It had been raining lightly all day in Kyoto, but I'd managed to stay pretty dry, walking under the eaves of the main shopping district.  But Kyoto is a large city, and my legs were beginning to show some fatigue, the result of four days abstinence from the public transport system, which though cheap, does constrain one from stopping in any place that happens to catch one's eye.
        I had just left a small jazz coffee shop in the south-central part of town, after a couple of beers, some Pat Methany on the stereo and conversation with the proprietor who spoke fairly good English.  I'd already decided that I'd eat okonomiyaki on the way back to north-eastern Kyoto, where I was staying with the son of one of my vice-principals.
        I wanted to make sure that I ate some Kyoto style okonomiyaki before I returned to Gunma, and I'd seen two Okonomiyaki-yas on the way home the night before.  I walked northward up Kawaramachi-dori, then cut eastward, over to Higashi-dori, the street on which I thought I'd seen the two restaurants.
        I walked.  And I walked.  And I walked.  As I said, Kyoto is a large city.  It got dark.  At last, I realized that I was mistaken, that Imadegawa-dori (the east-west street near where I was staying) was visible in the distance, and that the restaurants weren't on Kawaramachi-dori at all.  It must be on one of the north-south streets a block or two back west, I thought, and turned left down Imadegawa.  In a convenience store, a man told me that I was going in the right direction and that I'd find one nearby if I only kept going straight.  I thanked him and walked on, my legs begging for a comfortable stool.  It began to rain harder, and never having been much of an umbrella person, my hair was falling down my face.  As I saw the next intersection nearing I began to doubt  the convenience store man's directions.
        I stopped into a clothing store, the doors of which were open wide.  The salesman there pointed back to the east, the direction from which I'd just come, assuring me there was one there.  I thanked him and began to backtrack, but a voice in my head stopped me, saying, "No.  You're not doing this.  You just walked from that way and there wasn't one there."  Instead I crossed the street and continued westward.
        I stopped a man and woman and asked them, "Sumimasen, okonomiyaki wa doko desuka."  This seemed an odd question to them, but the man kindly pointed further west, and the woman said "Kasa wa arimasenka?" (Don't you have an umbrella?"  I answered, "Arimasen, demo mondainai, nazenara Kyoto wa tanoshii, dakara shiawase desu," a rather clumsy way of saying that I didn't have an umbrella, but I was having a great time in Kyoto, so I was happy.  They probably thought I was just drunk, which by this time I was greatly desiring to be.
        Later I stopped another man, smoking a cigarette and waiting for a bus.  He also thought this a strange question, but told me, "Kono shingo massugu itte, sono ato, hashi, shingo futotsu, hidari..."  As he said, I went straight, through the signal, crossed the bridge over the Kamogawa river and the two signals later I turned left down a busy street.  On the left side I saw a pachinko parlor  and a Mis-do  (Mr. Donut), but no okonomiyaki-ya.  I stopped into the Mis-do and asked the cashier, a young woman in her early twenties,  for directions, who told me to go back to Imadegawa and continue westward one more street, then to cut back left again.  I'd be sure to find one there.  She seemed so confident.  She seemed to really know what she was talking about.  But when I had followed her directions I turned left to see only a dark street.
        "Well, this is becoming absurd," I thought.  "I've been finding all the shops restaurants, shrines and temples I've looked for in the last four days with no problems, and now I can't find one lousy okonomiyaki-ya."  I was beginning to get frustrated, but it is nothing unusual in Japan for a small restaurant to be located in an otherwise dark and empty alley.  I noticed a lit window with the familiar red chioin (Chinese lantern) hanging outside.  The windows were frosted though so I couldn't see in.  I slid the door open.  Inside were two women, one fifty or so, the other in her seventies.  I was disappointed to see only bowls of what looked like ramen or oden.  Still, I felt I must be closing in.  My question only elicited the same bemused expressions as before, except this time they stood silent.  I tried a different tact.  While walking, I'd decided that the reason my question seemed odd to people was that I was literally asking, "Where is the okonomiyaki?"  The obvious response is "Which okonomiyaki do you mean?" or simply silence as in this case.  So I wracked my brain for grammar and rephrased the question, "Kono hen ga okonomiyaki-ya wa arimasuka?"  This seemed to make more sense to them and the elderly woman stepped outside, and noting my wet hair, commented, "Ame wa taihen deshoo, neh? (It must be tough out here in this rain, huh).  "So desu," I replied.  She pointed further north-west while speaking at a machine-gun fire clip, from which few words that I understood, I divined that I needed only to go one more block west, turn right, and I'd find an okonomiyaki-ya only 100 meters away.
