The Very Questionable Beauty of Japan
Letters from Japan, October 2024: autumn—the only season when Japan feels effortlessly beautiful.
Good morning,
We've entered that season when even those of us—myself included—who might argue that 'Japan isn't all that beautiful' (more on that below) find ourselves happily proven wrong, at least for a few months.
Starting in Hokkaido in mid-September, fall colors gradually sweep across the country, mercifully concealing the results of construction decisions that clearly weren't driven by aesthetics. They transform not only the mountains but also the concrete jungles into the wonderlands promised in postcards, Samurai-era movies, or beloved anime. Even the vending machines take a poetic look when covered with the bright yellow leaves of ginkgo trees.
Autumn is when Japan makes its best case for joining the ranks of picture-perfect countries like Norway, Switzerland, or New Zealand, showcasing a visual beauty that nearly matches the depth of its cultural richness.
But with all its colorful, effortless beauty, autumn can also be an anxiety-inducing season, leaving me constantly restless, aware that I can’t take all that beauty in. Autumn in Japan is likely the closest I've come to experiencing Stendhal syndrome—not in front of a piece of art, but beneath a tree. If there is a Pure Land, I bet it’s always autumn there, offering perpetual beauty.
Despite the self-induced anxiety, I still try to make the most of the season by taking as many weekend trips as possible, starting long before the foliage reaches Tokyo. After a much-dreaded cancellation due to unfavorable conditions at the magnificent Daisetsuzan—the first place in Japan to experience fall colors each year—I’ve so far managed two quick overnight trips to the high-altitude regions of Kanto and Chubu, where the colors arrive nearly two months earlier than in Tokyo.
So, this month's letter introduces two fall color destinations, followed by—in the spirit of honesty—my somewhat unconventional views on Japan's overall beauty—opinions that deeply contrast my deep appreciation for the country`s autumn scenery.
Oku-Nikko: the same hotel, the same restaurant, the same trail—every single year
One of the two foliage outings was to Oku-Nikko, which I visit every October (staying at the same hotel, eating at the same restaurant, and hiking the same trails). It might be the best place in Japan to see autumn colors, with diverse landscapes that include mountains, marshlands, a lake, ponds, waterfalls, and a hauntingly beautiful forest home to a healthy population of Asian black bears—who, fortunately, tend to keep to themselves. While the viewing platforms in front of waterfalls, including Kegon, which is among the tallest in the country, Ryuzu, and Yudaki, can get fairly crowded, you are guaranteed a much more secluded experience once you wander into the forest, even during the busiest season.
If you happen to be in Japan in October and have time for one nature outing (and want to have your take on the Stendhal Syndrome beneath a tree), I highly recommend Oku-Nikko—not to be confused with the more famous Nikko town, which is home to one of Japan’s most famous shrines, Toshogu. Nikko town is located an hour down in the valley and doesn’t experience fall colors until early November. It is a cozy little town with some picturesque sites, like Shinkyo Bridge, one of Japan`s three finest bridges, but the fall colors experience there is not as captivating as in Oku-Nikko. Here is the more detailed Oku-Nikko post from the blog for more logistics and itinerary-related info.
Tateyama/Mudoro: high altitude foliage viewing
Another overnight trip was to the Murodo/Tateyama Mountain Range in Toyama Prefecture. Although it doesn’t look far from Tokyo on the map, it requires a substantial effort to get to, involving a 2.5-hour Shinkansen ride, a 1-hour local train ride, a 7-minute cable car ride, and a 1-hour local bus ride.
Tateyama consists of three peaks and is one of Japan's three holy mountains, alongside Fuji, the country's tallest mountain, and Hakusan—all believed to possess special powers.
Despite the four different modes of transportation required for those departing from Tokyo, the region is worth visiting, even as a day trip. But it’s, of course, better if you can spare a night to stay in one of the many mountaintop huts in the area. An overnight stay will not only allow you to enjoy the golden hour but also to experience the tranquility of the area until the first bus arrives in the morning, around 8 a.m.
