The bear in the room (Kyoto / Norikura)

'What happened to your leg?', I ask Claire, glancing at her elevated leg on the couch. Hostel small talk in the common room typically starts the same way: 'Hey, where are you from?' 'Oh, country xyz! I was there in year 123 in city abc.' Yada yada. A injured leg is the worst nightmare for anyone traveling, but at least it makes for a good conversation starter. Claire is halfway through her Japan trip with her sister and twisted her ankle on the steep steps of a shrine in Kyoto. They take it in stride that they now have to sit around in the hostel for a while. However, they are richer for the experience of being treated in a Japanese hospital. They were lucky, as there are limited opening hours for non-life-threatening outpatient emergencies, and they arrived just in time before closing. Probably a side effect of the aging society. The doctors spoke relatively good English, took their time, and according to the first diagnosis, nothing was broken. Her younger sister Emily is supportive and stays with her at the hostel, occasionally running to the supermarket to get some food for both of them.

'East or West Germany?', they want to know. They ask the right questions. In Melbourne, they have a hidden bar that is split in two. If you answer 'Eastern Germany' when asked at the entrance, you end up in the cooler part of the pub, filled with old furniture and retro decor from the GDR.

We play Uno with an Irishman and let Kyoto be Kyoto outside.

The hostel is not the worst place to be stranded in Kyoto. The classical wooden interior, the shoe policy (changing from street shoes to slippers at the entrance, walking barefoot in the dorms), the sliding doors with shoji paper, and the friendly staff perfectly fulfill the ideal image of Japan that a typical Kyoto visitor imagines.

However, I still maintain my self-imposed path of arrogant disdain for anything touristy. I want to brush past sightseeing spots at best and otherwise stroll through the alleys of the city without pressure. I do some shopping and present it to Claire and Emily: a Tamagotchi as a souvenir, a bear bell for my hike in the Japanese Alps, and a set of wired headphones. 'Do you know how some people on trains often listen to videos and music out loud?', I explain to Emily why I specifically bought a few cheap Japanese headphones. As a regular ICE commuter, I dream every time of passively aggressively handing headphones to an ignorant passenger who has turned their phone up to full volume. I can't help myself. It probably confirms exactly the impression of the conceited, pedantic German that the two Australian women already have of me. But somehow my particular desire to educate noise makers in everyday life also fits the Japanese mentality.

In the evening, I do pass by Kyoto's most significant Shinto shrine - 'of course only ironically and just in passing'. A know-it-all American is guiding an older couple through the site. I discreetly position myself near them and mooch for information: When believers pray at the shrines of different spirits, they do not ask for miracles or luck, but for the skills necessary to overcome certain challenges. Why the Japanese have often been so warlike and violent throughout their history despite the seemingly peaceful Buddhism, the older gentleman wants to know from his tour guide. Buddhism can be interpreted similarly to other religions. In Japan, they picked out exactly the elements that fit their ideas, the guide claims.

The times of harakiri and kamikaze are hard for me to imagine, especially as I sit in the jazz bar that Axel recommended to me. A narrow staircase leads into a windowless chamber outfitted with freestanding shelves, bowing under the weight of hundreds of vinyl records. Behind the counter, in the dim light, the bartender quietly switches the records. The two regulars are sipping tea at the only table in the room. I take a seat at one of the handful of barstools, as is customary for solo guests. Shazam shows me the current track: Train of Thought - Gabriel Latchin Trio. Japan loves jazz. I love Japan.

Axel had warned me: last year, sixteen people died in bear attacks. Especially black bears are a problem in northern and central Japan. Due to the aging population, the country lacks enough hunters to control the population. At the same time, humans are increasingly encroaching on the habitats of these animals.

I am now heading into this area. My multi-day hiking trip first takes me to Nakatsugawa. From here, the former post and now long-distance hiking trail Nakosen-do runs parallel to a railway line towards Matsumoto. On the first day on the most popular section, I am still surrounded by numerous fellow hikers. Everyone carries a small bell on their backpack or jacket to keep the animals at bay. Anything that makes noise is allowed and welcomed. All along the trail and at rest areas, there are sometimes very fearsome, sometimes cute drawings and pictograms of bears indicating the danger. The four-legged friends are about to hibernate and are thus particularly unpredictable. At Nagiso train station, there is a printed map of the village. A red hand-drawn arrow points to the circled Omata Bridge 'Bear appeared!! Nov 5th / Be careful!!' We Nakosendo hikers are it. Rarely has caution looked so cheerful. Everyone jingles their bells, sings and whistles, blasting phone music into the autumn-colored forest. Rules are rules.

On the second hike with a full pack, I pass a house that offers snacks through a trust system. My day starts with a brunch of chips, popsicles, and instant coffee. It’s a clear, cool November day. The leaves shine in bright yellow, bright red, and orange. Sometimes the wind sweeps them off the branches and carries them over the hiking path and the green meadows. Among the colorful deciduous forest, bright green bamboo and dark green coniferous forest stand out. Japan has the most beautiful autumn.

This time I find myself almost alone on the trail. I do feel a little uneasy. The louder I ring my bear bell and whistle to myself like Bilbo in the Shire. Bears are generally more active at dusk. Now it’s already after 4:00 PM, and I need to hurry to make it to the train station before dark. But I conclude another day without an encounter with Mr. Bear.

In Matsumoto, my transit point for the next destination Norikura in the Japanese Alps, it is freezing cold. In the evening at a bar, a cheerful Japanese man bids farewell to some foreigners next to me: 'Have a good day!', he proudly announces his English phrase toward the exit. We grin at each other, and I give a thumbs up: 'Perfect!' 'Have a good day!' he chimes at me when I later set off for the hostel. 'Have a good day!'