 I continued as she'd directed, turning left up the darkened street.  I could see lights ahead about 100 meters, just as the obaasan  had said I would, but when I reached the lights I saw it was only a yasai-ya (produce market).  A woman was shutting the store down.  I asked her if she knew where the location of the okonomiyaki-ya was using the simpler "Okonomiyaki-ya wa doko desuka?" since it should be obvious which one I meant.  This turned out to be correct as she responded without pause, but her answer, "Yasumi desu yo," was disheartening to say the least.  Yasumi means vacation or holiday.  But she informed me that another okonomiyaki-ya was located up the same street northwards only 400 meters.  I thanked her, bought a bunch of bananas for her trouble, and walked north.  I was sure to be sitting in a warm resutoran, drinking nihonshu atsukon  (hot rice wine known by most foreigners as sake) and observing the cook preparing the okonomiyaki in the Kyoto style of which I knew nothing except that it was different from the Kanto style of most okonomiyaki-yas in north-west Japan.
 But when I reached what must have been about the 375th meter my heart sank.  Hanging from the eaves of a darkened storefront was an giant unlit chioin with the same kangi as was written on the paper I was holding.  Pulling my soaked hair from my eyes, I looked in disbelief at the Chinese lantern, then the paper, then at the lantern again.  "Well, this isn't fun anymore at all," I thought and walked back down the 500 meters to Imadegawa.
 I turned left back east towards home.  Now, a lesser fool might have been resigned to defeat and just stopped into the first ramen-ya he passed, but I was more determined than ever to find what I was looking for.  To be sure the aroma of a couple ramen-yas did tempt me, but I continued, undeterred.  And after all I had nothing better to do than walk for miles in the rain.
 A college student at a crosswalk (Kyoto University is on Imadegawa-dori) told me with great confidence that renewed my hopes that there was an okonomiyaki-ya straight up the street, after the signal, and in fact there was a doorway to a narrow and steep stairwell from which, like a tireless hunting dog, I picked up on the scent of yaki-soba, the fried noodles that are one of the ingredients of okonomiyaki.  But when I reached the top of the stairwell, I didn't see the familiar long, flat grill around which customers sit at a counter watching the food being prepared.  However, I had the oddest feeling I'd stepped back into time about fifty years or so.  The walls were colored by the yellow-brownish grease of decades of cooking and the wall-hangings were so out of fashion that even a gaikoku-jin like myself could easily see that they simply did not belong in this time.  Every object in the room had the appearance of a thing which knows exactly where it belongs because it has been setting there for eons. The old wooden cash register looked homemade and was so rickety that it appeared to have been taken apart and put back together several times.  An ancient obaasan informed me that her restaurant was a takoyaki-ya, and her husband behind the grill gave me the familiar sideways handwave in front of the face, a rather impolite way of saying, "Don't bother us, we're busy and can't help you," even though there was no one there except a drunk at the counter.  Takoyaki is octopus and fried soba noodles, and while that dish is also delicious, I declined her offer of a seat and began to descend the stairs, fearing that if I stayed there, when I left, I might find myself misplaced in the Kyoto of the 1930s.
 As I was leaving, however, the old woman called down the stairwell, "Chotto matte," ("Wait a moment."), said something to her Shu-jin, the old-fashioned word for husband, meaning "master," and followed me to the street.  Then in the kind but rapid-fire speech so typical of elderly Nihon-jin who commonly don't quite grasp the idea that the person they're speaking to can only understand a handful of the words they're speaking, she gave me a new set of directions that would most assuredly lead to an okonomiyaki-ya.  From her word hoard I was able to pick out "shingo" (signal), "hidari" (left), "muko" (behind), and "Macudonarudo" (McDonald's).  But that was the same street on which I'd asked directions from the girl at the Mister Donut.  "Well, that figures," I thought.  We gai-jin are often would rather ask directions from a young people, since they usually know a little more English and they're generally better communicators.  But if you want accurate directions, however unintelligible, ask someone who has lived and worked there for fifty years.
 I crossed the street, turned left and stopped in front of the pachinko parlor.  I didn't see what I was looking for.  By a bus stop, I spotted a man in a business suit, smoking his ubiquitous cigarette.  I asked him if he knew of any okonomiyaki-ya in that neighborhood.  He smiled, happy that I was asking a question he could answer easily and pointed across the street, about fifteen meters south, directly opposite the Mister Donut where I'd been given the complex directions about an hour earlier.  Naturally, I was experiencing mixed emotions.
 Inside, I seated myself at the counter, shed my sweater, ordered nihonshu atsukon and went to the toire  to dry my hair with some paper towels.  I returned, put down the first bottle in a hurry.  The waitress, who I could see now with dry glasses, was a stocky girl, about twenty-three years old.  My explanation that I was from north-east Japan and that I wanted to try Kansai-style okonomiyaki amused her greatly, and she quickly explained this to the cook, a large hairy man.  I asked her if they served ika (squid) okonomiyaki.  She smiled, repeated the order.  I said onegaishimasu, and ordered another nihonshu ("Mo ippon kudasai.")  The first bottle was beginning to take effect.  Nihonshu-atsukon is wonderful; the hot alcohol infuses directly into the bloodstream to produce the most  pleasant results.  Soon the rigors of the last hour-and-a-half were fast becoming a fading memory, though I realized I still had to get home, but I knew I could take a bus straight back up Imadegawa to Ginkakuji-michi, and from there it was only a ten minute walk.  Besides, for the moment I was in the place I'd sought for so long, doing what I'd planned to do for weeks: observing the making of Kyoto-style Kansai okonomiyaki.