During this first trip to Tateyama, I stayed at Raichoso, which looks exceptionally unattractive from the outside but feels delightfully cozy once you step inside—not a rare feature in Japan. You can book either a private room or a dormitory, and unlike many mountain huts that only accept reservations by phone, Raichoso offers the much-needed convenience of online booking.
Tateyama is home to many hiking trails that lead to higher altitudes, including one of the most technical and exposed hikes in Japan, Mount Tsurugi, and the fairly vertical yet less technical climb to Mount Tateyama. Both reportedly offer some of the best high-altitude scenery in the country—something I had hoped to experience firsthand, but it was not meant to be. I started my hike up to Tateyama early in the morning, eager to witness the view from 3,000 meters above. However, about two hours in, right in the middle of a very slippery section, I suddenly developed a fear of heights. I began to worry about how the descent would feel while navigating the not-so-stable-looking stones and scree paths.
The level of fear escalated very quickly, leaving me with shaky legs and leading me to cut my hike short, as I was no longer enjoying it and didn’t want to cause any drama during the descent when many people would be ascending, trying to navigate the same narrow and slippery paths. Mountains are probably the worst place to bring our egos, so while I’m still curious about the views from those three peaks, I knew it wasn’t the day for me. Interestingly, according to legend, the climb to the summits of Tateyama simulates the experiences of hell, paradise, and the afterlife—which I think can wait a little longer.
Fortunately, even a quick stroll around the Murodo area rewards you with mesmerizing scenery that also offers a mixture of hell and paradise: you have an aggressively fuming crater on one side—Jigokudani—and a beautiful mountain range featuring patches of greenery and every tone of fall colors on the other.
If you visit the region during the fall colors season, you may want to book your train/bus/cable car ticket combo in advance using this link. While the seats go quickly, you might still get lucky as there are always many cancellations.
Kyoto from a new perspective
There will surely be more fall trips coming up as the colors slowly descend to lower altitudes, eventually reaching garden-rich cities like Tokyo and Kyoto. First, I’ll be heading up to Aomori with friends from Turkey who will be visiting for a month, and later in the month, I’ll join them again in Kyoto for a weekend of foliage viewing (a recent post where I wrote a diary-style account of how I spend autumn weekends in Kyoto: One Fine Autumn Day in Kyoto).
But before all that, thanks to a reminder from our HR department about five unused paid leave days that must be used before the end of November, I’ll be spending a week in Kyoto hiking the Kyoto Trail, a 130-km path that circles the city through the mountains. I heard great things about the trail from a friend, and I’m looking forward to exploring the mountains around Kyoto and enjoying the city and its temples from a different perspective. There will be daily trip diaries for paid subscribers during the week-long hike.
Japan is not all that beautiful?
Before I wrap up this month’s letter, I feel I owe an explanation to new subscribers of this newsletter, which promises to explore the beautiful corners of Japan, regarding my earlier statement suggesting that "Japan is not all that beautiful."
It was an honest, but certainly not ill-intended, statement—I adore this country. Yet, the mesmerizing beauty of autumn in Japan is not an everyday reality. While the power lines and unpainted or oddly painted concrete buildings that dominate both urban and rural scenery may not be deal breakers on a first visit—when the country steals your heart with its cultural offerings and perfectly lit, atmospheric interiors—Japan is not always easy on the eyes. Yes, beautiful traditional wooden houses and shops exist, but they’re often sandwiched between uninspiring concrete structures. Even in rural areas, it’s not uncommon to find an abandoned concrete building, a giant souvenir shop, a factory venting fumes, or tetrapods lining the coasts, disrupting the otherwise stunning scenery.
A while ago, I wrote the following on my blog:
I love Japan, and I love living in Japan even more. But I do not think that Japan is one of the most beautiful countries on earth. Even with 70% of its land covered by mountains, it doesn’t compare to countries like Switzerland, New Zealand, or Norway in terms of majestic, picture-perfect mountain scenery. While there are, of course, exceptions, appreciating the beauty of the country’s rural landscape also requires more effort than the love-at-first-sight charm of Provence or Tuscany. It is not a place where the surroundings are so flawless that you might feel like a character in a Tolkien novel or even a Miyazaki anime.
