and drafted conspiracy theories about why the gals would head out mid-morning and leave the lads behind.

Had I discovered a gendered rip in the tapestry of Kobe?

On exiting the train, the explanation presented itself. I had completed my first train journey in the ‘women only’ carriage, failing to notice the prominent pink signage.

Sometimes, balance is unbalanced.