 I suppose that an explanation is long overdue.  Okonomiyaki is much like an omelet.  Two thin layers of fried egg battter, between which is yaki-soba (fried noodles in a sweet sauce), cabbage, a choice of chicken, pork, beef, or seafood, and a few spices such as ginger, green onions and so on.  Egg batter is spread onto the grill in two fifteen inch circles.  Next, a large mound of cabbage is  as the cabbage steadily cooks down to a manageable size, then placed on one of the semi-circles.  Finally, the cabbage is flattened with a spatula, the yaki-soba and meat or seafood is laid on the cabbage and the second layer of batter is placed on top.  Voila--okonomiyaki!
 At least that's the way it's done on the kanto side of Japan, to the north-east where I live.  I'd heard for some months that Kansai-okonomiyaki to the west is different, so I considered that my trip to Kyoto would be incomplete if I didn't experience it's okonomiyaki.  However, I had no idea what to expect, just that it would be somehow different, and I prepared note every detail carefully, with the interest of a traveler, the palate of a  kansai-side resident, and the eye of a social anthropologist.  My poise was soon lost when the cook delivered a pile of yaki-soba to my spot at the counter, and placed it on the grill before me, then began doing other work at the other end of the kitchen.
 I wondered, "Well, what am I supposed to do now?" and tried to nonchalantly rake the noodles around on the grill, figuring that in a moment or two the cook would begin spreading the egg batter and cooking down the cabbage.  I didn't want to tell him his business, but it seemed to me that the noodles ought to be cooked last, as they would fry long before the cabbage would cook down.  But it's usually best not to say anything in these situations, I've found, otherwise you'll have to hear a long explanation on the preparation that you won't understand anyway, and in the end everyone involved will just be embarrassed, and that's no good.
 After, six or seven minutes had passed and he'd made no move to begin the batter or cabbage, however, I knew there was something I didn't understand.  Besides, he'd glanced at me nervously several times as though he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how to say it.  This is an expression a westerner gets pretty good at spotting in Japan.  Finally, I got the waitresses attention and asked for her assistance.  In broken Nihongo, I asked her, Kansai okonomiyaki no tamago (egg) to yaki-soba wa betsu-ni (separate) desuka?"  She smiled and looked confused, but tried to explain.  After two or three labored sentences, the cook was into it, and soon the prep-cook.  Before it was all over I had three employees and a nearby customer discussing the subtle differences between one style and another.  I could only guess what I was supposed to do in the case of this style, and didn't care about the others as the noodles were becoming well-done.  Finally, after a long conference they told me, " Ima, yaki-soba wa tabete o kudasai.  Ato de, tamago to cabbage, tsukuru."  ("Please eat the yaki-soba now, we'll cook the rest when you're finished.")
 This I did, and though the meal was filling and tasty after its own fashion, I had to conclude that I much preferred the okonomiyaki of the Kanto plain and my Isesaki home.  It was getting late so I paid my bill and with exhausted legs exited to the rainy street.  I shall never forget how the kind waitress chased me outside and gave me a spare umbrella, but my experience in Japan is filled with such memories of kindness for a complete stranger.  In Japan, almost everyone is a good Samaritan.
 When I returned, my friend was awake and working on his thesis paper.  I staggered lamely in, my legs which had carried me since early morning to the four corners of Kyoto now as sturdy as two limp yaki-soba noodles.  Over a refreshing cup of green tea I explained my experience, from the search through the rainy night to okonomiyaki preparation to the umbrella.  My friend looked thoughtful for a few moments, then asked me to explain how the okonomiyaki had been prepared again.  After I explained in detail the preparation, he said, "That's very strange, I've never heard of that before.  I don't know what you had but it was not Kyoto-style.  Very strange . . ."  Needless to say I was experiencing mixed emotions.  I'd walked for one-and-a-half hours in the rain and spent almost twenty dollars, only to find I'd failed in my mission after all.  One can only laugh at oneself in these situations, and I could only reflect upon the fact that as much as one tries to generalize a region and then goes there hoping to "experience it," the odd factor will forever appear unexpectedly and the elusive "experience" will vanish in a poof of individuality and variance that refuses to ascribe to the rule of travel-books, tour-guides and this is not the beauty of Japan, just the beauty of life.  The Japanese have a saying that sums up my experience consisely: "Hyakubunn wa ikken ni shikazu."  "Tabi wa michizure ,yo wa nasake, " literally "Seeing is understanding, so when you go on a long trip, it's best to have a careful guide."
 So desu ne.