Japan is a country where the love for concrete is strong. You can be on a pristine and isolated beach on a small island in Okinawa but can confidently count on a 4-5 story, likely abandoned, concrete building to keep you company. You may, along the country’s hundreds of hiking trails, expect to encounter small wooden cottages or mountain huts similar to the ones occupying the Swiss Alps, but it is more likely that you will come across some large concrete buildings in addition to abandoned cable car stations better suited for the set of an apocalypse-themed movie.
But honestly—despite my desire to come clean for the sake of honesty—this doesn’t bother me all that much, and I’ve even learned to appreciate it. Of course, I’m not advocating for destructive or environmentally unfriendly construction policies, but there is an almost euphoric delight that comes with encountering that one beautiful building that courageously stands out among the surrounding structures that could be described as modern, if not unappealing. Similarly, I find great joy in entering an extremely ordinary, even unattractive, building, climbing up to the third floor, and being surprised to discover a space that magnificently contrasts with the building's drab exterior. Japan is a country where ordinary doors often lead to extraordinary experiences. It is visually one of the most 'imperfect' places I have experienced in my life, and its imperfections make it endlessly interesting, keeping my eyes on overdrive to find beauty in all the visual chaos.
The fact that I am from Istanbul, Turkey—where some of the world’s most beautiful and unique heritage structures stand alongside some of the most distasteful buildings imaginable—certainly helps me. You have to walk through Istanbul as if you are always composing a photograph to create your own scenery. If you allow the city to impose its imagery on you without filtering it yourself, you may miss the joy of feeling fully immersed in the city's otherwise enigmatic beauty, not done any favors by decades of poor urban planning policies.
If I felt more confident writing about the endlessly complicated yet intriguingly fascinating concept of Wabi-Sabi, I could neatly tie these statements to the allure of imperfection. However, I’d prefer not to embarrass myself or offer even the slightest defense for uninspiring architecture in the name of Wabi-Sabi. But I hope I could convey the idea: once the euphoria of the first few visits wears off, Japan requires some effort to be visually appreciated, and I`ve learned to enjoy that effort, which I suppose makes the reward even more pleasing.
So, this is all for this month—a little bit of heaven, a little bit of hell, I suppose. I will be back in early November with Kyoto trail diaries, followed by the November edition later in the month.
As always, thank you for being here; it means the world to me.
Best,
Burcu
Completely agree regarding the beauty of Japan. It has some areas of exceptional beauty and most cities have pockets of beauty but they are mixed in among hodgepodge architecture and, of course, the power lines. Someone once said that Japanese people 'have an eye for beauty and a blindspot for ugliness'. They can marvel at the beauty of an ancient shrine and ignore the concrete blocks of functional buildings all around it. I think there is some truth in that, and after decades here I think I am coming to be a bit like that myself!
I couldn't agree with you more about the very questionable beauty of Japan - Japan's built environment, at least. I have always found it paradoxical that a culture which appears to be quite obsessive about orderliness, neatness and tidiness seems to tolerate so much ugliness in its villages, towns and cities. It is, in my experience, rare to see a pretty village. The ubiquitous telegraph poles and hideous spaghetti wires, which spoil 99.99% of views of Japanese villages, towns and cities are particularly offensive; and the tatty timber buildings that look so unloved are also a blight. It seems that the average age of a Japanese house when it is demolished is thirty. So wasteful. Wouldn't it make more financial and environmental sense to build durably for the long term and maintain obsessively?!
I don't agree with you so much about the natural landscapes though. I'm no connoisseur, but the Japanese Alps, for example, seem to me to be every bit as stunning as those of Europe. As for autumn, yes the colors are just as gorgeous as those of New England or anywhere else, but there is for me an underlying sadness about autumn, prelude as it is to the cold, dark days and stark, bare branches of winter. I prefer the promise and new life of spring, sakura and returning warmth!