Before my bus to the mountains departs, I stroll through Matsumoto. With the snow-covered peaks in the background, the wooden facades, and the narrow winding streets, it is, so far, the most beautiful city in Japan for me. I pause in front of a single-story house. Music wafts outside. It must be one of the traditional Japanese plucked instruments. Maybe a recording, but it could just as easily be live music.

A single house stands a bit apart. Without the location on Google Maps, I would never have guessed that a café is hidden behind the subtle sign. I carefully open the sliding door and step inside. Behind the counter, two older Japanese people appear from the drawer as a friendly eco-couple. Alongside a few postcards in the lower part of the house, they sell handmade ceramics in the attic gallery (please enter without shoes). The animals depicted in the modest artworks are again black bears, but also the white chickens found in the Japanese Alps that lay their eggs in the snow. On the counter lie old Alpine club magazines from the 1950s and 1960s. Heidi, your world is the mountains!

My lodge is the last stop. The bus is mainly used by school children in uniforms, equipped with bright jingling bear bells. It's almost the end of the season. Some hiking trails to the higher peaks are already closed, and on the day of my planned departure, the last buses operate to and from the foothills. After that, the hiking season ends and the ski season begins. I am the only guest getting off in Norikura Kogen. I have never felt more isolated on my journey. I step into the large wood-paneled entrance hall and immediately think of The Shining.

Although the hotel, unlike the Steven King film adaptation, is not completely devoid of guests, I am by far the youngest. It seems to be a thing for Japanese retirees to be catered to in the mountains with full board and then let their children pick them up after a few days. 

The mountain hotel has no shower in the room. However, every guest can utilize the attached onsen, a traditional Japanese steam bath. Similar to my experience in South Korea, you must enter barefoot and naked. The outdoor area offers a view of colorful maple trees and the stars in the clear night sky.

Most of the elderly guests use the typical Japanese hotel attire. A kimono is also ready for use in my drawer. It’s comfortable, and I try to adapt. Just like in the Jjimjilbang and now in the onsen, I proceed as usual: observe the locals and mimic them as best as I can.

The hiking trails up here at around 2500 meters elevation are even more desolate than the Nakasendo. I spot a family by the edge of a small lake. They are playing loud music on their phone while they picnic. Otherwise, I am alone. Every few hundred meters, two metal poles are set up. I strike them together three times each time I walk past one of these stationary bear bells. It’s supposed to calm me. The Japanese ensure that I do not get eaten and have hung bells everywhere for protection. But they wouldn't be necessary if it weren't a serious problem... Once I hear a noise, a loud crack in the branches about a hundred meters away. A bear, a macaque, or one of the serau-antelope like the ones I observed from the bus? Last Christmas, a man in Fukushima even discovered a bear in his living room.

But I remain uneaten and feel much less anxious on my last day in Norikura on my hike. So far, everything has gone well. At nearly 2800 meters, I walk through small snow fields and pause at cascading streams and waterfalls. After a pheasant suddenly flies out of the bushes next to me, startling me, I laugh loudly at my own jumpiness. That’s also a noise that the bears will hear. At a viewpoint, I lay on a bench in the sun – like on display, but my shrill bear bell will do its job. I occasionally glance into the crowns of the birch trees. The rustling of the bamboo branches sounds a little like whispering. I am at peace within myself and seem to have finally cured my bear fear.

Before my flight from Nagoya, I spend my last evening in nearby Gifu. My hostel reminds me of the one in Kyoto, only smaller and privately run by an older gentleman who has his apartment in the backyard. So far, travelers in Japan have been the most likable people on my trip. Alexa from Canada writes and sends postcards just like me. Tania and her son from Brisbane are here for a few days in Gifu. He lays a few Magic cards on the table, and I mentally travel back to my teenage years. We chat about the game; he brings me up to speed and shows me his card decks. A few cards from older editions can be taken for free at the Magic The Gathering shops. The 'historic' cards from the 90s are particularly beautiful, the illustrations full of details.

I get into a conversation with Plamen from Bulgaria. For him, bears are associated with a childhood memory from the 90s. It was a dark time when people would make trained bears dance on leashes to music. Sometimes the bear tamers would drive from one place to the next, and Plamen still vividly remembers how a bear sat in the Sofia subway.

Sofia, I’ve been there too. When was that again? Four years ago or four months? Again I notice how time blurs. Alex, the German expat in India, had told me in Fukuoka how he and another expat had a hard time figuring out which month it even was. They were both a month or two off.

Plamen and I find an izakaya near the hostel for dinner. Again I cautiously open the sliding door, as it is yet another of the hidden establishments with a staircase leading to a sparsely lit basement. A kindly smiling man behind the kitchen counter waves us in, and we take our seats at the counter. The lonely cook runs the place by himself and has been doing so for over twenty years, he explains to us in a few English words. 'Ah, Bulgaria, Germany', he smiles and nods at us, arranging his words. Once, he said, he had been to Europe, including Italy. He had trained as a cook in Kyoto. The restaurant owner comes across as so approachable that I almost make the faux pas of giving him my last yen as a tip. At the end, he brings us outside. Axel had told me that it is a sign of a good restaurant when guests are escorted out. We thank the humble cook with smiles, and he thanks us in return: 'Arigato gozaimasus.' - 'Arigato gozaimasus.' Thank you very much, Japan.