In Search of the Messenger of the Gods: A Slow Journey Through Nara’s Ancient City

 

When it comes to Nara, almost everyone’s first impression is inseparable from deer. Legend has it that a thousand years ago, the Great God of Kashima rode a deer all the way to Nara over the course of a year; the god then took residence in Kasuga Taisha Shrine, and the deer became permanent residents of Nara as the “messengers of the gods.” Today, whether it’s an adorable little deer standing confidently in the middle of the street, prompting passersby to smile and pet it, or a deer quietly gazing at pedestrians beside a giant old tree or stone lantern, they all exude a wonderful sense of harmony, becoming a unique part of Nara’s scenery.

 

It takes about two to three hours to walk from Kintetsu Nara Station to Todai-ji, the world’s largest wooden structure, and Kasuga Taisha, one of Japan’s three great shrines, while stopping to feed the deer along the way with a pack of deer crackers. This is also the standard itinerary for sightseeing in Nara. If you’d like to experience more of Nara’s traditional lifestyle, consider spending some extra time exploring Naramachi, south of Sarusawa Pond. Naramachi isn’t an official administrative district, but rather a nickname locals give to the old streets centered around Gango-ji Temple. Amidst narrow alleys lined with traditional townhouses, you’ll find century-old persimmon-leaf sushi shops, elegant cafés, temples, traditional sweet stores, and residences. When a breeze lifts the old shop curtains, it feels as though time itself has stopped; only the fleeting shadows of past lives drift softly through the air.

The small town of Yamato-Koriyama basks in the afternoon sun. Between rows of wooden townhouses, a gentle stream winds its way through, its waters clear and bright. Several small stone bridges cross the water, with the name “Kon’ya-chō” (Dyer’s Town) carved into their railings.

 

Gazing at the water in the sunlight, a few bright red little goldfish suddenly swim into view. Looking up, you’ll see a string of fabric goldfish hanging in front of a nearby shop—that’s the “Goldfish Dojo,” opened by a champion of Japan’s annual goldfish-catching competition. Goldfish scooping, usually only seen during festivals in Japan, can be practiced here every day. On the wall hangs a long list of names, featuring goldfish-catching masters ranked from beginner to expert level.

 

Watching us clumsily chase after the goldfish, the dojo owner finally couldn’t resist rolling up his sleeves and demonstrating the tricks of the trade. That’s when the conversation turned to goldfish. “How many do you need to catch to get on the dojo’s list?” we asked, feeling rather proud after managing to scoop up a few. “Five—but not the slow ones like these.” The owner led us to a back tank, lifting the bamboo cover: “These are the ones.” The moment the little red goldfish saw our shadows, they all darted to the far end of the tank. “And what about the competition champions?” “Them? Forty in three minutes.”